Chapter 1 of New Story: Rapture

Hey guys! So what I have here for you is my new fiction story I have started to work on. I was getting bored wiht my other fiction stories and thought I needed to start fresh. So here it is: Full, unedited first draft of  Chapter 1 of Rapture, written by Yours Truly. Also If you have any suggetsions on how to make my story better please tell me!! i love criticism weird as it sounds:) Anyways, happy reading and enjoy!/

Chapter 1:

When I open my eyes, the room is silent. All that I hear is the sound of wind whispering against the window and the crumbling late autumn leaves crunching and swishing as they sink to the ground and the wind blows them. I stare at the ceiling for a few minutes, and then climb out of bed, my footsteps quiet so as not to wake Leighton or Gramma.

            The floorboards squeal their trademark squeak, which they have done as long as I can remember. I used to believe there was some force behind the squealing floorboards, but I know that thought is foolish. As I walk down the stairs, trying to make my steps even lighter, I gaze at the fading photography lining the walls.  Pictures of me as a little girl, my straight brown hair reaching my waist at only four years old. Pictures of Leighton, her catlike green eyes staring into the camera in that intense way she still has now.  Pictures of Daddy, quiet and somber as I imagine him now. And pictures of Mommy, her beautiful eyes and face aglow. Her auburn curls cascade down her chest, and in all the pictures she is laughing. That was Mommy. Always laughing, always spreading joy.

            I pause for a minute before heading back down the stairs. I look around the living room, making sure no one is there.  Then I enter the kitchen, where our dog, Cinnabon, sleeps. She’s an old beagle, fourteen or thirteen years old at least.  I can’t remember a time when she was a puppy, since we were babies together. I give her a pat and one of her eyes flutters open.  When she sees it’s only me (pssh boring old me, who cares about me?) it flutters closed.

            As I stand on the tips of my toes (years of dancing actually paid off) to reach the cereal in the top shelf, I’m startled by the sounds of footsteps coming down the stairs. I glance at the clock. It’s 5:30 in the morning. No one else could be up yet. Unless it’s Leighton, coming down to get a glass of water.

            I am shocked to see that it is not Leighton but Gramma. She wears pink curlers in her snow white hair, and her wrinkled skin is as softlooking as a pillow. Her polka-dotted robe has many patches in it. I’ll bet Gramma has had that robe since she was a girl, it is so old. Her tiny ankles are visible underneath her robe, along with her soft pink slippers. “Gramma,” I say, almost dropping the cereal box.

            Gramma looks as surprised to see me as I do to her. “Layla? You couldn’t sleep?”

            I sigh. Doesn’t Gramma know that I can never sleep anymore? I shake my head.

            “Oh. Well, that’s okay. I’ll get you your cereal.” She takes the box out of my hand and pours the cereal herself. 

            “Oh…Gramma, really—you don’t have to do that,” I say, protesting, even though I appreciate it. But Gramma’s so old these days, she shouldn’t have to do any extra work.

            Without a word, Gramma hands me the cereal, with extra milk as I like it. Wordlessly I sit down at the table and spoon the cereal into my mouth. Its coldness startles me, and I shiver.

            “I couldn’t sleep either,” Gramma says after a long silence.  There are dark circles under her eyes, which tells me that she needs sleep, desperately. She walks over to me and smooths my hair.

            Just then, as if out of thin air, Leighton appears.  Her almost-black hair is a tangled mess, and her plaid flannel pajama pants are wrinkled. Goosebumps appear on her bare arms.  She squints, as if she can’t really tell if we’re actually sitting there.

            “Leighton?” Gramma says, her voice astonished. “You almost gave me a heart attack, sweet.”

            “What are you guys doing up?” she says, blunt as usual.  She treads over to the cupboard and slaps a cup on the counter before filling it with milk.

            “I couldn’t sleep,” Gramma and I say at the same time.

            Leighton narrows her eyes. “Oh.”

            I stare at my sister as she prepares her breakfast.  She is everything I am not. While she is tall and athletic, I am short and “needle thin” as Daddy used to call me, before he left.  Her eyes are green, sparkly, and intense.  My eyes are chocolate-brown and dull.  She’s always been talkative, slightly intimidating, and a pro at getting her way.  I stay silent, and stutter when talking to strangers.  She’s daring; I’m not. She’s popular in school; I’m not. She gets straight-A’s; I get straight B’s and C’s.  She knows what she wants her life to look like; I don’t.  Clearly Mommy and Daddy’s gene pool worked a whole lot better when they conceived Leighton. Clearly something was a little off when they conceived me.

