I Need Your Help

I'm going to start writing again. Real writing, as in "the stories that I've always wanted to write, but haven't because I'm lazy and terrified of failure."

I am going to try to write "The Mirror." The problem is, I've started it three separate times. One version has over a hundred thousand words. One version has just over six thousand. The version I started today has four hundred and seventeen.

It's all the same story, but the openings are all very, very different. Would you be willing to read the opening few paragraphs of each version and tell me which one you like the best?

I'm going to post them here in case your answer is Yes. It would really help me to get some momentum if you'd help me out. I'm just so familiar with this story that I can't seem to see it well anymore. Kind of like missing the forest for the trees.

Anyway, thanks in advance, maybe :) I'd appreciate the thoughts and prayers as I try to revive the near-dead writer in my heart.

Version 1 (circa 2008)

I should have known from the moment the idea came into my mind that I’d end up over my head in something I couldn’t control; that was usually the way things worked out, but never in a million years would I have dreamed anything could turn out so horrific.

It all happened because I asked Darren Blackburn to the dance. Or at least I think it did.

It’s not what you think. This is not your typical I-Wish-I’d-Never-Asked-That-Creep-That-Was-The-Worst-Night-Of-My-Life kind of thing. It really isn’t Darren’s fault. This horrific thing is something you’d never worry about when going on a “date.” I mean, who thinks as they look in the mirror one last time, “Gee, I really hope my date doesn’t have some terrible secret I should know about before I get swept up in something TOTALLY OVER MY HEAD THAT I WILL NEVER BE ABLE TO GET OUT OF.” Sorry. Like I said before, it really isn’t his fault—exactly.

Okay. Not making any sense, am I? Um…okay…I’ll start at the beginning, but I’m not exactly sure where the beginning is. Okay. Here. I’ll try, but I’m warning you: I’m no good at storytelling, and telling your own life’s story is even harder

Version 2 (circa 2012)

I had always been a reader.  I might say “dreamer” if it weren’t for the dewy-eyed connotation.  I just loved books, and everything they represented.  I loved persuasion, knowledge, and words.  I craved adventure, thrived on intrigue, and wanted to leave a glorious mark on the world.

At fourteen, I began to untangle myself from the wild flights of fantasy and decided that the best way to leave a mark was to become a lawyer.  Or a teacher.  One of those.  I gave up on finding Neverland or the genie’s lamp.

It never occurred to me to look for adventure in an old mirror, although I guess technically I never did; it was Darren.  Getting caught up in the whole Sorayoni thing didn’t fit my plan at all (not that it fit Darren’s either).

Looking back on that night junior year, I always wonder if I’d do anything differently.  Even now, I’m not sure.  All I know is that I was entirely too eager and had no idea what I was doing.  For a logical human being who reads so much, both those facts should have been red flags.  Darren even tried to warn me.  But I did what I did because I was who I was, and it’s as simple (or as complicated) as that.

This probably isn’t making that much sense.  I guess I’ll just do what one traditionally does in this position:

Start from the beginning.

Version 3 (today)

 Growing up is a funny thing. When you’re a kid, you assume that you’re old enough to…fill in the blank:  cross the street, pour the milk, critique parenting methods. Then for the next ten years, you make a habit of looking back and rolling your eyes at your younger self:  wow; how stupid, incapable, and naïve you were. Now, at this new age, you actually know everything. In high school, you hit the age where you’re grown up enough that it becomes acceptably cool to like some childish things again, like Disney movies and playgrounds and your old teddy bear.

Eventually, you grow to the point where you are only certain of how little you know. You are only certain of how uncertain life actually is. You look back at your younger self and covet that innocence, that freedom of the soul, that psychological invincibility. Wanting to be a grownup is the mark of a child; wanting to be a child is the mark of a grownup.

I don’t know at what age that natural switch typically happens. All I know is that for me, it happened unnaturally, atypically, and fantastically. And not “fantastically” as in “shockingly happy beyond comprehension.” Fantastical, as in adj.: conceived or appearing as if conceived by an unrestrained imagination; odd and remarkable; bizarre; grotesque. With an emphasis on the last two synonyms. And the “as if conceived by an unrestrained imagination” part. Although, “odd and remarkable” more than hold their own in the story I’m about to tell you.

I’ve waited a long time to tell our story, Darren’s and mine. Not because it’s too painful or unbelievable (though it is both of those things), but because it’s too important to tell wrong. If I tell it right, you might help me. If I tell it wrong, They might kill me.

