breaking free, part i.

Well hello there again! Over this past spring and summer, I've slowly been coming out of my "writer's block" and finishing some short stories. In school, an assignment was to write a 20-page or less story of our choice, and this is what I came up with. We wrote dedications, summaries, and pasted the stories in hardcover books. For now, I'll post my introduction and summary and put more later. Enjoy!

Ava is insecure. No one knows why, for she has the beauty of a supermodel and the athletic abilities of a professional. Only her best friend Morris knows the reason: her sister, Amber, left home over eight years ago and has not made contact since. But one day, on a bright day in the city of Rosanda located in what used to be Acapulco, Mexico in the year 2042, Ava receives a letter telling her to come to a town unheard of known as Yaldez to reclaim some valuable items…including her sister. But when Morris and Ava meet Mayor Fray and the other citizens of the tiny campsite, they find out that Amber has been brainwashed and doesn’t recognize anyone, they have actually been drafted into the mayor’s army of young teenagers that is plotting to eventually rule the world, and there is no way out. Facing such challenges under such circumstances, will the two best friends realize that the trip really wasn’t worth the trouble? Read to find out Ava’s destiny.

For my proofreader/editor Mom and wise Dad

For Parker, Meegan, Meredith, Madison, and Tanner

For Cooper

For Lissa Walker

For my best friend Zane

For my soul sisters Allie, Hannah, Emma, and Olivia

For Mrs. Alice Lundbohm

For English teachers everywhere

You know, I’ve always wondered what it’s like to be truly happy. Society makes happiness look like wrinkle-free, perfect bodied joy. Wise people who know better say happiness is found on the inside. But either way, I can’t seem to find it for myself.

            They say ignorance is bliss. The less you know the better. But was there ever a problem with knowing everything? The most successful people in the world are complete geniuses, what with their technology-powered brains and conniving charm. You see, people who know things get farther in life. They’re happy. I just want to be that way.

            My name is Ava. Ava Lynn Rambo. I live in the year 2042 in the futuristic town of Rosanda, located in what is left of Acapulco, Mexico. About twenty years ago there was a huge oil spill, causing pollution to spread, taking the lives of many. Frightened, the last of the citizens of Mexico fled to places like the States or South America. Buildings were abandoned. Green grass was scarce. Skyscrapers exploded into flames. Mexico was basically dead, until one day a brave man wandered the empty streets, through vast plains, until he uncovered a patch of grass about the size of a sandpit. A lone flower, the rosanda, was just beginning to bloom. Taken by his discovery, the man known as Mr. Founder dug out the seeds and began planting around the perimeter of the grass. More flowers blossomed. Before you knew it, the town of Rosanda was beginning to form. People of all cultures and beliefs moved in. Today, we are the most diverse city in the world with a population of 700,000.

            I grew up with no father in an average house by a beautiful bay. I have one sister, Amber, who went off to college in the States a little over three years ago. She has not made contact, and she has not come home. She pays her own tuition with the small waitress job she has. The only family member I can rely on is my mother. And then there’s Morris.

If you are still here six or so months later reading this, I applaud you. Hope you like it. The rest of the story comes later. :)

♥ Abigail ♥

Finally.

Finally, a story.

And I actually think this one will work.

So, here goes.

You know, it’s not exactly easy to create a great piece of writing at age 13 unless you have some God-given talent. I heard there was once a girl who wrote a bestseller at age 11, and automatically I thought, “Beginner’s luck.” The girl claimed she received the idea in a dream and that she had no idea she could write. She just wrote. Come on, writing can’t be that simple, can it? Or is there something wrong with me?

   This individual titled her book, “Songbird”. My story is definitely not about songs or birds or both mixed together. My story is about my life. Except, it’s not an autobiography. My story is about challenges everyone faces, because trust me, my life is not a whimsical fantasy. This is real life.

     Like I already said, I’m 13 years old. Apparently I haven’t experienced life, for I’ve only been on this earth for thirteen short years. Maybe I’m a little naïve, still learning the flips and tricks to growing up. Maybe I still have two and a half more years before I get my driver’s license. Maybe I attend middle school where the guys are half my size and girls start wearing pounds of makeup. But you do not have permission to tell me I don’t know what life—or love—is. There is such a thing as young but wise.

    I live in Idaho. And yes, it is the home of the potato. But just in case you’re wondering, I do not live in a potato farm. I live in an everyday neighborhood with a fire station, trees, schools, grass, and sidewalks. It’s almost uneventful living in such a normal place. However, my house is not at all ordinary. I have a unique family, as well as a Labrador retriever named Cooper. 