            It’s not only that Leighton is just better, she knows that she’s better, which ruins the entire effect. She constantly loves to remind me of this, and has on several occasions called me unrepeatable names. She has a large vocabulary for a twelve-year-old.  It’s funny, because the older sister is supposed to be the one who taunts the little sister. In this case, though, it’s my little sister who has full control over me, which is sad.

            Now Leighton glances at me and sneers. “What?” she asks.

            Gramma looks at her disapprovingly, but doesn’t say anything. I know Gramma notices that Leighton is mean to me, but she never does anything about it. I know if Daddy were still around, he would chastise her, but Gramma never does anything. I don’t know if it’s because she doesn’t have any energy to deal with fights, or she doesn’t think it’s important.  Thinking of Daddy, my heart twists a little. Then, as usual, I float into my little fantasy of him being a successful businessman in London, and him making lots of money and having a happy life with his new wife… But then that fantasy always circles back to me. I wonder if he’s happy without us. I wonder if he wishes he’d brought us along. I wonder if he’ll ever come back here.

            “N-nothing,” I get out. How sad. I can’t even speak to my BABY sister without stuttering over my words.  Leighton seems to sense my thoughts and she sneers again, and chuckles this time.

            Then we all sit down and wordlessly eat our breakfasts. If anyone looked through the window, they’d see me, Leighton, and Gramma and think that we were happy sisters, believeing in happiness and love, and their Gramma visiting them, and their parents away for  just the week.

            But instead of being away for the week, their parents are gone forever. 

The Sisterhood of the Traveling Sister: Rough Draft

This is a paper I'm writing for school. Please give me your thoughts and opinions on it. It's the rough draft, so I'll post the final soon. Enjoy ;)

The sky paints our gleaming skin, and glitters against the turquoise water.  Our legs swing from the dock, the tips of our feet skimming the water, sending electric coolness through us.  My sister laughs, and the wind carries the sound.  In just a few seconds, the water will steal us, and strings of water will splatter the dock.  I glance at her.  She’s gliding through the water, her hair cascading down her back.  She’s like the sun.  Without her, the world would be dark, and yet she’s always there, so I often overlook her presence.

            As I look back, I see laughter, smiles.  I see French manicures, prom dresses, field hockey sticks, and lopsided Brooklyn apartments.  Now, I see sandy, dry deserts with shepherds herding hundreds of sheep, and the intricate Arabic alphabet.  I know this because last spring, she announced her ambition of teaching in Jordan at an American-style boarding school.

            My parents’ attention, not to mention every single one of our aquaintances’, slowly shifted to my sister and her future.  I was the youngest in the family, the one everyone gushed over and admired.  I’d always been somewhat like a china doll in a glass case, but would get jealous if the attention from me for two minutes.  So there I was, with everyone in the universe talking about the way this was a lovely experience, what an amazing girl she was, how she would go on to do great things, and I would just sit there, arms crossed, lips in a thin line, and eyes fixated on the ground.

            It wasn’t that I was trying to get attention, although maybe that was slightly part of it.  I felt jealous. I felt wistful.  I felt as though a puzzle piece was missing.  My sister had always been within reach, and now she was going to be across the world, in an entirely different time zone, learning to speak Arabic and teaching Shakespeare plays.  It was more exciting than anything I’d ever done.  A pang of annoyance and jealousy combined into one emotion would run through me every time someone mentioned her new job. 

            A few days, before she left, we argued.  Not only was the argument irrelevant and unimportant, it was so irrelevant and unimportant that I can't recall fully what it was about.  I remember our voices screaming and echoing across the silent lake and my dogs tentatively seeing what was wrong, but most of all I remember her voice, over a blur of chaos, saying loudly and clearly, "In case you forgot, I'm moving to Jordan in three days, so..." This line made me feel as if I'd just fallen out of a tree and gotten my breath knocked out of me.  It was a reality.  In three days, we'd say goodbye. 