At the beginning of our story, I didn’t know any better. I was just a 15-year-old girl with a bookworm’s head and magic-lover’s heart. Somehow, I didn’t get that when I really took the real red pill in real life, real shit would go down. Somehow, my obscenely large mental collection of thriller movies and well-written novels had failed to convince me that if I threw myself down the rabbit hole, I would end up over my head in something I couldn’t control. I guess on some level, I did know and did want that. But never in a million years would I have dreamed anything could turn out so horrific.

~Stephanie

I've Been Reading

I've been able to start reading again.

"Read," is the advice always given to budding writers. Actual practice helps your writing improve too, but reading... It seems to train your mind to Hear and See the world with capital Hs and Ss.

When your car rushes through a rain puddle, the sound registers as "a lush hiss" instead of not registering at all. A dance recital audience reaction becomes "an appreciative rumble of laughter" instead of just "chuckling." You have conversations and naturally detect things like others' "clunky giddiness"or "apologetic authority."

To me, words give the world more substance. When I read a lot, I start to sense the depth in the molecules around me. It's not like the world is brighter; it's like I start to see new colors. Everything isn't more beautiful, but everything is more intentional, specific. I'm not sitting on my couch; I'm sitting on My Couch, where I had a kiss that tasted like ramen, where I first fell asleep on Gem, where I once cried a tear stain into the cushion.

When I immerse myself in words, everything feels more real. It's like tapping a secret source of energy.

I guess this makes sense, seeing as the entire world is Words. "In the beginning...the earth was formless and empty, darkness was over the surface of the deep... And God said, 'Let there be light,' and there was light."

This entire world is literally words. There was nothing, and then God spoke, and from His words came the existence that I now try to describe with my own words, like "lush hiss" and "appreciative rumble." Is that redundant? To use words in an attempt to express/describe/create a reality that is already so perfectly linguistically expressed that it is actually tangible?

"In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was with God in the beginning."

Jesus is--maybe literally, maybe figuratively, maybe spiritually (which is probably some inexpressible middle ground there)--Words. God is Words. He made our world of words with His words. We are in this world, made in the image of God. We are spoken. We are words. The light is words; the water is words; the land is words; the day and night are words.

So yes, it makes sense that everything gets more beautiful and more real when I connect with words. Don't you understand the ocean better when you jump in?

Words are fun and powerful and persuasive and enduring and endearing and funny and piercing and beautiful and satisfying and frightening and dangerous. I like words, on principle, because I am a writer and a reader and I like to reason and persuade. But even deeper than that, I like words because I think they are cosmically important. When it all comes down to it, the world is just atoms and energy and space.

But when atoms and energy and space come down to it, they are all words.

~Stephanie

Colors on My Soul

"Teal”

10/27/14

I loved a boy with a teal soul.

He had teal eyes,

Neither blue nor green.

Ambiguous. Enigmatic.

Small and piercing; slicing, sharp.

They were a one-way door.

Sly and sneaking, seeking.

Secretive. Shocking. Stealthy.

They pierced, they sliced,

They sought, they stole.

It was a teal soul.

"Green and Gold"

10/28/14

I love a boy with brown eyes.

He has a soul of green and gold:

Deep with alive; rich with warm.

Gentle and bold.

Present and open; promising, proud.

They brought integrity.

Passionate and polite, perceiving.

Persistent. Pursuing. Purposeful.

They healed, they prodded,

They praised, they protected.

It made me whole,

His green and gold soul.

~Stephanie

Front Loader

Have you ever watched your washing machine wash your clothes? We've had a front-loading washer since I was fifteen and here I am at twenty, watching it happen for the first time.

I didn't mean to watch it. I spilled detergent on the floor while pouring it into its little slot, so I was bending down to clean it up when the water started pouring into the machine and caught my eye. It only came from the left side, and started to soak the Batman boxers I use as pajama bottoms. The boxers darkened and sagged, falling in on itself, shrinking. I watched a sock do the same thing. The washer spun slowly, dumping the clothes to the right in a labored motion. My sheets got a turn to darken and shrink.

Pretty soon some frail white soap froth came into the picture, and the clothes were so damp and squeezed together that the once-ambitious load filled only a third of the machine.

