Green

The color green

is spring time,

warmth, cool grass on my bare toes.

the smell of sunshine,

reminds me of a crisp cool spring morning

my favorite green:

summer in the mountains with the sunshine streaming through the thicket

kissing my shoulder blade

Faceless International

I recently read an article on wrecked.org (an awesome website--check it out. http://socialjustice.wrecked.org/?filename=faceless-international-spread-the-cause-and-win ) about an organization called Faceless International. They seek to raise awareness about social issues happening throughout the global community through first hand experience and education.

The purpose behind Faceless is simple. They "want to put a face on the many people in our own country and around the world who have gone faceless, or unknown, for so long. Everyday in our own country, people pass by many who are struggling. Each day around the world, people ignore the plight of millions who have no food, no clean water, no education or even no freedom." These are all important issues that society as a whole tends to ignore or overlook. It's so painful, people can't even look at it. It's time to open our eyes and do something about it.

Check out these websites:

http://www.facelessinternational.com/content/action.php

http://www.madebysurvivors.com/ (especially since Christmas is coming up. What could be better than to give a gift that also helps people break from human trafficking and other hopeless situations!)

Faceless International offers trips around the world (and in the US) to help educate people about the horrible truths of social injustice. Many of the trips focus on human trafficking, which is a real threat all of the world, including the USA.

Here are some terrible, but very true, facts about human trafficking:

*There are 27 million people enslaved around the world today.

*1.2 million children are estimated to be trafficked each year with an estimated 50,000 trafficked into the United States.

*One person is trafficked every minute around the world.

*The average cost of a slave is $90

Step up. Be the change. Do something about it.

I Write Poetry

Because the words swirl inside me

waiting to be let out

they are eager, overly so

often they bang around, demanding,

gasping for a breath of their own

othertimes, I have to drag them out

search for the right word

they hide from me

I know what i wish to say

but we are in an endless game of hide-and-seek

"come find us" they giggle

and I get lost inside the corridors of my soul

wind up spending hours inside my memories and dream

I forget why I entered

and the words grow weary of our game

there are thousands of unwritten poems

sitting, lonesome, in old dusty rooms

like a once beloved but forgotten book

hoping to be re-discovered

Haikus about My Balcony

My balcony

is quietly

observing me

My balcony, high above

the cares of the world

how lofty he seems today

Unmetered Haiku

Rushing water

swishing in my ear

makes me think of childhood

Unmetered Haiku

Rushing water

swishing in my ear

makes me think of childhood

The Letter "S"

sunshine smiles

someday soon

someone sings silently

speaking of somersaults and sand dollars

starfish and soda pop

sushi, sand, summer, shore

I see sea salt

I am in second place

shorts, school, sky, sit, salsa, steamy

sexy, sacred, sour, sweet, sweat, stir

shake, rattle, and roll

A Call to End Cookie-Cutter Education

“The real death of America will come when everyone is alike.” –Ralf Ellison

As a matter of principle, I think that cultural differences should definitely be recognized and taken into account in schools. There is this concept of using schools and other institutions to turn people into “good Americans.” It is a cookie-cutter formula of the past, and educators of today and tomorrow must abandon this idea. Not only does it conflict with the founding of our nation, but it also denies basic human rights.

To talk about this, first we must define culture. The article we read for class, Culture Clash, made some very good points about culture and how it relates to people. Viadero writes, “Culture is the lens through which everyone sees the world.” (1997, para 56). Not only do we need to recognize cultural differences, we need to embrace them.

Our nation is founded on this very idea. We are a country of freedom: freedom of speech, freedom of religion, freedom of the press, and freedom to pursue happiness. We also acknowledge the basic rights of humankind. In the Bill of Rights, Americans assert that the government may not deprive any person of life. One could argue that suppressing a person’s culture and forcing another culture on them is depriving them of life.

Why is it, then, that schools are passing “English only” laws? Why do we ignore obvious differences between ethnic and cultural groups, and instead insist on educating people the “white way?” Why are educators forcing people into cookie-cutter molds of the past?

The idea that schools should turn students into “good Americans” is one of the past. And yet it continues to show up in educational systems all across America. A “good American” is someone who goes to school, is respectful, learns the things the teachers/state determine is important, attend college, and get a middle/upper-middle class job, and live happily ever after. Many people call this the “American Dream,” which basically consists of getting married, having two kids (a boy and a girl), a yard, a dog, two+ cars, a fairly high-paying job, and a white picket fence. It is very materialistic and monetary-driven.

Instead, educators should embrace the cultural (and other) differences their students bring to the classroom. Our system of education has to adapt to the way the world is changing. Globalization affects everyone. Society is diverse. We are no longer a Caucasian society with a few minorities. People of differing ethnicities, religions, cultures, and races are coming together and living in a nation as one people. Our school systems should recognize this and implement reality into the education systems. We need to change the way we educate students, and we also need to change the way we educate our teachers. As Viadero asserts, we need to teach teachers how to learn about their students. (1997, para 42). More harm is certainly done by ignorance. (Viadero, 1997, para 40).

Teachers need to be trained to incorporate multicultural education into their curriculum. This is a multi-step process. Some ideas/steps include using a variety of strategies that “actively and regularly involve parents, including provisions for languages other than English,” make sure to “actively incorporating students’ life experiences and interests and tailor curriculum to meet the cultural, developments, and individual needs of the children,’ and training that “challenges students to uncover, face, and change their own biases, discomforts, and misinformation and identify and alter educational practices that collude with racism and other institutionalized discrimination and prejudice.” (Lee, Enid, Menkart, Deborah, Okazawa-Rey, Margo, 1998, p. 3-4). This is the type of educational reform America needs. Culture is not something that can be ignored, even if the classroom does not seem to be culturally diverse.

This is because even people of the same racial background have different cultures. For instance, my cultural identity is very different from a male, white, upper-middle class student who sits in front of me in class. We disagree on many things, especially relating to education and multicultural education/making people into “good Americans.” In fact, one day after our class discussion about cultural differences and multicultural education, I wrote a poem in response to some of the things that were said.

