News: My thoughts are clouds I cannot fathom into pastries.

--1 June 2018--

Quote: Words are pale shadows of forgotten names. As names have power, words have power. Words can light fires in the minds of men. Words can wring tears from the hardest of hearts. --Patrick Rothfuss, The Name of the Wind

The Fellowship

November 5, 2010

Sad News

I'm leaving. Not permanently, but I won't be blogging on HD for the next month or so. I have a lot of commitments to fulfill, most of which involve school (calculus, English, and chemistry). I'm also busy preparing to go to university in January, which will be a big change for me, and I cannot guarantee regular posts while I am there either.

Not my image

I will miss you all as I take absence for the next month and a bit. Yet, when I return (possibly for a surprise December post) I will hopefully have some exciting news to share with you BUT I cannot even give you a hint as to what it will be. Therefore, I bid thee farewell. Do not fear, Squeaks SHALL RETURN! *mutters* be it in a hundred years, but I will return.

Signed with a crystal tear and a flamboyant pen stroke,

The one and only,


Not my image

November 4, 2010

NaNoWriMo -- Guest Post by Nichole White

Nanowrimo… The crazy hits the fan

It is November and the writing world is thrown into a frenzy as National Novel Writing Month starts again. People all over the world are attempting to write 50k of new fictional novels, some of which may end up on actually bookstore shelves someday (after much rewriting and a whole lot of other work). But the entire point is that it is a month of complete literary abandon.

So what do you do when you run out of words?

Such a hard question, because you can’t reach 50k if you can’t think of what happens next. And if your characters have already decided to fight you every step of the way (like mine have) it gets even more difficult. All those wonderful, amazing, stupendous ideas you had before hand slowly slip away and turn into mist, and you’re left wondering why you feel light headed, and why on earth you decided to put that character in that certain place at just that time, and how on earth you’re going to get him out of the mess you’ve gotten him into.

This is where I am only 3 days in. I start to ask myself, “Will it ever get any better?” Yes, I’m being the rebel and rewriting an older piece this month (which is expressly forbidden), and on my Nano Profile I adamantly state that I couldn’t possibly run out of words because of all the ideas suddenly flowing in. And yes, 3 days before Nano I wrote about 5k worth of new scenes and thought for sure that was only the beginning… only to be hit with writer’s block after the second day. So what can a person do to get out of the early slum?

Well, the first thing anyone can do is write: that’s right, sit your butt down in that chair and don’t even think about getting up until you have at least 500 words on the page, because after all, 500 words is better than no words at all, and even if it sounds like gibberish, it will at least get you somewhere.

Second, start outlining. I know, I know: WHAT ON EARTH AM I SAYING, right? But it’s a known fact, the more of the story you have mapped out – whether in your head or on paper – the less likely you’ll be to fall into writer’s block and the faster the process will go. Then even if your characters decide to misbehave and start climbing walls (or trees) and leaping into the air making funny faces and strange guttural noises, at least you have a “whip” to put them back in line: you’re outline. You can go back to what you have mapped out already and beat your characters into doing what they are supposed to do and going where they are supposed to go. Now, that’s not to say they won’t fight back; most likely forcing them to do what you have planned with be a grueling task where the words still come slow and feel choppy and incoherent, but hey! You’ll have them down! And that’s the important thing. You’re story will be moving again… slowly, yes… but moving.

Third, brainstorm with friends. Yes, I mean it. Look around for people who want to get together as writing buddies (whether online or in person) and ask if they wouldn’t mind running things over with you. If they agree, then give them the basic gist of your story (up to wherever you are in it) and have them give you theirs. Then sit down and start bouncing ideas off each other. This is probably one of the most fun ways to get the words flowing. So many times after talking with friends, all of a sudden I remember where I was trying to go with the story all along, or I have a new revelation as to what my character is supposed to do and who he is supposed to be. This just happened to me the other day, and I started working on a new experimental beginning for “Song of the Daystar”. (Don’t know where it will take me yet, but so far the prospects look good.) And I can’t tell you how many times I’ve gone to my friends and writing buddies with “Eldrei” saying, “Hey, my story is being dumb; would you take a look at it and tell my characters to straighten up?” (ok, not exactly like that, but my friends all know that’s what I mean.) After a couple minutes of pondering, someone will come back with an all together ingenious new outlook, and the inspiration flows again.

