A short story Wishful Thinking?
Sitting and relaxing in the porch swing, I watch the clouds drift by. The sun dips behind the mountain and the stars come to life, with threads of silver, flickering across the blackness of the night.
What lays above the stars--another galaxy--another life form? I wonder--if there is life, would they look like us--would we be frightened of them or them us? Would it be possible to visit the other world sometime?
What's going on? I'm becoming transparent...Hey...
Where am I--what is this place? There's someone.
"Excuse me, can you tell me where I am? Don't run away."
Hum, that's strange. He acted like he didn't understand me--and his clothes; what there was of them, didn't look like any cloth I've ever seen. There's a store. Maybe I can get some information there. Looks like they are busy. I'll just slip behind these boxes until some of the people leave.
"Oh, hello little girl. You here with your mommy? Little girl--little girl--what's the matter? Why are you running away?"
Why are they looking at me that way? Maybe if I wave and smile real big--"Hello--I'm lost, can you tell me where I'm at?"
What are they doing now? "Get off the floor--don't bow to me--I'm not royalty or anything. Now where are you going? Come back."
Where did they go? The street is empty. What's that in the window? It looks like me, but my body is shimmering like millions of silver stars all bundled together. No wonder everyone ran, they thought I was from another planet or something.
The sky--the sky is turning orange--is that the moon? If that's the moon, then what's over there?
Another moon, another planet, or what?
Now I know why the people were frightened, its me--I'm not on earth any more.
The End.
Thursday, June 27, 2013
Wednesday, June 26, 2013
Just more notes:
I have been asked when I started writing... I really can't remember the exact time. I remember 'day-dreaming' a lot when I was four and five, which may have started my brain to explore an unseen universe that it was hiding.
Thinking 'way' back, I was nine when my little brother was born. I cared for him almost constantly and while holding him, I began to tell him of places, in my imagination, that we would go when he got bigger. When he was about two, and wanted a story at night, I told him 'bedtime' stories, my way, with a twist. That's about the time I began to write things down. I was also designing clothes for my paper-dolls, and drawing everything I saw or thought about. And I read everything that I could get my hands on. I watched the clouds change from one animal to another, then I would stare into space, just 'thinking', my imagination was overflowing.
I wrote little stories or poems throughout grammar school, but my first serious story was written when I was in 7th grade, (about 11yrs.). I can't remember what the name was then, but it is called ECHOED FOOTSTEPS now. Of course it has changed some throughout the years, but I never forgot it. At 13, 9th grade, we had to write for an English class. A few were chosen to be published. That was my first experience. But it's funny, I can't remember what I wrote. May be because I was told that I wasn't good enough, and it wouldn't amount to anything.
Many other disappointments occurred, but that's another story.
I continued telling my stories to my brother, and my baby sister. I think they must have enjoyed them, as they always wanted to hear more. Sometimes, I would keep notes, but mostly I kept them in my head. When we moved from our house, all my notes, art work, and designs disappeared mysteriously.
When my own children were young, I used to tell them some of the same stories that I told my brother and sister. I began to write again, a few stories and poetry, but never thought I was good enough to be published. That always stayed in my mind.
And then came grandkids. Jayson especially, used to want to hear bedtime stories. You can't imagine how many ways The Three Little Pigs can be told. I think that's what woke the brain up. It still isn't to it's full potential. I may not ever have 'what it takes' to be a great writer, but I enjoy having people read what I write, even if I don't get paid for it.
B.A.Lee
I have been asked when I started writing... I really can't remember the exact time. I remember 'day-dreaming' a lot when I was four and five, which may have started my brain to explore an unseen universe that it was hiding.
Thinking 'way' back, I was nine when my little brother was born. I cared for him almost constantly and while holding him, I began to tell him of places, in my imagination, that we would go when he got bigger. When he was about two, and wanted a story at night, I told him 'bedtime' stories, my way, with a twist. That's about the time I began to write things down. I was also designing clothes for my paper-dolls, and drawing everything I saw or thought about. And I read everything that I could get my hands on. I watched the clouds change from one animal to another, then I would stare into space, just 'thinking', my imagination was overflowing.
I wrote little stories or poems throughout grammar school, but my first serious story was written when I was in 7th grade, (about 11yrs.). I can't remember what the name was then, but it is called ECHOED FOOTSTEPS now. Of course it has changed some throughout the years, but I never forgot it. At 13, 9th grade, we had to write for an English class. A few were chosen to be published. That was my first experience. But it's funny, I can't remember what I wrote. May be because I was told that I wasn't good enough, and it wouldn't amount to anything.
Many other disappointments occurred, but that's another story.
I continued telling my stories to my brother, and my baby sister. I think they must have enjoyed them, as they always wanted to hear more. Sometimes, I would keep notes, but mostly I kept them in my head. When we moved from our house, all my notes, art work, and designs disappeared mysteriously.
When my own children were young, I used to tell them some of the same stories that I told my brother and sister. I began to write again, a few stories and poetry, but never thought I was good enough to be published. That always stayed in my mind.
And then came grandkids. Jayson especially, used to want to hear bedtime stories. You can't imagine how many ways The Three Little Pigs can be told. I think that's what woke the brain up. It still isn't to it's full potential. I may not ever have 'what it takes' to be a great writer, but I enjoy having people read what I write, even if I don't get paid for it.
B.A.Lee
Sunday, June 23, 2013
Cannot believe that July is just around the corner. I have been trying to comprehend the fact that time seems to go by faster the older you get. Now why is that? I still get up early, go to bed at a decent time, (just like I did when I was young).
Even as a teenager I could get so much done in one day, but now it takes two days, or longer to do the same. I get up, feed the cats, dogs, chicken, get coffee, have cereal, and the day is half gone. Just think what time it would be if I took the time to make my bed of a morning. Wow.
Back when...my kids were little, I had livestock to feed, get kids off to school, go to work, come home, do laundry, feed the kids, feed the animals again, tend to the garden, butcher something, help with homework, write, & draw or paint something, I even had time to go to a school function, or one of their games. Week ends were full with fishing, camping, hunting, and etc. Now I wasn't young. Was in my thirty's . I think time began to go faster when I reached 40. If you, (the reader of this blog) are over 40, I'd like to know if you relate to my findings.
I wonder if anyone has done a study on this. Hum...would be interesting to find out.
B. Anna Lee
Even as a teenager I could get so much done in one day, but now it takes two days, or longer to do the same. I get up, feed the cats, dogs, chicken, get coffee, have cereal, and the day is half gone. Just think what time it would be if I took the time to make my bed of a morning. Wow.
Back when...my kids were little, I had livestock to feed, get kids off to school, go to work, come home, do laundry, feed the kids, feed the animals again, tend to the garden, butcher something, help with homework, write, & draw or paint something, I even had time to go to a school function, or one of their games. Week ends were full with fishing, camping, hunting, and etc. Now I wasn't young. Was in my thirty's . I think time began to go faster when I reached 40. If you, (the reader of this blog) are over 40, I'd like to know if you relate to my findings.
I wonder if anyone has done a study on this. Hum...would be interesting to find out.
B. Anna Lee
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