            When three days passed, and my parents drove her to the airport in New York City, I watched their car descend through the trees, down the gravelly road, before turning back, full of happiness and regret combined.  I remembered in disgust the days I would sit sulking because every ounce of attention was not on me, but I also remembered the good things: the midnight swims, the days when we'd do nothing but listen to loud music and hang out, the times when we'd watch Matilda and cry at the sad parts, and the lengthy debates we had over The Hunger Games. 

           After she moved, I became more selfless, and more aware of what I did and said.  I still have the moments when I find myself annoyed when all my parents talk about are my brother's college applications, but mostly I have become someone different. I'm a better friend, a better daughter, and most of all,  a better sister. 

            

I'm from

the beautiful breeze that migrates in the winter,

the rubber gloves clinging to my mother's polished fingernails,

the gentle voice of my sister,

the velvet silk of a puppy's coat,

the everlasting sound of pens scraping their messages into paper,

the smell of sunscreen mixed with seashells bundled on a shore,

the flutter of rose petals rolling softly in the air,

the sound of beauty as a book page turns,

the shouts of my brothers,

the patience of my father,

and the love of the beautiful whispers that

constantly strengthen

the way I think.

Short Story: A Rose By Any Other Name Is Still A Rose

Hi everyone! This is a short story I just cranked out today and it's the first draft.  I'd really like some feedback on it, whether you're a published writer or not.  I've never written a short story before, so my first attempt might be pretty brutal and/or a total fail, so yeah.  I'm still a little concerned with the ending.  I want to know if there's any point to it or if it's just stupid. Please give me some feedback--not only positive comments but also things I could work on.  i'd really, really appreciate that. thank you. :)

