A Voice

Sometimes...my writing gets carried away. I begin a short story or poem with a pretty good idea of how it's going to turn out. But by the end...it's usually not how I expected it to go. That's what happened with this particular poem.

Softly.
Peacefully.
It begins.
A symphony orchestra.
You sit in the wings, waiting.
Watching.
On the edge of your seat you perch as the curtain slowly...
Slowly...
Eases open.
A gasp fills the audience.
One of your own can be felt rising within you as everyone stares as one being.
The stage is empty.
But then...
From the back.
Comes a voice.
A beautiful, pure, luscious voice.
It sings...
River deep and river wide
By the shoreline hear my cry
Let time slow down and rain subside
River deep and river wide
Love me now; forever be
Simply singing harmony
River deep and river wide
Kindly hear my humble cry.
A smooth wave of indescribable emotion surges through the audience.
Everyone breathes in as one, letting the music cleanse their souls.
The song is repeated as more sing along, the vocals becoming louder and louder, purer and purer as the choir of voices glide down the aisles.
Women, heads tucked, gowns touching the floor, hair cascading around shoulders...
The white shimmer of their dresses in the darkness.
The intoxicating glow flows through everyone's vision.
All the people...at peace.
Except for one man.
Rising in his seat, he begins to chant.
First softly, then louder and louder, his low voice sounds.
Ocean thick and ocean dark
Bring me back your smart remark
Join the chorus of the seas
Let it be the death of me
Ocean thick and ocean red
Red with anger, death and fear
Dripping crashing scarlet waves
Crushing melting killing ways.
The voices clash and mingle, minor and major, sharp and flat, mystery and doubt competing with love and hope.
The voices blend.
The audience stirs.
For one has rose up
To seize the world.

My Mind Conquers.

Running.

It's long.

Hard. 

I can't see the finish.

At least...not yet. 

From the second I begin my warm up to the second I crouch at the starting line, I know it's gonna hurt. I know I have to give it my all, despite the hurt. It's all or nothing.

But sometimes...sometimes the brain doesn't work like that. 

Sometimes you crouch at the starting line with a feeling of dread sitting like a stone in your stomach, and all the stone wants to do is fall to the ground and roll. Your body... it only wants to follow. You beg the ground to give way from beneath your feet so that you don't have to do this, even though you know you don't. You could stand up, say that you quit, and walk away, and everyone knows that. But you can't.

Your team needs you.

You need you.

So, you get into your starting position, eyes focused on the path ahead. Your mind...it could be anywhere.

But it's not. 

Your mind is on the race ahead, and you can't get it off. It's like a fly, buzzing around your vision. It's not going away anytime soon. Unless you kill it. Get it over with. Stop being a coward. 

Stop trying to be strong on your own. You can't. You need God's strength to get you through this. 

Just as you tell yourself this...it's too late. The gun has gone off and you are running, knowing that God is your strength, He's running this race, not you. 

Your legs are moving, and your mind is completely focused on the race, on picking up the pace, reeling in the pain of the best pace. The best pace is suicide, and today is a good day to die. You're not ready to die. You're too young. 

But you're never too young to stand on the podium. To get a place, to go to state, to give God the glory, to win. So you run faster. You run harder, you make your arms pump at a speed you never thought they could. You mind is in control now, and you are in charge of your mind. Pain is nothing. Your body is nothing. It's all your mind.

It's your mind when you see the finish line. That's why your legs start turning faster, your breath comes in harder. Your mind is why you relax your face, tense the rest of your body, and sprint towards the finish line like you're in the line of fire. 

But you're still getting hit. 

Bullets are raining down on you, pelting your calves, your thighs, your head. There's blood. It's clear blood, running in sticky, shiny, smelly rivers down your arms and legs. But the pain is nothing. Your body knows nothing. It's all your mind.

Your mind is the one who conquers when you cross the finish line like spaghetti. You fall, you wobble, you lose all of the protein you worked so hare to obtain. Your body is completely shot down. 

But your mine--your mind has conquered your body. And that is the best won battle of all. 

Thunder and Lightning and Rain and Sky

Thunder and Lightning and Sea and Sky. 

Strength and Hope when the river runs dry. 

A sleepless night in a starless dream

When Hope and Love are more than they seem.

An embracing arm, a ticking clock.

A love so deep it stirs your heart. 

Loving mothers, caring fathers,

Protective brothers and beautiful lovers.

A flash of light, the break of day,

Green meadow pastures where tired sheep lay.

