The Stories That Turned Me Human

After a long, tedious (And most likely inaccurate) count, I found out that I've made 166 little scraps of paper for my thanksgiving chain.

So many beautiful things.  I want to make a blog post about each of them.  But that would a whole 166 blog posts you probably don't want to read.

I've been changed as a person by some of the most random things.  Try writing 15 things your thankful for a day on little scraps of paper and you'll probably make the same discovery.

Maybe I'm just too easily affected by things.  Actually, making this chain opened my eyes to some of the reasons why I act the way I do.  Why I love the things I love and why I'm afraid of things I'm afraid of.

I found that I'm particularly moved by stories.

So.  Here are some of the stories that turned me into who I am today.

Whinny the Pooh

I don't know how young I was, 2 perhaps.  Too young to make the distinction between reality and fiction.  I believed in all of these characters like I believed in my own siblings, and I often wondered at times if Piglet was actually me.

Captains Courageous 

I would always argue against watching this movie during pizza-movie-nights, because most of the characters were adults and adults were boring, and in the end, it put me in a quiet mood and I didn't like being in a quite mood.  I also didn't like crying in front of people, or letting them see just how ridiculously I loved Manuel.

The Hobbit 

Mom read this book aloud to us.  I was believe I was 5 or 6.  It was the first book that truly entranced me.  When she read, I was no longer little Dr. Elemis Pott, but I was Bilbo Baggins and I was on an adventure.

Spider Man.

Among many of our phases me and siblings went through, there was a long and passionate Spider Man phase.  (We also had a dinosaur phase, a pirate phase, a cow boy phase and a ninja phase).

Peter Pan 

My siblings didn't really join me in this phase.  It was a struggle to try and find someone to play Peter Pan with me.  Also, I watched this at an age where I was old enough to make a distinction between fiction and non-fiction.  I chose not to believe in Santa Claws because I loved to torment my fellow 6 year old's who did.  But I hard core believed in Peter Pan.

Cars 

So many Pixar Movies changed me in so many ways.  It was painful, but I've chosen four that affected me the most. 

Monsters Inc.

Up

Toy Story 3

Ice Age

I know this doesn't count as a Pixar movie, but it affected me in the same way.

If there was anything inside my violent-little-bratty-self that made me strive for innocents and goodness, it was because of these movies.  It's funny what cars, monsters and mammoths can do to make you more human.

There are some common themes in all of these movies.  Things that maybe weren't intended to dissect the heart of 6 year old girl, but did. 

Most of them have something to do with growing up.

A friendship.

An unexpected sacrifice.

And then a goodbye.

Maybe I never went through anything particularly ground breaking at these ages.  But God knows what is to come, and these stories prepared me for things I hadn't experienced yet.

At my One Year Adventure Novel writing camp, Mr. S (Daniel Schwabauer) made a speech about innocents.  He ended by reading the last part of the last book of Whinny the Pooh:

Then, suddenly again, Christopher Robin, who was still looking at the world, with his chin in his hands, called out "Pooh!"

"Yes?" said Pooh.

"When I'm - when --- Pooh!"

"Yes, Christopher Robin?"

"I'm not going to do Nothing any more."

"Never again?"

"Well, not so much. They don't let you."

Pooh waited for him to go on, but he was silent again. "Yes, Christopher Robin?" said Pooh helpfully.

"Pooh, when I'm - you know - when I'm not doing Nothing, will you come up here sometimes?"

"Just me?"

Yes, Pooh."

"Will you be here too?"

"Yes, Pooh, I will be, really. I promise I will be, Pooh."

"That's good," said Pooh

"Pooh, promise you won't forget about me, ever. Not even when I'm a hundred."

Pooh thought for a little. "How old shall I  be then?"

"Ninety-nine."

"Pooh nodded. "I promise," he said.

Still with his eyes on the world Christopher Robin put out a hand and felt for Pooh's paw. "Pooh," said Christopher Robin earnestly, "if I - if I'm not quite --" he stopped and tried again - "Pooh, whatever happens, you will understand, won't you?"

"Understand what?"

"Oh, nothing." He laughed and jumped to his feet. "Come on!"

"Where?" said Pooh.

"Anywhere," said Christopher Robin.

         *   *   *

So they went off together. But wherever they go, and whatever happens to them on the way, in that enchanted place on the top of the Forest, a little boy and his Bear will always be playing.

Notes from the Author, Chapter 10: A Second Thing to Lose, and Chapter 11: A Fear and A Nightmare

Notes from the Author:

1, Yes, I forgot a day again.  So, two more chapters it is.

