Is it stupid to cry over losing my 4.0?

The one I've had since 6th grade?

The one that I've slaved over?

The one I lost after a stupid car accident?

Because I forgot to do one assignment?

Because I had a stinking concussion?

Because my teacher wouldn't let me redo it?

I know I can still get into a good college

A 3.999 is still very good

But I worked so hard for it!

And I didn't even know about this assignment!

And the car accident wasn't even my fault!

I just want to curl up into a ball

And cry

Until I don't have any tears left.

But I have to get up

And do the rest of everything

And hope, somehow

Something will work out

And my 4.0 will come back

But until then

Is it stupid to cry over losing my 4.0?

I am seven, sitting cross-legged on the kitchen floor,

gripping a black crayon hard enough that my knuckles turn white,

air escaping too-small lungs in desperate, ragged, gasps.

There are lines here, on this white page,

but they’re not enough,

just scattered fragments of a child’s mind,

desperately trying to form some semblance of sanity.

Tears fall across waxen lines and I’m shaking,

watching my crayon as it clatters to the floor.

Papa brushes a tear from my cheek.

We watch in silence

as its weight makes the paper buckle.

“Look,” he whispers, running gentle fingertips over waxen streaks.

I cry harder. It’s hideous, isn’t it? This mess of lines?

He only smiles, shaking his head.

“You did it, darling girl.

You told your story.

And that’s enough.”

...

You define good writing as the substance of textbooks and novels,

pretty words on high shelves that the common man cannot reach,

as if social media has somehow corrupted the written word.

And I suppose it is unsophisticated here, among flashing screens and jumbled text.

...

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry that the lack of periods

at the end of my sentences

determines the worth of my craft.

I’m sorry that this has been done before.

But the words on this page are my own.

So while you define who is good enough

to play this game of ink and agony

I will be sitting here

with a black crayon and ugly words

telling my story.

Plush Animal Lover’s Day

International Animation Day

National Chocolate Day

What’s not to love when it comes to stuffed animals? Hey, I had a teddy bear for almost seven years growing up. Considered him my little brother. Okay, that might seem weird, but at least he did everything I wanted from him and he never talked back to me or called me names.

International Animation Day

This became an international observance proclaimed in 2002 by the ASIFA as the main global event to celebrate the art of animation.

This day commemorates the first public performance of Charles-Émile Reynaud's Théâtre, Optique, at the Grevin Museum in Paris, 1892. In 1895, the Cinematograph of the Lumière Brothers, outshone Reynaud's invention, driving Émile to bankruptcy. However, his public performance of animation entered the history of optical entertainments as shortly predating the camera-made movies.

In recent years, the event has been observed in more than 50 countries with more than 1000 events, on every continent, all over the world. IAD was initiated by ASIFA, International Animated Film Association, a member of UNESCO. During International Animation Day cultural institutions are also invited to join in by screening animated films, organizing workshops, exhibiting artwork and stills, providing technical demonstrations, and organizing other events helping to promote the art of animation. Such a celebration is an outstanding opportunity of putting animated films in the limelight, making this art more accessible to the public.

ASIFA also commissions an artist to create an original art poster announcing the event each year. It is then adapted for each country in order to guarantee a worldwide view of the event. Previous editions involved the work of animators such as Louri Tcherenkov, Paul Driessen, Abi Feijo, Eric Ledune, Noureddin Zarrinkelk, Michel Ocelot, and Nina Paley.

Full length animation films, historical features, animated shorts, and student films, all variety of animation art are shown in the workshops. These films display an extraordinary range of techniques – drawings, paintings, animating puppets and objects, using clay, sand, paper, and computer.

.

National Chocolate Day

National Chocolate Day, on October 28th, recognizes one of the world’s favorite tastes. While many specific chocolate related holidays exist throughout the year, National Chocolate Day celebrates all things chocolate.

As America’s favorite flavor, chocolate is well-deserving of its own day of honor. (Some sources designate July 7 or December 28 as Chocolate Day or International Chocolate Day, September 13th, the birthday of Milton S. Hershey.)

