In Which I Do the Terrifying Thing

The red threads are non-threatening. They link to pictures of all of my pen-pals from the different countries.

So, Day 10 of 13! This day quite honestly terrifies me because it is all about *gulp* sharing snippets. I JUST GET SCARED OF SHARING MY WRITING. BECAUSE IT'S NOT VERY GOOD. So be gentle.

agh

okay just get it over with

From Luthar:

When he had finished his meal, he sat back and took in a deep breath. The country air had a comfortable aspect about it, though it smelled mostly like sheep. The pasture, which he knew every inch of from years of exploration as a child, was bright green with the brilliance that summer brought, which contrasted beautifully with the bright blue sky and sea. The cottage, though, was almost exotic in its familiarity, for it was home. It had just received a fresh coat of paint, green with white trim. His mother’s garden complemented it with vibrant colors, lush and lovely. When Martin van Daan, Marcus’s father, had married the beauty from the far off country, she had brought back the fervent color of Avè and planted it in the lovely constancy of Moses Island, just as she had planted herself in the life of a shepherd boy.

He saw all these things and he knew in his heart that they were good, very good, but yet something in the depths of his soul ate at him, a feeling of not belonging, whether he be in the fields, surrounded by a crowd of sheep, or in the city, surrounded by a crowd of people. And he was afraid that he would forever be the shepherd boy who wanted desperately to be the hero. Because deep down there was a small, unanswered longing that he was constantly having to shut out. A certain degree of loneliness, of unfulfilled potential, a burning passion that he had to stomp out but that continued to burn, sometimes growing into an uncontrollable, consuming fire. One could see that fire in his eyes as he looked out over the ocean, trying to look to the world beyond his little island, or when he climbed the tallest tree just to get caught by the wind.

Marcus grunted in irritation against his thoughts, dug his hands into the soft soil, then brought them back up, full of the black earth. He set the dirt down in one small mound, flattening it with his palm.

“I need to realize,” he said, as if to the dirt, “that I belong here. Right? Is that what you’re saying?”

Marcus turned his face upward, to the sky, and waited for a breathless moment for the answer that he didn’t want.

When he heard nothing, he dropped his eyes down to his dirty hands.

Importance, it seemed, was something that one was born to. Marcus could no more will himself to become a hero than he could will the sky to rain.

God was probably better at choosing heroes than he was, though.  

Andddddd from Beyond the Burning Sky:

Two streams of yellow light suddenly lit the street ahead of her. Amber caught in her breath. A cop. She carefully but quickly rolled over into the shadow left by the flickering light. She hugged close up to the wall, hoping that it would be enough, that the searching gaze of the cop would not turn this way. It seemed a vain hope. She held her breath, and wondered, not for the first time, what did happen to those taken to the prison. She fought the urge to shudder.

And then a sound broke the silence. It was so beautiful that Amber felt all broken up into pieces and then put back together. It reached through every corner of her being, grasping the tips of her strawberry-blonde hair, sending chills down her spine, making her fingertips hurt with expectation. It was the threads of a song, echoing through the streets, bouncing off the metal scraps beneath her and back up into the smoggy sky, as if urging the smoke back. It was a sad song, giving the feeling of a broken window, a torn book, a small blanket left abandoned on a street corner. It pulsed through Amber’s veins hot and cold all at once, memories knocking on the door of her mind, opening it, coming in.

The cop stopped and the yellow lights turned away. A siren began to ring, underlining the song with its clamorous cry, making the tune even more haunting.

“What idiot would play violin this time of night?” Amber muttered under her breath, wiping the wetness from her eyes. 

And dass all you get and I am going to post this before I lose my nerve SO BAI SEE YOU TOMORROW.