I hope you like it! I really see a future in this!

♥ Abigail ♥

Idea #5 - Once Upon a Rosebud.

This is a story I began writing about a year ago, but for some reason I stopped right in the middle of the story! Now that I read it again I wonder why I did. Should I keep writing this story? Read the preface and give me an honest opinion!

Remembering the days of the Big Apple was time wasted. Those days were dreadful − filled with mournful sorrow. Every day would get worse and worse. Trying to wipe those memories out of my mind like a messed up hard drive was nearly impossible.

            I can recall when my best friend passed away when I was young; we had just entered kindergarten, and yet Luella was leaving me alone in a place in which I was unfamiliar. I wasn’t very comfortable with older kids towering over my puny, short body. I wasn’t used to the building and its tremendous size. All I wanted was home, and from that September day on home was the only thing I wanted, school day after school day after school day.

            Never in the mood to try, I never did well in class and soon fell behind on grades. The days seemed just as long as the day before. Mrs. Wilkinson wasn’t much of a help; instead of encouraging me, she would remind me every day of my flaws. I never improved. I was soon sent to a dull private school where everyone was to wear uniforms. The kids tried to include me in “fun” activities, but thinking about Luella’s death made me feel like the kids didn't want me there and just felt sorry for my loss. I only shook my head when they attempted to include me, my eyes fixed on the boring playground. I’d usually slide down the big slide a few times, cross the monkey bars once, and then the rest of the time I’d sit, waiting for Luella to return. But she never did come back, so the rest of my New York life was spent sitting, never eating a thing, feeling uglier every day, lying on my bed, and sitting some more.

            In second grade I was still lonely, and I still wasn’t adjusted to the focus of the private school. I sat around all day. I never did my schoolwork. I never did my homework. I just sat with a broken heart.

            When my teachers tried to push me as best they could, I didn’t listen to their instructions. I felt as though I had issues, for I was always depressed. Days rolled by. Ma saw my horrible grades, so after a while she ordered for me to be homeschooled. I was happy that I would get to be home all day and every day, but schoolwork was still coming at me like flying jets.

            “You deserve an education, Shelly,” Ma would say when I was disobedient of the work she assigned me. I’ve always disagreed with her to this day; I deserved to be near Luella, not have to focus on numbers and letters. Would anyone ever understand?

I will post the first chapter later. Until then...

♥ Abigail ♥

idea #3 - the photographer.

Again, this is just an idea that popped into my head late one night.

Lucille Burgess loved photography. Ever since she’d received her first camera on a white Christmas morning ten years ago, she couldn’t leave home without it. Day after day Lucille would stuff the Nikon into a maroon-colored case, throw it over her shoulder, and out the door she’d go. The camera was like her soul mate; it was the love of her life.

      No one could understand why this prized possession was always by her side. Did it represent something special? Was it something to distract her in her spare time? Did she want to be prepared to capture a perfect moment? Whenever someone asked Lucille about the Nikon, she would simply say, “Because it keeps me company.”

       How would a camera entertain an average 16-year-old girl? Despite the fact that it could take beautiful photographs, there wasn’t much more you could do with it. Share secrets with it? No. Laugh with it? Negative. Hold it when you were in tears? Certainly this could not be the case.

       Lucille was never made fun of for having such an affinity for her sleek black camera. In fact, people envied her not caring of what others thought. Her outfits were strange, her hairstyle was different, and she wore little makeup. All in all, Lucille was satisfied with herself. No one could change her; she was who she was.

     One chilly October morning, Lucille woke up to the sun shining down on her pretty face. She blinked a couple times, her blue eyes slowly adjusting to the penetrating light. If only every morning could be like this, she thought to herself as she sat upright. She took a good look around her small bedroom; it was the same as always: the china dolls side by side on that dusty bookshelf, the chandelier hanging loosely on the tall ceiling, the blue alarm clock ticking rhythmically, the flowery curtains swaying back and forth, back and forth. Lucille had always loved the decorations in her room. It showed off her personality perfectly. If only everyone would express their true colors instead of worrying what other people might think of them, Lucille thought.

      She sat there for a long time, admiring the blueness of the sky, the beautiful views of the distant mountains. Finally her 11-year-old sister, Michelle, stumbled into the room breathless.