Chocolate comes from the seed of the tropical Theobroma cacao tree. Cacao has been cultivated for at least three millennia and grows in Mexico, Central America, and Northern South America. The earliest known documentation of using cacao seeds is from around 1100 BC.

Since cacao tree seeds have a very intense, bitter taste, they must be fermented to develop the flavor.

Research has found that chocolate, when eaten in moderation, can lower blood pressure.

Once fermented, the beans are dried, cleaned, and roasted. After roasting, the shell is removed to produce cacao nibs. The cacao nibs are then ground into cocoa mass, which is pure chocolate in rough form. The cocoa mass is usually liquefied then molded with or without other ingredients. At this point in the process, it is called chocolate liquor. The chocolate liquor may then be processed into two components: cocoa solids and cocoa butter.

The National Confectioners Association created National Chocolate Day but the year could not be found, so I will say just sometime in my lifetime and let it go at that.

More Strange Holidays Thursday!

A good read is an enchanting ballet. The dancer leaps and spins around the stage, imprinting a story in our minds. The audience watches the artist twirl on stage but it is the heart that remembers the tale. The stacatto rythm makes our souls dance with the dancer, and every perfect detail is a punctuation, ending an emotion and starting a new one in one swift movement. The words of a good writer will haunt you forever.

An easy read is a Tiktok dance. The movement and music is attractive to the eye but it doesn't invite love, only lust. A quick fix, and a quick fix is needed indeed, for the masses have no time. There is still creativity and punctuation, but there's no soul.

@A

Snowy the pussycat fat and fluffy,

Fell in love with her owner’s son Jerry!

Besides all her fur, she adored his hair

And that was the reason, she wanted to pair!

Days passed by and Jerry went abroad

But when he returned, he was bald and broad!

Snowy was depressed and wanted to end her life

And adding to her distress, he returned with a wife!

Sitting in a corner, she started to cry

That was when Jerry’s wife, waved her a hi.

‘Can we have her, please?’ she asked her hubby

‘Is that even a question?’ replied Jerry.

‘Did he just accept me?’ exclaimed Snowy

As her now new owner, sang her a lullaby.

Then her days were filled with love and laughter

And together they lived, happily ever after.   

"Good writing is like a windowpane." -George Orwell

Alyssa is and will always be her name.

She wields her pen in sword stance, slays her demons with it and uses their blood as ink to paint a story only she can write. Every stroke of the pen spells a word of her past. It is upon the paper canvas that she will speak her latent testimonies, and breath an extra life into those who listen.

Alyssa's friend Bianca is never pleased: "What have you to gain from writing! It's a waste of time and effort, and you're not even that good at it." Bianca never understood what writing meant. Writing was a doorway for Alyssa to break the inner silence, to speak the unutterable experiences of a past without double. To Alyssa, this was good writing: all writing that was composed of personal experiences. Punctuation and vocabulary are merely secondary to the written experience of a creative soul. An experience, after all, is like a star among stars, each with its own intensity, magnitude and warmth.

A good writer pens a life you've never known before.

I’ve written for the vast majority of my life. A few years ago I began seeking ways to get that writing noticed. Eventually I found my way to Wattpad, then here after the Wattpad thing flopped. I’ve checked a lot of sites out, from fanfiction repositories to original posting. One thing I’ve realized. Quality of writing takes a backseat to advertising. And that’s sad to say, but from my experience I believe it to be true. Wattpad is basically the YouTube of aspiring authors. The flashy, the loud, and the conformist succeed—conformist meaning those who write clones of what’s already popular to share in the success. There are so many “good girl meets bad boy” stories on Wattpad that you’d be hard-pressed to find an end to the list. It’s such a simple concept that the avid reception it garnered was a bit baffling to me. I have a taste for the bizarre, the surreal, the complex. The bad boy/good girl dynamic is fine I suppose, but the reader base of Wattpad gives tens of millions of reads to simple stories with common themes. Some of these stories (I’ve heard) are rife with misspellings, flat characters, cookie-cutter or unrealistic dialogue...the bullet points go on. I knew one dude who wrote on Wattpad who was actually amazing at what he did, yet what I read of his original, well-written and pulse-pounding story only raked in a paltry sum of reads. The reception of his work paled in comparison to the reception of eerily hive-minded sameness. Why is that, I wonder. Wattpad is one of the most popular writing sites in existence, boasting a hefty ninety million users. Those users spend over fifteen billion minutes each month trafficking the site. Most of said minutes are invested into what’s already popular. Not many bother to search out the hidden gems.

