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Paintings and Doors

A movie is like a painting.
A vision of art for the eyes,
The artist projects it for the world
So that viewers may gaze
Upon its beauty.
Its colors and shapes are a landscape,
With a range of depth and movement
As envisioned by its creator.
Like a painting,
A movie evokes emotion.
It stirs the mind
And touches the heart.
It gives a glimpse of another world.
Like the classic still paintings
Hanging in many a museum,
So is the movie
A work of art.

A book is like a door.
Dull and common it appears
As it stands still and untouched,
Waiting to fulfill its only function.
No beauty arises from a still frame;
Its beauty lies in its purpose.
Like a door,
A book does nothing when untouched.
But when opened,
It becomes a gateway into another world.
In a change of scenery
Lie the colors and shapes,
The depth and movement,
The beauty one seeks
In a vision of art for the mind.
Like many simple doors
Standing innocently in their frames,
So is the book
A portal for art.

A movie can only take you so far.
It has its twists and turns,
Its sights and sounds.
But at the end of the ride,
You find yourself right back where you started.
Because to take you somewhere new,
A movie relies
On someone else’s imagination.

A book can take you anywhere.
Its paths can be straight or crooked,
Colored or grayed.
At the end of the ride,
You find yourself in a different world.
Because to take you somewhere new,
A book relies
On your imagination.

Please, keep your paintings.
I’ll show myself the door.

Thankful

I’m thankful for my family,
Whose love has kept me strong.
I’m thankful for the friends I’ve made
To keep my whole life long.

I’m thankful for the books I read
That take me far away.
They show me distant worlds that I
Can visit any day.

I’m thankful for the gift I have
Of telling stories too.
To build worlds out of only words
Is such a dream come true.

I’m thankful for the readers who
Have put their faith in me
To turn out first-rate stories they
Can all enjoy for free.

I’m thankful for the writers who
I’ve met through blogs their own.
Their strong support has shown me that
I’m really not alone.

But most of all, I’m thankful for
The love I’ve found in art
For readers, writers, books and words
That truly touch my heart.

So on this day of giving thanks,
I’d simply like to say:
I’m thankful for each one of you!
Happy Thanksgiving Day!


Happy Thanksgiving to all my family and friends, including you fellow readers and writers! I’m grateful to have you in my life. God bless you all!

The Beast

(What If? Exercise: Read the description here.)

I was a fool to think we could slay it.

She trusted me with her life, and I failed.

I was so sure we had it cornered.

I heard the growling before she did.

But she saw the teeth first.

I tried to save her.

It was too fast.

I blacked out.

She vanished.

Forever.


This piece is based on What If? Exercise 93: “Ten to One”. The exercise is to write a 55-word story in which the first sentence has ten words, the second has nine, etc., until the last sentence has only one word. The objective is to show that precision and thrift in writing can produce surprisingly powerful results. I hope you enjoy what I’ve written. Thanks for reading!

Back to the story

Intelligent vs. Smart

An intelligent person knows how to carry on a conversation with other intelligent people.
A smart person knows how to carry on a conversation with anyone.

An intelligent person knows when it’s OK to be completely honest.
A smart person knows when to be honest, and when it is absolutely necessary to lie.

An intelligent person can tell the exact moment when everything went wrong.
A smart person can tell the exact moment when everything will go wrong, and figure out how to prevent it from ever happening.

An intelligent person doesn’t need to be asked twice to do a favor.
A smart person doesn’t need to be asked once.

An intelligent person knows how to make a valid point to any idiot.
A smart person knows that to try to make a valid point to an idiot is a waste of time.

I am an intelligent person.
But often I wish I were smart.

If I Had Wings

If I had wings, I’d fly away,
Up to the sky, so bright and clear.
If I had wings, I’d leave today
To travel far away from here.

I’d spread my wings and I’d take flight.
I’d flap and flap with all my might,
So maybe I could finally see
The joy birds know of being free.

I’d feel the wind against my face
While flying o’er the endless sea.
Within the sunlight’s warm embrace,
A carefree soul at last I’d be.

As freedom calls me evermore,
My heart cries out for me to soar.
Beyond the mountains, past the sea,
Nothing but blissful peace for me.

But as far as a bird is willing to fly,
It always comes home, and so would I.

Impact

I could have sworn it was a bird.

When something big and black crashes hard enough into my window to shatter it, the first thing I think is it must be a bird.

But those leathery, featherless, bloodstained wings are not bird wings.

No, most of the birds around here know the tint of my windows, but blinded by the sun, that poor bat never saw the glass coming.


Based on a Halloween prompt from Writer’s Carnival: Things that Go Bump in the Day.

In no more than 4 sentences or 12 lines of poetry, write about a frightening occurrence which happens while the sun is still shining. What kind of terrors lurk in broad daylight?

Hope you enjoy what I’ve written! Thanks for reading, and Happy Halloween!

The Bird on the Balcony

I’m sitting here, trying to think of something to write, a great idea for a story…

But this bird keeps staring at me through the window.

Seriously, a bird is staring through the window of my study, looking right at me.

