The Harp

~I wrote this story based of a Harris Burdick picture (if you are not familiar with Burdick, I encourage you to research him).  The picture was of a harp on the side of a river in a beautiful and lush forest.  The caption was "So it's true, he thought. It's really true".  This story has a fairy tale feel and I hope you find it magical :) ~

The Harp

Once upon a time, there lived a young man in a land far away.  He was a humble radish farmer making just enough money to keep a small plot of land where he lived alone.  The man was kind at heart and hardworking, but he felt unsatisfied with his life.  Every morning he would get up, collect his radishes and take them to the market.  Then he would come home and eat whatever he couldn’t sell and go to bed early to wake up early the next day.  Yet he always felt there was something bigger and more important waiting for him.

One day, when he was at the market, he overheard an elderly woman telling her grandson a tale about a magical harp that lay deep in the forest.  The woman said the harp had strange powers and who ever could climb the mountain and survive the forest would be able to play the harp.

“Excuse me madam” the young farmer interpreted, “What happens when the harp is played?”

The woman smiled “Whoever plays the harp will inherit greatness.  Ultimate strength and intelligence”

“Has anyone played the harp before?” asked the farmer.

“Who’s to say? Many have made the trip up the mountain, but none have returned.”

“Come on grandma, let’s go” said the small boy, tugging on his grandmothers sleeve.  The farmer was intrigued by the story.  As he was walking home he wondered if the story could possibly be real and what it would be like to have ultimate strength and intelligence.  He imagined a better life for himself where he could live in a big house with a pretty wife.  He could have a brilliant job in business or something of that nature. He would have friends and he would never be lonely again.  He was convinced, so the next day he packed a sack of food and tools and started his journey up the mountain, into the forest.  Soon, the farmer found how difficult the hike was.  He was scrambling up rocks and crawling up long steep hills.  When darkness fell the farmer found it was safest to sleep in the trees, out of reach from creepers and crawlers.  The screeches and howls kept him awake at night.  When traveling he felt fatigue, noticing his low supply of food and clean water.  The more he walked, the more confused he got, trees became too similar and he was certain he had past this spot before.  Lost and tired, the farmer was beginning to think the harp didn't even exist.

He had been in the forest for almost three days now when he reached the edge of a breath taking river.   He was just about ready to give up and turn around.  As he knelt down to the cool river to wash his face, suddenly he saw it.  Reflected in the water, the harp shimmered on the river bank, overgrown with moss and vines.  So it true, he thought, its really true.

He got up to approach the harp when suddenly a tiny man sprung from out from the trunk of a tree and he had a sharp little sword. “I am the protector of the harp! I live in this forest.  If you come too close I will have to kill you! I have killed many before” yelled the small man.  But the farmer was too tired to fight so he sat down on a stump and began eating his last radish. The small man came closer to him “Will you not fight?”

“No” said the farmer “Would you like some radish?”  The small man nibbled the radish and nodded.

“I will not kill you” said the little man, “you look hungy? Shall I bring you some more food?”, the farmer noded.  The little man went into his tiny tree house through a miniature door on the side of the trunk.  His tiny windows lit up and then he came out again with a plate full of food.  The farmer was very grateful and wolfed down the meal.

The small man smiled “ I like you, and I will permit you to play the harp if you so choose.  The farmer was jumping up and down with excitement.  He walked over to the harp and sat down to play.  “I hope you know what you're getting yourself into” said the small man.

The farmer looked up “What do you mean?”

“Well,” the little man said leaning against a rock “Ultimate knowledge is no walk in the park. Some things are not meant to be known.  And ultimate strength comes with ultimate responsibility.”

“Responsibility?” the farmer eyed the golden harp.

“Oh yes. People will constantly need your assistance.  You will be like a superhero...that is until your strength is out of your control and you break the thing you love”

The farmer grimaced “Well how about ultimate knowledge.  That is sure to lead me to a successful life?”

“Like I said,” the small man licked his red fingers, “Not everything is meant to be know. Like where the universe ends, or what happens to you when you die”  The farmer started to feel sick again.  “Yes, I don't think any man should know the truth about how radishes turn red”.

The farmer turned away from the harp and sighed.  The small man smiled and asked the farmer to stay a while and guard the harp with him.  So the farmer and small man became good friends and now every weekend the farmer comes to visit him with a fresh bunch of radishes. And they lived happily ever after.