I watched several of my brown hairs stick sloppily to the clear door. More joined, in a tangled, rotating display. The clothes smashed the hairs against the window and twirled them around. It was gross, really, but interesting to know how the knots of hair that I would later pick out formed.

I don't know why I didn't get up off the cold, hard tile laundry room floor and do something else. Eat lunch, read a book, work on the new editing project I'd just received. I guess I knew that those things would happen anyway, but that I would likely never again take the time to watch my clothes get clean.

~Stephanie

Two Watchers

Written sometime in '08 or '09 

She watched from the deep shadows of the wood.  Her inky hair was a curtain for her pale face.  Her green eyes matched the moss that clunk to the trunks around her.  She did not move.  She did not breathe—much.  She just watched.  It was what she did best.  It was all she had ever been allowed to do.

She mostly watched him.

She did not know why she watched him.  She always had.  He was as familiar to her as her own shadow and just as ever-present in her mind.

She watched him in the courtyard.  He wielded his sword.  The sword was heavy, but watching him, one could not tell.  He moved with powerful grace.  He swung the sword right, left, he blocked, he parried.

He was everything she was not.

His skin was tanned where hers was moon-pale.

His hair was the color of new straw where hers was the blue-black of midnight.

His smile was easy and bright where hers was hesitant and skeptical.

His heart was strong where hers beat frantically.

He was clever where she was tongue-tied.

He was bold where she was unsure.

He was handsome where she was delicate.

He was free where she was not.

She could not have been farther from him, nor closer.  They were like a mirror image:  both opposite and the same.

She loved him, of course, but in a deep, tragic way that did not make sense to her at all.  She did not know when she had first loved him.  It seemed to her that she had been born loving him.  She had never spoken to him, although they had lived on the same property all their lives.  He did not know of her.  More than ever before, she began to regret that.  He should know her.  He should know the girl who watched from the shadows.

“Hello.”  Her voice, though very low, did not shake.

His sword stopped.  He turned, almost more in surprise to hear her speak than to see her there.  “Hello.”

She took steps out of the woods.

“I know you…?” he asked.  It was a statement, but an unsure one.  It was the first time she had heard him sound uncertain.

“Yes,” she found herself saying.  “I’ve been watching you.”

“Well met,” he said, his voice strong and calm.  He did not ask for her name.  He did not seem to think it was important.  “Why do you watch me?”

Her liquid emerald eyes were large, but not innocent.  “Because I hadn’t the courage to speak to you.”

He tilted his head.  His yellow hair slid against his forehead.  “I’ve seen you before,” he said.  “You are a handmaiden for my mother.”

She raised her eyebrows in surprise.  “I am.”

“I’ve watched you.”

Her eyebrows arched higher.  “You have not,” she said lowly.

His blue eyes smiled.  “You do not believe it because you have not seen me,” he said.  “Should I doubt you for the same reason?”

“Why would you watch me?” she demanded.  “I’m nothing.  I’m ugly.  I’m an underling.”

“It does not make sense,” he agreed.  “I do not understand my feelings either.  I like to watch you.  Something about you feels familiar to me.”

Only she heard the small intake of breath that parted her lips.  How was it that he felt the same about her?  Even as they felt the same about each other, his feelings were still different:  bolder, more forward, less troubling.

“You’ve taken the words from my very heart,” she said.  She took steps closer.  She came out of the shadows of the forest.  The yellow sunlight touched her.  “And why do you never speak to me?”

Did he cringe?  Just a little?  “It…it is not my place.”

The words pierce her.  “If I may, you mean that it is not my place.  Your speaking to me would require my speaking back.  To be found conversing with someone of my status…”  She let the accusation hang in the air.

“I did not have a reason to speak,” he said.  “For me to speak to you would have been…unnecessary and troubling to us both.”

“And yet you speak now.  Why?”

“You spoke to me.  You had the courage to do what I dare not.”

She felt herself blushing.  “You disguise your words as a compliment.  You mean to say that the burden of impropriety lies on me now and not you.”

He cleared his throat.  “Yes.”

Her green eyes flashed.  “For someone with your standing, that is a very weak excuse,” she said.  “Speaking with an underling would have required but a moment’s explaining on your part.”

He sheathed his sword and made steps towards her.  “You would have thought me mad!”

She took a step back.  “Do you think me mad for speaking to you?”

“Of course not!  But—”

“I hardly see your point anymore.”

He sighed harshly, drilling her with his hard, sapphire eyes.  “Do you love me?”