The Story:
My eyes fixed on the creamy pink rose in front of me, I let my eyelashes flutter closed and will my mind to think.  My fingers just barely touch the silky petals, and it is so silent that it felt loud, like I was at a party where all the voices blended together into one steady hum.  Next, I can hear the water bubbling underneath the rose, and the world bursts into a colorful maze of pinks, creams, light reds, and even hints of lavender. When I open my eyes, the colors disappear and in their place was the rose, just that one rose, looking simple and quaint, much unlike the worlds it produced.  Again, I will myself to think.
      Not now. It was getting late.  Soon, dinner would be ready and I wouldn't have time to wish for anything before dinner. Someone would surely find me and declare me a psychopath, which I don't think would be saying something entirely wrong.  I held off with the urge to think.
      Thinking.  It was an odd concept.  Every woman and every man in the entire world was thinking something, and yet people talk about people who don't think wisely as if they don't think at all.  It always baffled me a bit, because when my mother declared that my brother didn't "think" after going skateboarding on the highway when he'd never touched a skateboard before, I had told her confusedly, "Of course he thought. He just wasn't thinking well." I suppose it's all a bit confusing to someone who's reading this, but you don't have to read it if you don't understand it.
    My sister, Delphine, comes into the room at that moment. "Camilla, dinner's ready." I blink one more time to adjust my eyes to the normal world, nodded at Delphine, and scampered down the stairs a few minutes later, my mind still swirling with the maze of rosy colors. I thought to myself if anyone in my family had the same power as me, if it could even be classified as "power".  I'd never told anyone about what I could do--to wish for anything I'd like and it would come true, after those rushes of colors.
   My power--or, I guess I'll call it "gift" for now--has its limits.  I can't wish for anything otherworldly, or weird, like for my dog to know how to talk or something ridiculous like that.  Strange wishes such as that are childish, anyway.  I would never wish for that, because it would be a little creepy if my dog could talk, let's be honest.  I can wish for things that normal people could get any day (if they were extremely lucky). The wish has the power to make my parents to believe that they have let me have this particular thing, so that they are not shocked when I bring home, say, a large sum of money. It always makes me laugh to see them in this state, even though I know it's awful of me.
   Dinner passes by in a blur, as things always do after I make a wish--or even if I don't, just let the power of the rose sink in.  I can distantly hear my younger brother, Henry, talking about school that day, but I don't really pay attention to what he was says.
   Delphine is almost exactly a year older than I am, which means she's fourteen. We've always been civil to each other but not very close.  We've never fought but we also don't do sisterly things, such as paint our nails together or have a sister's day out, like some sisters.  I've never understood why we don't connect much, because we're very similar, in terms of our manners.  We're both very quiet and don't speak often. We even look alike--the same honey blond hair, small mouths, porcelain complexion, and sea-blue eyes. Though I guess we are very different--I can wish off a rose and she can't. Not that I know this for a fact, but I'm almost positive it's true.  I'm sure I'm the only one in my family with this really weird power.
   After dinner, as I'm walking up the stairs, I catch a glimpse of Delphine sitting at her desk, mumbling something, which isn't rare--she talks to herself quite a bit more than normal people do.  But when I see her eyes fluttering open and closed, and her hand positioned midway through the air, my heart stops beating.  And that's when I see the rose.
   This rose is purple, but not a deep, harsh purple.  A beautiful lavender, almost as beautiful as my immortal pink rose. The door is open just a crack, so I stand there silently (I hope silently!) and watch her as she sits in the same position I do every time I make a wish.  My heart turns two times inside my chest.  I feel as if I might faint, or hurl, or both.  I can't make my mouth say words. Finally, I manage, "Delphine?" in a half-whisper, but she hears me.
   Whirling around, her eyes look bright but terrified.  "Yes?" she says as casually as she can, trying to hide the rose behind her back, but I can still see a few petals peeking out.
   "You're--the rose--wish? Lavender--power...you?" I manage, and she understands what I'm saying.
   "How do you know?" she whispers, her eyes still dreamy and wistful, no doubt from the wish she just made. But her mouth is fixed in a frown, as if she's not sure what to make of this situation.  I'm not, either, so I can hardly blame her.
   I let my breath out and explain.  Explain that we have the same power and that I never knew where I got it, just stumbled upon it one day when I was six or seven or eight. And that I had no idea that she had the power too and that I wondered if our other siblings had it too.  She's just nodding her head this entire time, backwards in her rolling chair to her desk, her eyes not looking at me, but at the floor.  Even though she's not looking at me, I can tell she's hanging on to every word I'm saying.
  "Yes," she finally says when I'm finished explaining. "I did suspect someone else in this world had the same power as I did.  But I never thought it would be you." I'm not sure whether I'm offended or not at the last part of her speech.
   "Well, I thought I was the only one in the world," I say, and there's the first moment of silence where we reflect on what we've just learned about each other.
   "Oh, I'm so glad someone knows," she finally says.  "It's always been a weight on my shoulders and now I feel like it's gone. You too?"
    "Yes," I agree. How can I not agree? She is perfectly right.
    As Delphine and I sit there, sisters who have never connected before, I begin to realize something.  Sisterhood is a strange thing.  Yet it is a wonderful thing.  Sisters have more in common than they realize.  Although this story has no conflict, and it's technically no story, both of us realize the power of our power.  And though no one has confirmed it, we KNOW are the only two in the world with this gift--not only the gift of wishing, but also the gift of being sisters.

Unraveling A Literary History

Hey guys! :) So this is an article I wrote for school about e-readers.  Let me know what you think! :)

It earned its name for the pieces of wood in a fire that spark flames and being the roots to the realm of books. This new creation is thin and weightless, fresh and vibrant, just to name just a few of the many elements it contains. Ideal costumers crave the satisfaction of these characteristics. If you were to go on any train, airplane, bus, or other mode of public transportation, you would be sure to see someone reading on one of these items. Just by clicking a few keys, you’re washed over with everything that makes avid readers content.

This product that so many people buy and use is called the Kindle. They have a certain inevitability–on any given day, you’re certain to tread into a book shop and see displays with customers cluttering around them. The Kindle is not the only type of reading device like this. People call this format the electronic book, “e-book” for short. There are many categories of e-books, but people typically chatter the most about the Kindle, the Nook Tablet, and the iPad. They have crystal-clear screens and space for many books, not to mention unlimited Internet access, games that fit in your pocket, and several other genius ideas. Lots of people appreciate their ability to read whatever book they would like with just a two-click journey to the Kindle Store. But, is it the same image that swirls into your mind when you think of a quiet but rainy eighteenth- century day reading your well-used book? Is it what you habitually do after a long day of stressful work?

When the first Kindle appeared, in fall of 2007, the popularity of the product was mind-blowing. It sold out within the first few hours of going on sale, to the extreme shock of Amazon. Amazon, not long after, discovered that there was a flaw in the design and had to ship them back to Taiwan. Since this fix, reviewers gush about the product. It lasts through eight straight hours of continuous reading and the product only weighs 14.3 ounces (413 grams).