What does it want? I don’t look like a bird, or anything that would be friendly to a bird. I don’t have any food on me; I never once gave it something to eat. We have a cat in the house who prowls around upstairs, so it shouldn’t be there in the first place.

Yet there it is, perched on the railing, staring at me with its beady little eyes, like I’m supposed to do something.

But what? Stare back at it? That’d be something odd, a staring contest with a bird. I know who’d win that. Hint: not me.

Am I supposed to stand up? Wouldn’t it fly away? What’s the point? It’s not doing anything, just staring.

And it’s very distracting.

Stop it! What do you want from me? Go away! I’m trying to work.

I mean it! Why are you looking at me like that?! Leave me alone!

The cat will get you if you stay there. Seriously, you’d better leave. Now.

OK, that’s it! Here I come…

Oh, look at that… It’s flying away.

Great, now I can get back to writing.

“The Bird on the Balcony”…

The Timid Writer

They say I’m different.
They say I’m unusual.
They say that I’m beautiful,
That I’m intelligent,
That I’m talented.

But they think I’m unhappy.

They look at me and wonder,
“Why doesn’t she smile?
Why doesn’t she laugh?
Why doesn’t she talk?”

They don’t know me.

I am smiling.
I do laugh.
And I have no need to talk.
Why should I bother?
No one really listens to me anyway,
At least, not here.

But I’m not here.
I’m far away,
Drifting in my own thoughts,
In my own world,
Where no one can catch me
Or pin me down.

They go about their own boring lives.
They follow the same routine every day.
Not me.
That life is not mine.
I never had it,
And I never want it.
My days shall be free
Of dreadful, boring routine
For as long as I live.

I am smiling.
I do laugh.
And I don’t bother talking.

They don’t know me.
They don’t hear me.
They don’t see me.
And I don’t care.

Because I’m free.

In My Lover’s Arms

I’m lying in his arms.
The world is gone.
It’s just the two of us.

As I lay with my head to his chest,
I feel his heartbeat.
Mine grows faster.
I hear his slow breathing.
My breathing quickens.
I sense him drifting off to sleep.
And I smile as I let him.

Such passion…
Such pleasure…

How did I come to be here?
Even now, I can’t recall
How fortune delivered me
Into his arms.
Fate has smiled kindly at me.

I sense his heartbeat growing calm.
His breathing is slow and steady.
His eyes are closed.

With a racing heart,
Rapid breathing,
And a bright smile,
I turn to face him.

I lean forth
And softly kiss his chest.
I raise my head
And gently kiss his neck.
I raise myself a little higher
And sweetly kiss his cheek.

Then I lean in close to his ear,
And while he dreams peacefully,
I whisper my confession,
My reality, to him…

“I love you.”

The Painted Wall

When Nadine moved to her new home with her parents in September, the wall was a plain blank white, yet to be touched by the artistic vision of a timid young girl seeking refuge from the world in the creative space of her basement.

In October, a month after starting at her new school, Nadine found she was still having trouble making friends. Shy and in fear of the school year to come, she descended into the basement one afternoon to stroke the wall with a thin paintbrush in little streaks across an array of grays, the palette the other students saw when they looked at her.

In November, Nadine finally engaged in conversation with a few other girls in her homeroom class. Her new hope of friendship found a place on the wall as light brushstroke patterns of daisy yellow.

In December, the cute boy Nadine often admired from a distance approached her after a Math exam. She went home still blushing profusely over Alex’s interest in her, and her wall was later decorated with bubbles of bright carnation pink.

In January, Alex invited Nadine to join him on the floor at the winter dance. Her heart still fluttering as the music echoed in her ears, Nadine twirled before the wall that night while sweeping wide strokes of royal purple over it.

In February, Alex told Nadine that, although she was a nice girl, he wasn’t looking to pursue a relationship. Heartbroken over her shattered hope, she spent that evening crying through her finger-painting of drooping midnight blue waves down the wall.

In March, Nadine saw Alex kissing a cheerleader in the hallway between classes. Though she showed no reaction at school, she stormed into her basement that afternoon to hurl water balloons filled with scarlet red paint at the wall.

In April, Nadine walked past Alex and his new girlfriend holding hands as they made their way to American History. Still she said nothing, but she took time out of that late afternoon to fleck the wall with bright spots of poison green.

In May, the girls with whom Nadine had been slowly forming a friendship spent their lunch break consoling her and reassuring her that Alex was the one missing out on a great relationship. She continued to keep her emotions to herself in school, but her renewed enthusiasm drove her to spend time later that day painting bright orange bands over the gloomier colors on the wall.

In June, Nadine’s friend Amanda knocked on her front door, intent on returning the yearbook carelessly forgotten on the bus. The man who answered the door directed the visitor downstairs, where his daughter was busy channeling her creative energy. It was only when Amanda entered the basement and saw Nadine draped in a paint-stained poncho before a colorful wall that the truth finally came to light: beneath the deceptive palette of grays was a beautiful rainbow.

About J.C. Wolfe

J.C. Wolfe is a fiction writer, biologist, and aspiring novelist of science fantasy and romance. A natural-born American and graduate in Marine Ecology from a university in Brazil, J.C. now writes for a living in California while spending free time blogging and penning stories and poetry.

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