So there you have it: the best three ways to keep your Nano project moving. Besides giving up your social life and all your free-time that is (because if you don’t, how else are you supposed to manage it?) And hopefully my own advice will sink in and help me out of my slum. Hey, I just wrote a blog post of aprox. 900 words in about 10 minutes! Now I just have to go write at least that many for my novel…

Yipes! :D

Wish me luck. I’m most certainly going to need it.


November 3, 2010

SOTK Update :)

I'm happy to say that SOTK is faring well. Mom called dad and he said SOTK should go to either the family doc or emerg. Mom had to take him to emerg because the family doctor's office was closed. He got a tetanus shot (he shivered when he told me) and methinks they flushed it out and put a band-aid on it. He's on antibiotics and other than that, he's fine! So hip-hip-hoorah!

His hand is quite swollen and bruised. It kind of reminded me of a nail mark that you'd get if you had to be crucified *shiver* XD

Signed with a sigh,



Please pray for the valiant SOTK, my dearest and onliest brother.

He tried separating Beauty and Koji today (they started fighting when we went to go for a run, and we thought Koji would kill Beauty). He got in between and tried to kick them apart and Koji turned and bit him. He has a major puncture wound in the middle of his hand that, he says, goes straight to the bone. We're currently trying to decide whether to bring him to the hospital or not (a 40 minute drive). Please pray that SOTK won't get an infection :S

Signed with a tinge of worry,


November 1, 2010

Squeaks is feeling...

...very pleased about having written two 1000+ word devotionals :) Just writing about God and reading His Word lightens my spirit. I love Him so very much :) + my Bible smells good. I love the smell of Bibles :)
{not my picture}

Signed with a heart,


"Just One Hour" by Squeaks.

Here is the short story that I was GOING to submit to the contest *sob* but I missed the deadline. I can't believe it. I only remember 30 minutes ago...and it's too late. *continues saying* I can't believe it.

Anyways, since that is the case, you guys are now able to enjoy (if you can) the delightful sorrow of my latest writing :) latest...short story XD I hope you enjoy!! Let me know what you think of it in your comments :)

