In the Blue Arctic Night

The blue waves of the Arctic Ocean broke against rocky shores, the turbulent surface blending away into the cobalt of the horizon on one side. On the other side, the mountains rose, appearing in shades of dusky azure as twilight fell. The air turned heavy, covering the land like the sapphire cloak of a noble. The chilly, windy coast became frigid, frost forming on the sparse vegetation growing on the slatey ground. Suddenly, the remaining light faded, and the deep hues of midnight took over.

Silver beams broke through the oppressive blanket of night, lighting the ocean and the craigy side of the mountains. Against the rising moon, the mountains appeared stark and colorless, like a sketch done in pencil by some great artist. Luminescent rays danced through the pale clouds, shimmering on the ocean. The pearlescent light glistened on the waves like so many diamonds, or stars, a mirror of the sky above. A bright circle of light spread out from the moon, alighting a small spot in the sky, like a beacon.

Suddenly, the whole world was lit up in green, bright as if it were the middle of the day. Whirling curtains waltzed and skipped through the sky, streaming viridescent hues all across the world. The light fell against rocks, making them gleam like jade with shadows of jasper. Emerald light reflected off the ocean, where the stars made of moonlight had shimmered only moments before. Like the verdant boughs of Yggdrasil, the World Tree, the lights stretched through the universe, seeming to rise up to brush the very stars. The canopy of the World Tree stretched over deep forests of pine and deep oceans alike, before finally fading.

The world was again plunged into black. The darkness seemed even more oppressive after the display of light, and the world was cast in shadow. No light permeated the ebony night or illuminated the coal colored mountains. The inky ocean lapped against an almost indistinguishable shoreline, and the world waited in this morose form for the sun to come back.

In My Future...

The presentation on Wednesday from the representative of the Art Institute of America was a totally new outlook on higher education. This institute seemed to heavily focus on doing, actually getting out of the classroom and learning actively by doing whatever it is the student is going to college for. Most colleges don’t seem to do that so much, at least not until several years into a student’s education. Another interesting point is that there are no general education requirements that you have to go through in the first stages of college. You get to jump right into your major. During the presentation, the representative focused heavily on several programs, the ones that they specialize on in Kansas City. I would like to ask her about the other programs featured at Art Institutes across the nation.

In one year, I see myself as a full-time student in college at MSU. This is a fairly well guaranteed assumption about myself in one year, for I’ve already been accepted to MSU and have a sizeable scholarship there. I’d like to be successful in college, with high grades, and probably a job. Nothing spectacular, I just want a successful transition into college life. By this time, my best friend will be back in town and we’ll be going to college together. In one year, I hope to still be as close to him as I was when he left earlier this week, and I hope to be going on various adventures with him once again. In five years, I’m hoping to be nearly out of college for the time being. I’d like to have been successful throughout my years at school, and hopefully around this stage of my life I’ll be able to get a job doing what I love. Broadly putting it, that would be saving the world. I want to get a degree in Conservation and Natural Resource Management. I definitely want to be out of the house by this point, sometime after my first year of college. So I could see myself in an apartment or even a small house, possibly with a roommate. I plan on living with Olivia, one of my best friends, during our later college years, so we’ll still probably be under the same roof. Or not, we’re both open to change and possibilities. In ten years, I’ll be 28. I want to be established in a career where I can work outdoors to save what I love. When I visited Colorado State University over the summer, I discovered it was my (very expensive) soul mate in college form. So around this time of my life, I want to use my career to transfer out there, to Colorado. Living there has been my dream for as long as I can remember. I want to be where I love doing what I love, and I can definitely see myself enrolling at a university out there to further my education, hopefully at the expense of whatever company I work for. CUS has a wonderful conservation program. Fifty years from now, I can see myself finishing my last years at work, then shipping off to a small cabin in the mountains, with every inch of wall space that isn’t a window covered in full bookshelves. I’m not a very romantic person, and one may notice that there are no relationship goals in the other stages of my life. In this area, there’s no particular place I could see myself in at any stage of life. I don’t care much when or how it happens, but in fifty years, I hope I’ll have stumbled across someone I can tolerate enough to spend my life with, and sit at a sunny, south-facing window with and read a book.

Moonlight Waltz

The girl wanders into the depths of the forest, bare feet softly brushing over cool moss and the lumpy roots of ancient trees. She feels like she’s in a dream; everything has that soft, pale quality, and the whole of her being feels light, as if she’s left the world behind. The very air seems to shimmer as the pearlescent light of the full moon drips from the sky, refracting off the leaves and spattering the forest floor with its glory. The white fabric of the girl’s nightgown floats behind her as she flits through the woods, the edge of it collecting bits of the forest, leaves catching in her hair. Through the fog of her waking dream, she hears a lilting melody drift through the woods, and follows it. Peering through oak and maple leaves, she begins to catch glimpses of wings and gowns and pointed, mischievous faces filled with joy, all bathed in shining moonlight. “Come join us!” they called from where they were dancing in a wild circle. “Join us, and Dance! Dance, Dance, Dance!” The allure of the pulsating beat and sweet, undulating swells of the tune called her as insistently as the fairies, and she gleefully joined their riotous tempest of a dance. She whirled with the fairies in the moonlit glad, her feet picking up the beat of the waltz they danced to as if they’d always known it. And as the silver light of the moon faded, so did the fairies, and gentle rays of sunlight filled the woods. No indication of their presence was left in the glade, or of the girl that had danced with them, save for a ring of colorful mushrooms, one slightly larger than all the rest.

