Gone

There once was a girl who sat and stared at nothing, until she faded away. She was like a rainbow, beautiful for a moment, catching all eyes and then gone…as if she had never been there to begin with.

 

 

 

 

Advertisements

Submissions, Submissions…Oh What Shall I Send?

Recently I’ve been trying to decide on what I should submit for publishing (for our schools yearly book), however my original idea…has some how vanished into thin air. I was going to submit a story, one that I had not posted onto my blog that was reviewed by my peers…however I’m unable to find it anywhere. So now I am considering my poetry, but like I mentioned before depending on what I submit, I don’t know if I want to have my name on it. Especially since one of my professors will be reviewing the submissions…and well, he’s a tough guy to please sometimes. He’s said it himself. He’s picky when it comes to writing…but he’s a writer himself.

So, I’m thinking of going through some poems that I’ve written, that haven’t been posted anywhere online. The submission cannot have been published before, and I don’t want to be called out for plagiarism because I submitted something I had written four years ago, and posted on one of the many writing websites I’ve been on over the years.

I’m worried that I may not submit anything at all out of fear…fear of what I’m not sure. I don’t know why but when it comes to contests or submitting to collections, I become uneasy. Is it that I suddenly doubt myself? I don’t think so….I think my main issue is that I enjoy my privacy. By having my name on the work I submit…others who know me would see it. Some of the things I write are very personal, whereas other work that I do is say…from a characters perspective. I’ve had people say at times that I write a lot of sad poems, but I also write a lot of happy ones. The thing is that the sad poems I had shared with them were not about myself, so I felt comfortable letting people read them. Whereas the happy poems I’d been writing at the time were…embarrassingly personal. I doubt anyone else will have access to them for a very, very long time.

To think this has me up at midnight. I should be sleeping…but I haven’t been sleeping well. Normally I’m working on something at this hour…writing, drawing…. Not tonight. Tonight I’m thinking. Constantly thinking.

I really want to submit my work, but I’m unsure of what I should share. If I could I’d choose a poem that someone else had read and liked. It would make this process so much easier. If I could just find my story I wouldn’t have to deal with this. Then again I don’t know if it fits the requirements. I feel like it might fall into the category of genre fiction, which isn’t allowed. Then again…it wasn’t meant to fit a particular genre. I just wrote it. Honestly, it was completely out of genre for me. I’ve never written anything like it…and people really enjoyed it. They were surprised by it. Oh well…I’ll think of something. I mean, I could always try writing some new material, but the deadlines this week. I feel like it’d be better not to waste time.

I’d like to have the satisfaction of actually telling people my work has been published versus just talk about all the writing I do. It seems kind of pointless to go on and on about something, when you have nothing to show for it. I’ve been writing stories since I was a little kid. I’d like to be taken seriously. Yes, I write for fun but…I don’t just see my writing as a hobby. I want to be a published author someday. At the rate I’m going, hopefully I can say that very soon.

The Fall

the-fall

The Fall, O. Ryder. Sept 26th, 2016.

The Fall

By O. Ryder

I realized that I didn’t own a hairdryer when my sister’s wet towel brushed against my skin last night. It was cold. It soothed the pain in my bear arms but I moved it away, onto her lap. Whenever someone wore a towel on their head I imagined the Virgin Mary.

“It’s cold.”

She looked at me, big eyes glaring. “I just washed my hair.” Always glaring.

In that moment I felt stupid. Glaring eyes often made me feel as though I’d done something stupid.

Always glaring. Always stupid.

I felt uneasy as she pressed her back into my pillow. The olive green towel reminded me of my sweater: how it hung on her and how her gold strands clung to it as she rested against me.

I wasn’t attracted to blondes, I told myself. She was pretty but plain. I liked dark hair. I liked dark hair and warm eyes. No glaring. Never glaring.

My sister elbowed me. Woke me from my trance. Told me Dad wanted to talk.

My eyes left the green and my hands found the phone. I wondered why I had been in such a daze. Wet hair was soft, I thought. I haven’t worn that sweater in a long time.

I talked. He talked. He hung up.

Whenever we spoke lately he felt as though he was keeping me away from something. I just had trouble finding things to talk about. I wanted to hear warmth in his voice.

Everything died in the Fall. The plants, the insects, Granddad. Even some of the Angels died in the Fall.

Love blossomed in the Fall, but made me feel dead.

I was not fond of the weather. It was deceiving. Deceiving Canadian Fall.

The weather was as schizophrenic as our identity. Some said they felt it was bipolar…perhaps…perhaps.

Always glaring. Always falling. Always stupid. Always dead.

I wondered how anyone could rest their head in such a messy room. It smelt of burnt popcorn, wet towels and cologne.

And those golden strands had smelt like summer.

