That Day on the River

This is what I want to submit into the BYU contest. I'm kinda procrastinated mailing it, so as soon as you read it if you could critique, that'd be great!

The day was hot, the line was long, and my panic was rising. It was youth conference, and I was fourteen years old. All the youth in the stake were waiting their turn to enter the slow-moving river with their inner tubes. Well, I had been a good girl and brought my own tub. It had a leak. The air was audible as it left the tube feeling limp in my hands. I left my group at the water’s edge to find an extra tube to use instead; they were sure to have one, weren’t they? Well, they had all been taken, at least all the ones with holes smaller than mine. Worried, tubeless, and friendless, I decided to give the river a try. The tube had to last a little while, didn’t it?

Now I had to look for a partner, because the leaders had stressed the buddy system in orientation to the point where it sounded like, “Have a buddy or you’ll be shot at dawn.” The numbers of youth had dwindled to single digits, so I had to search fast. There just happened to be two people that were on their own, too: Rachel, a recently graduated girl from my ward, and Brandon, who was carrying a tube big enough for a bear to float on.

And so it was that our trio embarked. It took only about five minutes for my tube to become nothing more than a flimsy piece of rubber that floated next to me as I swam. Brandon was a gentleman and offered me a seat on his tube, but being a stubborn teenager who didn’t want to seem helpless, it took me a while to accept. But, I finally found myself sitting on the biggest tube I’d ever seen next to someone I hardly knew. I thought I remembered him from eighth grade track a few months earlier, but I couldn’t be sure. When you’re the slowest on the team, you don’t really get good bonding time with other runners during practice.

That was how we went down the river. Rachel, who had taken my tube in addition to her own, had to hold onto our tube to keep from racing ahead. Brandon’s oversized tube had so much drag that we moved much more slowly than nearly everyone else: that meant that we had lots of time to talk. We never did run out of material for conversation. Oh, it probably dwindled here and there, but it stayed up pretty well for three nearly complete strangers.

Disembarking was a bit of an adventure itself. Several male leaders had stretched a rope across the river just as it was starting to get a bit swift, and we were supposed to grab the rope and stop the tube, and then make our way to the side. Rachel did well enough, she just had to stand up and carry our tubes to the bank. For Brandon and I, it was a bit harder. The tube was too big to grab securely without using both arms wrapped around it through the middle, and we still had to grab the rope. This part in my memory is a bit blurry, but I may have blocked it out because there were some minor rope burns involved. But we eventually made it to the bank, wet and smiling. Our friendship could have ended there, with a cordial, “Thank you for letting me use your tube. It was fun,” and then never speak to him again; but it didn’t happen that way. We parted on the bank with a “See you tonight,” on both sides, and with excitement for later, because some things you can’t go through without making a friend, and one of them is riding all afternoon on the same inner tube.

That evening there was a bit of a party outside the church. There was food and games and all the youth, still excited from the float trip. Brandon and I found each other and hung out the whole night. We talked and ate and attempted some volleyball, but mostly we just walked and talked. At one point we walked around a corner and saw a couple holding hands and walking. That was the only awkward moment I can remember; we made sure we had a good three feet between us for the next little while until it wore off. When the night ended of course I had a crush on him, but besides that, we’ve been friends ever since. We’ve been through some crazy things together, including journalism classes, a musical, the vice principal thinking we were kissing while watching a security video (the kiss never actually happened), and me puking while at prom with him. But those are all other stories, and merit their own essays. The important thing is that none of those stories would have happened if it weren’t for that day on the river.

Why I'm Not a Scientist II

I've done some major remodeling here, but I think it lacks good transitions between paragraphs and isn't very consistent. OR maybe I'm trying something new. Let me know which one you think. If you liked the first edition, let me know so I can know which to enter to the contest by January 31!