Poem to the Boy in my Cultural Diversity Class

Your ignorance is not my bliss

nor is it your bliss, though you think so

"As long as it's not harming me"

those words slash me

they are daggers from your upper middle-class white male mouth

in college, people are supposed to be open-minded

we are the new generation,

ushering in tolerance

and love

You open your mouth, and we're back in the '50's

I am boiling and bleeding

and can do nothing but talk of human dignity

the basic rights of mankind

and wonder aloud

if you'd say the same thing if you were in different shoes

But my anger falls on deaf ears

which were lucky enough to be born white, and well-off.

The education system needs to be reformed to meet the true needs of the students and the society. This cookie-cutter approach can no longer be accepted. What works for Sue may not work for Joe. As educators, it is our job to educate all people, and that includes different cultures. Education is a huge form of validation for children. If a students’ own culture is ignored or deemed “less important,” what are we telling them about their identity? We must strive to implement the necessary changes to build a better society, educate people of all backgrounds and cultures, and affirm the basic rights of humankind.

Lee, Enid, Menkart, Deborah, Okazawa-Rey, Margo (eds.), 1988. “Beyond Heroes and Holidays: A Peractical Guide to K-12 Anti-Racist, Multicultural Education and Staff Development”. Washington D.C.: Network of Educators on the Americas, p. 4.

Viadero. 1977. “Culture Clash.”

Poem to the Boy in My Cultural Diversity Class

Your ignorance is not my bliss

nor is it your bliss, though you think so

"As long as it's not harming me"

those words slash me

they are daggers from your upper middle-class white male mouth

in college, people are supposed to be open-minded

we are the new generation,

ushering in tolerance

and love

You open your mouth, and we're back in the '50's

I am boiling and bleeding

and can do nothing but talk of human dignity

the basic rights of mankind

and wonder aloud

if you'd say the same thing if you were in different shoes

But my anger falls on deaf ears

which were lucky enough to be born white, and well-off.

Untitled

I dreamt of you last night

but when I awoke, it was only me

and my wishful face in the mirror

My Good News Is, Part 2

My good news is that I grew up in a family where reading and life skills were important. I attended private schools with smaller classes. I got a lot of attention from teachers, parents, grandparents, and other relatives who spent endless amounts of time with me. My good news is also that I want to give back to the community. I want to change people’s lives for the better. My good news is the desire to share the joy deep inside me, a joy that remains despite trials and hardship. My good news is compassion for those around me, especially children or people who are hurting. I can read, and so I will help others to read.

My good news is talking with Dr. C, realizing my life calling, and accepting the person I am called to be.

If I Could Be a Smell

I'd be the smell of cut grass

or the smell of the earth

after a huge thunderstorm

I'd be an Italian restaurant

my grandmother's baked bread

a bouquet of roses

the smell of the ocean's salty breath

mountain air

or fresh laundry

I'd be the smell of happiness

or a child's gleeful laugh

snuggling puppies

and a birthday cake baking in the oven

I'd be the smell of chocolate chip cookies

a picnic in the park

a cookout in my backyard

the smell of Springtime

Summer

or pomegranate bodywash

I'd be the smell of success

fresh fruit salad

a garden in bloom

I'd be the smell of coming home

Christmastime

and falling in love

The Fountain's Song

The fountain's song

reminds me of the music in your laughter

we collect memories like stamps

and our dreams move leisurely with an unseen breeze

Untitled, or, an almost-haiku

I am a dandelion

blown in a lazy dance

by a breeze which kisses my face

Poem to My Future Husband

I think I'm in love with your smile

the way our hands will probably be a perfect match

the color of your eyes when we say goodnight

and sitting on a porch, together

or laying in our grass (will we have a yard?)

our laughter making music.

i think we'll spend our free time snuggling

or dancing in the kitchen

or playing ball, you can choose

hopscotch?

not everything will be sunshine and roses

but we'll be together.

i think we'll get a puppy (I hope you like dogs!)

and we'll take him on walks

I've already named him Moose (I hope you don't mind)

I bet we'll talk of adventure

Socrates, Plato, Philosophy

Maybe we'll travel the world?

I sure do like airplane rides.

I think the way you hug me will make me melt

and I hope my head can fit in the crook of your neck.

I bet you'll enjoy reading books

or, at least humor me when I talk about them

I think you'll make me insanely happy

and adding each other to our lives

won't complete us,

but instead, will allow us to walk side by side

sometimes barefoot, sometimes clothed.

Dreams

Do you believe God speaks through dreams?

I do.

Lessons/Stories from the Brush

Lessons/Stories from the Bush

The other night a missionary named John Cutts came by our house to talk to my family and some friends. John lives with the Moni tribe in West Papua. He has lived there since he was 2 years old. John’s parents were missionaries to the Moni, wrote out the Moni alphabet language for the first time, and translated most of the Bible into Moni. John knows their language fluently and continues ministering to them today with his wife. Here are some of the stories he told us. All of them are true.

The tribes in Papua New Guinea speak over 1/5 of all the world's languages. One of the biggest tribes in the mountainous area is the Moni Tribe. In the area where John grew up, there are 4 main tribes--and Moni is the largest.

Hazi Talk: These tribes had never seen a white person before missionaries in the 20th century arrived, and yet they had a strange legend in their culture. For generations the chiefs taught their tribes a legend about the white people like ghosts who would come someday. These ghost people would teach Hazi (eternal talk). They would tell the tribes how to live forever. I got goosebumps when John told that story! No one knows how that legend started or why it circulated for so long. It was an important part of their culture long before the first white man ever showed up.

First Encounter: The first time a white person showed up on the island, the news spread like wildfire. The chief of the Moni people heard that a white ghost had arrived and was speaking to a nearby tribe. The Moni chief walked through the jungle for three days to see the white ghost. Because the missionary was visiting another tribe that spoke another language, the Moni chief couldn't understand everything that was being said. After the missionary was done talking, the chief asked him to come to his village. The missionary couldn't understand him, so he gave the chief a bar of soap and a glass bottle of merthiolate, which is like iodine, some of the best medicine of the day. The chief walked back to his village and called all the people around him. He told them that a white ghost had given these gifts to him, and they were going to let his people live forever. Then he shaved the bar of soap into pieces and gave them out to the tribe, telling them to eat it. The people did, but there wasn't enough soap for everyone. So then the chief gave the people who didn't get any soap a sip of the merthiolate, but there wasn't enough of that either. So then he took a rock and smashed the glass bottle of merthiolate, and gave a little piece of glass to everyone who didn't get some soap or merthiolate, and they ate the glass. But the people kept dying and the missionary never showed up. Until John's parents walked into the village years later.