Shades of Green

Warm April Showers fall from the sky

Watering and nourishing a Young Seedling.

Light falls with the rain through emerald leaves of the Apple Orchard,

Casting a tint upon the air as if it is transparent Green Glass that the light breaks through, not leaves.

The Rolling Meadow is full of blossoming trees and new growth,

A towering Hedge of Green protecting and guarding the gentle field and the sprouting seed within,

Where beyond the Deep Forest rises, a vast shadow on the horizon.

Purple Prairie

Plush grass grows

Under the shimmering sun,

Rising high into the azure sky,

Painted in shades of

Lovely, dusky purples,

Epitomizing serenity.

Pale strands of mist

Raise up

All around the grassy stalks,

Innocuously flowing about.

Reluctantly, it seems, the Purple Prairie sinks

Into

Empty night.

Classmate's Blogs

The first posts I read were Alora's. Her "I Am" poem was composed of very short phrases, but even so, her word choice was phenomenal and she managed to leave a clear portrait in the reader's mind. The same is true for her "Seashells" story. Her word choice brought it to life, and I could absolutely envision and related to what she was writing. In Christian's poem, the various metaphors he used stood out to me. I thought they lent it a very poetic feel in his descriptions of himself, which was wonderful. The metaphor of himself to the baobab tree particularly stuck out at me.

What's in the Box?

The box stares at me, full of secrets it refuses to reveal. I can feel them, just inside the cardboard barrier, itching to get out. But the box will not let them. The white and black stripes taunt me as I turn the box in my hands several times, then open it suddenly. Nothing’s inside. Sometimes, if I open it fast enough, I see a flash of something. I think it’s another world. Or maybe a portal to Hell. Sometimes the glimpse I catch is dark with swirling shadows, and sometimes I become blinded by a flash of a red, fiery inferno inside my box. Other times, things come out. They slip out through the cracks between my fingers, black and indistinct. Like shadows. Or spirits. Maybe they’re demons from the other world that’s inside my box. I can never catch them, although I try for hours after one gets out. Sometimes they get outside my house, and I follow them, shouting at them to come back. I only want to know where they come from. I chase them, shouting at them.  I cry,“What’s in the box??” as I follow them down the dreary alleyways and busy streets. “I just want to know where you’re from! What’s in the box???” Once or twice I've felt for a minute that I’m one of the shadows, slipping out between the lips of the box and wriggling out of the cage my fingers make. But it never lasts long. My finger twitches as I put the lid back on the box. I keep spinning it in my hands. I’m trembling. I stare at the window, and a gaunt face with dark eyes stares faintly back at me. Is that me? Or is it one of the demons? My hands slow down their spinning for a moment as the thought crosses my mind, but I quickly resume the action. I can’t stop, or the world will disappear forever, and I’ll never get to see it. The image in the window stares at me, and its eye twitches a couple times as I spin faster and faster, more and more frantically. Spinning, spinning, spinning. Gaunt faces in windows and spinning. This is my world. But...I want into the other one.

The one in the box.

The trembling in my hands gets worse as I continue to speed up my spinning. The faster I spin, the more likely it is that I’ll catch a glimpse into the other world, the gate to Hell or whatever it is. My eyes sting, because I haven’t broken eye contact with the thing in the window. If I don’t watch it it’ll disappear, and I can’t let it disappear if it’s from the other world. I have to watch. I have to watch and I have to spin, to keep the portal there so I can get in. Maybe the window-thing will lead me there. I pull the lid off and stare in. For a moment, there’s a flash of fiery red, then there’s nothing. I glance back up at the window, but the face that was there is gone now. I turn my attention back to the box, but...I've stopped spinning it. The portal is gone forever now. An anguished scream echoes around my room, and I think it’s mine, because now I’ll never find out what’s in the box.

