Merry Christmas!!

Merry Christmas guys!!! and thanks so much for reading our posts! You guys are awesome!!
 -Kelsie and Emma

The Misadventures of dear Allyson round one

The Misadventures of dear Allyson round one

 

Ally burst through the door of the house she and her friends were sharing, skipping every other step on her way up to the family room, where she knew her friends would be waiting. She burst in, causing Gavin to half throw his book across the room, and Finian to jerk awake with a start.

“Guys, guess what! I got my drivers permit!!” She squealed, jumping up and down. The boys stared at her for a minute, and then jumped to their feet. Gavin moved in for a hug, but Finian beat him over there.  He looked his female friend over a few moments, from her drenched hair to her hand clenched tightly around a very short handled umbrella.

“It’s raining, huh?” He thought out loud. What makes you think that you’d make a safe driver Ally? You stink at Mario Cart!” Ally pointed the umbrella at him angrily.

“Take. That. Back.” She snarled.  Gavin blanched, glancing nervously between his two friends.

“What, or you’re gonna beat me up with that puny umbrella? I’m only telling the truth! I refuse.”

“It’s retractable.” The girl glared, and pressed a little button by her fingers. The top part of the umbrella shot out, bopping Finian in the face hard enough to drop him to the ground.  

Gavin simply stood and stared at him for a few moments before turning anxiously to face his girlfriend. She retracted the umbrella and pointed it at him instead.

“And what do you have to say?”           

“I k-knew you could do it! I’m s-so proud!” He managed a shaky smile. The girl hugged him, turning again into the silly version of Ally.

“Yay! I’m gonna go eat lunch now! See ya!” With this she ran back downstairs, leaving her boyfriend in the dust. Gavin stood frozen a bit longer, than turned, sat back down on the couch, and resumed reading his book.

Not in MY kitchen you don't.

Once, a few years before the adventures of Lucy and Flyn, three children made their way into the arms of the Orange gang.  Their names were Seymour, Ted, and Ratchet. Now, Ratchet was a quiet fellow, and tended to stay closer to his younger brother, Ted.  But Seymour was a trouble maker. He loved nothing more than to pick fights and make fun of the other kids. The boy was small, but he had a large mouth. His favorite target was none other than Ratchet’s little brother.

The left side of little Ted’s face was covered in bandages, chin to forehead. The boys had been in a fire, one that had killed their parents. The disaster had left them injured, and without a friend in the world. Ted was set in shock, and never talked to anyone except his brother; and then only if they were alone. Ratchet was his constant companion. Since Seymour was afraid of Ratchet, he left Ted well enough alone. Except for one day.

The Blue gang had staked out an area at a nearby town and was stealing any valuables they could get their hands on. Bossie and Flyn had decided to act on it, to confront the leader before it got too bad, and they had asked Ratchet to join him. The teen had only reluctantly agreed. They set off early, leaving Ted in the care of the cook, Dinah.

Dinah was a simple minded fellow, with his rules set in stone and written in neat handwriting on the bulletin board.  Everyone knew his rules. Well, almost everyone. The new kids hadn’t quite memorized them yet.

About an hour after Ratchet left, Seymour slunk into the kitchen. Dinah was doing the dished in the corner, while Ted was slowly stirring a pot of soup. They were the only people around. Seymour immediately walked over to Ted.

“What’s up, freak?” Seymour sneered. “Busy doing nothing useful? You can’t do anything right, I hope you know. That’s why nobody talks to you.  Nobody likes you. How does that make you feel huh?”

“…”

Dinah stepped forward, a medium sized steel pot in his hand.

“That’s enough Seymour. Get out of my kitchen.” Seymour rolled his eyes.

“I’m not talking to you; I’m talking to the freak. Not like he’s going to talk back, he’s just a-“

Dinah swung the pot, connecting to the side of Seymour’s head with an echoing CLANG. The boy crumpled, rubbing his head. He spent a few moments to refocus his eyes before standing up and glaring at Dinah.

“I hate to hit you, but I have a rule against bullying, and you broke it. Not only that, you also refused to get out of my kitchen. I’m giving you another chance. Leave.”

“You hit me!! I’m going to kill you! I’ll kill you and the freak. You stupid-“ CLANG! Seymour collapsed again, but this time he stayed down. Dinah glared at the prone figure and rubbed at a scratch on his pot.

“There’s no cursing in my kitchen either.” He turned back to Ted, who was looking at him with a mix of awe and fear. “You alright kid?” Ted nodded. “He won’t be allowed back in here, so if he’s ever bothering you, just tell me, okay?” the boy nodded again.  Then, as Dinah turned back to the bread he’d been making, he heard a small whisper.

“Thank you.”

HAPPY THANKSGIVING!!