John’s parents lived with the Moni people, learning their language and culture. They were eager to share the Gospel with the Moni people, and eventually, God showed them the perfect way to explain the Good News. It's amazing how the Gospel reaches people of all nations and languages. To the Moni people, the Gospel just makes sense. There is a tradition within the tribes of West Papua. When two tribes war with each other, they have to keep fighting until there has been an equal number of deaths on each side. So, if side A has 4 deaths but side B has 6 deaths, they have to keep fighting. Maybe the next day, side A has 6 deaths, but now side B has 7 deaths. So they have to keep warring.

But there is a way out of it. If the tribe with fewer deaths decides it doesn’t want to fight anymore, they can have the Ceremony of the White Pig. What this means is that the tribe that has the fewer deaths will pick one of its warriors to sacrifice. The tribe selects the warrior, binds his hands, ties him to a spear, and hands him over to the other side as an offering of peace. It is called the Ceremony of the White Pig because pigs are the most valuable things in their culture. Pigs are a sign of wealth, used to buy brides, and during times of festivities. The White Pig (the chose warrior) is given to the other tribe, and they kill him. Then there can be peace between the tribes again.

So, the idea of Jesus as a sacrifice makes perfect sense to them. God wants peace with mankind so badly, He gave His best warrior and only son as a sacrifice so we could have peace. How amazing that such a concept makes perfect sense to people in one of the most remote places in the world!

An Actual Ceremony: John gets invited to a Ceremony of the White Pig. It's a really big deal for him to be invited and to be able to witness the ceremony. So John arrives at the place where the ceremony is happening. The two tribes are hooping and hollering and dancing around because they are so excited to enter a time of peace. The warrior who has been chosen as the White Pig is in the center of this giant celebration, hands tied to a spear that's stuck in the ground. John is watching all of this, thinking, "What am I supposed to do? Do I cut the guy loose? Do I stop them and tell them its wrong? Do I say to take me in his place?" And as he is thinking and praying, all of a sudden, all of these warriors come running into the clearing screaming and celebrating up a storm! In their hands are giant sticks, and they are carrying large, live boars tied to the sticks. They lay out the boars, one after another in front of the other tribe. There are 63 boars! The tribe that caught the pigs asks the other tribe if they will accept the 63 pigs as a gift instead of their warrior as a sacrifice. They say that they know now that they shouldn't sacrifice their own because of Jesus, and even though it's a serious tradition, they'd like to give 63 boars in his place.

The other tribe huddles together and talks about it for awhile. They finally decide to take the boars in place of the warrior. And they cut him free.

How amazing is that? We are like the warrior, tied to a spear, about to be sacrificed because of our sin, and Jesus takes our place (like the boars) and cuts us free of our bonds.

If you liked these stories and want to know more and/or support John, here is a link to his website: http://villageheartbeat.org/

rain dance

David and I

are rain dancing

tribal

intense summer heat

soothed with cool, solid rain

and i understand

that this

is bliss

Future

When I grow up

my house will be filled with laughter

and wind chimes

Thoughts

I'm thinking about the way a certain headband makes me look like Cinderella

I'm thinking about college church and Andrew's message

I'm thinking about the way Jessa's laughter fills me with smiles

I'm thinking about the man I want to be married to

I'm thinking about high school

and theatre

drama

lightening bugs

I'm thinking about the way I try to avoid working out

make excuses

but once I actually do it, I like it

I'm thinking about SLU

teaching a class

being a freshman

and how it feels to be half-way done with college

what do I want to do with my life?

I'm thinking about life

and the sky

and the earth

my potted plants on the back porch, tiny toothpicks holding up the one stalk which might make it

I'm thinking about writing

my journal

the woman at CVS behind me in line

and her leopard print shirt

I'm thinking about camp, and Heather, and how much I love nature

little kids

and water

I'm thinking about Leah

summertime

the wonderful conversation with my father last night

all the poems inside me, waiting to be written

and the song I sing inside my head

It's Time to Stand Up

I need to say something. Ladies of today, yesterday, and the future: listen up. How many times have you heard the phrase, “well, boys will be boys” or “he just needs to sow his wild oats.” About a thousand? Well, I for one, and am sick of it.

Don’t get me wrong—I love it when a guy displays chivalry. I live in the South, where it is common courtesy for males to open doors, allow you to eat first, and pay when you go on dates. And I like it. It makes me feel nice and appreciated. All of that is well and good.

But it really upsets me when people try to excuse young men's occasional ridiculous behavior simply because of their gender. For example, when a guy "plays the field," leading more than one girl along, never staying in a relationship long enough to actually connect with a person, it's okay. But if young woman did such a thing, well, she's slapped with the label "slutty," (excuse my language) and parents warn their sons to steer clear!

I am the oldest of three children. I have a sister who is going to be a sophomore at UGA and a brother in high school. As an older sister, sometimes I worry about my brother. He's on the varsity football and soccer teams at school and hangs out with all the popular kids. Ever seen Mean Girls? As much as people deny it, public high school is basically exactly the same as that movie. Everyone really cares what people think of them, it's looked at as a bit "odd" if you hang out with people other than your designated "group," and it's all about who you are dating, the clothes you wear, and the car you drive. As I was mentioning these thoughts and worries to a friend, he reminds me that Reid has to figure out high school for himself. He tells me, "Reid's the youngest, and he's the only boy. He doesn't really have anyone to look up to. Besides, he's a guy, so give him some slack."

Oh. I wasn't aware that because Alyssa and I are girls, we are not role models. Apparently, even though I am the oldest in the family and definitely had no one to look up to as I left private, tiny Christian school and switched to public, very large high school, I had it easy. Because I'm a girl. I'm expected to have my wits about me at all time, to be organized, to act like a lady. Because I'm a girl.