A Collaboration

~here is a silly poem me and my good friend Allison wrote together.  Me and Allison love to meet up at cafes and throw around writing ideas.  This one was completed to the rules of a particular challenge.  See if you can spot the pattern~

Amazingly beautiful crowds,
Drifting, Entering, Flying

Going home.

I justify killing late moonlight nightmares
Nimbly obeying rebellion

Questioning resolutions
Saving the universe via wormhole

-Xavier
(Your Zebra)

5 quotes

~These are five short quotes that I have fallen in love with over the years.  They are humorous and inspiring and I thought I should share them with you, so you may also be inspired.  Attached to each quote is an explanation on what I love about it.~

“Always remember that you're braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think” A.A. Milne

I love to read this quote when I’m feeling sad or lonely because it's so uplifting.  I have also always loved Winnie the pooh and he was something of a childhood hero for me.

“Mondays are fine. It’s your life that sucks”  Ricky Gervais

I thought this quote was really funny because it's sadly true. But when I read it I am reminded to strive for a life in which I love Mondays.

“Life’s like a movie, write your own ending. Keep believing, keep pretending” Jim Henson

Kermit is one of my most favorite characters of all time and I feel like if I remind myself of this quote everyday I would be a more optimistic and strong person.

“I wish you well on your pursuit of being” John O’Callaghan

From one of my favorite poets, I see this quote as personal encouragement to make myself great in this crazy world.

“Take off your colors, who are you wearing them for?” Josh Franceschi

Reminding me not to be something I’m not in order to please other and to just be me in my own skin.

Tired

~this is a short piece I wrote when I was tired but still needed to work.  It's very descriptive to the emotion yet without revealing what the exact emotion is.  I hope you are able to visualize what I am describing~

A silver cloud settles around your brain and you become numb.  You know you need to concentrate on your obligations but suddenly your head is more heavy than you remember it ever being and your sight becomes blurred.  Suddenly your mind begins to drift and images of fluffy pillows and wonderful dancing sheep fill your head, you begin to wander through the realm of your unconscious thoughts.  You have slipped into an illusion, your body has shifted from feeling very heavy to noticeably light and airy.  You can feel the breath of spirits on your face and it feels as if you could float if you wanted because you are so relaxed.  Then your head snaps back and the heaviness crashes upon you once again, like a wave.  Your eyelids are like lead, your body filled with sand.  The worst part is that you know you could have prevented this terrible disease by simply accepting the earlier proposal from your desirable bed, a proposal that no longer stands.

  

The Favorite

~I wrote this while reminiscing about my childhood and how painful it was to grow up. I wrote the whole thing from the prospective of my stuffed toy dog.  I hope you enjoy and can relate to my story~

I was the favorite.  Although Beatrice never said it out, I knew I was her favorite stuffed animal because I was the one who got to sit on the bed.  Me and Beatrice always had so much fun together when we would play and she would tell me everything.  I remember her first day of kindergarten, it was late at night and she cried and she cried loudly.  Her mother came in and hugged her and told her it would be alright and Beatrice squished me against her face.  Her mother always read her fantastic stories as we cuddled.  At eight thirty sharp her lights would be off and we would sleep under the glow in the dark stars on her ceiling.

She went to school and then she would come home and we would play games where her room turned into jungles.  My favorite game was when we would open a hotel and toys from far and wide would come to stay at our glamorous institution.  Beatrice had an endless imagination and was always coming up with a new situation for us to play out.

When she was gone I would lay and talk with the other stuffed animals who had to live in the basket even though they prefered the bed.  We would talk about Beatrice and all the things she had said to us about school.  We were happy.

Beatrice would come home with more and more homework every day and there was often very little time for a game.  When she came back from school she was always so tired and weak and she began forgetting us for the numbing television.  Soon there were more books and less toys and one by one my friends were disappearing and we hadn’t played a game in years and the hotel became dusty and our jungle was cut down.  Beatrice was changing and her eyes always looked swollen and her bed was never made.

Me and the remaining stuffed animals would talk when she was gone, which was becoming more and more often, about how we could help her.  It seemed like her imagination was being drained from her heart.  We wanted her to play again and smile with us and not always be flipping those big glossy books from page to page.  She didn't talk to us anymore but we heard her cracking voice when she talked about grades and friends and classes and I couldn't understand any of it.