Wells that run deep, rockets sky high,

Poets and writers and dreamers who fly.

The filled-empty morning, the touch of a hand, 

The shout of a sailor upon reaching dry land.

Life is so short--live it all out. 

Dreaming and Living and Loving the Sky.

Now We Have Rain

I hear it before I see it. It's coming...and coming fast. "EVERYONE INSIDE!!" I scream in  frightened delight. We haven't seen it in years. Why is it coming back now?

"Why is it coming back?" My best friend has the same thought as she stands next to me in the middle of the field. "And why aren't you inside?" 

"I want to welcome it." I whisper, opening my arms as wide as they will go. "I'm fifteen, Rachel, and the last time I saw it was when I was three." 

Rachel moves closer to me. "Do you remember it?" 

"I remember joy...and the feeling of hope. I remember dancing...nothing was dry, Rachel! Everything was lush, and green. Yes, I remember the green."
Our feet stir up the dry ground beneath our feet. It is dust...all of it.
"Will...will I like it?"
"Rachel....you'll love it."
And then it came.
Rain.
At first, it was just a light drizzle...a pitter patter at our feet. My eyes are glued shut as I feel droplets fall on my eyelids and catch on my eyelashes. I'm afraid that if I open them...it will all be a dream. A beautiful dream.
"Is it real?" Rachel asks, slowly moving away. "It's...water. Falling from the sky."
"It's rain." I breath, slowly opening my eyes as the rain falls harder and faster, smacking into the ground with dull thuds and turning dusty dirt into mud.
Mud.
I fall to my knees and then roll to my back, feeling the rain soak through my shirt as the real downpour begins. Droplets the size of my fingernails are falling, fast and thick. Everything is wet, and the air is full of the noise of rain.
And the smell.
It's indescribable... I know my whole village is smelling it from the reverent silence they hold. For everyone is slowly emerging from their homes, reaching out their hands to catch as many of the drops as possible. Then the cheer began. It started with the smallest child, and ended with the sternest man. Our whole village is one as we welcome the rain back into our country, and we welcome the green that is soon to follow.
As the rain soaks through my skin and hair, I blink away rain and tears and gaze into the sky.
I know. The rain is here to stay.
No more drought. No more famine. No more starvation.
Now we have rain.

Thanks to a friend for giving me the idea and thanks to all the readers for reading! One of the reasons I love living where I do is because of the rain. It's beautiful and refreshing, and perfect reading and writing weather. Until next time!

Nothing

     Nothing. Have you ever thought about nothing? It's...nothing. The word nothing ins't even nothing, because nothing doesn't exist, but the word nothing does, so nothing can explain nothing. It's blank. It's empty space...but it's not even space. We use the word so casually. "What are you doing?" "Nothing." But really...you can't wrap your mind around it.

     What would it be like...to be nothing? To be trapped in it, enclosed in it, with no way out because you're not explainable, you don't exist, which means you aren't real. 

     Nothing...

It's empty. Totally empty. I'm in a void that holds no air, no boundaries, and no existence. I am nothing. So...I don't exist. But yet I do. 

It's an odd sensation, really, knowing that you are real and you're not at the same time. The question is, am I really feeling? Am I really thinking? I have no brain...no body. I am nothing. 

There's no light here, however there is no darkness either. The walls seem white, but the walls don't exist here. White doesn't either. I think I'm trapped. 

But trapped where? No one can save me...they don't know I exist. They can't feel me, hear me, see me, or even think about me, because I am nothing. I'm gone, yet there I lie. Wasting. Rotting. 

I am dying, yet there is no decay. I am breathing, but there is no air to breathe. Somehow, I exist, though really, I don't. I can't--it's impossible for me to exist because I am not there. 

Maybe I'm in space. Perhaps an astronaut will come along and push me away, force me into his suit so that I can feel something, be somewhere, see something. 

I can't be in space, though. I can't be anywhere! I can't be, but I can't not be, because here I am. Where is here?

I  think I hear voices, calling my name, but yet how can I listen? And what is my name? It's impossible for me to have a name...I don't exist. I'm not real, so how are they calling me?

How? 

How can I even think? 

I am nothing.

     Well...that was slightly odd. I wrote that on the spot so bear with me through any mistakes you found...I think I like it. Nothing. It's a mysterious subject.