The tiger shark is a glutton among fish. They feast upon sea turtles, poisonous jellyfish, dolphins, whales, pigs, cows, and men overboard. Far from the ocean’s gourmet diner, dissected tiger sharks have been recorded to contain a plethora of flotsam and jetsam, including license plates, oil cans, and tires. A ferocious hunger is evident before they are even born. The shark hatches out of its egg while still inside its mother. The first shark guppy hatched, being far from a connoisseur of mommy’s milk and instead born at the ovoviviparous caviar assembly line, quickly devours all of its unborn brothers and sisters. This disposition carries with them as they mature, acquiring taste after taste of the endlessly bizarre. With an insatiable and cruel craving, the tiger shark prowls the black shallows of the tropics, their noses keen on the scent of blood and stomachs eager for carnage; they claim an appetite of almost human proportions.
There are humans among us with a desire to consume, not sea turtles or oil cans, but knowledge. These predators are yet hungry and not satisfied in their thirst. These people have many names, but know them for what they really are: Scientists. These hunters are stalking predators, sneaking up on herds of unexpecting questions. They weed out the old and sickly, questions that have been around for ages, conquering past challengers with powerful paradox, but are now old and weakened by time’s buffeting answers. The merciless scientist, camouflaged by promised results and romantic ideals and global warming, sneak up on these questions until they are a breath away and—pounce!—it is dispatched in a quick blow of logic. Another mystery has gone the way of all the earth.
However, hopeful environmentalists, let us not take science away from our human society. Despite their savage instincts, and uncomely appearance, scientists are part of a healthy ecosystem. Were it not for the Scientist, questions would run rampant about the earth, their numbers would explode, and we would be living in a terrible society where man denies circumferential earth and the sun is again a tiny blip in the sky that circulates about us.
No, we needn’t fear the hungry scientist, but love them for the answer-spewing, top-of-the-food-chain, dominant oafs that they are. Be patient with them, because they right now they are reading funny maps with weird instruments and shouting long words across the room inside our heads.
It’s nothing to be ashamed of. All humans are subject to those ranting know-it-alls upstairs. This is because we were all born ovoviviparously into a world subject to that hideous power, that looming strength overhead, the awesome How. He dominates this world. He greats as a friend, one we love and fear. His shadow’s icy breath chills our necks and makes our palms sweat. We always whip around, hoping to catch a glimpse but we are too slow and he’s already hiding somewhere else: under our feet or behind our ears, like a game we can’t win. And we don’t necessarily want to. But however this symbiotic friendship pesters and pleases us, it is nothing to what we feel in our hungry stomachs.
Never mind How’s pleasing whisper, his provocative flavors and painfully pleasurable paradoxes, he can never conquer a terrible squirming inside us—never outdo the throbbing in our bellies. He’s powerless when compared to a tiny, fleeting Why. Scientists in our brains, with harpoons laced with poison, have hunted this beast inside our bowels, but they have yet to outwit it. It’s elusive taunting grates on the nerves and caresses the emotions. Like a tiger shark guppy worming through our intestinal thoughts, hopes, and dreams, it quickly devours all unborn ideas, growing fatter and stronger, and soon it will eat us, too. It’ll consume us from the inside out, until there is no prevail, until you are left destitute. Your brainy scientists will be stumped. They’ll pull their hair, remove their glasses, and the rub their temples. We’ll be on our own and powerless.
Then Why will swallow us whole as easily as a license plate. The whole world will be a black mystery. It’ll be dark and murky. We will wandering blind for a solution with outstretched palms. Sometimes we’ll bump into How, his bulky silhouette barely outlined as black on black. Sometimes he will give us friendly directions this way or that, but really he’ll be as lost as we are and evanesce as quickly as he comes. Alone again, we will wander, desperate, cold. Until we trip on someone. Me.
I am Writer. I am Voyager, Discoverer, Explorer. I am learning, and hope that you can, too. My goal is to map out Why, to seek out the secret hideouts and tunnels behind the bookshelves. I will share my discoveries, allow you all to read my travel log as I seek out my buried treasure maps, unearthed, carefully used and well-treated by early craftsmen, then reburied for the discovery of later artists to use with equally great care, to also find this deep treasure of writing, the answers to the squirming tiger shark Why inside us all.

Why I'm Not a Scientist

This is an essay idea I really like; however, I know several things need to change. I think I know what needs to change, but I'd love ideas of how to change it. Any thoughts?