To answer your question though, what makes a good writer is simply perseverance. Yes, social media has shortened the general attention span. And there’s a lot of people who find comfort in sameness, so they’re drawn to it. If your work does not fit into the desired categories of the cultural appetite, you’re usually ignored in favor of something already popular that does. You’ve likely heard the saying “the rich get richer and the poor get poorer”. Well, Wattpad exemplifies that in a way. What’s popular commonly gains more and more traction, while those gone unnoticed find themselves wondering why they invested the time it took to write their story in the first place. The ‘good writers’, I’d say, are the ones who don’t give up despite this phenomenon, who stick to their guns amidst perpetual rejection, who write for the love of it, who are content to write for free, who always look for ways to improve, who aren’t afraid to admit taking heavy inspiration from their predecessors, who aren’t afraid to write cringe for years until their young system is purged of it. Heck, I’m still not purged of my cringe. Possibly, by this time next year, I’ll be mentally reeling from the lackluster content I’m creating now. But that shows effort and growth. That shows perseverance. One who dares to write against the grain despite having every odd stacked against them, one who has a story to be told and who will (metaphorically) explode if they don’t tell it—that’s a good writer. Good writers aren’t sellouts or people-pleasers, and they don’t have to be overly loud and flashy because their work stands on its own. Good writers are those who refuse to dumb themselves down for the sake of cultural appeasement, who refuse to compromise in the face of adversity. And chances are, if you’re reading this, it means you’ve persevered. You’re here, after all, Good Writers.

#opinion

They call it growing up

but I call it a tragedy,

trading bedtime stories for papercuts,

knowing you are too old

to cry over the blood that wells from split knuckles.

replacing stuffed animals with the body of another,

someone who's just as lost-

just trying to do the right thing-

but both of you have the hands of a child,

unfit for something as fragile as a heart.

When innocence is something to be condemned

it is exchanged for sharp words,

armor against a world in which you are not quite enough.

Because if they fear you

perhaps it will not be so lonely.

I’m sorry.

So very sorry. I know you never asked for it, never asked for any of it. You never asked for anything. But you gave so much to everyone.

You nestled books into my hands, beautiful books with covers of gold and blue, leather, frayed red cloth. Books in many languages, books whose text crammed their pages with such intensity that I feared the words would leap from the pages and rip their way into reality. Books with bright, illuminated pictures. Books of poetry and books that contained so much truth that, reading them, I would wonder how this person who had never met me could know me so well. These books were everything. Safety, escape, knowledge of worlds I lived in and had seen and never would see but for the words on the pages. They filled your endless shelves, the air seemed to breathe, pulse with the energies and wisdoms and heartbeats of hundreds of books.

I never wanted to leave, never wanted to view the world through anything but your seaglass blue, curving windows. They filtered the light and made it seem as if everything was underwater. Sometimes I stayed for hours, saw sunbeams glow through the glass, then bright points of stars that glimmered briefly, I never stayed to see them set. Sometimes I only existed within your walls for mere minutes, but always when I left, it would be with arms full of books, my footsteps a little more sure. You were always there, always. Everyone loved you, everyone felt that magic that came from setting foot within such a sacred space. Old scholars, wise to the world, young students, consuming knowledge as if they could never know enough. Those there to help others and those looking for sanctuary. So many lost, frightened children. We came on the heels and hems of others who never looked behind them, we came to hide from the world, and left with the knowing that we could conquer it. We needed you with a desperation that no one else could see, small hands grasping in the dark for something to hold. I think you loved us the most.

I still don’t understand.

They say it started with a spark, maybe a lamp that tipped over, though we were all so careful, and the lamps had never fallen before. But you were paper. Paper and wood and dreams and memories, and those things cannot stand up to flame. They say they do not know, now you are beyond saving. They say it could have been intentional, that it was likely intentional. They say that someone destroyed you on purpose.