Sometimes I would hear her cry at night from the foot of her bed.  But now her cry was soft and muffled and no one came to comfort her and she was all alone.  She went to bed quite late now and she came hunched over her glowing computer and she didn't even look at us.  She would eventually turn her own lights off with no story at twelve thirty sharp.  Her stars didn't glow anymore and we slept in darkness.

One day I was accidentally pushed off her bed and ended up underneath it but I was patient and waited for her to come get me.  She didn't.  Weeks past and then months and I was still under her bed getting wrinkly and cold.  I had not seen my friends in so long and I was beginning to think I would die here.

Then spring came and Beatrice was picking up all the stuff that had accumulated on her floor.  She began to shift through all the things under her bed and I held my breath with excitement.  Then she saw me and for a second I feared she would not even recognize me and throw me in her trash bag along with all the other junk but she didn't.  She gently picked me up and stared into my eyes and I stared into hers once again.  She held me tightly and laid down on her bed, her arms were far longer than I remember.  We stayed like that for a while and I was happy again.

That was the last time I felt her touch. Now she is gone and only comes back on holidays and I heard her mother says she was going to move us to garage.  My fur is not the same color as it used to be and I am sad and alone.  I cry loudly but still no one comes to comfort me.

The Rope Swing

~ Yesterday my kids, my husband and I, were taking a drive up to Wales to visit Alfonzo's mother and they were asking me for the millionth time about my childhood.  I suppose since they have never been out of Europe they have a lot of questions about life in the United States.  So I told them this story~

When I was eleven years old I met a girl named Lula at a summer camp.  We soon realized we were neighbors and after camp I would visit her frequently.  She had the most amazing house complete with a beautiful back yard.  I sent all my weekday afternoons playing in that backyard.  I would call it The Secret Garden because I always felt so inclosed.  Their yard was encircled with grand willow trees, protecting us from the outside world.  It wasn't a traditional backyard, they had bridges over a moving steams and trees taller than skyscrapers.  Everything was so green and bright and we felt alive.  Yet the absolute best part about her yard was the rope swing.  It was a good hundred feet long hanging from an extremely high branch.  To ride the rope properly, we would step way back and climb onto a smooth boulder. From there you had to muster up the courage to jump, just barely getting on to that small wooden seat.  And then you were soaring like a bird and you can feel the wind running by your hair and your teeth when you laugh.  The fear from that first leap is replaced with the exhilaration of flying and you never want to touch the earth again.  We would do this again and again until it got dark.

One day I came over and Lula's parents weren't home but I could see Lula sitting in the backyard on her blue lawn chair.  So we started our rope swing routine and as always Lula went first.  She always went so high, thrusting her feet into infinity.  I thought she was very brave. I was watching her swing to the tips of trees when suddenly her hands froze in mid air and the everything stopped except the rope that fell between her knees. She was no longer defying gravity and she it the ground like a meteor.  She was screaming so loudly and there was blood everywhere.  I stood there in shock when I saw her white bones sticking straight out of her elbows.  I felt like throwing up but then I got scared that she would die so I ran inside and I called all the numbers I could possibly think of then I went outside and dragged Lula to her lawn chair and told her everything was going to be alright.  Finally her parents and an ambulance came and took her away.  The next week I saw her with two enormous casts on her arms but she was okay.  I was the first one to sign her cast since I saved her life and all.

Ode to Complaining

~I wrote this poem when I was in high school about my love of complaining. It is pretty snarky and sarcastic which perfectly describes my high school self. The poem was based on the idea that complaining is often seen as a bad thing when really it can bring us together and make things better. Although I am older now and see I shouldn't waste my time complaining, I still understand how good it feels to complain~

Oh how I love to complain!

It gives me such power

The words sizzling on my lips

when I tell my mother

that the chicken is just too dry

There is nothing more pleasing

than when I slouch in my chair

and explain how painful it will be to have to take out the garbage

The collective sigh of the class

when a teacher assigns any sort of work

fills me with a bubbly feeling

The snarky comments of my friends

when we have to run the mile in PE

brings us together in a beautiful way

A devilish sentation overcomes me

knowing I been just the slightest bit more difficult

There are just so many awful things to complain about!

Crappy erasers, Smelly bathrooms

Barking dogs, Stale chips

I know I shouldn’t

because there are starving children in Africa

and no one has to leave the couch to change the channel anymore

But isn't it wonderful to gripe

about your sister eating the last cookie?