<![CDATA[the truths of my heart - My stories]]>Mon, 29 Feb 2016 23:38:25 -0800Weebly<![CDATA[As a Writer… ]]>Thu, 28 Jan 2016 23:25:55 GMThttp://thetruthsofmyheart.weebly.com/my-stories/as-a-writerWarring with the cold, my fingers never cease from pressing the keys, each black line and curve a letter, a word.

Words that few read, but read they are, and what have they to conceive within the mind, the heart, of the reader?

I hope, I pray, I aspire to inspire. You are my audience, I am the writer.

Reading from screens that illuminate your faces, you read the lines and curves, the words of a writer.

Not only looking, but hearing, listening; I hope, I pray, I aspire...

I find that words do more than inform. Words are like colors, all the colors and more.

They are alive in themselves, breathing either breaths of life or the terror of hell. But it is not the choice of the reader alone, whether of the two are they.

As a writer, I writer to inspire. It is my want; my need; my obligatory. You, dear readers, are reading the words of a writer, one whose life has yet to prove worthy of life and deserving of love.

Be blessed by these words, dear, dear readers. While you read, I hope, I pray. As a writer, I aspire to inspire.
<![CDATA[Jane Doe]]>Mon, 09 Nov 2015 21:11:02 GMThttp://thetruthsofmyheart.weebly.com/my-stories/jane-doe

She was seen on the side of the road. 

Faded jeans, T-shirt hanging by two threads, and a black hoodie. She was walking with a slight limp, her stride a crooked one. Unwashed, uncombed, and untidy, her red-brown hair was sporadically hanging on her scalp. 

What once was a beautiful woman was now a very bummed homeless wanderer. 

And then she was seen, in another state, in a hair-salon. 

Expensive clothes, her black hair in a classy vintage updo, and her nails clean and painted. She had been talking to her hairdresser about her built, nearly finished career as a lawyer. 

She was unashamed about her pretty face, and loved to flaunt it around. 

These women are the same. 

In the state, they go by the name Jane D.:

'My name is Jane. Jane Doe. I have many faces, many names. I'm noone and yet everyone. I'm all over the world and still not of this world. I'm not a person, yet I am many women. I have no real life, for I live many. I have no one to love, or to love me. I am just a name, without a face… No, I am a name with a thousand faces. My name is Jane. I am everywhere. I am everyone. I do everything.' 
<![CDATA[The Schoolmarm]]>Fri, 06 Nov 2015 23:10:50 GMThttp://thetruthsofmyheart.weebly.com/my-stories/the-schoolmarm
Faith in a Schoolroom

It was Friday, once again, and the many grandchildren of Marrilla James had gathered around her old rocking chair, to listen to another well-told story. 

"It was a nippy, stormy night and I was just about to leave the school building for home when I heard a thunderous knock on the side door of the one-room school house. I froze in my step, eyes wide with negligible fear. It was late and who would be coming to the building at that time of the night? I turned to face the door and called, 'I'm closing up the school! Who is it?'" the elderly woman eyed the young audience. "In place of an answer, there was a low humming growl." 

"You’re scaring my, Granny!” cried young May. She sat near the very front of the group of children, anxious and hungry for the end of the thrilling story. 

"Now, now little Miss May, it’s all but just a story," the old woman smiled at the girl then looked up at the rest of her grandchildren. "When I heard that noise, I knew it was not my brother come to pick me up on his horse drawn buggy. I had no clue who or what was outside the door to my left,” she raised her hands. “So nonchalantly I stepped back, and inhaled. ‘Wh-whoever’s out there, please answer!’ I called,” she lowered her waxy hands to her sides. “Again, nothing.”

Her deep-green eyes licked the crowd of youth. She studied the familiar faces of her childrens’ children. Their faces were drawn with excitement, twitching with every sudden movement and sound. She smiled, then continued her story. “I stood there, silently, my every breath shaky and shallow. What if it was a monster, the type my father had desperately tried so hard to scare me with as a child? Or a rabid wolf, perhaps? Or, maybe it was my little brother putting these thoughts in my head by attempting to scare me?” she said, rubbing her hands together. “These thoughts made me want to run away, scream, and fall asleep. But do you know what I missed?” she asked the kids, who, in response, looked at her with cow-eyes and gaping mouths. They shook their heads. All but one, that is. It was little Bethany on the right of her grandmother, raising her hand, back and forth. “I know the answer Granny.” She spoke shyly. Bethany was never one to talk much and she felt rather timid.