2, This is ridiculous.  I thought I would be at the big "incident" moment about four chapters ago.  I know they're short, but it's taking too long.  Domino is thinking too much, there  is too much build up for this moment that is to come, but there is not enough happening within those build up moments.  I like Domino's thoughts.  Most of them.  I think some of his thoughts are important and I would like to keep, but they are out of place.  I need to re-organize many of these moments.  For example, chapter 10 can be condensed or removed, or I'll use a lot of the concepts of this scene earlier on.  Like, in chapter 2.

3, on top of three overflowing notebooks, journals and folders, I've started a Domino calendar.  This way I can keep track of all my characters normal scheduled lives as well as all the events that happen within those days, what chapters they are, and what days jump back and forth in the "time travel" parts.  It's time consuming, but I should have started one a long time ago.  It's exhausting to see the list of major edits I need to make.  But I'm glad I took a break and came back to it, because now I have a better scope of my story and can spot the mistakes easier.  If I don't post for several days, it's because I hit a knot and have to do some untangling. 

10
A Second Thing to Lose

“Morning Domino!”
“Morning.”
“Look at the clouds!  They’re fantastic!”
I look up from my black convers as we walk.  I only glance up for a second.  As a bodyguard, I must be the one to watch our feet.  Over time it’s been apparent that watching her steps is not Qym’s strong point.
The sky looks no different than yesterday’s sky.  Sometimes I doubt every day is different.  If days were movie producers, then they would be completely dry of inspiration, resorting to repeating the same story over and over.  It’s probable.  What isn’t probable are the days skipping forward. 

The clouds are wispy, tinted wakening colors of pink and yellow.  Streaks of white from airplanes scar the sky, like a nail across car paint.
It could be pretty, if I liked pretty things.

Reason why I Hate Qym #6:
She’s kind of like the sky.

We cross the bridge, and the skull someone spray painted on the pavement.  The cars roar past us, and beneath us.

“I’d live in the sky if I could,” she continues.

I glance down at her.  She’s not looking at the sky anymore.  She stares forward, as though she sees something fantastic in the distance that I can’t see.  The huff of air follows behind a speeding vehicle, strands of hair attack her face.  She stokes it back into her pink hat and lets her finger strum across the bridge gate, creating a metal humming sound.  Like a child playing a xylophone. 

We reach the street, and I grip her hand, speed-walking across the street before the next wave of cars pass by.  Her metal legs thump and squeak along as she struggles to keep up.  I take slower steps.  It’s cold, but my hands sweat.  We cross the median and continue across to the sidewalk.

“You have a really tight grip,” she says.  I cringe at the observation, releasing her hand
“It keeps getting tighter every morning, it feels like.  Are you afraid of streets?”
I glare down at her, shaking my head, “Yes.  Definitely.”
“What are you scared of?”

Reason Why I Hate Qym #7:
She knows I lie, yet she asks questions as if she expects me to be honest

The gravestones watch us through the shriveled vines around the fence.  Or, they watch me.  As if to say, “Yeah, Domino, what are you scared of?”

Qym moves on to the next ill-timed question, as though satisfied with my silence.  “What do you think would be the worst death?”

A collage of horrible images flood my mind.  I finally settle for one that sinks deepest in my stomach.  “Being buried alive.”

“That’s not a death.”

“Eventually, it is.”

A turns it’s bass up so loud I feel it through my chest as it passes.  An obnoxious woman’s voice calls for her dog.  I know Qym wants me to repeat the question to her.  I don’t.  And I hope my silence indicates I wish for her to remain silent or change the subject.

She answers, “I don’t know the worst way to die.”

 That’s great.  You can shut up now.

We’re walking by Savvy now.

“Any death alone would be hard I guess,” she proceeds, “But, I would want a “Lady of Shalott” kind of funeral.  I’d want to be sailed away on a boat.  Then have someone shoot a burning arrow into it, and have everyone there be in cool mid-evil costumes and sing sad Elvish songs and I’ll sail over a waterfall or something.” she inhales, as if in awe of her own splendid funeral. 

My jaws hurt from grinding my teeth. 

How is everything so beautiful and fantastic through her eyes?  Someone who loves to hike and lost their legs.  Who lost them because her Dad wasn’t watching her as she played next to the campfire.  Who wasn’t watching because he wasn’t around.  Who wasn’t around because he didn’t care.
My fatherless situation isn’t remotely as bad as Qym’s.  Because Qym had one, and he failed.  I’m not abandoned, I just fill in what I don’t have. 

