"One moment," she says.
"Turn around," she says.
"Don't scream," she says.
Then Sara proceeds to pull a sticker off the back of my neck. From what she said, I was expecting something a little hairier, with about eight more legs.
Thanks, Sara, for saving me from sticker embarrassment. And for the well-intentioned but vague warning that was supposed to let me know what you were about to pull off me might take some hairs with it- possibly painfully. (Hence the "Don't scream.") My heart has stopped pounding now. ;)
Tuesday, January 29, 2013
Friday, January 25, 2013
Scars, a pensive short story
I've been working on a short story. I will be very upset if any of you steal my idea. ;) ... (But really, don't do that.) It's a personal story, almost autobiographical, so it'd be hard to copy anyway. I have an idea that lots of people relate to this subject, but in radically different ways. I'm taking my time with this story. I want it to be right. At the rate it's been growing, I probably won't finish it until after my mission, and I wouldn't want it any other way. Enjoy the preview you're getting now. Who knows what it will say in two or three years.
Kate stared at the back of her hand, looking at a long red scrape in particular which led toward the bandage on her thumb - the aftermath of accidentally brushing against a piece of broken glass. When she tired of tracing the thin bloody line, she turned her attention to the skin around it. It was pale and dry. If she looked closely, she imagined she could see every pore. She flexed her fingers and watched the muscles and sinew move underneath the skin. Her veins were very, very blue.
Her eyes moved to her right forearm, to a pale white scab that came of scratching a mosquito bite one too many times. She had scars on her back, shoulders, and torso from various accidents throughout her life, permanent reminders of painful experiences.
The human body was a marvelous thing, Kate thought, continuing to wave her fingers but watching the inside of her wrists now, in fascination. Its ability to recover from injury - even its very existence - was nothing short of miraculous.
Finished playing with the muscles in her hands, Kate’s hand strayed to her lower back where the largest scar was located. It was left over from a painful lancing when she contracted a staph infection when she was sixteen. The details of the memory had faded, but Kate could still remember how she cursed and cried and gritted her teeth when the nurse had lanced it. Just touching the scar reminded her how scared she’d been to show anyone the sore, and of the day when the pain of hiding it became greater than the fear of lancing and she had finally succumbed.
The scar didn’t pain her anymore. The wound had healed oddly, leaving a slight lump in the skin, but causing no further problems. Kate had moved on to other bumps and bruises, occasionally adding another scar to her collection. They were all memories of pain, of lessons learned or simple misfortunes. Though the pain of the experience was gone, the memories - and their physical representations - would never be.
It was part of life to have misfortunes, Kate thought. It was certainly part of life to make and hopefully learn from mistakes. And there were plenty of other wounds that left no physical trace but an occasional ache inside. There were things she would carry to her grave.
But an occasional ache didn’t mean unhealed. The difference was how often she ached, and how severely. The memory of pain was different from real hurt. Sometimes it was even a benefit, reminding her of past lessons she had no desire to relearn.
Scars, (c) J.M. Henrie
Kate stared at the back of her hand, looking at a long red scrape in particular which led toward the bandage on her thumb - the aftermath of accidentally brushing against a piece of broken glass. When she tired of tracing the thin bloody line, she turned her attention to the skin around it. It was pale and dry. If she looked closely, she imagined she could see every pore. She flexed her fingers and watched the muscles and sinew move underneath the skin. Her veins were very, very blue.
Her eyes moved to her right forearm, to a pale white scab that came of scratching a mosquito bite one too many times. She had scars on her back, shoulders, and torso from various accidents throughout her life, permanent reminders of painful experiences.
The human body was a marvelous thing, Kate thought, continuing to wave her fingers but watching the inside of her wrists now, in fascination. Its ability to recover from injury - even its very existence - was nothing short of miraculous.
Finished playing with the muscles in her hands, Kate’s hand strayed to her lower back where the largest scar was located. It was left over from a painful lancing when she contracted a staph infection when she was sixteen. The details of the memory had faded, but Kate could still remember how she cursed and cried and gritted her teeth when the nurse had lanced it. Just touching the scar reminded her how scared she’d been to show anyone the sore, and of the day when the pain of hiding it became greater than the fear of lancing and she had finally succumbed.
The scar didn’t pain her anymore. The wound had healed oddly, leaving a slight lump in the skin, but causing no further problems. Kate had moved on to other bumps and bruises, occasionally adding another scar to her collection. They were all memories of pain, of lessons learned or simple misfortunes. Though the pain of the experience was gone, the memories - and their physical representations - would never be.
It was part of life to have misfortunes, Kate thought. It was certainly part of life to make and hopefully learn from mistakes. And there were plenty of other wounds that left no physical trace but an occasional ache inside. There were things she would carry to her grave.
But an occasional ache didn’t mean unhealed. The difference was how often she ached, and how severely. The memory of pain was different from real hurt. Sometimes it was even a benefit, reminding her of past lessons she had no desire to relearn.
Tuesday, January 15, 2013
The broken bush
It's no secret that Jennifer hates snow, but fewer people, I think, know she kicks icicles and snowdrifts to relieve her feelings.
Look closely at this bush. Jennifer always kicked the giant icicles on it whenever we passed it. Today, it snapped. Death by giant icicle... or was it?
Look closely at this bush. Jennifer always kicked the giant icicles on it whenever we passed it. Today, it snapped. Death by giant icicle... or was it?
Tuesday, January 8, 2013
New year, new semester, new start
Everything feels new today: it's the big 2013 (meaning the world didn't end last month), a new start, and my last semester of school. Graduation with my bachelor's degree in journalism looms on the horizon, just four months away. Crazy, right?
I also got a new phone and an almost new alto saxophone this morning while running errands with my mom! I feel like I've accomplished a lot today already, and I am so excited to get home after work and play my sax!!! I'm far more excited about the saxophone than I am about the phone, although it's a pretty spiffy phone.
I love the beginning of each new year because it's easy to think of it as a fresh start. A clean slate. Opportunities and tragedies may both be in store, and I'm excited to see where life takes me.
We have yet to replace Ary in the apartment. Hopefully Ary will be able to sell her contract soon, because it's zero fun to have to pay rent to a place you don't live in anymore. On the upside, Sketti, Jennifer and I talked to her on Sunday, and she's doing great in Germany! She'll be working there for a year, which means I probably won't see her for three-ish years (after my mission).
Speaking of my mission, I'm almost ready to turn in my application to be a full-time missionary for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Sister missionaries in our church typically serve wherever they're called for 18 months (the men are typically out for 24 months). My brother Graig will probably leave on his own mission about the same time I do.
I also got a new phone and an almost new alto saxophone this morning while running errands with my mom! I feel like I've accomplished a lot today already, and I am so excited to get home after work and play my sax!!! I'm far more excited about the saxophone than I am about the phone, although it's a pretty spiffy phone.
I love the beginning of each new year because it's easy to think of it as a fresh start. A clean slate. Opportunities and tragedies may both be in store, and I'm excited to see where life takes me.
We have yet to replace Ary in the apartment. Hopefully Ary will be able to sell her contract soon, because it's zero fun to have to pay rent to a place you don't live in anymore. On the upside, Sketti, Jennifer and I talked to her on Sunday, and she's doing great in Germany! She'll be working there for a year, which means I probably won't see her for three-ish years (after my mission).
Speaking of my mission, I'm almost ready to turn in my application to be a full-time missionary for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Sister missionaries in our church typically serve wherever they're called for 18 months (the men are typically out for 24 months). My brother Graig will probably leave on his own mission about the same time I do.
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