I'm tired of excuses. I don't want to feel like women are left in the lurch. Did you know that women who hold the same position as a male colleague make as much as 25% less than that male? How many times has your best friend comforted you, saying, "Well, guys will be guys. He needs to get it out of his system." What about my system? What about all the systems of every single woman in the world?

We proclaim equality. Employers advertise their equality. And yet, I look around and it becomes clear that there is no true equality. Until society changes their mindset, women don't get "cut slack." I for one, cannot wait for the day when I am a role model for a younger male. When I can make the same amount as a male colleague. When I can "get it out of my system" or at least stop excusing others because of their gender. It's time. Live it. Proclaim it.

It's time to stand up.

Untitled

I fell in love with the moon

full and round

hanging low in the sky

waiting for me to notice his

deep red of maple's autumn

If I could Fall into a Photograph

I would canoe the amazon

or experience an African safari,

complete with elephants and lions

photographs in National Geographic.

I'd like to live in the top of a New England lighthouse

or permanently in the Caribbean

in a tiki hut, surrounded by blues and greens, clear clear water, and sunshine

I'd fall into a memory

or

into a childhood dream

I'd visit the beauty of New Zealand

and the reefs along Australia

Perhaps I'll live in a quaint house

white picket fence

with 2 kids and a dog

1950's sundress and a new washer and dryer

or a 1920's flapper bar

my favorite kind of music and dancing

living in bright colors

lipstick and short bobs

reds and blacks and silver that pop

gray and sepia-colored to the rest of the world

I'd fall into the Garden of Eden

or a prairie, golden wheat waving in the wind as far as they eye could see

I'd live in eternal Spring

laughter all around me

the sweet sounds of Spring, and nature

bubbling around my ears

I'd like to be in the lush green forest

or horseback riding for miles on a field where we could just run

or sitting on the ground, playing with wiggly, squirming, adorable puppies

laughing until my sides hurt

or bursting with awe and wonder at my maker

I'd visit a Pirate ship

the Great Wall of China

be an astronaut in space, looking down on our beautiful planet

or climb Mount Everest

or dance in a tribal rain dance

or go someplace quiet, with you

If i could fall into a photograph,

I'd fall into a memory

or

a childhood dream

The right thing

why is doing the right thing often the hardest?

I know what God desires, what He wishes, and yet it's so hard.

I need prayer

I need strength

I need wisdom

I need friendship

I need love

I need understanding

I need to be wise

I need to take the high road

I need you to understand why

I need to trust

Pray I can do the right thing without hurting the people that mean the most to me. My heart has been tangled up and now it's difficult to dislodge it.

SCIENCE FICTION STORY! it is time

Erin Almand

Sci Fi

Andrew Kanago

04 May 2009

 

 

It is Time

 

 

Vladimor stared at the schirm in front of him. Numbers raced across the schirm so fast, they were like one huge image, a morphing massive character with no definition. Yet Vladimor was unimpressed. In fact, he was rather bored.

 

Vladimor entered a few thousand variables. Finally, a result caught his eye and he pressed a Knopf, implementing the plan. “Ok,” he thought, “this will be just what we need.”

 

 

John Smith woke up, swatting sleepily at the angry alarm clock, whose small, gentle beeps had grown into a demanding, pounding noise. 5:30 AM. He had been dreaming again. “Man, I’ve got to get more sleep,” he groaned. He stumbled into the shower, turned it as hot as possible, and decided to take all of the allotted three minutes. “Nothing like a hot shower to loosen your muscles.” Now wide awake, John grabbed his toothbrush and got dressed for the day. He opened the closet door. “Not much of a selection,” he thought sarcastically. The projection on the wall informed him that it was 74 degrees, and sunny with a slight breeze.  “Her favorite kind of weather” he thought. He selected a lighter gray from the closet in honor of the weather, grabbed a breakfast protein bar, and left for work.

 

The elevator whooshed closed behind him. John entered the main area with his assistant behind him, two steaming cups  of coffee in hand.  “You would think we have invented something better than coffee by now,”  he wondered silently.

 

Just then the chief swung around in his office chair. The new assistant of the week, this time a platinum blonde, jumped up, laden with files and case studies marked: “Top Secret.” John brushed by her, following the chief into the briefing room. He didn’t bother to ask her name—she’d be gone by the end of the week.

 

The chief waited until everyone had assembled in the room. He motioned for the blinds to be closed. He cleared his throat, paused, and then said the words that shocked and thrilled John, gave him life and then slowly sucked it away.

 

“People, we have a problem. The biggest problem to date.”

 

John blinked. He opened the file, and gasped.

 

The chief’s assistant dimmed the lights. He used his laser pointer to elaborate. “Disease Z. What started as a small, minor outbreak, has become a threat to all of humanity. It began in Africa, in the usual places—small tribes. Or so we thought. But what is so interesting about this case is that it is anything but usual. New evidence has shown that this one started in Greenland. It appears to be spread by interaction, actual flesh contact. And yet other evidence now supports that the disease spreads through the air. Some researchers believe it is spread through sexual contact. No one knows for sure. This disease behaves in odd ways as well. It attacks the immune system—like HIV—only worse. It moves quickly, devouring its victims. Some die quickly, others live for longer. They are in extreme pain. One patient says that it was like each nerve was on fire, every bone splintering into a million pieces. There is no known cure. We hoped we could keep the disease contained in the areas of outbreak, but you know how that always goes. The United Nations of the Global Community has asked us to take over. It is out of their hands now, and the full pressure falls onto us.

 

“John, you know what to do.”

 

The chief paused for a second, time enough for John to blink his yes.

 

He continued: “We will be here, staying underground in the compound. We have intelligence which suggests that the disease will be in our city by 0800.”

 

The assistant passed out the color coded files to the remaining people in the room. John watched to see who would be assigned as his partner. Yet no black files were passed out. He was doing this mission alone.

 

 

John entered the Prep Room. He was dressed, given a new name—Bob Johnson—and sat quietly while the chip in his arm was scrambled, covering his true identity. He was ready. And so John stepped out of the Prep Room into a disguised vehicle. He boarded the jet ten minutes later.