They say that someone destroyed you on purpose.

I don’t understand, I don’t understand.

How?

Why?

Why did I light that match and creep creep creep into the section of the thickest books why did I watch flames curl up the edges of the paper until the match burned my fingers and why did I drop it on the floor and why did I run and why did I hide and watch from nearby as flames reflected in your seaglass blue windows and then burned through your roof and they tried to put the fire out and nobody could and why did I watch and why did I cry and cry and cry and why did I do nothing and why did I tell no one how sorry I was

I am so so sorry.

First the flames, then the stars faded from the sky, now it is just dark, and I am alone, and the ashes of books are all around me. I write this into the blank pages at the back of a book. One of your books, small, a faded red cover, frayed cloth. I took it before I ran. The only survivor of what I did, the only witness.

The only one who will ever, and never know why.

There were shadows here, no one could deny that. Clouds inched by in the deep midnight sky, and the stars twinkled down on the cold sand.

The beach would have been empty if it wasn't for her.

She sighed, wishing she had her dog, Ruby. They used to walk along the water in the evenings. Now, she was never finding the time to go outside. Not since losing Ruby, losing her home. The fire had taken everything, and some days she felt like it had taken her too. Like she was a ghost.

The sand glimmered, and she looked up as the clouds parted, revealing the moon. As if on cue, the high-pitched wail of a violin in the distance began to play. She thought it sounded like distant screaming, but she knew Gerald liked to practice at night. It had been one of the reasons she'd never walked the beach at night.

But now, time seemed endless. Suspended, most days. She found herself waking up later, lunch turning into breakfast, and dinner becoming lunch. Some days she lay in bed until the sun went back down, as if the night was safer.

Maybe it was.

Gerald's violin droned on, and she racked her head to place the melody. She recognized it, but it eluded her. She wondered how many years Gerald had lived here, by the ocean. She wondered whether he ever got tired of his violin. Whether he got tired that he never got any better.

"He never gets any better, does he?"

The voice was not her own, but she was slow to react. She turned her head, finding another person a mere three feet away. Their hair was long and glinted softly in the moonlight, their posture relaxed, their jacket long enough to skim against their knees. Their feet were toeing the edge of the water, the gentle waves slowly soaking their sandals.

She didn't recognize them, but they didn't look like a tourist either. She took a step to the side, trying to move to an angle where the moonlight would show her their facial features better. It didn't work; they remained drenched in shadows.

"The violinist," the person elaborated.

She realized that they were waiting for a response. "Oh, it's just Gerald," she said, licking her dry lips. They tasted salty from the ocean air.

"Does anything get better around here?" they asked her. The voice didn't sound particularly masculine or feminine, just a voice.

"What?" she finally said, beginning again to walk, but slowly.

Their stride matched hers, and the two of them walked a few steps in sync before they said anything. "Everything around here... this beach, the violin, the waves, the stars. They change, but what are they becoming?" they said.

She was beginning to get irritated, or at least tired. She should have stayed home. This sentiment was confirmed by the sad, slow sounds of Gerald's voilin. "I'm sorry, I don't know much philosophy."

They chuckled and stopped walking.

Despite her desire to continue and leave them behind, she stopped too.

"Here. Something has changed." They held out a hand to her, a necklace fisted in it. The jewel looked colorless in the moonlight, just white light and shadows.

"I..." She didn't know what to say, and the wind whipped her hair in front of her face. Water splashed at her feet. Gerald's violin sounded even further away.

They placed the necklace into her hand, their touch cold. Moonlight played on their skin, and she almost thought she could see their face. "Things will keep changing. Maybe they don't get better at first. But the important thing is to keep going. Keep changing."

She shook her head, but her fingers closed around the necklace. "Who are you?" she asked skeptically. It was then that the wind picked up again, blowing sand into her eyes. Water splashed against her legs, and she couldn't hear even Gerald's shrieking violin over the wind in her ears.

And when it all died down, the water was calm, the violin had stopped, and the stranger was gone. She looked down at the necklace in her hand, almost blinding in the moonlight.

And she put it on.