{The Friendly Rider | Creative Writing

 The white bus with blue and red stars, tinted windows and the name “The Friendly Rider” drove quietly through the small town. The slogan under the innocent name proclaimed “an easy way to get from here to there”.

The sun was sinking on the horizon, signaling the end of the calm summer evening. The only sounds were an occasional car as it drove by, and a dog barking a few blocks away.

A tired girl sat on the bench on the corner of 6^th and Illinois Ave. She’d had a long day at work, and she had an even longer walk home. Her black shoes hurt her feet, but were a requirement on the job.

Just then the Friendly Rider pulled up the curb. She wasn’t at a bus stop, and she hadn’t waved them down, but the bus ground to a stop alongside her. She’d never taken the bus before, but tonight she thought, “sure, why not?”

She didn’t pay much attention to the driver as the doors slowly folded open and she reached in her purse to find her fare. She mumbled her destination and made her way to the third row, vaguely noticing the absence of other passengers, other than an older lady in the very back, and plopped down on the seat.

The girl reached down to loosen her shoes, and leaned her forehead against the window. The boulevard trees flew by and she closed her eyes, listening to the soft noise of the engine. Before she knew it she had dozed off.

When she opened her eyes it was dark. The sun had finally slipped behind the horizon, and there was just a faint glowing line left. She rubbed her eyes as she peered out the window, her mind groggy and confused and she didn’t recognize the road passing by. She shook her head and just as she began to realize that this wasn’t the way home, the bus slowed and pulled onto a dark dirt road.

She could just make out a few dilapidated buildings, and what looked like an old fairground. She began to panic and started up the aisle, questioning the driver. “Where are we? What is this?” she asked, but her only answer was silence and a blank stare ahead. 

She pushed on the doors, thinking that if they weren’t going too fast she would jump, but they were locked shut. They rounded a corner and came to a sudden stop. The doors opened and the girl jumped out.  Bright lights lite her panicky face as she stared up at a Ferris Wheel, the only apparent life in an abandoned fairground. And then she noticed the clown.

_____________________________

I don’t usually write stories like this, but this one popped into my head one day when thinking about how utterly creepy the “Friendly Rider” bus is. Not to mention fairgrounds at night. My sister say I have too much of an imagination… but hey, it runs in the family. 

{Elevator Etiquette | Creative Writing}

Elevators. Why were they invented? I understand that sometimes they are useful, but more often they are just plain awkward.

I just spend ten days in hotel that only had stairs in case of a fire emergency. Needless to say I had lots of experience riding elevators. The more I rode, the more I wished for a set of stairs, even if that meant being out of breath and taking a little longer to reach my room.

I still haven’t figured out the proper way to act in an elevator. Do you engage the people in there with you? Or do you pretend to stare intently at the screen and watch the floor numbers change? Is it rude to make small talk, or is it rude to pretend that they’re not there?

Both ways can be equally awkward. Like when the older man in the elevator started making slightly unnerving remarks about how beautiful our eyes were when we still had multiple floors to go. Or when you ride nine floors down with the big guy who is wearing gold chains and has tattoos that doesn’t say a word when you get in.

If you do start a conversation, it’s always rudely interrupted by the elevator doors opening, but if you don’t start one…. the time feels like forever.

What if the ones you're stuck there with five times in just two days, don't speak much English but try to ask you questions?

Do you say goodbye when you leave the elevator? It feels like you should, but when it’s the only thing you’ve said… it feels even more weird than saying nothing.

What about getting on the elevator? The best part is when neither of you realize there’s someone on the other side of the door, and get fairly surprised. Best reaction to that situation? “Oh! Hello! And WELCOME to your floor!!” (this particular instance was made even more awkward by the fact that we were in swim suits, and that the above comment was followed by, “your clothes are in your room!”)

What do you do when the door is closing? Do you run and stick your hand in to make it open? Or just wait until the next elevator comes? It feels kind of dumb to sit there and wait, when there was just one there, but it feels even more dumb to go racing to the door, start waving your arm and then jump in to a group full of people (“Hi!”).

I guess the only thing I’ve figured out for certain is that elevators can be handy for times when you are carrying big loads of luggage, or when you are all by yourself and can jump and sing, but usually it’s better to take the stairs.