At the End of the Rainbow

It must have been at least three years ago, the summer I got the rainbow. My brother and I tagged along with our grandmother, who we called Bubbie, for a lively trip to Oregon. When I woke up in the bright city of Eugene on Saturday morning, I had no idea what the day held in store. We were there to visit our aunt and uncle, as well their adopted son and our great-grandmother. So when my brother Dakota and I were given free reign of the day instead of spending time doing various things with the family, we were both surprised and delighted. We had heard of the magnificent Saturday Market held in Eugene from various family members, including our father, so off we went through the bike-crowded streets of downtown Eugene to the renowned event. Once there, we were assaulted by a vivid shock of colors, smells, music, laughter, and people. A variable array of things spun in a dizzying mixture of excitement. A glance at each other, a wave, and we were off to weave a path through the press of bodies adorned with Henna tattoos, face paints, and feathered masks. I've found it’s impossible to describe the magnificence of this place to Springfieldians such as myself, as we have nothing of this magnitude in our lovely little town. Imagine First Friday Artwalk in our downtown, mixed with the new growing Farmer’s Market near the south side of town, and the Walnut Street art fair held here annually. Imagine all of that, all at once. Now multiply it all by ten. I could go into detail describing the bright art of various mediums for sale, or the block that was full of nothing but food trucks selling every kind of food you've never heard of but would immediately want to try. Or I could narrate for you a recollection of the local bands that were playing, or of the quarter full of brightly adorned people in long skirts holding djembes and didgeridoos and all manner of intriguing instruments, playing and singing and dancing as if trapped in a fairy ring. But the most important thing to me, the one thing that stands out to me the most, is the memory of the rainbow booth. I was walking along the edge of one of the Market Squares, one filled with art and crafts of all kinds. A bright flash caught my eye as the tail of a rainbow wafted up on a gust of wind. I turned to look full on, and was dazzles by the sight of dozens of rainbows of all sizes dancing and blowing in the gentle wind. There were these two gentlemen, definitely getting on in years, one with long hair and a beard struck through with gray, the other with no hair at all save for a small beard. I remember being struck by how lively their eyes were, and noticing that their faces were crinkled with laughter lines. They saw me admiring the lines of flax string dyed in brilliant hues, strung through bars of wood and hanging off the booth. We talked for several minutes, and in discussing where I was from, I mentioned to them that my father had one of these rainbow hangings set up in his living room back home. I told them how amazing it felt to be seeing something I’d seen every weekend during my childhood here, hundreds of miles away, and to finally know where dad had gotten in twenty years before. They were starstruck by my declaration, and ecstatically happy that their work had made it that far from home. After chatting with these two kind, elderly gentlemen for a while longer, I made to depart. As I was excusing myself, one of them pressed a small package in my hand. He said it wouldn't be right if I didn't have one, too. When I opened it later, I was astounded to find a clump of vivid flax string in my hand, which unfolded into a magnificent three foot long rainbow. Just like my dad’s. It hangs above my bed now, where I can see the sun glittering on it every day. And every time I look at it, when I’m discouraged or unhappy or generally angry at the world and the people in it, my heart lightens as if the wind that gusted the rainbows up into my sight that summer in Eugene is now buoying my spirits. This object, given to me by a man with a gray beard and a ready laugh, infallibly reminds me of the bright square in Eugene full of kind people. It reminds me of how amazing it is that I happened to run across those men whom my father had met and talked to so long ago, before I was even a gleam in his eye. Above all, it reminds me that there are good people and good things in the world: love, light, generosity, happiness. And all these things hang on the end of a rainbow.

I am...Madalyn

I am a younger sister, partner in crime and devoted follower, fellow adventurer and confidant.

I am an older sister to two, a fierce protector and care-giver, always loving but often irritable.

I am a friend, intensely loyal those that I love like family. Even though we share no blood, we share laughter and sorrows and bring light and compassion into each others lives.

I am a tutor, diligently working to help those in my school and community learn the skills they need to succeed.

I am rich and bitter coffee, steaming from a stainless steel cup in the cold morning air.

I am the views I've seen from my hammock, the lakes and the rivers, the canyons and forests, the night sky and the sunrise.

I am crisp autumn leaves, all the hues of fire, fluttering in a brisk wind and streaming down from the sunlight treetops to land in heaps upon the ground.

I am the wind whispering through the woods, and the light of the full moon touching upon the forest, and the quiet gurgling of a stream.

I am the sound of the rain dripping against my hammock’s rain fly, the wind gently rocking me as I lay curled in a cozy cocoon of blankets, my dog curled quietly in the space below me.

I am a cup of oolong tea, poured from a whimsical teapot decorated with mushrooms.

I am a musician, djembe tucked against me like an extension of my body, vibrating with all the exhilaration, emotion, energy, love, pain, and feeling I pour into it, the deep beats it produces resounding like a heartbeat.

I am running barefoot through a field under the light of the moon and the stars, splashing in streams, and climbing to the the very tops of trees.

I am stacks and piles of well-worn books, some well aligned and sorted upon shelves, and some haphazardly stowed wherever room could be found.

I am long skirts and flowy shirts, loose and free, dark colored, and covered in dog hair.

I am a long coat, made of a random assortment of colors and patterns, heavy and warm and hand stitched with love.

I am a firedancer, swirling the fierce bright beast around my body in entrancing patterns, or spitting orbs of it into the sky.

I am a pair of snakeskin boots, with the snake heads still on the toes shouting a clear message: don’t tread on me.