United States of America

Check out my music YouTube page!
Antiochian Orthodox Christian
Music major
Former homeschooler
Voice teacher
The world, the flesh, and father smith

Message from Writer

I'm in the process of writing a novel which I post on here in sections.
My writing style tends to be witty (I don't know if that's the right word), descriptive, and sarcastic.

I greet criticism like a Jack-in-the-box.

"Astronomy has proven that when you wish upon a star, you're actually a few million years late. That star is dead, just like your dreams." Am I a bad person if I find this hilarious?

The Red Fence: part II #JakeFrommContest20

December 3, 2019


“Lucy, how do you spell ‘luscious’?” Sam whispered, so the other kids wouldn’t hear.
“Luscious? Why would you wanna spell a word like that!” Lucy was fourteen and smart and didn’t consider herself too big to help Sam with reading and spelling.
“Shh, it’s for my poem.” Sam cleared her throat. “The ship wailed, afraid to cave, For the water swelled in luscious waves.”
Lucy frowned.
“Sam, we’re supposed to be writing a story. You know Miss Ricker won’t like it.”
“A poem can be a story! Just last week she read a story about a raven and it even began with “Once upon—.”
“Sam Leery!” Miss Ricker suddenly hissed over Sam’s shoulder. “I see you’ve been very busy with your writing. Why don’t you read the class what you have?” Sam sighed and felt her doom coming, but she stood up, flattened her paper, and took a deep breath.
                                                                            “The Drowning Cry”
                                                                 Nothing could stop the creaking,
                                                                The men would go on squeaking.
                                                                The wind shouted in explosions
                                                                Of taunting and hateful expressions.
                                                                The ship wailed, afraid to cave,
                                                                For the water swelled in luscious waves.

“The title is a working progress,” Sam murmured, eyeing the floor.
“This is what you’ve spent the past fifteen minutes writing?” Miss Ricker’s long tongue flicked out spit so far Sam thought it might land on her face. “Miss Leery, I asked you to write a story—”
“But this is a story! And I haven’t finished yet. They’re going to crash quite dreadfully on some jagged rocks and they will die together as a crew.”
“This is a bunch of nonsense, that’s what this is. No one wants to hear about shipwrecks. Now, sit down and write me a story.”

    Sam slammed the screen door behind her and dropped her trash bag full of books by the couch. Daddy was resting at the kitchen table supporting his boots caked in layers of multicolored mud on the opposite chair—even though Mama always said not to—with a gasping pipe between his lips.
“Hey Sam, go get changed. I need help with the diggin’ out back.”
“Can’t.” She swung open the sink cabinet and started shoving tins and bottles around.
“Can’t? Well why can’t you?”
“Painting.” Finding her supplies, she headed for the door. Daddy seized her by the back of her collar.
“Now hold up a minute.” With one motion, Daddy’s powerful arms swung her into the chair opposite him. “What’s got you so sulky?” Daddy knew lots of big fancy words too.
“I wrote a poem.”
“Ain’t that fine!”
“But Miss Ricker don’t like it!” She felt a tingle in her nose. “She says it’s all nonsense, it don’t make sense.”
Daddy’s expression didn’t change. He let out a gurgling cough. And his breath smelled of whisky and pipe smoke. He turned his pipe upside down and dumped all the ashes onto a napkin on the table.
“Does it make sense to you?”
“Then I don’t see a problem.”
“But Miss Ricker don’t like it.”
“And why the hell do ya care what Miss Ricker thinks?” he growled.
Mama didn’t like Daddy to talk in foul tongue around Sam and the little ones, but Mama wasn’t around. Sam began turning the ash pile into a ring with a spoon.
“Because Miss Ricker knows how to spell, and she knows all the important people’s names, and she knows all the good books.”
“Miss Ricker barely even knows how to spell her own name,” he grumbled, “and I bet Miss Ricker ain’t written a poem in her whole stinkin' life. How many poems have you written? Ain’t it like fifteen?”
“Twenty-six,” Sam whispered.
“Exactly. You don’t write poems for Miss Ricker, you write ‘em for yerself and don’t forget that. Ya understand?”
“Yes sir.”
“Good. Now go get changed and come help yer Pa with the diggin’.”


See History

Login or Signup to provide a comment.