Monday, June 13, 2011

Sparrow Ridge - Saturday

Sparrow Ridge
Chapter 1: Saturday
(This is just the beginning scene)

Shreya McCoy gazed up from her book and stared out her bedroom window. Fifty yards off, like the wall a giant garden, stood the trees of Blanchard Forest. Just below them ran Meadow Creek, separating the McCoy property and the wilderness beyond. The now rotting wood bridge Shreya her older brother Tabor built five years ago, with the help of their father, still worked. Indeed, it worked great, as Shreya knew from her recent winter excursions into the woods. Christmas break began two days ago.

Yet Shreya was board. Her only close friend, Sara, was on vacation with her family, leaving Shreya friendless for the holiday. No one to play with. No one even to argue with. That is, except her mother. She’d prefer arguing with anyone else, even Tabor.
But Shreya’s now sixteen year old, grown up, and way too cool, brother didn’t stay home during school breaks anymore. He spent most days and nights in Riverbend, the nearest city, and a half-hour drive away. Shreya knew the drive well because every day she had to be driven there for school. Tabor plays the violin in the school orchestra, providing him with a lucky excuse to spend most weeks and weekends with his musician friends. “It’s easier than traveling back and forth for practice all the time,” he’d said. But Shreya knew the real reason. If only she had as good of an excuse she’d stay away as well.

Shreya took a deep breath and focused on her reflection in the window. She had her mother’s smooth, light brown hair tied back into a pony tail, her father’s blue almond eyes, and her grandmother’s small nose, ears, and pear-shaped face.

“Shreya!” her mother yelled, bursting into the doorway of her room, her long pink, silk pajamas dangling near her pale, slender feet. Shreya wished her mother would change already; it was almost noon on Saturday. “When are you ever going to do as you’re told!” her mother scorned. “I told you last week to clean up those branches in the yard. And you still need to finish pulling the weeds!” Her mother’s arms flailed in the air and her eyes grew wide, as if Shreya’s mutiny was the sole source of all he mother’s suffering.

“Sorry Mom, I—”

“You and your brother will be doing it first thing in the morning, and you won’t get to do anything else all Christmas break until you’ve finished.” Mary-Lynne McCoy perked up her sharp nose and narrowed her piercing green eyes at Shreya. “Is that understood?”

“Yes, Mom.” Shreya watched her mom wisp away from the doorway.

Monday, June 6, 2011

A Story or a Song?

Is there a tune to which my life follows
A melody, a theme, a song
To which the verses of my life are sung
Is there a story out there
Which shows the trials of my journey
The tears, the fears, the struggles
The things I hold in memory
Or the people I’ve known, the places I’ve seen
The times I shared with friends
Is there another in the world
Who’s life is similar to mine
Or at least who’s worries, and cares, and dreams
Are compatible with mine

What song is there, what music is there
To which my life is sung
Is it the tune I write, you write
Or only the infinite may write
What story is there, what book is there
That shows my life to come
Is it the book I write, we write,
Or am I just a character
In the story of all our lives
What person is there in the world somewhere
To whom can be my light
Is she here, as she gone
Or has she still not yet been sung