{ "That" good of friends | Creative Writing - Personal}

The girl waited impatiently to leave the plane. She stood in the isle with her backpack slung across one shoulder and her suitcase at her feet. She pulled at the neck of her Twins sweatshirt and shifted. Thoughts flashed through her brain, ‘was this really a good idea?’ she second guessed herself.

Eventually the line started moving and everything went from the quiet calm on the plane to busy people rushing here and there, the sound of roller bags on the linoleum, here and there a different language. The girl briefly wished she wasn't wearing a sweatshirt and tennis shoes in the California airport, but the thought was interrupted by the sound of her name.

“You’re here!” Hugs, parking lots and cars followed, then two years’ worth of catching up. It didn’t take long to skip the small stuff and jump right into what God had been doing in their lives, but still the quiet doubts lingered.

The next day the two found themselves in San Diego, looking for a gelato shop in the midst of all the crazy ComicCon goers. After enjoying cappuccino flavored gelato they ventured up the outside staircase to find the bathrooms. Laughing and talking as the followed the sign the pushed open the door and stopped when they realized it was a single bathroom.

“Ummm, go for it,” one of them said, and the other walked back to the main room to awkwardly read the bulletin board. Before she could get to the board however, one of the men sitting at a table looked up from his computer with a laugh and remarked, “Not that good of friends, huh?”

“Ha… yeahhh not that good,” she managed, and the man went back to his work.

The girls had a good laugh about it on the two hour drive back, “What an awkward comment!

Nine days, a wedding, four days of camping in a small tent, tramping all over Yosemite with their bibles, a day of rock climbing, being mistaken for sisters (and mother/daughter), meeting crazy people, brushing their teeth in the street, 24 hours in the car and hoards of adventures later, they were sitting at a picnic table in the dark, somewhere in the mountains, talking.

One of them remarked on how they both had such similar taste, “I mean we never have to argue about what kind of music to listen to, we get the same kind of coffee where ever we go, we like the same kinds of food, and the same kinds of activities. It’s kind of a good thing...”

“I know! It’s a really good thing… Otherwise I don’t know how the ten days would have gone. To be completely honest I was kind of wondering how good idea this was,” said the CA girl. “I was thinking, ‘I liked her at Photoj and all, but that was two years ago..”

“Since we’re being honest… I had the same thoughts!” admitted the one who came to visit, “What if we didn’t have any of the same tastes!? What if we didn’t get along very well and had to spend all that time together?!?”  The two laughed about how unfounded their fears had turned out to be, and tried to ignore the fact that they wouldn’t be together in another day.

The next night was her last night in Cali. She cuddled up on the floor while her friend crawled into bed. “What are you doing down there?!? Get up here and bring your pillow!”

She laughed, “I guess maybe, by now, we are ‘that good of friends’.” 

{God the Artist | Personal}

“In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth.” {Genesis 1:1}

We’ve ignored a huge side of God in today’s Christianity, the creative. In the beginning, the very first thing He did was create.

God is the Ultimate Creative; He designed not only this world, but the universe, but we tend to forget that fact. In the church today we recognize the need for Christians in math and science, and even business, but the arts? Nah. The arts are evil, but there’s no need to take them back; they’re just for entertainment after all.

But God created the arts. Losing a Christian influence in the art industry has limited our view of God to the left-brained scientist. We’ve put Him in a box, ignoring His freedom to create, and reducing Him to a mathematical formula. If you get one small part of that formula wrong, the project (i.e. your life) won’t turn out.

This is where we begin to believe that being a good Christian looks a certain way, and that it takes a specific equation, because that’s our view of how God works.

This is why I feel we desperately need to take back the arts, because without being an active part of them, from movies and music to photography and painting or potter, we fail to grasp the importance of the "other side" of God.

God’s path for your life (and others) is beautiful, and a lot of it is due to the fact that it’s different than anyone else’s. He takes pleasure in creating unique places and roads just for you. Don’t forget that He’s not limited to one formula, even though we tend to think He is.

{Summer | Creative Writing}

The sun was just coming over the hill, shining through the window, as she crawled out of bed. She twisted her hair into a bun and slipped into her favorite yellow skirt. Putting flip-flops on her feet, she grabbed her bible and a cup of coffee and in the quiet stillness of the morning sat on the porch.

She curled her legs under her skirt as she sat, drinking in the cool morning air and the fresh smells of growing things. Her arms had slight goosebumps on them, and she hugged herself.  She thought about things, about life, and about her God. After a half hour of quiet time, she went back into the busy house, where the family was loud, getting ready for the day.