The tiger shark is a fascinating species. They're most famous for their capacity and affinity to digesting anything they come upon. Dissected grown tiger sharks have been recorded to contain a plethora of flotsam and jetsam, including license plates. Their peculiar diet is evident before they are even born. The sharks hatch out of their eggs while still inside their mother. The first shark guppy born then commences to devour all of its unborn brothers and sisters, for important nutrients as well as narrowed competition. Many laymen would affiliate this behavior with that old adage, "survival of the fittest." The question I've always wanted to ask was this: Why survive?
There's a shocking number of unanswered questions in this world. Things that can't be totally proved or things that have remained unearthed for centuries, mined for by countless generations of every recorded people, race, and nation. Some people are bothered by these anomalies. These are the same people, who if we told them to NOT eat another cookie, threatening "or else," They'd gobble it up in three bites, if only to discover what the "else" was.
They have many names, but we all know what they really are: Scientists. These people must prod and poke at every aspect of life natural and synthetic to know the impossibility looming over us and breathing down our necks: HOW.
Discovery is important. It is in the human psyche. We are sentient beings, driven by our rush for knowledge. This is not an argument in opposition of that belief, but a mere personal corollary: Humans need mystery.
The whole world is a mystery. Scientists may be able to explain how the trees grew, or even how they evolved into trees, or how birds evolved to sit in them. Yes, scientists are very involved with how, but so rarely do they answer the inevitable question of
why. No number of tests and educated guesses could ever really answer this question, which worms through our innards like tiger shark guppies, devouring all other questions that could compete in our subconscious.
This question calls to a particular type of person. They have significantly fewer names than all the titles scientists can claim. In fact, most of them prefer the one and simple that they wear with pride: Writer. These are the people who if we asked the average life expectancy of a frog, they'd likely answer in the most unlikely way possible.
These two Peoples are very similar, actually. In fact, the only difference at all is which unstoppable force they'll adhere to: How or Why?

I am a writer. I am Voyager, Discoverer, Explorer. I am learning, and hope that you can, too. I will share my discoveries, allow you all to read my travel logue as I seek out my secret treasure maps, unearthed, carefully used and well-treated by early craftsmen, then reburied for the discovery of later artists to use with equally great care, to also find this deep treasure of writing, the answers to the squirming Why inside of us.

If Life Was a Musical

I don't write poetry, so bear with me and be nice...

If life was a musical,

Would I sing along?

Raise my voice and sing aloud

An undaunted song?

If life was a musical,

Would my songs be sad?

Or reflect the happy times

That made me feel glad?

If life was a musical,

What songs would I sing?

Songs with minor, mournful tunes,

Or with joyful ring?

If life was a musical,

Would I sing of God?

Or focus on the trifles

Like riches or pomade?

If life was a musical,

I would sing along:

A noisy and joyful sound

Turned into a song

I would sing songs of friendship,

Songs of tales abroad,

Of joys and hurts and healings;

I would sing of God.

Maeryn's Monologue

This started out as me practicing writing monologues in story form, and it created the character that I posted on Imaginary Friends Anonymous. I have another one like it on my blog that I'm not posting here.

"You think I'm like a villain from one of your storybooks, don't you, little bookworm?" Maeryn mocked, walking around me. She leaned in close and whispered in my ear, "But I'll tell you a secret: this isn't a fairytale. This is real life, and in real life good doesn't always conquer evil." She stood, her cloak billowing, and her voice grew louder. "Why else do you think you couldn't outrun me? It did not matter that you are good and kind; I was more clever, more cunning, more determined to get what I want," she smiled maliciously, "Even if what I want isn't nice." She strode around me for a minute, studying me. I tried to keep my face impassive despite the racing of my heart, though I'm not sure I succeeded.

"Pity that you chose to side against me," she continued, still studying me. "You would have made a nice addition to my entourage." She laughed softly and tucked a strand of my hair back behind my ear. "Pity," she repeated, "that your pretty face had to be accompanied by such courage, " her hand moved to rest on my chest, and disgust filled her voice as she said, "and such a good heart."

She walked away suddenly, but stopped midway to the door. She turned back to me, the anger back in her eyes. "I want that heart removed," she said icily. For a moment there was silence. "Guard!" she screeched, and one of the men by the door stepped forward and saluted. "Did you hear what I said? I want the girl's heart!" she shouted, then turned her eyes to me, a menacing grin on her face. "And, just like in your stories, bookworm, I want it on a silver platter." She swooped down on me and whispered so only I could hear, "I never said I would be merciful and kill you before they carve it out, did I... keep that in mind." She must have felt me tense, because she laughed softly. "I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, 'Where's my happy ending?' Well, little hero, this is my story with my happy ending, not yours." And she swept from the room without another word, slamming the door behind her.