Just One Hour

They told me to go out and enjoy this next hour: use up all my money, go skydiving, or kiss the mayor. They also warned me not to over-exert myself; I could if I wanted to, but then the hour would pass by too fast. I watched their glistening lips solemnly move up and down, working jaw muscles like pistons on oil rigs. The dire circumstance under which I was placed could not be reversed.
I slowly made my way down the porch steps and onto the cold cement. The old basketball hoop on the garage door creaked, beckoning me to shoot something round down its open-ended throat. I turned and began to walk down the street.
I watched my feet move forwards: clack, clack, clack. The soles of my worn black pumps loudly protested each time they hit the ground. I stopped and studied them curiously, then I took them off, placing them beside the old, dilapidated bus stop bench.
The November air swirled around my legs, chilling them. I thought of heading to the lake in the park and wading for a bit, but I couldn’t just yet, I had other places to go.
 Up ahead was Bill’s Groceries, just past the residential area that I had meandered into this morning. I figured I’d spend a couple dollars on some candy.
As I opened the door, the scent of greasy food and unwashed bodies assaulted my nose, which I wrinkled up in distaste.
I picked several candies from the shelf and brought them to the till. My mouth watered as I thought of the tastes I would soon enjoy.
“Is that all?” asked the girl behind the desk as she loudly popped her bubblegum. She looked like she should be in school.
“Yes.” I said.
“Five-oh-six please.”
I fished through my purse and handed her a battered five and a couple coins, which she took with smoke-stained fingers, then I left with my purchase.
Now I’m standing outside the grocer. I eat my candy, savouring the taste of sweet and sour blending together in harmony. Across the street, I see a church; its tall steeple pierces the overcast sky like a sword.
My fingers release their death-hold on the leather purse. It slumps to the ground like a dead beast. With my bare feet turned towards the church, I start walking. I don’t bother to look back or think about what I’m doing; I won’t need my purse now. I’ve bought all that money can buy in just one hour: enjoyment.
As I lay my hand upon the worn wooden handle of the church door, I catch sight of my ironman watch. The timer tells me I’ve spent 15 minutes already. Pulling the door open, I go in. Furtively, I glance around. Oh, this isn’t a catholic church, its Baptist. I’m ready to slink back outside and head to my next destination when someone calls out,
“Hello? Can I help you?”
I turn around and see a man in a rumpled white shirt and black pants. The pastor?
“Yes, I was wondering if I could speak to the pastor.” My lips move without my noticing them. I simply stare at his droll appearance: a circus master in funeral clothes.
“That would be me.” He smiles warmly as he closes the distance. I extend my hand and we shake. Too bad he wasn’t a priest.
“Would you like to come to my office? I’ve just made a fresh pot of coffee.” I start at his mention of coffee and furiously shake my head,
“No, no, I won’t be long. I’ve got things to do, but I had a pressing question to ask.” I lie, hoping to cover up my annoyance that he’s a pastor and not a priest.
He nods and sits down on a chair that has been placed against the wall. I stay standing, my fingers fidget with the hem of my skirt.
“So, how can I help you?”
“How do you know if you’re a good person? If you’re going to heaven? And please,” I stumble over the words as I glance at my watch, “try to keep the answer short.”
The pastor looks at me curiously,
“Alright. Essentially, a person can be as good as they want or as bad as they want and they’re still going to go to the same place.”
I inwardly shudder at his implied remark.
“What really counts, when it comes to going to heaven, is your heart. Have you accepted Jesus as your Saviour?”
I bristle at this remark, “I can’t say I ever have.”
“Would you like me to—“
“Pastor, I don’t have much time, but no, I don’t want you to help me.”
He nods respectfully and smoothes his hair,
“All you have to do, if you ever want to be assured of where you’re going, is accept Jesus as your Lord and Saviour. It’s not hard. It just takes faith.”
I sigh and move towards the door. He gets up and shakes my hand again,
“I’m afraid I don’t have time for faith right now.” I say, absentmindedly.
The pastor looks at me with worry and I can tell he’s assuming the worst.
“Don’t do anything rash,” he says gently, “if you ever need to talk to someone about anything, feel free to come here. That’s why where here. To help people who need it.”
“And I appreciate your help.” I head to the front door.
“Could I offer you some shoes?” he calls after me.
“No. Where I’m going I won’t need shoes.”
I leave the church and stand silently on the curb for several moments, willing my heart to stop racing; with each breath, my throat tightens slightly. Did he guess? Did he know? Surely he must have. Yet he could do nothing about what was going to come now. I could do nothing.
I can’t afford time to be self-conscious. Reaching with my hands, I unfasten my jacket and let slide off my shoulders. It hits the ground, rustling quietly as it embraces the hard sidewalk. 
I turn north and start walking to the city hall. When I’m kitty-corner to the hall, I veer west. I stand before the entry gate to the public graveyard, letting my mind wonder, for a split second, whether I was right to come here. Swiping my bangs back from my eyes, I continue forward, berating myself for stopping to think.
My feet sink downwards as I cross from the paved path to the grassy arena of tombstones. I used to like graveyards when I was a teen. I’d spend hours imagining who the person, now buried beneath the soft earth, used to be. My friends and I would try our hand at pronouncing the names of immigrants, now resting peacefully. Had any of them gone through what I am going through?