Of the many advantages of e-books, portability is a very important element. If you’re reading several books at a time, it is so much less trouble to carry them all on a lighter, thinner device. “Two [print books] are in my purse, three are on my nightstand, and one’s on my desk. It’s easier to carry them all at once,” says Carol-Ann Pala, a librarian at the Irene duPont Library in Middletown, Delaware. You can carry a library of up to 1,500 books for something as regular as a trip to the doctor’s office. Did that book bore you? Well, luckily there are 1, 499 more to choose from!

Halfway out the door with your car keys? Not so fast. Instead of driving to a book shop, you can immediately download any book in mere minutes. Those who live abroad don’t often have the luxury of bookstores, therefore if you’re living in an area that doesn’t have as many shops for all tastes, the e-book can be lovely to have. Many librarians are getting e-books such as Kindles and iPads available in their libraries. “It’s easiest to get [the book the person wants] on an e-book because I can just hand [the e-book to the person] without having to go through and see if anyone has already checked that book out,” says Pala. Many librarians prefer e-books because you can get them instantly. “I’m running out of room [in the library] as most libraries are,” she says. Some earth lovers use e-books because the amount of paper and ink saved is unimaginable. “I think people should encourage e-books because of this,” Isabel Austin, 13, a sixth-grader in Madaba, Jordan, says. Because of all the reasons above, e-book sales were up by approximately 15% at the end of 2011.

Yet, avid readers often argue against e-books and all that they stand for–after all, your print book might be a comfort zone. When you’re having a lousy day, you can get lost into the invincibility of the worlds that only books offer, flipping the pages until you suck the last one’s words in. This is another popular argument. Still, the affect of e-books is similar. You’re still reading a great story, no matter the format. Some also say that printed books are used for things such as pressing flowers and folding pages. You can’t collect rare or old e-books. Maybe in a hundred years you could, but certainly not here in 2012! If you look through any bibliophile’s bookshelves, they’re filled with old books that have thinning pages, worn-out type, and annotations that were written many years ago. People do enjoy getting a new book— the fresh smell of the bookstore and the brand-new feel of the pages. But there is something so traditional, so eloquent, about and old book. “I think it would be a shame if all of those beautiful books melted away,” says Isabel.

In the last 60 years, many new inventions have become immensely popular. Think of email. Billions of networks connect to send emails back and forth, zipping to someone’s inbox across the street, or across the world! Having and old-fashioned book and handwriting a letter to a relative are very similar–that was what humans did sixty years ago. Now, when we get home from school or work, we flip open our laptops, and click a couple keys to get to our email. It doesn’t take two weeks; it takes about two seconds. All the content on the Internet (short for “Interconnected Network of Networks”) wasn’t there 35 years ago. Now, if you type in the word “hi” on google.com, approximately 4, 240, 000,000 results swirled to the screen in 0.11 seconds. It’s the same with the Kindle. So much content, and not even a second went by!

Most people can view the bright sides of both kinds of books. There are some people who are biased–the comfort that print books give them can’t be changed.. On the other hand, there are lots of people who love anything new–computers, cell phones, iPods, even the new brand of jeans on the rack of a store. Then there are the people who love both. “I always have a book in my bag,” explains Shannon, a Barnes & Noble employee, “but I carry my Nook Tablet when I’m traveling. It’s very convenient.” These people see that both are helpful in different situations, and that while it’s good to read print books sometimes, it’s interesting to try new things.

The history of books plays a key role in how we interpret the act of reading. Before Johannes Gutenberg established the printing press in 1440, books were handwritten and contained delicate calligraphy and intricate designs. They were rarely seen and when people did read them, they were read out loud. People who enjoyed this way of reading were scared that this new invention would affect the many gatherings they shared. In a strange way to grasp, they were right. We think of–and prefer–reading as a solitary activity, and we usually like to read in the peace and quiet with nothing but ourselves and the air circling around us. It wasn’t like this before the printing press.

The future is a mystery, but it’s unsolvable. By taking these new inventions and ideas into heart and mind, all of us can be a part of history. Things that are ambiguous to us now will be confirmed in a matter of years, but by then we’ll have more mysteries to solve.