 

While on the jet, John had time to contemplate everything that had happened. “What was this disease? How could it be contained? Would they repeat Project 666? Would they lock every infected carrier in an underground, compound? If they did, would it work? Mission CURE had been a success, at least in the Chief’s eyes and public’s eyes. The media had suppressed any public criticisms, and the Global Government took care of anyone who asked too many questions or protested. John recalled the signs, the riots, the tear gas and the machine guns. The city had been on lockdown, and world troops were flown in to “control” the masses. John wasn’t sure if he wanted to go through that again. She had been in charge of that mission. The day she left for the opening commencement was the last day he ever saw her.

 

John’s head began to nod sleepily. He had a long jet ride ahead of him. “May as well get some sleep,”  he thought.

 

First was her smell. A sweet, gentle mixture, fresh rain, calming water. Spring flowers. Then her hands. So small and dainty. They fit interlocked his hands, a perfect fit. Her eyes, big, lovely. The twinkle of her laughter. Now she was laughing at him, snorting, the way she always did when something terribly funny happened. But then she stopped laughing and began screaming. This happened in the days before she left—more and more. She just sat and screamed, rocked back and forth, or cried, silent, ignoring his terrified requests to tell him what was wrong. Why was she crying? She was silent, standing in the doorway, tears running down her cheeks. John knew she didn’t agree with Mission CURE but this was her job. It was her assignment. Still, he couldn’t help but think that maybe she shouldn’t go to the opening commencement—maybe she was sick, or having a nervous breakdown, or…maybe she was pregnant!? All these things ran through John’s mind, his turning, twisted mind, yet he was paralyzed, nailed to the floor. His feet were blocks of lead. She kissed him, full on the lips, like she used to kiss him, before. Then she was gone. “Tell me,” he whispered to the dark, “Tell me.”

 

 

John awoke to turbulence. He shook the dreams from his mind: On a mission, he had to focus. He began to run all the facts and information about this case through his mind. His ears kept replaying what the chief had said, over and over: “Your mission: to find Patient 0.” And Patient 0 he would find. Without finding Patient 0, there could be no cure. Mankind would cease to exist.

 

John stepped into the security building with his fellow passengers and watched as the others were scanned by the computer. The officials received each passenger’s information—date and place of birth, home address, job, percentage of body fat, height, weight, name, any information from their permanent file, how many cavities they had filled—you name it, they knew it. Times like these made John glad he worked for the government. After a full body scan and thumb print analysis (of course the Prep Room had altered that as well) John was set to go. He took the papers from the security guard, carefully storing them inside his jacket pocket. John picked up his silver suitcase, shiny but not too shiny, giving it the “worn but I can afford a new one if I wanted” look. He walked outside, hailed a cab, and gave the driver the address the Chief had given him.

 

He would start at the very beginning—or as close to the beginning he could get. That meant flying to Greenland. Check. Go to the hotel and set up a surveillance area. Check. Never go anywhere without his full protective suit. Check.

 

After a night of tossing and turning, John decided it was time to begin his search for Patient 0. He would start at the hospital where the first case of Disease Z—named aptly for it being the probable end of humanity. Disease Z was spreading at an alarming rate. It would descend on a town and victimize anything in its path. He dressed in his biohazard suit, complete with a breathing mask and waste management capability, and got ready for the hardest day of his life.

 

 

This was an ordinary place. Who would have guessed that the worst disease in the history of mankind would have been first experienced here? John began by examining the patients. These people had been suffering for over two months now. Before he entered the quarantine wing, John could hear the moans and requests for someone to kill them. The head doctor, Dr. Fox, briefed him. “It began simply,” Dr. Fox explained. “One day, two patients came in complaining of the same symptoms. Fever, itchy, tingling nerves, coughing, upset stomach, the worst migraine headache they had ever experienced. They weren’t hungry. All they wanted was water, but their throats were so dry that they couldn’t swallow. Gradually they developed to seizures, swelling of the joints and muscles, and severe dehydration. If someone with an illness so much as looked at them, they instantly contracted that disease, as well. They grew thin, bony. Essentially, this Disease Z strikes their immune and nervous systems, making them susceptible to illness and putting them in extreme pain at all times. The ones who do not fight to live go first. The others battle the disease. Often, they suffer from seizures from the pain. Nothing can be done for the patients. The disease is also highly infectious. All the nurses and other patients who came in contact with—or near—any patient with Disease Z immediately contracted the disease themselves. Eventually, we invested in the biohazard suits you see me and all others working wearing. They are very similar to the one you have on, although yours might be of better technology.”

 

John did not reply. Instead, he was staring at the first person he had ever seen with Disease Z. The person was screaming, writhing in pain. The clipboard at the end of the man’s bed said 348—it was a man, John thought, although he wasn’t quite sure. Extreme starvation and pain strips people of everything—including gender.

 

John pointed to the clipboard. “What does that number mean?” The doctor responded, “He is the 348^th person to have contracted this disease.” John turned away. He walked into the hallway. “Show me patient 0,” he said flatly.

 

 

Of course Patient 0 was dead. Two and a half months was too long.

 

John swallowed hard. He was worried that he would run out of time. Patients were dying fast. 10 days into the mission, and Dr. Fox had been infected by Disease Z and could no longer help. The team became infected one by one. The Chief had called him, saying the office was being moved to Location Omega. This was not a good sign—it meant that over half the office had been infected, killed, or compromised. John knew that everything depended on him. Disease Z had become a global issue, killing millions and infecting millions more.

 

He checked his phone—the information had finally been sent. Patient 0’s body had been moved in a covert mission to WHCORD, which was located about 50 miles from Ground Zero (the first outbreak site). John gathered his things and decided to get some rest before the Big Day. He allowed himself to partially relax, and laid down in his bed.