I’m a master at filling in the blanks.  Like what I did in Kindergarten art class, when I asked for the red paint and they didn’t pass it to me.  So, I cut myself on a sharpener and used the blood on my finger to paint.  My teacher was really upset with me.  So was Mom.

Somehow, Qym knows how to fill in the blanks without cutting herself.

11
A Fear and a Nightmare

Here’s the thing about nightmares.  They are different then fears.  Qym wanted to know what I feared.  And just like I couldn’t make the opening sentence to this book, “Domino was dead,” I couldn’t just reply to her question.  Lying wouldn’t have worked.  Like how saying, “Domino is alive” isn’t a very convincing lie.

Nightmares aren’t fears.  Fears are situations.  Events.  Nightmares are flesh and blood.  Everyone has fears.  Not everyone has nightmares.  Nightmares are like friends. They stick close.  They are there in your darkest times, and when you are hurt.  They’re like Sharks.  They’re there when you’re bleeding.

Domino Poems and a Note from the Author

The last several and upcoming chapters of Domino are under a wee bit of construction.  In the mean time, here are two of Domino's poems.  (Whether or not they will end up in the book is undecided).

A Candle

We walk along,
Mis-matched socks,
The right and wrong,
The water, the rocks.
Though I’m the taller,
You’re the higher.
I’m the candle,
You’re the fire.
Though we’re never,
One in the same,
I’ll forever
Hold your flame.
Though you don’t feel,
What I felt
I’ll protect you even
As I melt.
-Domino, Age 16

Rhythm
When all around,
The pulsing sound,
Our ears immune,
To the life time tune.
A step,
A breath,
A blink,
A drop lands in a sink.
And I’ll stand upon my own two feet,
Until the day I lose the beat.
Domino, Age 15

The Fam

(This is Dr. Elemis Pott speaking, not Domino.  Just thought I'd make that clear).
I need to squeeze in a happy post before my next chapters of Domino.
So, happy thanksgiving!
I was challenged to get a picture and a post a day on Facebook about something I'm thankful for, which I never followed through with.  But it's not thanksgiving yet.  I still have some time to be ungrateful.  (Please be fully aware of my sarcasm).

So I'm making a thankfulness post.

Also, this year I'm making my own lovely and slightly emo thanksgiving chain for my room.  (I'm using those fantastic pencils and black paper I was telling you about in my Art Dump post).

Me:  *Sigh*  "I have so much to do.  I wonder how I can be wiser with my time.  I need to make less projects for myself and just focus on one thing at a time.  Yes, that is wise.  I'll just focus on school and everything else can come aft----OH HEY I SHOULD MAKE A GIANT EMO THANKSGIVING CHAIN FOR MY ROOM WITH FANCY PAPER AND PENCILS AND THEN MAKE A LONG BLOG POST ABOUT IT!!!"

When I make thanksgiving chains, I always start with the fam.  Unfortunately, there's too much to say about them.  I don't know where to begin.  Also, there are quite a few of them.  But hopefully this post gives you a good taste of their brilliance.  

Liddy just finishes saying something fantastic.  Slight dramatic pause.  Josh picks up a blue crayon, and sets it in front of her.  Looks Liddy in the eyes.  And says, "That blue me away."

Liddy visits before Josh goes off to military.  We roam down town.  I leave my bear Leo in the car.  The sad expression on Leo's face was too much to bear.  I insist we bring him along.  (Notice the pun.  You thought Josh made it up.  You're wrong.  That was MY pun).

Jo, our friend Amadeus and I go on a hike, which turns into an unexpected rock climb.  Amadeus and I are covered in dirt and few scrapes.   Then there's Jo-Jo Look'n swag the whole time.

Elli:  "Nathan, you're a peach."
Nathan:  "I'm NOT a peach."
Elli:  "Yes you are."
Nathan:  "NOOOO!"

We have tried for years to get a good family photo that is not a selfie.  They have all failed.

Dad:  *Getting our attention in order to make his wise statement heard*  "Now, kids, always remember and never forget, the monkey did the slunky on the ooy-booy-hooy."
Kids:  "Okay Dad."

Me:  "The dentist said my teeth would always be yellow unless I buy this teeth whitener stuff."
Kathryn:  "That's so sad!" 
*Several hours later*
Kathryn:  "You know I give weird gifts, right?"
Me:  "...Yeah...?"
Kathryn:  "Well, I got you teeth whitener!"
Me:  "Oh...Thank you."

Lego Land in Germany.

Me:  *Enters the kitchen*  "Can I have a cookie?"
Mom:  "Sure."
Kathryn:  *Enters the kitchen*  "Can I have a cookie?"
Mom:  "Of course."
Liddy:  *Enters the kitchen* "Can I have a cookie?"
Mom:  "Help yourself."
Josh:  *Enters kitchen* "Can I have a cookie?"
Mom:  "WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU GUYS??"