Happy Thanksgiving everyone!!! thank you so much for watching our blog! Everyone have a wonderfull day and eat too much food! >_<   =D

"No sky a gray backdrop merely and absence
and below: the scraggle of dusty fronds, the scrub oak and scrub jay
whose abrasive noises sharpen in response.
Shadows proliferate in deep furrows no sky above
merely a scrim registering conical thrusts, a heightened flurry &
outlines of branches, the dead ones slowly petering out.
magnificent ruin the cut through the field blasted chaparral
As I understand my job, it is, while suggesting order, to make things appear as
much as possible to be the way they are in normal vision.
An unvoiced series of sentences, without articulation,
with gray shapes, formulating a syntax loosening and then tightening from edge
to edge.
The frame sets a border down from which a thin straggle hangs at random &
like purposeful intrusion, and so unlike
and the interstate (in the title) missing from the photograph itself
merely a dry riverbed, the density of shadows trapped in the confusion
of bush and bush-like tree
except from higher up than the rest, its thin trunk arched against
no sky
colorless, less often remarked upon, appositely emotionless these days,
a relic, like the fan palm living at the edges of water."

No Sky

after Robert Adams's California: Views

WHY YOU AND ME NO USE THIS AT SAME TIME?! IT'S ALWAYS JUST YOU OR JUST ME! AAAAAAAAAAAAUUGH!!!! DEUAEUAEGH!!!

Wanderer "He snickers from the treetop"

I could hear the sounds of their footsteps below me, angrily searching in the night. Every once in a while, I could see the silhouette of the pudgy soldiers through the tree branches; every now and then catch a glimpse of their lamplight.

                “Did anyone find him?!” I heard a man shout across the foggy wilderness. He skulked into my line of vision, his presence boastful, like a man of power. Probably a general, I thought to myself. To his side rushed this mousy man, who shook his head.

                “No sir,” He said in a painfully nasal voice. “We’ve searched the perimeter up and down, general. No sign of him.” I smirked to myself at the name ‘general’. Knew it.

                The general growled furiously, storming to the trunk of the tree. “How could we be so careless?! I can’t believe we lost him again!” He roared, lashing out and punching the tree. He winced at the pain in his hand and clutched his fist close to his chest.

                ‘That’s not nice,’ I thought sarcastically, ‘what did the poor tree ever do to you?’ I silently chuckled at my own joke.

                “Do you want the others to keep up the search?” The other man asked, turning to leave.

                “No, it’s no use.” I crossed my arms triumphantly as he spoke. “Once Rue Hinton is gone, he’s gone. He could be right under our noses and we’d never find him.”

                ‘Or right above them.’ I mouthed, thoroughly amused by the whole situation.

                “What are we going to do about the plans?” The mousy man asked. “You know, he’s going to kill us when he finds out it was stolen, especially by Rue. How can we tell him we lost the el-”

                “Shut up, moron!” He hissed, looking back and forth. Wow. This whole thing seemed like a bad storybook to me. “You and I are the only two soldiers ALIVE that know about those plans. No one else can know.” He gave exhausted look at the smaller man and turned to leave.

                “Sorry…” the latter replied, scurrying off behind the general.

                I had to stifle a laugh as the rest of the troops headed back to their little town. I had to hand it to the Victorian President; he had a knack for hiring the “smartest” people I have ever met.  I counted each man as they passed below me until the last of them walked by. All of them were talking about the “legendary” Rue Hinton, which, in itself, was hilarious to me. A legend was the last thing I thought of myself as.

 I took the contents of my pocket out; a small notebook made of hardbound leather, a few crumpled up dollar bills, five bluish coins, and the paper I’d just stolen from the guards. I held it up to look at it. It was folded in thirds and marked with the Victorian seal of confidence. I opened it, looked at the drawings and plans on it inside, and closed it again. It didn’t mean much to me; I had no idea what it was talking about. I didn’t know exactly what to do with it, but I knew I needed to get it from the Victorians. They can’t have this kind of information for themselves. “Wait.” I remembered, “Didn’t my father leave me a note explaining exactly who I should go to?”

I stuffed all of it back into my pocket except for the book. I flipped it open and began to leaf through the pages, looking for the writing I knew was my father’s. Finally I found it; a yellowed paper fell from the binding of the book. It was unmistakably my father’s handwriting. In his elegant but still masculine handwriting was scrawled a note I’d seen many times before.

Rue,

I know that by the time this note means anything to you, I will likely have been gone for several years. I want you to remember this; if you ever find you need a spark to find your way and I’m not around, find Arthur Docherty. He’ll be able to help you, no matter what. He lives in the Punk region. I have faith that you will be able to find him in your ‘darkest’ hour.

                        ~ Dad.

  “Huh,” I said. “I’m actually not far from the Punk region, I think.” I jammed the book back into my pocket and sighed. “Guess I’ll try to find this ‘Docherty’ guy tomorrow, ask him about it.”

                I relaxed amidst the tree branches and took my pan flute from my other pocket.  I knew it would be a long night, high up here in this tree. It wouldn’t be safe to come down until the next morning, so instead I leaned against the tree and tipped my hat down over my eyes. I played a melody with the pan flute quietly to myself. ‘Ah,’ I thought to myself, ‘Sleeping in treetops. My favorite.’