     I honestly love this piece of word art, because it is so true.
     My story, my fantasy, it's my work of art. It's a part of me, and I love it. It's beautiful, it's devious, it's dark, surreal, twisted, and deranged. Although--my story carries redemption.
     The first question people normally ask when I tell them that I'm writing a book is the classic, "What's it about?" I usually just give them a vague answer that leaves them with more questions than answers. But, a few weeks ago, a friend asked me that same question. I was about to reply with the usual answer...but then I decided, you know what? I'm actually going to tell it this time. So I did...and I'm very fond of the way I wrote it! Here it is!
     The story of The Children of Light takes place in an alternate universe called "The Wheel". There are seven realms in The Wheel, and the king of The Realm of Dragons has kept peace with all the realms for centuries. That is, until Thal, the king's right hand man, comes across a prophesy featuring him and six others--three sets of twins, a boy and a girl each. It's a prophesy of Thal rising to power and the twins, the Children of Light, defeating him.
     Thal sets off on a mission to destroy the Children of Light, making them all orphans in the process. The Children escape, and go to the Realm of Dragons for refuge. There they meet seven girls...the future Ladies of the seven Realms. Together, they train and wait, anxious to follow the orders of their Creator in destroying Manthal, the beast that Thal has become.

     The title is currently, "I am a Child of Light". I'm really enjoying the writing process. It's tough, it's difficult, but, like everything else that's good in life, I know that it will be worth it in the end.

Hello, World! This is Me!

     An Authoress. Ever since I read that word on Ashley Townsend's blog about a month or so ago, I knew that that's what I wanted to be. I've always wanted to be a writer, an author. Creating stories has always been one of my favorite past times. To see my name, "Sarah Ball", on the front cover of a book, would be a dream come true.

     I am passionate about many things. I've loved reading since I was a little girl, and I know I always will. A few years ago, I became addicted to long distance running--Cross Country and Track. Photography--I adore it. I absolutely love all of my friends, and my family is of course the number one thing in my life. Well...besides Jesus. He always was, is now, and always will be the number one priority in this short little life I call mine.  

     A blog could be easily written about all of these passions of mine. However, I decided to start one on writing, one of my greatest passions. I believe that writing can change the world, that words are powerful. Take the Bible, for example. Think of how many people's lives have been changed from just that one book. That one collection of words, that one story that we are all a part of in some way, shape, or form. The Bible is a beautiful love story. We are beautiful love stories in God's eyes. 

     This reminds me of a short little devotional I wrote a while back. I call it "The Master Author". Bear with me through last minute revising and editing. I'm pretty sure this is one of my late night works. 

     The Author sat at his large, oaken desk. For hours, or was it years? he had been sitting. His old eyes, wizened with age and experience, roamed over his small office space. It was simple, nothing very ornate or special about it. Except for the books. Each wall had a bookshelf that stretched from floor to ceiling, and each was full to bursting with books. Books that the Author himself had written. All of these books had their own name, a title all their own. The words filling these books told one story; a story full of indescribable detail. This one tale was told thorough millions of thick, leather bound books. It was all handwritten, pages yellowed from countless re-readings. The Author smiled, his old lips parting in a youthful smile, and eyes twinkling with the excitement of adding onto this never-ending story. The protagonist in this story was totally new and totally fresh, a brand new idea.        The Author knew this character better than it knew itself, as he did all of his characters.  

     The new, unopened book opened with the crackle of new glue as the beautiful smell of a new book filled the Author's nose. He smiled again. "I'll make her like me." 

     The Quill, dipped in fresh ink, brushed the page in magnificent strokes. "She'll be like me. She'll write, create things from the raw corners of her mind. They'll be recorded on paper. She will delight in words, in making people laugh and cry, all with words. she'll use the talent I have given her wisely, and she'll use it for me." 

     The Author wrote all night, by the light of a candle. The smoke hung in the room, and the scratch of the quill was the only thing heard. Until finally, finally, at the crack of dawn, the author wrote the last words, "She came up to be with me, leaving people changed by her presence." With a wonderfully satisfied sigh, the author set the book on the shelf. "And, oh, I love her." he said happily, a grin etched across his face. Ever so slowly, the Author sat back down at his old, oak desk. His soft, ink-stained, calloused hands shaking slightly, he reached for another unopened, completely new book. A new quill was taken out from a drawer, and new ink replaced the old. The Author began to write.

     "He will be like me. He will draw, a talent used for me." A new day...a new story. "She will be like me. She will care for others more than herself, and she will give whatever asked of her." "He will sing, sing with a voice beautiful to everyone's ears." "She will run." "He will work." "She will doctor." "He will throw." "She will love." "He will show servitude." 

     And thus, He made us all.