“Of course I do.”  She did not even blush as she said it.

His eyes softened to an ocean blue.  “I love you as well.”  He reached out to touch her.  She took yet another step back, looking wary now.

“Please, wait.”  Her voice was not quite sharp.

He froze.

“Something does not feel…right,” she said, her eyebrows knitting together.  “Do you feel it?”

“No,” he said abruptly.  She looked at him, and he reconsidered.  “Perhaps I can know what you mean…”

“I’m going back into the house.  I’m sure your mother has something for me to do.”

He looked pained.

She turned and walked toward the house.  Something warm and comfortable, like satisfaction, had draped itself across her shoulders.  She glanced behind.  “If you ever wish to speak to me when other are around, I would not mind.”

Love is blind, she thought as she entered the house.  But I am not.  I must learn to look with myself, and not with my love, next time we meet.

There would be a next time, she knew.  But now, he would be the one to speak.

She smiled.  Perhaps he was not so much braver than her after all.

Lost Art

Can I just say how in love I am with the way words used to be used? Good gosh. I just finished reading Freud and Einstein's correspondence on war, and the way they address each other and form their thoughts gives me chills.

Why can't we articulate ourselves like that today? Why don't we CRAFT paragraphs instead of just hashing them out and hoping we get our points across?

Maybe it's just Freud and Einstein's older style. Maybe it just sounds better to me because it's DIFFERENT. Maybe in fifty years, people will read our blog posts and coo over how wonderfully we expressed ourselves.

Part of me thinks that would great, but most of me winces at the thought. If people fifty years down the road are so poorly educated and woefully inarticulate as to think that my clumsy thoughts are as well-put as Freud's...then there's just no hope for humanity.

I love the way old writers would convey meaning precisely, and yet leave the perfect amount of room for inference and extrapolation. Half of what they said was in what they DIDN'T SAY, and the recipients of their words were astute enough to catch the polite implications and file them duly away.

The fact that great words inspired me to write this post at all makes me even more sure of a truth I already knew:  to write well, you must read well. Reading good literature will always subconsciously push you to write better. It's like watching a movie that stars British characters. I can't be the only one who thinks in a British accent for a little while afterwards, right?

If you fill your mind with British accents, British accents will fill your mind. If you fill your mind with well-written words, well-written words will fill your mind.

Gah, there are a million things I should be doing right now, but I'm so in love with words that I just had to say something.

Being an English major is the best decision I've ever made. If I could marry words, I honestly think I might XD

~Stephanie

{Just Another Directionless Excerpt}

{I wrote something controversial HERE. *wiggles eyebrows* What's your opinion on "slut-shaming?"}

"What are we talking about?" Jake asked, putting his plate down next to Megan. Megan glanced up and made a shrugging gesture with her hand. Her shoulder stayed still as she opened her mouth to reply:

"Cale--"

Ashley interrupted her. "Caleb likes Meg."

"Ah," Jake said. "Tales of unrequited love at the lunch table. Classic." His voice was smooth with lofty sarcasm.

Megan's eyebrows pinched with concern. "What makes you think it's unrequited?"

Ashley laughed, her own eyebrows arching into her bangs. It was Jake who answered:

"When feelings for you are involved, when is it NOT unrequited?" Megan glared at him. "No, seriously," he prompted. "I'm resubmitting that question as non-rhetorical. When have you ever liked someone?"

"I mean, I did have a boyfriend once," Megan said. "What, you don't think I liked him?" She took a large bite of her hamburger.

Ashley made a high-pitched, non-committal noise. "I mean, you guys weren't really serious."

Pain spiked through Megan's eyes, which dropped to her stomach as if she expected to see a fist planted there. The mush of hamburger and bun in her mouth created a motionless bulge in her right cheek. "We were serious," she said simply. She reached for her water glass.

"Oh." Ashley blinked and gave Jake a look of shallow panic. "Really?"

Jake blinked and gave her the world's most hands-off facial expression imaginable. "It's not like she spills her guts to me in her spare time."

"Well, me neither!" Ashley's voice thrust desperation into their brief aside. "When someone never mentions their boyfriend, you get the feeling it's not a big deal... I mean, right?"

Megan squeezed energy into her eyes until her expression was passable as a smile. "It's fine, Ash. I guess I didn't talk much about him."