      “Lucy!” Michelle gasped, struggling for air after running up all those stairs. “Come downstairs for breakfast. Mom made your favorite today.” Lucille nodded, though she was not paying any attention. 

What did you think of it so far? Like the previous story, this probably won't turn into a real book with a legitimate conflict and solution. 

♥ Abigail ♥

idea #2 - new girl.

This is a story probably never to be written.

There she sat, eating lunch by herself. She had a peanut butter sandwich in one hand, a book in the other. I had always been curious about the new girl. She seemed like a normal person with a normal face and normal clothes…until you knew her personally.

I’d been hearing rumors that she was born into a psycho maniac family with a rock for a pet and a tent in the wilderness for a house. Others say she was in a terrible accident a few years ago and later vowed that she would never have any friends again. Both stories I couldn’t comprehend. If either of those events really occurred in her life, wouldn’t she be something other than your average Joe? Every day I examined her with curiosity. She never noticed that everyone was staring; she always walked to her next class standing tall with her shoulders wide. She always had her hair in a ponytail and a pencil in her ear. She wore the same jeans everyone else wore, sneakers that everyone else had, and a different color sweater on. She had hundreds of sweaters; she never wore the same one. That caught my attention even more.

Her name was Valerie, the prettiest name I’d ever heard. I sat next to her in science class, and I always watched her when she printed her name neatly on the “name” line on our assignments. Then she would stick the pencil back in her ear and look directly at the teacher, never at anyone else or anything. Never did she make eye contact with anyone except to the person talking to her. I had always been afraid to say anything, for she seemed to have the stare of a hawk. She didn’t have soft, gentle eyes; they were bitter and small. If she ever looked at me I would almost faint of anxiety. So, I kept to myself and never bothered to make conversation with her.

One day, she did look at me for the very first time. When she should really be focusing on the teacher, she turned her head and whispered to me, “What’s your name?” I froze, shocked by the sweet tone in her voice. Though her eyes didn’t look at all friendly, her voice comforted me.

After a few moments of no reply, she then asked, “Why don’t you ever talk to me? We do sit next to each other, after all.”

I finally managed to make my mouth move. “I’m Jillian. Jillian Crosby.” I held my hand out for her to shake it. She took it, obviously flattered that I finally spoke. That was when the teacher told us to quiet down. After that we never said anything ever again.

Now here she was, eating her sandwich with her nose stuffed in a book. She didn’t seem to mind that she was all alone and people were talking behind her back. She took tiny bites out of the bread and paused occasionally to turn the page in her book or take a sip from her water bottle. While my friends around me giggled about this strange new girl, I stared with awe and amazement. How could she not care about what others thought? For me, I felt that I always had to wear the perfect amount of makeup or just the right shirt to impress someone. It wasn’t until Mackenzie said something to me that I looked away.

Mackenzie was my best friend who had always lived next door to me since second grade. She and I climbed the trees in the park together, painted each other’s nails, rode bikes all the way across town together, hugged each other when one of us was down, and even smoked our first cigarette together. Of course, we coughed and gagged and promised we would never try that again.

“Jill, what do you think about that new girl Valerie?” Mackenzie asked, grinning from ear to ear. “You’re always staring at her; do you want to be her friend?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I lied, taking a bite out of my pizza. “I just glance at her occasionally. Nothing wrong with that.”

My mind went blank right after I wrote that last sentence. So, what did you think of it so far? Even though it probably won't turn into a legitimate plot, it's a draft.

 ♥ Abigail ♥ 

idea #1 - gifts.

As I was lying in bed last night, an idea popped into my head. Quickly I wrote it down in my handy dandy journal. It was about a girl with a gift that would forever change her perspective of life. I am not yet sure what that gift is, but here is what I have so far:

There is something inside me that is dying to escape. But I can't figure it out. My whole life has been an unsolved mystery. It never occurred to me that I had an incredible gift, one that could possibly change my life forever. Then one day, as I was flipping through an old yearbook, it hit me.

It was a photo of me in seventh grade. I stared at it for what seemed like hours. That was me? The nerdy girl who always her nose in a book? This couldn't be real. Negative. No. Never. Nada. But there it was, in clear sight. That photo held all the proof.

I was painting.

Painting something spectacular, something that deserved more than an A+. I was painting somebody's future.

So, what did you think? It was just a blurry idea that came into my mind at 1 in the morning, just as I was about to doze off. 

Here is where the question comes in: What should the gift be?

COMMENT BELOW! I NEED YOUR CRITICISM!