I named my childhood blanket Dee-Dee.  Then I got a little sister, who also picked up a special blanket, and called her's; Mee-Mee.  The 4 year old girl inside me geeked out over this moment.

This picture was taken right after Josh made his favorite NF pun.  Oh, and Ally.  Because Ally's family too.

I love you guys 

Chapter 9: A Thing to Lose

9
A Thing To Lose

I swagger into the kitchen.  Mom wears her fuzzy Star Treck pajama pants and pink T-shirt, her skinny arms stretched upward towards the mug cabinet, like a begging child.  This is the part where I help her, and she’ll mumble in her raspy morning voice, “Thank you, Sonny-Boy,” to which I’ll reply in my deeper voice, “Any time, Mother Dearest.”

So, proceeds our morning traditions.  I reach above the short expanse of her arms, opening the cabinet and pulling out a simple white mug, bringing it down to her level.
“Thank you, Sonny-Boy.”
“Any time, Mother Dearest.”
She gives me a squeeze, and I pat her on the tangled brown head in response. 

Mom didn’t give birth to me, and the contrast in our appearances makes that obvious.  Her features are soft, with a round face and small nose.  Her freckles so numerous, if you blur your eyes she could almost look brown.  A common comparison I’ve heard regarding my Mom and I is, “The fairy and the vampire.”  Now, I could be wrong, but I don’t think I’m the fairy.

“So,” Mom says as she begins to grind her coffee beans, “I found a costume!”

I peer my head into the fridge, “For…”

“Halloween!”

I hum, pulling the bread loaf from the top shelf.

“It’s like a Cyborg,” she continues, “Only sexier.  And it was half price at the thrift store.”

I hum again and shove the two pieces of bread into the mouth of the toaster.

“And,” she draws out her word, as though I should be curious to know what she has to say next, “I found a costume for you!”

“Wonderful.”

“My work is having a party.  You want to come?  Unless you’re going to that dance thing, but I figured you weren’t-”

I slap the two burnt slabs of toast on a napkin.  “Mom?”

“Yeah?”

“Is today Wednesday?”

“Unfortunately.  Why?”

I bite into the crispy edge of the toast.  It breaks like a cracker.  “Just making sure.” I mumble.
She leans her back against the counter, sipping her coffee and inspecting me above the rim of her mug.  She swallows. “Your eyes are bloodshot.”

I blink my burning eyelids.

“Did you sleep last night?”  She asks.

“I always sleep.”

“I can tell you lose a lot.”

I crumble the napkin in my fist, throwing it in the trash.  “I don’t lose anything.”

Chapter 7: A Thing I Call HIM, Chapter 8: A Beat (And Two Notes From Dr. Elemis Pott)

Thing One:  I didn't post my next chapter yesterday, so now you get two chapters.  

Thing Two:  I just realized that out of 18 plays I've been in, 8 of my characters were dudes.

That is all the importance I have to say today.

7
A Thing I Call: HIM

The mug is almost empty.  I swirl the thin layer of cream and the thick black sludge at the bottom, mixing it and slurping the cold remains.

The digital clock on the dresser beside my bed glares in red letters: 2:13 AM.  It’s Wednesday…I hope.  Four hours to go.  Go.  Slow.  Blow.  Crow.  No.  None of the rhymes seem to want to make themselves into poems tonight.  I have to wait for the poems to create themselves.  The notebook lies open on the bed, the stanza cut off mid word.  I tap my pen against the glass rim of the mug.  The poet inside me must have gone to sleep, deciding I could get through the night without him.  My mind slurs.  Like the sludge at the bottom of the mug.  I lean my head a little too hard against a protruding brick corner in the wall.  My cold bare feet that hang off the end of my bed and I adjust my position against the springs in my thin mattress.  They squeak beneath me. 

My head weighs heavier and heavier.  I sink, as if a large hand were shoving me under, warmer, deeper.  I have to stay awake.  HIM will come.  I have to stay awake…

I’m in darkness.  Why darkness?  I must have flipped the switch.  The only light comes from the cracks between the door and the frame, and a strip of yellow light glows between the door and floor.  The door is shut.  Why is it shut?  Did I shut it?

I don’t hear the zapping, explosion Sci-fi sounds of Mom watching movies upstairs. The house doesn’t creak, the pipes in the basement aren’t groaning.  Everything holds it’s breath.  Expect for the foot steps.  They’re heavy against the hollow wood stairs, without rhythm, as though he were stumbling and struggling to keep his legs steady. 