 

The smell came first, and then her wonderful hands. He dreamed of the vacation in Florida, then their ski trip in Colorado. Two precious years full of her. She was laughing at him, snorting, the way she always did. Then she stopped laughing and began screaming. She sat and screamed. His feet were too heavy. She kissed him, full on the lips, like she used to kiss him, before. Then she was gone. Now he was watching the riots on television. She stepped to the microphone, cleared her throat. He could tell she was nervous because she was fiddling with her fingers. The ceremony began. Her speech was typical, thanking the people who made Mission CURE possible. That’s when the shouts started. She pressed on, but the noise grew so loud that John could only see her lips moving and couldn’t hear her words. Then suddenly, in a split second, the troops descended upon the crowd. People screamed. The troops shot tear gas into the crowd. The scene in front of John’s eyes was petrifying but he couldn’t look away from the television screen. Just when he thought it couldn’t get any worse, it did. The troops opened fire, and the protesters shot back. The cameraman had kept the camera trained on the stage, so John could see her terror. He fell to his knees, imploring the heavens to keep her safe, never taking his eyes off of the television set. The noise rose to a climax, and then, right before his eyes, he watched a man break through the police force guarding the stage. John screamed. The man raised his gun, and John watched while his finger slowly pulled the trigger. She gasped in shock, eyes full of pain. She fell to her knees, gasping for air. John had his hands around the television set, crying because of his helplessness. She looked into the camera, right into John’s heart. He couldn’t breathe. She mouthed the words, “I’m sorry,” and sank to the stage. A cry tore through his body. He watched her on the stage as the fighting all around her continued. He couldn’t move, didn’t feel anything. He was numb. He should have been there. He should have made her stay home, and he should have been there instead.

 

 

John woke up covered in sweat, his pillow drenched with salty water. He slowly rose from bed, took his three minutes , and got dressed. He was going to examine Patient 0.

 

He arrived in about an hour. John knew the security would be intense, but he didn’t know it would take him nearly four hours to get through. Finally he was inside the Center.

 

This was no ordinary Center. This building, World Health Center of Research and Advancement, WHCORD, had been built in preparation for this. John nodded his approval at the cleanliness of the facility. Two men with guns escorted him through another series of security checkpoints. Finally, the gunmen escorted him into an examining room. There, Patient 0 lay on a steel table. The forensic pathologist stood beside the body with various instruments on a tray next to the table.

 

John and the pathologist traded nods. The guards left and the forensic pathologist began to speak. He told John the usual things—what happened to people who contracted the disease, how no one knew how the disease was spread—perhaps it was spread in multiple ways, and how infectious it was. John was “Mmm-hmm-ing” until the pathologist said something that piqued his interest. “We have been unable to categorize Disease Z. We have never seen anything like it, in the way it behaves, is spread, or in its make up. It may not be from here.”

 

John asked, “What do you mean, not from here?”

 

The pathologist paused, uncomfortable. He took a deep breath. “I mean, it doesn’t appear to be from Earth.”

 

John blinked. What could he possibly be suggesting? He examined the body with the help of the forensic pathologist. While the body was racked with Disease Z, it didn’t appear to be anything “otherworldly.” Yet when he examined the slides and photos of the disease under a microscope, he had to agree. There was nothing on Earth like it. He asked to see the actual sample of Disease Z. It was brought out in a Petri Dish and John looked at it under a microscope. Suddenly, he blinked. Disease Z appeared to be changing right be front of his eyes. “Focus, John,” he muttered to himself. The forensic pathologist took in a sharp breath. “Oh my God!” he cried. John tried to steady the fear in his voice. He swallowed, took a deep breath before he asked the question he already knew the answer to. “Is it mutating?” The forensic pathologist nodded his answer. With a tribal like scream, the pathologist ripped off his own biohazard suit, exposing himself to Disease Z. “Take me!” he thundered to the heavens. “I cannot take it anymore. I will not stand by and watch mankind disappear!” The pathologist grabbed a box locked in a file cabinet. He removed a gun, sobbing madly. John stepped forward, but it was too late. The pathologist shot himself in the head and fell to the floor in a bloody heap.

 

John stared at him. He couldn’t do anything. He wasn’t sure what he felt, because it felt like nothing. Was he numb? He felt almost the same as when he watched her last few moments on the television screen, the way the world slowed way down and everything happened in slow motion. Then the pain had hit. John waited for the pain this time, but it never came. Instead, he pulled the Code Red Lever, knowing it was futile. Disease Z had already been released to the building, and was more potent than ever. He began the slow walk back towards civilization, hoping for a miracle. As he pushed through the sets of security doors, his worst fears were confirmed. Everyone was moving through the stages of Disease Z at an accelerated rate. People all around him were seizing, having heart attacks, screaming and writhing in pain. Some were already dead. John didn’t turn his head to look. He focused on the security table at the end of the hall. If only he could get to the phone, to alert the media. Moaning people grabbed at his arms and legs, begging for help, trying to tear off his biohazard suit in an effort to save themselves. He shook them off.

 

John finally reached the phone. He dialed 911, making split-second decisions about where to go from here. But no one at 911 answered. There was only a dial tone. John knew what this meant. He took out his cell and dialed the Chief. Again, no answer. This was a terrible sign. John turned to the news station playing on the security desk. Disease Z had mutated all over the world. It was stronger than ever and killing people in a mere 20 minutes. The last thing the news station said was that recent information led scientists to believe that the virus was able to go through even biohazard suits. Then it went to static. John swallowed hard. He ran outside, struggling to breathe. He had such a terrible headache. His stomach was rolling. John didn’t know if he had contracted Disease Z or if he was simply reacting to the situation. He tried to swallow, but his mouth was too dry. He couldn’t think. The landscape began to swim before his eyes. He looked around him. Everyone was either dead or writhing in death’s bony grip. It wouldn’t be too long before they joined the rest of the dead. John sank to his knees. He couldn’t think, despite all his efforts. The area grew terribly silent. It was haunting. John forced his eyes to focus. No one else moved. There was no wind, no motion. All was still, and the air was heavy. His breath slowed, his heart raced faster, and he suddenly sank to the ground. His bones were splintering into a million pieces. No one could hear his cries. His body abruptly began to convulse. Everything went black as the last man on Earth took his last breath.

 

 

Meanwhile, Vladimor, pleased with himself, took a snack break. The numbers across the schirm had been declining at a pleasing rate; the population was returning to a healthy number. Then suddenly, in an instant, the numbers began to decline quicker and quicker. Vladimor became alarmed. Had he miscalculated? He tried to type in a solution, but to no avail. The numbers kept declining. A warning bell began to sound—angry and loud, becoming louder. The red light began blinking, and the word “WARNING!” pulsed across the schirm. Vladimor typed frantically, but nothing could be done. The numbers scrolled by faster and faster until they reached 0. Silence.