"Yeah, I didn't even know you had a boyfriend until weeks after--"

"But so this Caleb guy," Jake interrupted. His fork stabbed straight through his Thai food and made a dignified noise against the plate. "You don't like him?"

Megan rolled her eyes. "Let's not paint with such a broad brush, shall we?" Jake's eyebrows elevated. "Caleb is great. I'm just not interested."

"What's wrong with him?" Ashley asked, in the voice of someone arguing a lost cause. "He's gorgeous. He treats you right. He's smart. He's going places in life."

Megan shrugged. "He doesn't tip at restaurants." She took another hamburger bite. Jake and Ashley stared at her, mouths in varying degrees of openness.

Ashley look personally affronted. "You're not dating a guy because he doesn't tip?"

"Which you discovered, I presume, at an event where he paid for your meal?" Jake pointed out.

"Yep." She looked them both calmly in the eye, in turn. They exchanged glances.

"Is that the only reason?" Ashley asked. "Because you can just ask him to tip. Or you could tip."

"I think it's nice when girls offer to tip," Jake said philosophically. "Guys are expected to pay for meals, and I support that, but I think it shows consideration when the girl takes responsibility for part of the experience." He gave Megan a single nod. "Hey, maybe he was testing you."

"He cheats on tests," Megan offered lightly. Her lips turned up in the corners, but she didn't bother manipulating the look in her eyes this time.

"We've all done that," Ashley said, rolling her eyes.

Jake frowned. "Oooh." He shook his head and twirled his fork around his lo mien. "That is a deal-breaker."

Ashley turned on him. "What do you mean? You've never cheated on a test?"

"Not in college," Jake said. He jutted his chin out for emphasis. "This is real life stuff. Cheating isn't cool." A single chuckle escaped his throat. "What's his major? It's not pre-law, is it? 'Cause that would be ironic."

"I don't know," Megan said. She put her hamburger down and took one of Ashley's French fries. Ashley slid her plate closer to her friend.

"Well," Ashley began, clearly gearing up for an ultimatum.  "All I'm saying is that if you let every great guy go like this, you're literally asking to be forever alone."

"Not literally," Megan said, giving her friend a teasing look.

"Do you correct this Caleb guy's grammar too?" Jake said. "Because if you don't, I would start right away. It's a great way to make people not want to be with you."

"Very funny," Megan grinned.

~Stephanie

S A

I'm procrastinating. To get the Baptist scholarship, I have to write an essay by April Fool's Day. However, since I don't have a lot to do this week {my spring break}, I have vowed to write the essay this week. Today. Before I rise again from this kitchen chair. Sooo yeah.

And I'm giving up Facebook for Lent, so I can't use that to procrastinate. So I'm really thinking outside the box here. I'm BLOGGING. Ohhhhh. Yeah.

*sigh* Really, this essay isn't going to be that terrible. It only has to be 400 words long and tell about my Campus Ministry. Who's the minister, what do they do, and how has campus ministry impacted me? {Honestly, not much, and about half the experiences have been negative.}

I really think a lot of my campus minister though. Her name is Faithe Beam, and she's one of the warmest, most genuine, and fun-spirited people I've ever met.  Campbell University students gather every Wednesday for "Connections," and she often introduces the speakers.  Reverend Beam also taught my Introduction to Christianity class. She made the course personal and informative. Instead of adding stress, the class became more of a time of reflection and learning.

Reverend Beam also helps counsel students. Freshman year, one of my good friends was subjected to some ridiculous, spiteful drama from her roommate. Reverend Beam met and spoke with my friend on several occasions, and gave her advice that my friend still uses and passes on today. Actually, through word of mouth, I've benefited from some of Reverend Beam's advice, even though I've never met with her one-on-one.

I did meet with my resident chaplain once, though. Her name was Amy Adams. I mostly don't ever ask official people for counsel {or at least that used to be the case}. I'll pick the brains of my friends and family all day, but making an appointment? That's for people who can't handle their own shit.

Well, when PC and I broke up, I could not handle my own shit. So I met with Amy. She mostly just listened to my story and in the end, I felt better about the situation. In talking to her and getting some affirmation, I realized that I wasn't so crazy, hopeless, or inept. She gave me some practical advice that I later tried to apply. {I mean, I failed, but it was practical and I did try.}

As far as the more traditional side of campus ministry {events and worship and such}, I haven't had a lot of experience. But you can tell that Reverend Beam's spirit of warmth and acceptance sets the tone for the whole thing.