Mindless; Chapter Two

“Hello?” Horace called, peering cautiously into the room. “Is anyone in there? Well...I know I’m late, but I got lost. Can I come in?”

Only his echo responded.

    “Alright, I’m coming in. Don’t get mad at me, okay?”
    Once again, no one responded. Shrugging in what was supposed to be a nonchalant way, Horace shuffled into the room. The full view took his breath away.
    The room was neither rectangular nor circular, but seemed to be a fluid mixture of both. The walls were as black as his mother’s precious ebony ring, but had far more elegant designs etched into them. Glowing blue lines twisted and marched in awe-inspiring patterns, constantly changing. They had started only after he’d entered the room, but...wow.
    “Amazing,” Horace croaked. “This can’t be the right room.”
    “Oh, but it is,” someone said.
    Horace whirled this way and that, but he couldn’t find the source of the deep voice. What he did see was an arch of blue flame shooting toward him. It streaked toward him from the opposite side of the room, rumbling with the sound of jagged lightning.
    Horace squealed and ducked out of the way. The flame crashed into a circular pattern behind him and disappeared.
    “Your reflexes are good,” the voice muttered, “but the squeal wasn’t necessary.”
    “Who are you?”
    “Me? That doesn’t matter, not unless you pass the test.”
    Horace gulped. “Er, what test do you mean exactly?”
    The voice tried to respond (or that’s what it sounded like), but static set in, and it disappeared. Horace wasn’t sure if thatwas a technical difficulty or part of the test. He really didn’t want to  find out.
    “I’ll be going now,” he said.
    The door behind him slammed shut, and he heard it being bolted.
    “On second thought,” he whimpered, “I’ll stay for awhile.”
    The patterns burned out suddenly, plunging Horace into complete darkenss.
    “Hello,” said a new voice. “Pleased to meet you.”

Mindless; Chapter One (Draft Two)

Horace stumbled into the huge, aristocratic building, dripping streams of water onto the oriental carpet. Hair--his hair-- was plastered to his gleaming forehead, and his tattered suit (which was all his mother could afford) resembled a sewer, both in color and in present quality. As soon as the automatic doorway slid shut behind him, Horace snatched the glasses off his nose and cleaned them up. No use going before wizards blind, he decided.

Reaching into a sodden pocket, Horace rummaged for his map. The rain had ruined it as well, turning it into a pile of mush, and he couldn’t ask for directions. To his surprise, the place was utterly empty.

    Horace anxiously checked his watch. Good, he still had ten minutes to sort out this mess. He was to report down to room WT-234, which, he remembered, was on the lowest level.

Well, he thought, not sure which direction to go in, no use dawdling!

He chose directly forward.

The hall was bleak in every way except one; colorful depictions of every battle fought

by the British lined the wall.    They were excellent paintings, probably done by...he had no idea who, but whoever it was had real talent. He gawped at the paintings until he came to the cement stairs. So surprised was he by the appearance of the dirty steps, he almost toppled head over heels into it. He stopped himself by grabbing onto the stainless steel railing. No use going before wizards with a cracked head, that much was obvious.
    The lighting grew dismal as Horace descended. Shadowy lines became more defined, spiders skittered over the cracked plaster, lights occasionally flickered out. Whenever they did go out on the long trip downstairs, Horace clutched the railing, breathing hard. They always came back on though.
    The trip ended with a white door. Unlike everything else surrounding Horace’s small figure, the white door was perfect. The paint looked fresh and appealing, the doorknob gleamed gold in the leaky light, and there wasn’t a crack to be seen. Maybe it just contrasted with the filth around it, but Horace was sure this was the most perfect door he had ever seen. He felt guilty even touching the doorknob, much less opening the door.
    Horace checked the watch again. He was three minutes late already, and wizards didn’t like waiting. That much he’d gathered from the series of phone calls they’d given him. Always, they were snotty. Always, they were rude. Nevertheless, Horace was here to become one of them, and that thought filled him with dread.
    Horace quickly wrung out his tie. Water seeped down, and the tie looked even more scrunched up but a little less wet. At least the bloodstains were no longer visible. Finally, Horace turned the doorknob and entered the vast, black room.