 

The schirm went black.

 

“Game over” flashed on the schirm. “Try again?”

 

Vladimor took a deep, resigned breath and reached for the “yes” Knopf. But the door to the room creaked open and shadow fell across the floor.

 

Vladimor turned and confirmed: It was his father. “It’s feeding time, Vlad. Now turn that off,” his father said.

 

Sighing, the young Aboranogatribe complied. “More worlds tomorrow,” he thought, pushed his limy body away from the desk and began his plodding locomotion down the labyrinth to dinner.

 

The End.

 

 

KEY:

Schirm—a screen

Knopf—button

i have oceans inside me

sometimes they threaten to swallow me up

other times we are the best of friends

If

If my smile could bloom flowers

I would speak daisies and sunflowers 

Some people would bloom roses

Others baby’s breath, orchids, Queen Anne’s Lace, daffodils 

And the sunshine of our smiles will bloom a wild garden 

Untitled 1

some days i take you in with small nibbles

while others

i swallow you whole

You

As I grab the ties that are slipping through my fingertips 

I clutch at what is almost gone 

In a hopeless attempt to keep control. 

I tell myself to take it slow, but the look in your eyes 

Makes me forget 

And the taste of your lips, so cautious and shy, 

Slowly pull my heart, which refuses to stay put 

And makes me lose my breath 

In a pleasant, easy way. 

Though the guards at my heart are smart and strong, 

The easy glance, 

The way you simply look at me, 

The quiet, shy things you say 

Ease them into trusting you, and their guard grows 

Less severe, their weapons lowered, 

And 

The hands that hold my heart strings are less mine 

And more yours.

more photos!

I love photography. Since I got out of rehearsal miraculously early, I decided to update slash post some more poems and some of my photos.

Enjoy!!

pictures from a hike in Tallulah Gorge, Georgia:

photos from a cruise Alyssa and I went on with Nonny, our grandmother, summer of 08:

(the first one is from a submarine!)

!

Trees from the Micah retreat:

an awesome tree and fountains in Forest Park:

Outdoors, take Three

There is nothing like playing outside on a beautiful spring day,

or climbing a mountain and gaping at the view

the sound of a brook rushing it's "good day"

a flower that's in love, in a hot affair with the beautiful clouds, or the blue of the sky

my toes wiggle in the sand, white, sugar, light

and the ocean plays with my heart, teasing me, playful.

Autumn's restless reaching twirls colors through the sky, gray,

and a crisp fall morning makes me yearn for those Appalachian mountains 

only a hop skip and jump away from home.

white water kayaking, 

horseback riding with that lover of mine, Eagle, who still thinks he is a youngster

when really, he's pushing 20 and should calm down already

my dog playing soccer and fetch

the pool, filled with my best friends shrieking, back from college,

picking up our high school friendships like nothing ever changed.

playing Ultimate with my dad's work friends, teasing them that I'm the only girl who plays,

despite the cold biting wind or unforgiving summer heat.

a warm summer night, gazing at the stars

soccer or ultimate on a soggy, drenched field

I am covered in grass and mud

Mom laments that the Georgia clay will never be removed, yet she tries to work her magic,

armed with Shout and other forms of chemical miracles

and I think about how I am an actor

always growing, learning, loving with wild abandon and the curiosity of a child

the smell after a thunderstorm

the ocean's roaring hello

the tiny bird's story

this is my world

hello, world

Outdoors, take Two

the smell of cut grass

a gentle breeze dancing through the trees

the flowers bowing their hello

big fluffy clouds

and our laughter is music

laying on this green green earth

sunshine kisses

I close my eyes and breathe in the Carolina blue sky

free

Outdoors, take one

The perfect day

is one of lovely temperature

awash with sunshine

and the sounds of of Spring.

Melodies Playing in my Head

Star gazing in the cold, silently loud night 

Melodies playing in my head 

Eyes searching for a shooting star 

We yearn to touch, taste, smell. 

My skin—tingles. 

Fluttering butterfly wings tap dance across my skin 

Possibilities 

Our lazy eyes are 

Difficult 

To keep open, 

And 

I could sleep here, on the grass near you, 

The sounds of silence whisper in my ear 

Melodies play on in my head 

The gentle breeze numbs the toes 

The fountains silently work their magic 

Possibilities 

Unknown, untested, 

Waiting, wishing, watching 

And we touch, taste, smell. 

Tingling skin 

The grass is cold, yet I am warm 

Eyes slowly close 

Fingers entwine 

Possibilities 

Endless 

Possibilities 

Fluttering butterfly wings tap dance across my skin 

Gentle fingers slowly search, 

Soft lips carefully find. 

Possibilities 

Melodies playing in my head: 

Butterfly kisses; gentle tap dances across my skin.

 

Darkness of Sound

I can’t think in this mess
I can’t repair 

With this darkness 

Of sound 

This incessant clashing of brain and heart 

The nagging of unfinished business 

A life incomplete 

I let it slip away 

Turn from gold to dust in my hands 

I watched it 

Unaware 

Now I cannot go back 

To do what I left undone 

To say what I left unsaid 

To love what I left unloved 

For this darkness 

Of sound 

This incessant clashing of brain and heart 

Won’t allow it 

And all I can hear 

Is the beating 

of my mislead heart

God is an artist

Inspired by a comment I made below in an interview about my photos....

God is an artist

 I think God is an artist. I mean, look around. Go outside, smell the air after a thunderstorm. Stare at the stars from the top of a mountain, listen to a brook or the ocean’s waves crashing on a beach. Feel the wind dance across your skin in the autumn, taste a handful of water from a fresh spring. All of that is art. We are art. Watch a baby take tiny steps, listen to the laughter of old friends. God is an artist, and everything around us points back to Him. If He is the master artist, and we are made in His image, well then…art can teach us a lot about Him, and ourselves. Christians should first take a second to realize the art that surrounds them, the beauty we so often take for granted. We don’t “need” to do anything but praise God for his glory. If we take joy in His creation, that will point people to Christ. Simply noticing God around us will make all the difference.