She was the Summer. I the Fall.

For once I had fallen, she had fled. As the warmth does when death comes.

She was Life. I Death.

Despite wishing, I represented the end.

“I love this sweater.” she said.

I said nothing.

She wrapped her fingers in mine. It felt uncomfortable.

“Wanna cuddle?”

I remembered the wet green towel. My sister was asking for the phone back. I placed it in her hand. I watched the television. You could get lost in the television. No thoughts. Always glaring. Always stupid. Always wishing.

My Favourite Insomniac

I’m currently feeling exhausted…which makes me want to write about my favourite insomniac, who has so far received 30 pages of sleepless nights, pizza and Lacrimosa on repeat. However this is a rewrite/expansion of a short story I began back in high school. Actually I entered it into a local competition. Obviously I didn’t win, or else I would have shared that story here on my blog. I hadn’t mastered the short story then to be honest. I’ve managed to get the hang of it though, thanks to years and years of practice.

Maybe I’ll sleep. Maybe I won’t. I mean…I just got back to my place, but I’ve been tired since yesterday. It is weird how every time I feel sleepy I feel like working on this novel. Its sort of something I’ve been writing on the side, so I don’t necessarily know when it will be complete, but I actually really like the characters. Ha…I end up loving all my characters, even the jerks. Eh…I think I will take a nap. I don’t have anything else to do right now. Not going out anywhere.

— R.

First Big Writing Assignment of the School Year…Yikes!

So this week my class is starting our first big writing assignment, which is our short story assignment.

Now I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this before on my blog but short stories aren’t my strong point when there is a limit as to the number of pages I can have or the word count. I’m stronger when it comes to novels and writing lyrics. Actually many of my novels have songs written into them so that when they’re adapted into films there will be an awesome soundtrack. I’m being serious. I actually have soundtracks for my novels of songs that I’ve written about characters, chapters and if my character is a musician then I actually record the songs that my characters perform in the text. I go all out. It is not just a book. It is…like…a living breathing thing. I guess that sounds over the top.

My sister thinks it’s kind of cool but she also gets annoyed when I record these songs while she’s trying to sleep. I’ve had things thrown at me and no, I’m not a bad musician. I don’t suck! My sister just has to hear me all the time. We actually write a lot of music together and perform it. I’m teaching her to sing because our voices automatically complement each other. She’s the one person that I enjoy harmonizing with because the sound it makes… I can’t even put it into words. Whenever we sing together and harmonize perfectly off the bat we both react like this

Me: WHOA!

Lil Sis: That was…AWESOME!

Me: REPLAY THAT! REPLAY!

And then we have to stop the recording because we usually interrupt our flow due to the fact that it sounded good. It also has to do with the fact that my sister thinks she’s a horrible singer.

ANYWAY back to talking about the short story thing. So the first big assignment is a short story assignment. It’s a story on whatever I want it to be which is great because I get to be creative with it. However, as I just said short stories aren’t really my go to thing.

I do like to write children’s books but those to me are sort of…well they’re for my nieces age group. That’s who I’m writing for. I write those for her. She’s in kindergarten (age’s 4-6 in Canada).

To me, short stories and children’s literature are in two different sections. Perhaps that’s simply because I separated them in my own head but because children’s books tend to have pictures, are not too lengthy and are geared toward a specific audience I place them under their own category outside of the short story category. Does that make sense? I hope so….

I’m not sure of how I want to approach this assignment. I have readily made written material for novels, however I don’t want to have to convert that material into short story material. It’s almost like…I have to plan out the format based off of the idea and if I’ve already decided on a format that I would like to present my idea in then it’s difficult to change it. I mean… that’s why we have different forms of writing. Not all films should be adapted into novels and not all novels should be adapted into screen plays. They were written a certain way for a reason. Now most books make great films, but of course for those of us who read the book before seeing the film it can be pretty difficult to separate them.

I had an interesting discussion with an upperclassman about it the other week actually. I’ll share that another time though.

Well…as you can see I’m stressing over an assignment that should be fun. Hopefully before I have to bring in my rough notes on Friday, I will have come up with something. I might see if there’s any guidelines for my assignment before I make any notes. My professors are being extremely loose on the formats and guidelines as this is a creative writing course. They’re just awesome like that. They’re really…fantastic. I’m so happy I took this course.

— R.


Yes, that is the Pharaoh. Yes, his hair is pretty awesome. Yes, I do watch LittleKuriboh.

If someone actually styles their hair like this with the different colours and everything that would be really cool. Someone needs to do this. They would look like the coolest kid in all of…well the world. Okay I’m done. Got some writing to do…obviously. Can we just…admire his awesome hair. I always wanted cool hair like that but nope I got stuck with my plain generic black hair. Oh well…I’m thankful I have hair. Better not complain. I don’t wanna go grey early like my dad did. Ha….yah. I love you hair…but still…his hairs so cool.