I read a couple names and then I spy a section of newly plowed earth. The deep scent of ground and grass spikes its way up my nose. I read the worn tombstone that sits next to its brand new companion:
Stacy Johnson
April 3rd 2004--November 6th 2006
The sweetest child there ever was and ever will be; we love you Stacy
I touch the letters; November 6th, my own birthday, I realize as I read the date over again. Tears rolled down my face, falling like crystals to the barren earth.
Glancing at the new grave, I skim the first two lines; lines that I’ve read a million times.
Brian Johnson
March 7th, 1981--September 13st, 2010
I back away from the grave and take off my skirt, throwing it onto the grass. The stark blackness of the material stands out like a sore thumb in the middle of the peaceful meadow of caskets. I’m left with a t-shirt and slip. I must look like some mental case, escaped from the insane asylum. Yet I know that I am perfectly sound in mind. The deceased could make better use of my skirt than I could.
Slowly, I walk away from the graveyard. I’m almost thankful that today is a Monday. Everyone is working, everyone is living, everyone is doing the best they can with the circumstances they’re given.
As I leave the graveyard, I find myself in front of the city hall. For a moment, I wonder if I should go inside and have a quick chat with the mayor of the town. But I don’t want to draw that kind of attention to myself. Besides, I’d end up in a police car before I could even speak to the secretary, considering my appearance. The last place I want to spend my time is in jail.
Pursing my lips, I try to breathe deeply as I glance at my watch: 35 minutes have been spent. What did I do? I bought candy, went to church, and visited the graveyard. That’s good enough, I figure. I can head to my last destination. My favourite destination; the place I always go to on my birthday. The park.
 When I get to the park entrance, my mind is besieged by memories. Memories of my first kiss when I was 10; the time when Jacob and I snuck into the woods while my parents set the picnic blanket on the ancient forest floor. We hid behind a tree and kissed. It was awful.
I remember the time when I turned 21 and my boyfriend, Brian, took me to the lake at the center of the park; he opened a can of beer and gave it to me. I laughed, drank it, and threw the trash into the water.
Then there was my wedding ceremony when I was 23. Brian had proposed in the spring and we were married in the fall, on my birthday. The wedding party had paraded through the trees; I felt like a fairy princess.
When I turned 25, Brian took me to the lake again; I had delivered Stacy that spring, our first baby. We celebrated with several friends. I remember I wasn’t happy; Stacy kept crying and my head pounded like the ocean surf.
My 27th birthday was even worse. I didn’t even want to come to the park, but Brian insisted. I didn’t like the water. It was dirty and dangerous. We left in an ambulance, praying with all our might that the doctors would save our drenched baby girl. But they couldn’t. She died in our arms, coughing up water.
I press the memories to the back of my mind, refusing to let the hurt of the past take control. I can see the lake up ahead. It shimmers and glistens like a diamond strategically placed around the neck of a woman.
Before I know it, I’m at the shore, staring into the cold depths. This shore, it carries so many memories, both good and bad.
Suddenly, the weight of what I’m doing and what has been done hits me, like I just ran into a brick wall. I realize that I’m spending my last hour here, where my baby died, where I was married, where I first kissed. I look at my clock, 10 minutes left. Such a short amount of time before I leave this earth. Revenge will be waged against them when I’m gone. At least, I pray it will. There is nothing I can do now. It’s too late.
Brian told me to never get involved with those people; he told me it would cost me dearly in the end. But the glitter of gold was too great; my own greed was too strong. And now I’m paying. When I tried to back out they ensured me that I’d be backing out: never to return. I’d never see my home town again. I’d never see the graves of my family again. I’d never again step inside a church or buy candy from a store.  
Only 6 minutes left. I take off what remains of my clothes and step into the frigid water. My legs are already numb from the wind. My feet move me forward, ever deeper, ever onward, to a destiny I do not want.
Is life really worth death? Are all our accomplishments really worth it in the end?  I suppose it doesn’t matter now. I have two choices. Poison or water. Which one shall win.
The words of the pastor come seeping, unwanted, into my consciousness. I struggled for air as I remember.
All you have to do, if you ever want to be assured of where you’re going, is accept Jesus as your Lord and Saviour. It’s not hard. It just takes faith.
Faith. The word rings through my mind like a bell. Do I have faith? I have faith in death, the one thing that I know is certain. My legs suddenly stop moving. The water is just past my chest now. I feel it lapping against my collar bone, hungrily trying to pull me in deeper.
With shame, I retrace my steps, out of the water. I have only one minute left. My throat is tight, maybe from the cold or from the poison.
I don’t want to be found like a lunatic, floating in the lake. I don’t want my name to be in the paper linked with the word “drowned”.
Sitting on the grass, I pull on my clothes: 30 seconds. I feel my mind numb. My throat is so tight I can barely breathe.
“Oh God,” I whisper hoarsely, “wherever you are, whoever you are.” My throat tightens further. The beeper on my timer goes off somewhere, in another world. Shadows begin to seep into my mind. I can’t breathe.
With the air remaining in me, I manage to choke out my last two words: “save me.”
Then the lights fade. Darkness takes over and I am swept out of the world I once knew so well.
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