“What is the answer, Bethie? What was I forgetting to do, dear?” the woman asked. She smiled and nodded to the girl.

“You, uh, forgot to… um pray?” she said. She looked into her grandmother’s face.

Beaming with great pride, the old woman said, “That is correct, Bethany. I forgot that God is my protector. I forgot to ask him for guidance and safety.”

Bethany smiled, and leaned back a bit, relaxing from the tension.

“So, as I looked up, imagining the sky above the roof, I prayed. I asked the Lord to protect me, and to chase away my fears. And do you know what?”

“What? What?!” cried little outspoken May.

“I walked up to the door. I reached my hand to turn the knob,” she stretched her arm out, illustrating the turning of a knob, “And grabbed hold of it. Slowly twisting the rusty ball of metal, I didn’t breath. I opened the door, my breath sticking to my lunges, and closed my eyes.” She stilled the laugh that made it’s way to her lips as some of the children closed their eyes intently. “The wind slapped me in the face, and entered into the schoolroom, causing some of the papers on the desks to slip off and fall to the floor. I took a step back, and opened my eyes. There, standing a foot away from me, was a great wolf with the coat of black and silver.” She looked across her audience and widened her eyes. “I took a sharp breath, almost choking on air. ‘God!’ I cried, ‘Be with me and deliver me home! Keep my safe, in Your arms, Lord!’ I prayed hard and loud. The wolf’s breath was heard in my ears, it’s smell of woods and game pinched my nose. His eyes were those of a warrior that pierced it’s way through my whole body. I stood shaking, not believing where I stand, in the presence of a wolf by one foot… eight inches… the wolf stepped closer and closer. I didn’t know what to do! I didn’t what to scream, for fear I would make him angry. I didn’t want to run, because, well, you don’t run from dogs and my legs wouldn’t move. I stood there, silently praying. I could breath. I could feel. I knew that God was with me. He gave me the courage to stand there, still like a scarecrow. I looked at the wolf. He looked at me. We stood there, nervous. Then I said aloud, ‘Leave me. I need to get home soon.’ The sudden noise was startling for the both of us, and we both stabled ourselves, widening our legs. Then, to my surprise, there was a thunder crack outside the building. I nearly screamed when the wolf jumped toward me and landed on my toes.”

“Aah!” screamed some of the young girls in the group.

“Yes, yes! It jumped into my body from fear of the thunder. It startled me, of course, but the movement of the wolf startled me farther than that. Then I took a deep breath and stepped back from the wolf’s hairy body. He looked at me, and with one sharp turn, he slipped out from the building and into his home, the woods.” A sigh traveled through the children. “I looked out into the pouring rain, and said, ‘Thank you… for being the Great Protector.’ As I walk home, the Lord blessed me with a light drizzle and a foresty fresh smell, all the way home. The End.” She looked at the kids and smiled. A smile that was returned with, but seventeen more times. 

The End. 
<![CDATA[Story of My Life. Ugh. ]]>Fri, 06 Nov 2015 23:07:49 GMThttp://thetruthsofmyheart.weebly.com/my-stories/story-of-my-life-ugh

 "… He would… whisper blessings to the silver moon… gazing down on the earth; finding a friend in the sun and family amongst the stars…"

  a short expert from a story I'm working on-

If you know me, and for those of you who don't, I'm sure you're a very happy person, you'd know my writing habits: write a short opening scene, get inspiration for another story, write another opening scene for that story, get inspiration, ect… repeatedly the same process!

Story of my life.

I'm not very proud of this, uh, habit. I've only finished two stories and one poem, and I have a fat notebook, overflowing with started-but-never-finished stories. Actually, three whole notebooks overflowing with little short parts of a story I had thought was cool, and began to write, but dropped it because of another story that pushed aside those feelings and writings. Which, literally, left me, with wrinkly paper and smudged pen marked abandoned stories. In three notebooks.

My brother has repeatedly told me, "You have to finish writing at least one story! You're so scatter-brained… you need to stick to one story, and shove the rest out the door. You need to focus. You'll never write a proper novel if you keep this up."