Little Donnie and the Big Black Clouds

rain-cloud-15642888

It was a gloomy day on Rosemary Avenue.

Little Donnie sat near the window with a scowl on his face, watching the big black clouds loom over his house. Donnie would have preferred to have been playing outside with his friends but Mother had said, “A storms comin’. You don’t wanna be caught in a storm, do you?”

To which Donnie replied with a, “No Mum.”

And so he sat and he scowled.

Moments passed and no rain came.

Donnie grew frustrated.

“The clouds just don’t want me outside!” He thought. “They’re making fun of me! It’s never going to rain!”

Well that was it for him. Donnie hopped up off the floor and stomped over to the shoe rack. He slid on his rain boots, slipped on his jacket and marched out the front door.

Donnie looked up at the sky and stuck out his tongue. “No clouds ever scared me!” he shouted. Suddenly he heard a loud roar. It sounded as if someone…or something were very, very upset with him.

Crack! Went the lightning.

Boom! Followed the thunder.

Donnie’s eyes lit up as the flashes of light zipped across the sky. He hurried to the door, stumbling in his boots. He nearly lost balance when he heard the next Crack! He twisted the knob and flung open the door.

Mother tilted her head and gave him a half-grin.

Donnie ran to her and gave her a hug. “Oh Mum, I think the storm is angry with me!” the little boy sobbed.

“Actually, I think it’s saying, ‘Listen to your Mother and stay indoors’.” she chuckled, kissing the crown of his head.

 

 


Author’s Note:

Thanks for reading my short story. I was inspired to write this because I came across an old children’s book of my fathers, and started reading from it. The book was a collection of short stories about children. I found it to be a really nice book, something that the whole family could enjoy (if you have small children). The pictures are very nicely illustrated and the stories are only about a page long. There are poems, and songs created by the children in the tales as well…I hope that I can get (or write) a book that fun and engaging for my own children (and for other children as well).

 

Hoping that you’re all having much better weather than I am,

 

Orion.

Christmas Memories: The Balloon.

balloon

Today I thought that I would tell,

Memories of Christmas past.

Sit back and get cozy,

With your nose and cheeks rosy,

And listen to this tale.

— Orion.

 

T’was the week of Christmas and all through the house

There was laughter, excitement and a large cookie eating mouse.

My younger sister, at the time of the age of five,

Had a bright blue balloon that hit the ceiling while it flied.

I watched her run around the room.

She dashed by. Zip, zip, zip.

She raced around. Zoom, zoom, Zoom.

As she passed the tree there arose such a clatter.

She cried out and I asked her, “What is the matter?”

“My balloon,” she said with tears in her eyes,

“It’s stuck in the tree. The tree is taller than I.”

I puffed up my cheeks. Oh what should I do?

Call our mother for help,

Or do what we older siblings must do.

So I took the string and I tugged it a little.

The balloon was stuck in this tree so brittle.

I turned to my sister and said, “I didn’t have luck.”

She started to fuss and the balloon she tried to pluck.

She pulled harder and harder on that blue ribbon.

I said, “Let’s just go ask Mom. She’ll get be sure to get ‘em.”

But my sister wouldn’t stop,

Her balloon was up top.

So she jumped up and pulled as she headed for the ground.

My eyes grew wide at a startling sound.

Down went the tree.

Down the balloon.

Towards my young sister,

Who did not see the danger.

My heart raced and away I went,

I pulled back my sister as the tree bent.

Pop went the balloon.

Crash went the tree.

Mom ran in and looked from my sister to me.

“What on earth happened?” she asked worriedly.

My sister hugged me and smiled,

“My balloon was stuck,

I tried to get it down.

Then the tree started falling.

Good thing Eden was around.”

Mom started at me and said with a twinkle in her eye.

“Thank God for you little child of mine.

You saved your sister just in time.

Come let’s all get away from this tree.

Into the kitchen you’ll have milk and cookies.”

My sister looked sadly at her balloon.

“Cookies make your tummy happy,” I said,

“You’ll get another one soon.”

With a nod of her head she followed behind.

She took her hand and placed it in mine.

 

 

Orion Ryder. December 24, 2013.

For my little sister.

 

 

Writing Tip: A …

Writing Tip: A writer will not always get the reaction they want from their parents.
Example.
The other day my younger sibling asked me to show my parents something I had written.
Dad: Uh…okay. That was…uh…what did you write this for?
Mom: You handed that into your teacher!? No wonder you only got a four (A) minus!

The story had its on sing along tunes and was written for a typical five year old boy. -_- My younger sibling loved it.

The life of a young writer named Orion