 

God is an artist 

The sand between our toes 

The moss beneath our feet 

The tulips that wave their hello to the sunny sky 

Your laughter 

My smile 

The way our fingers entwine 

The drumbeat of our hearts 

Sweet smell of a summer’s rain 

Autumn’s restless rustle 

The Big Dipper, always in line with the North Star 

A symphony of sound 

Cascades around me 

The brook 

Which dances its hello 

Around smooth rocks 

Aged but ageless 

And time swirls away and I cannot keep track 

Of the way my spirit soars 

Or the hours I lose, 

Lost in pure joy and awe 

And my hand 

Is art 

My knobby knees, bony elbows, pudgy toes that I won’t let people see 

The wind which kisses my cheek 

As the sun caresses my shoulders 

And the clean, mountain air makes me feel so alive 

Suddenly it’s clear 

In the baby’s smile 

First steps, first laugh 

In my mother’s laughter 

My father’s eyes 

We are art, 

I am a masterpiece 

Bound by eternal, unconditional love 

Agape   

God is a comedian 

The awkward giraffe baby bends its lanky knees to test the grass with his tongue 

The huge hippo twitches its tiny ear, pretending to be nimble 

The fat puppies squirm their full tummies in the grass, desperate to romp in the sunshine 

I watch a penguin attempt to walk 

Swaggering 

The brown duck’s waddle 

Just look at a platypus, or 

A llama—hairy, wooly—as it spits in someone’s face 

And it snows 4 inches in April but melts by 11:00 am because temperatures raise to 78 F 

And I laugh in wonder 

Or hysterics 

And you laugh with me 

The fat barrel dog in North Carolina that made me cry tears of hilarity 

Interrupting Thanksgiving dinner 

The way cats get puffy tails when scared 

A dog thinking its own foot is trying to steal the bone from its mouth 

Your silly jokes 

Laughing 

Aching 

Can’t catch my breath 

As I wonder at the world 

And the things in it 

Art 

Beautiful 

Hysterical 

Made by the great master himself 

God is an artist 

And I 

Well, I am art. 

Photos

I love photography. Here are some pictures I took in Belize and Cozumel. Below is an interview with the friend--a short Q and A session, if you will. Hopefully this blog will let me upload pictures? 

 

 One in Four

1 of 4 is a picture I took in Belize. I titled it that because the entire country only has 4

stoplights, all of which are in the actual city of Belize. Only 3 of those stoplights work,

and this was one of them. I also like this picture because it shows people going about

their lives.

 The Wanderer

 

 The Wanderer is actually me 

 on the top of this huge Mayan ruin. I love this picture.

I think it portrays how we question the meaning of things and we stand on the brink of

understanding it all.

Belize

Belize is a great picture of line. I like it because I generally take pictures of nature, or things

that are falling down. Here, it shows that man-made things can still be beautiful, even if 

they are not portraying poverty or God's creation.

 Mayan Temple

Mayan Temple is a picture of the steps in the Mayan ruin. I am fascinated by the subtly of the 

rocks and crevices. 

 Fences

Fences is also from Belize. The country is a third-world country, and I wanted to capture

a picture of their wealth. This was the wealthy section of town; they have power lines and

the ability to have fences around their yards.

 Winding Ancient Stair

Winding Ancient Stair is from an ancient Mayan temple in Belize. The name of the photo

is actually a part of a poem I like by Yeats. The poem is about the conflict 

between self and soul. I thought it was an apt name for this picture.

 Lonely Warf

Lonely Warf--I think if I had to chose a favorite, I would finally decide on this one. I love

this picture, because I love the water, and the different emotions it can give off and the

connection you can have with it. I also love the use of line, and the difference between

the hard, crooked ways of the warf and the lines of the pavement. Kind of like our relationship

with God--the weather shapes us, some might call it different, but I call it beautiful

 One Lonely Tree

One Lonely Tree is also from a poem. I think it is aptly named, for this tree was the lone tree

in this field we passed. 

INTERVIEW:

What inspired you to take these pictures?

I love photography, and take any chance I can to use it as a creative outlet. I also try to have my pictures tell a story. I want to capture something that inspires someone, or makes people think or portrays an emotion.

 

Do you believe that a picture can (pardon the cliché) “speak a thousand words”? Why?

No. Due to inflation, a picture is now worth 7,621 words. (I can’t actually pretend like that quote is mine. I saw it on a photography site and laughed.) But in all seriousness, yes. I think the eyes might be the most important sense, at least to me. My interpretation of the environment and basically life in general is about 72% from my eyes. If you can capture a moment, it’s not just worth a thousand words; it’s priceless. That moment is never coming back.

 

Where were you when you took these photos?

I think most, if not all, of these shots are from when I was in Belize.

 

Why are these photos significant to you?

Because I love art. It is a vital part of humanity, and these photos tell a story or inspire emotions that God has given us. I think it’s good to expand your horizons and learn about unknown things, or stare at photographs, being quiet and letting yourself feel what the picture holds.

 

What can art convey that words cannot?

Art is a reflection of life. I do think words hold a power, but perhaps other types of art—visual, dancing, music, and theatrical—hold even more power? I’m not sure. But I know that a poem is just as artistic as a photograph, or a ballerina dancing. Perhaps art holds more power because sometimes it is more engaging. Really good art gets down into you, you know? Under your skin. It tingles in your fingertips and creates a tug on your heart and a feeling in your gut. It stirs emotions within us.

 

Do you believe that art teaches us something about God? How can Christians better use art to point people to Christ?

 

Yes. 100%. I think God is an artist. I mean, look around. Go outside, smell the air after a thunderstorm. Stare at the stars from the top of a mountain, listen to a brook or the ocean’s waves crashing on a beach. Feel the wind dance across your skin in the autumn, taste a handful of water from a fresh spring. All of that is art. We are art. Watch a baby take tiny steps, listen to the laughter of old friends. God is an artist, and everything around us points back to Him. If He is the master artist, and we are made in His image, well then…art can teach us a lot about Him, and ourselves. Christians should first take a second to realize the art that surrounds them, the beauty we so often take for granted. We don’t “need” to do anything but praise God for his glory. If we take joy in His creation, that will point people to Christ. Simply noticing God around us will make all the difference.