Freshman year, I attended an annual event called "One Night." All the different campus ministry groups meet together for a night of worship and spiritual revival. I couldn't find anyone to go with me, so I went alone. The experience would have been a lot less awkward and more fun if people had broken apart from their precious little cliques, but the atmosphere was still good. Music swelled; voices soared; hands rose. The Holy Spirit descended for sure.

I should get involved in SOMETHING campus ministry has to offer. It can't possibly ALL be snotty and superficial.

*shrug* At least I like Reverend Beam.

Huh. This post is 547 words long. I bet you I can use some of it in this essay.

Awww, I see what you did there. You sneaky little beyotch.

Yeah? Good job. Now go write.

Fine.

~Stephanie

Part 3

This Sole Broken Girl

11.11.13

This sole broken girl, and also this boy,

Just what have they done to themselves?

They made the wrong call, which caused them to fall

And the truth neither one of them tells.

That night in late spring, they had a good talk.

They would get right with God and be real.

So they gave it a shot and the girl soon forgot

How uneasy and wrong she could feel.

They worked very well, as everyone saw.

Communication between them was clear.

They made a good team and had fun in between

The busy-ness and growing-up fears.

But nagging away at the girl’s tender heart

Was the knowledge that things were not right.

She could not explain, so instead she refrained

From dragging the truths to the light.

Though they seemed great, on the outside at least,

The issues were brewing within.

The girl was too crazy and the boy was too lazy

And neither would admit their sins.

Dependent and selfish, depressed and depraved,

The girl fell into deep inner strife.

She couldn’t face God with her fragile façade

Of a girl who did right with her life.

Lazy, manipulative, lying and lax,

The boy had issues all his own.

By hiding a lot, more the girl he got.

When she pressed him, he’d throw her a bone.

One day she knew that things couldn’t go on.

She told him that night they were done.

He took it with grace and didn’t lose face

So the dating went down with the sun.

The conviction was strong, though she wasn’t sure why.

It was just that the doubts always stayed.

He looked in her eye, needing no reason why,

And said just “I love you, okay?”

Soon after that night, a big truth came out.

Something he’d hidden forever.

A secret of souls, a secret so cold

She knew they could not be together.

So this was the reason for all the distrust.

So that’s why she couldn’t have peace.

It made so much sense that the girl felt quite dense

And for weeks couldn’t make herself eat.

I won’t discuss here all the pain that she felt.

It would make you ache deep in your soul.

But know it was brutal, and healing was futile,

For the boy would not let the girl go.

She watched from afar as the boy changed his life.

He went running and writing and prayed.

Her heart swelled with pride and it warmed her inside

As he told truth and stood unafraid.

She heard of his changes and grudgingly thought

Was there someone there now she could date?

This new boy…perhaps, but she feared a relapse.

The unease there still would not abate.

But little by little, her memories broke her.

The boy held the same place in her heart.

She trusted him not, but the lonelier she got,

The closer she inched towards the start.

Summer came then, at a really bad time.

She was not whole enough yet to see him.

But he still filled her days in so many ways

And her shell of resistance grew slim.

Instead of becoming an item again,

The two dragged themselves back to the pit.

They were physically close, their excuses verbose

All the progress and hope meant not shit.

They kept up their exploits of touching and fun,

Hauling their skeletons to school.

Their words of respect someone sane would reject.

Their hollow plans turned them to fools.

Their souls were so sick, they did not even see

Just how far their carelessness ranged.

Til one final night full of errant delight

And suddenly—90% changed.

He did not respect her, because she gave in.

She’d known for a while it was lies.

Love? Respect? Or lustful? And wrecked?

Both their words are just that in my eyes.

Broken and tainted, deceitful and wrong.

Is this what the two have become?

After so many tries, and so many lies

The heart of this girl is just numb.

He doesn’t respect her, and she doesn’t him.

If they did, they would act for their good.

Words are just cheap, and the prices too steep

To continue this as they both would.

So here we are now, the poor girl is done.

She’s cut the boy off at the source.

She can’t take his word; his “love” is absurd

Her smooth thoughts and mind become coarse.

She will try to be done; she thinks that is right.

But she hasn’t the strength on her own.

She plans to try God, though that will feel odd

And pray one day she won’t be alone.

~Stephanie

P.S. Part 4 coming sometime this year... I'm doing much better than I was in November :) When the mood strikes, I'll write a final closing piece--probably.