Alright, okay, yeah. I know he's right. But, honestly, he's not the one with ideas flying through his head, and just coursing through my blood to burst out onto the paper! I write what I feel, and right now, in this phase of life and maturity, I'm a total, like my brother, along with the rest of my family, thinks, scatter-brain. I'm constantly brainstorming, thinking… what to write, how it should start, what the character is feeling, the surroundings. Then I loose myself. Completely.

In the world of fantasy and fiction, I just cannot keep track of the time! Anyone out there who can relate? 

"He lifted his eyes to search the road before them. Rocks. He looked back down to his worn boots, and mumbled a thanks to his mother for the meek gift, but cursed the day he set off on his journey… "
                                                                                   -Another thing I'm workin' on 
<![CDATA[The Face in the Window ]]>Fri, 06 Nov 2015 22:23:27 GMThttp://thetruthsofmyheart.weebly.com/my-stories/the-face-in-the-window
​I'm sitting on my bed reading the novel "The Sands of Ethryn", tired, yet not sleepy. I normally am this way at the end of the day. It's 8:00 p.m. right now.

As I turn the next page, I yawn and blink repeatedly to stay awake. Goodness. I think. 

I look up when my sister comes in and lays her books on the side table near our bunk-bed. She throws herself onto the bed and groans. "I'm so tired." she says, turning over onto her back.

"Yeah." I say, continuing the page in my book. I reach over to pull the blanket over my little body when I hear a low grumble outside the window. As I listen, the rumbling continues. I put my books aside and jump off my bunk to investigate the sound outside. I'm making my way to the window and ask my sister, "Is it raining?"

"Yeah. It's going to all tomorrow and the day after." she says, flipping through a notebook of drawings. The thunder filling our silent room, I pull the blinds up. The darkness outside shocks me at first, then I adjust to the lighting and find the trees, swaying and dancing with the wind. "Wow, it's so dark." I continue to look into the pitch black world when suddenly two eyes are staring back at mine.

I see a pale, boney, face with drooping eye sockets, and an open mouth with drool dribbling from it's dangling tongue.

"Oh my word!!" I exclaim as I jump back, dropping the blinds string, my hands on my rising and falling chest. "Th-th-there's s-om-om-thing out t-th-t-there!" I scream to my sister, who was just sitting there with her notebooks. Not even looking up at me.
The blinds are still up and the ever-scaring face is still there, staring at me. A layer of mucus fog it's wildly white eyes, as they move crazily, yet never leave mine. "Ah!" I scream, jumping back again and looking for something to grab. It's outside ya' wuss! It's not going to hurt you! I tell myself. I look at my sister who is casually sitting on the bottom-bunk, looking at her notebooks. "ATE!(*) There's something out there, and you're just sitting there! We need to go tell Daddy." I say, panicky, shaking. What's wrong with

Confused, annoyed, and frightened, I grab her arm and practically jump my way to the long staircase, screaming for help, but finding none. Where is everyone? Can't they hear me?! I think, taking three long steps at a time. My sister lugs behind me as I tug on her, hard. "Come on! Come on!" I tell her. "God, you're going to have to help us here!" I pray.
As we reach the last step, my upper body leans too forward and my foot misses the floor, and I land on my knees. "Ouch." I groan, gaining back my eyesight in the dark. I look up, trying to get to my feet, and my focus meets the pale, ugly face, inches away. It's nearness shocks me. I feel it's breath and it's hunger for blood. "Aaaah! No! Help me, please!" I yell. No one comes. My sister standing behind me doing nothing. I yell again. The face's expression motionless, and stoic. I yell.

I keep yelling, I kick, I cry. No one comes.

"Stop it!" I hear from below me. "Would you quite it?!" the voice continues, clearly aggravated.

"What?" I say under my breath, shocked, and dizzy. I look around slowly. I'm in my bed, the blankets half on me, and my sister still going through her notebooks. "Was I-- dreaming...?" I ask my sister who shrugs and looks at me like I was crazy.

I look around the room, my eyes stop at the window. "Whoa. It's not raining… is it?" I ask my sister.

"No duh, Jazzy." she answers.
"Oh no." I slide under my blankets and sink deep into my bed. Unrelaxed and deffinately not sleepy.

My eyes never left the window; but then again, the eyes in the window never left me.

The End
* * *