I hate when things are off rhythm.

It grows louder, nearer, till his feet touch the muted cement ground.  Two shadows flicker in the light beneath the door.  Breathing.  Like my breathing, only wet, salivating, drooling, craving.  He bangs on the door twice, interrupting the rhythm of my heart beating.  He bangs three more times.  Harder.  So loud I expect to hear the crack of wood splitting.

I can’t move.  I’m paralyzed to my bed.  I can’t even look away, my neck locks, forcing me to face the door straight on.  I can’t blink.

He finally speaks, “Domino?”

The voice of a corpse.  My voice. 

“Domino, let me in now.  I have someone.  I found her.  Would you like to see?”

The scream lodges in my throat.  I try to close my eyes but they open wider.  I try to run but my muscles restrain me.  The door knob twists, the metal squeaks.

No.  No.  Go away.  Go away.  Why didn’t I lock the door? 

“I have your friends, Domino.  Would you like to join them?”

By the time I’m submerged in the cold water of reality and my eyes open, I can no longer scream.  Actually, I could still scream, and it would probably feel good.  But Mom is upstairs, she would hear.  When I was 5, I would scream because I knew she would hear and come downstairs to be with me.  Now I can no longer use that method to get attention.  Because I don’t need attention.  I just to need to stay awake.  To stop shaking.  Maybe I can drive the fear away.  I if I just dig my finger nails a little deeper into the back of my hand…

The light, though dim and orange, stings my eyes and I squeeze them shut, and blotches appear behind my eyelids.  I move my quivering muscles, reach towards my desk, set down my empty mug, and grab my head phones.

The rhythm begins, and soon my heart beat pulses to right tempo.

8
A Beat

Everything a beat, really.  Time has a beat.  Our hearts have a beat.  Cogs turn.  Blood flows.  We walk to it, tap our pencils to it, blink to it.  Breathe in.  Out.  In.  Out.  Tick.  Tock.  Thump.  Thump.  We’re like the characters in a grandfather clock, everything so perfectly aligned, every cog that moves to move another cog, down the maze of machinery, resulting in something potentially beautiful.

But what if something went off?  What if something threw off the beat?  One little pebble caught in the expanse of machinery, a dust particle in a computer.

What if time forgot what it was doing?  And days began to have no pattern?  For example, what should have been October 22^nd   becomes October 25^th. 

But no one knows any different, and everyone remembers those days in between.  Except you.

Chapter 6: An Observation on High Schoolers

6
An Observation on High Schoolers

Lying is my specialty.  But lies don’t give freedom. They merely provide me with an underground safe room from destruction.  Alas, it’s not a very pretty room.  But that’s how I like it.

Like how walking in to Ms. Stevens class late is not a pleasant experience.  But my story about puking all morning will have to suffice for now.

.    .    .

You learn many things about the human race just by sitting in a corner watching your fellow High Schoolers dilly-dolly with each other.  The way they react to each other, who they choose to flirt with, who they choose to laugh with, who they choose to avoid, who they choose to hurt.  The way they stand with their food tray, scanning the cafeteria in composed panic, until they find their click.

I arrive as early to lunch as possible, always choosing the seat to the right corner of the room.  The white paint on the brick walls: chipped and peeling, revealing an ugly grey plaster beneath.  I make out a few shapes in the fading paint.  One shape looks like an Octopus.  Like Leo, Savvy’s stuffed octopus he used to bring to school every day.  Everyday, until Conner found it.

Conner sits by me.  As does Sheldon.  Mikayla.  Joseph.  Mika.  Jessica.  My entire table is filled in a matter of seconds.  Grace sits closest to me.  I hold my breath against the fruity sent of her breath.  She proceeds to tell me something “super funny” that happened between her and Sheldon, gnawing her fruit loop between words.  Why does she talk to me?  Why do any of them talk to me?  Am I fun?  Good looking?  I only leave a comment in their conversation once every so often, when I truly feel the need, and every time, my comment sends half the table in hysterics, and the other half pausing their conversation to be a part of the joke. 

I don’t laugh.

I have as much pride entertaining this crowd as a babysitter has pride in entertaining 5-year-old’s. 

Why did things change?  Perhaps they’re rewarding me.  Rewarding me with attention.  Now that “that weird kid” is out of the picture.  That weird half blind kid, who believed in Santa for a little too long, who stuttered in conversation, who brought his stuffed octopus to class.  Being his friend must have made me weird too, right?

Then that kid gets a bullet in the chest, and I get attention.  My reward.  As though I shot him myself.