So I had to write a story about either the seasons or something about weather and though I had help coming up with the general idea (you rule by the way!) this is what came out of my brain. Remember that this would be text for a children's picture book and because of that I had a word limit...

On the morning when the sun rose highest in the sky, Summer awoke. She was a beautiful girl with golden hair and blue eyes.

It was Summer’s job to watch the earth until the sun lowered again. She took care of the plants and animals. Summer kept the Earth warm and green. But Summer was lonely. She worked so hard that she had no real friends.

Summer sat alone on the beach to watch the sunset. She noticed that the sun was setting earlier than it had before. Then a cool breeze blew and she heard a voice whisper, “Hello.” Summer looked but no one was there.

The next morning Summer overslept. She woke up cold and the leaves hanging over her had turned peculiar shades of red and orange and yellow. Even the sun seemed to shine a different light. Everything looked strange to her.

Summer was frightened. She thought that the world was dying and it was all her fault. She ran to a little house to find Grandfather Winter sitting in his favorite chair.

“Grandfather,” she cried. “What is happening? Nothing is green anymore.”

Grandfather Winter closed his book and said, “Don’t worry. It’s only Fall.”

“What is Fall?” Summer asked.

Grandfather Winter only laughed. He kissed Summer on her forehead. “Go and see for yourself,” he said.

Summer looked with wonder at how the world had changed. Pumpkins were growing in the fields and there were no more apples in the trees. The flowers were different. The water was colder.

Summer began to look for Fall. She looked high. She looked low. She looked everywhere. All the searching was making Summer very tired. As the sun was beginning to lower she came to the beach, she saw a boy sitting on the sand. He had brown tangled hair and rosy cheeks.

“Are you Fall?” Summer asked. The boy looked up at her.

“Did you make everything change colors?” Summer asked. Fall nodded. Summer sat down him and watched the sun set.

“Will you be my friend?” Summer whispered. Fall smiled at Summer and nodded.

I'm sweaty and tired and it's late... I've spent the past hour or so moving around furniture and dismantling the bed that I've slept in since post-crib (a hand down from my father- his childhood bed...). Time to move on! The official time will be Wednesday. Until then I will live on a mattress on the floor. Wednesday will bring me a new queen sized bed (and mattress) along with a new dresser (to replace the one I've had since crib age that my mother bought at a garage sale for $25) and a bookshelf (to hold the mountains of books that have been stacked up over the years). All these wonderful things are of my choosing and will match the desk that I am currently sitting at. It will be beautiful!

On Wednesday evening I will sit on my new bed and eat ice cream while watching Fight Club. Oh, how I will laugh.

This story that I'm working on is driving me nuts! It's always a shame when an idea like this one starts off so strong but then seems to fizzle out into nothingness. Basically I'm getting bored with it and no wonder! So far it's been pretty straight laced with a sense of reality and that kind of thing always makes my eyes cross when I'm writing. And what really sucks is that the whole idea that I had for this piece was to keep it on that level so in a way I'm stuck like this. Weird, eh? I don't mind reading reality based fiction at all. I just hate writing it. Where's the magic? The illusion? The larger than life? pppfftt. (Please don't steal my stories- not that I think any of them are bank.)

At the moment I'm calling this: Old Man on the Hill

The storm announced itself with the hissing and whirring of the south wind. It swept around the mountain that bordered the village, cascading and caressing every jut and crevice of rock before it reached the houses and buildings below. It came with snowflakes. Big white flakes like cotton balls danced in the streets and as the sun began to set the children, clad in scarves of blue and purple, green and orange, danced with them making angels. On the outer edges of the village, farmers tended their livestock one last time before going in for the night. Older boys brought in extra wood for the fires and shutters were fastened and secured.

When the sun disappeared completely the light didn’t disappear but was changed. Lamps lit windows and doorways where mothers stood and watched their children. The fire light, with the glow of the stars above, bounced off the whiteness of the snow and illuminated the millions of tiny crystals, creating a false day.

Hans could see all of this from high above the rest on the side of the mountain. It was different for him. The mountain sheltered him from the harshness of the winds but he could still hear the whispers and feel the bite of the bitter cold. He heard the children laughing. He stood alone on the edge, where at the age of seventeen he had chosen to build his home. He remembered that his father had been disappointed at his choice, to live so far above the rest of the village. That was many years ago. Now Hans looked down as he had many nights before at all those who had always been there in the village and wondered. He watched with a face of stone as the snow erased all that was below him.

The storm grew. The snow fell thicker and Hans could see the children’s scarves disappear, blue, purple, green, orange into the small houses and the laughter died. The winds whipped around the sides of the mountain stronger and Hans went inside to hide himself behind a closed door. He huddled, hugging his knees before a dying fire with a blanket cloaked over him. He listened and waited for the storm to end, all alone.

The snow piled and moved in mass. The wind stretched its fingers and reached the short rock wall bordering the Jameson’s pasture. That wall had been there since the early days of the first settlers. All the men from the village had helped build it. As the wind pushed, the stones strained and fought to hold together but eventually the wall fell. Weak rooftops collapsed under the storm’s heavy hand.

Next to the door, inside of one of the houses along the square, a blue scarf hung drying while a little girl sat on her father’s knee by the fire. The wind hit the walls of the house rattling the china in the cabinets. Her mother put another piece of wood on the fire, pulled a chair from the dining table and turned out the lamp. She sat alone staring at her hands. The fire popped. No one would ever know. When the roof collapsed an avalanche of snow flooded the tiny house, crushed, and drowned those that lived within its walls. Such was the fate for many families in the village that night.

Quote of the week from my older brother walking down the hall and talking on a cell phone:

"...All this change in my pocket makes me sound like a nigger janitor..."

Now do you see what i deal with?

For the record the "n" word isn't no where near cool in my book and I've said things to him before about his racism but it doesn't seem to make a dent in his thick cave man skull. I appologize to all of humanity for his stupidity.