Hoisting up the laundry basket full of wet clothes, she lugged it out to the clothes line. The morning sun shone over the roof of the house and in her eyes as she hung the clothes. She shook them out, pinned one side and then the other, and moved to the next piece of laundry. She hung the last piece and left the basket next to the pole.

Later that day she would play Frisbee with her friends, meeting at the park. She kicked off her flip-flops and felt the grass fit between her toes. She pumped her arms, and moved her legs as fast as they would carry her, reaching for the Frisbee someone threw. They played until they couldn’t play any longer. No one cared who won, they just played for the rush. At the end of the night she had grass stains on her knees, dirt on her hands, and spent legs. She’d laughed a ton, smiled a lot and run until her chest hurt.

They sat around on the grass, exhausted and happy, talking as the night got cooler. She grabbed her hoody from the car, pulling it over her head and leaving the hood up. She stood leaning on the open car door, talking a little longer to a friend, soaking in the night.  

Soon she was home, ready to plop into bed in the dark room. Her skin felt smooth against the cool sheets, and her head light against the pillow. The windows were open, there was a cool breeze against her face and she could hear the frogs chirping in the pond as she fell asleep. 

{Softball}

I miss softball. I've played some form of baseball/softball since I was about three (it's very much the family sport) but playing competitively was different.

There was something about putting on the uniform that made you assume your “game face”. Something about knowing that you were prepared as much as you could be, and realizing that you were going to have to try your hardest. There was something about knowing your body could actually do these things. Putting on the uniform pumped yourself up mentally, while you warmed up physically.

Softball is a very mental game. When you get up to the plate, and even in the on deck circle, you start to zone in. By the time the pitcher starts to wind-up it’s like you are the only two on the field. Occasionally, mainly because it was so familiar, I could hear my dad’s voice when I stepped up to the plate, but after that there was nothing besides the battle between you and the pitcher.

Yeah, it takes skill to hit the ball, and more to hit it well, but it also takes concentration and mental toughness. I know. You can smash every ball in the cage, but have a batting average of .000. It was a challenge against myself, and a battle in my mind every time I was at the plate.

When you hit the ball you can hear again, even though all your focus is getting to the next base. There’s nothing quite like the feeling of the ball hitting your sweet spot, and you could know without looking that it was a solid hit. Then you’re on base, the play is over and the next batter at the plate. I loved base running; pushing your limits, playing with the catcher’s mind, sprinting hard, stealing bases, sliding, taking out the catcher while scoring, it was all a blast.

I played both catcher and short stop, two awfully different positions. When I caught, I loved having every aspect of the game in your mind as you crouched behind the plate, eyes on each runner, knowing the count, remembering each batter’s weaknesses. I loved being the leader on the field. Catching was a challenge, and the feeling of playing a good game was immensely satisfying.

Short was completely different but as much of a challenge. I loved not having the responsibility of a bag, but having to know the next play, and exactly where you were going with the ball; fielding fast moving ground balls, and whipping them over to first. I loved being part of a play at second, or turning on a pop-up; being the mouth on in the infield, or covering a base on a bunt. I loved the relationship with the second baseman and deep throws from in the hole.  

I remember the feeling of a hard pitch or a screaming line drive in your pocket. The sting of your palm as you closed your glove on the ball and brought your other hand over it. I remember the adrenaline of a play, and the smug feeling of one well done.  

Capping it off were the feelings after a game; exhausted and full of dirt, bruised from sliding, muscles aching [and since I couldn’t separate them from softball, my quads would be killing me], but if you knew you’d done your best and left it all on the field, even the pain was satisfying.

My Sole

*This is pretty much my first attempt at creative writing. I've been feeling the urge to push myself in my writing lately, and so I'm going to try to write "just to write" more often. I'm not sure what I feel about this story... but it was fun! You'll probably be seeing some more creative writing coming up...*

                Ahh, what could be better than sitting on a shelf; pristine, new, solid and colorful? Unless it’s sprinting down the sidewalk watching the sunrise.

               

I started on a shelf at MJ’s sports store in the mall. Well, really I started at a factory, but that’s the uninteresting part of my life when I was just as all the others. Not long after arriving there I started my life’s adventure when I was bought by an orthodontist named Dana, just after New Years.

                

Dana was one of those, shall we call them “resolution runners”. You know, the kind that runs right after new years? And, needless to say, I didn’t last long. She’d bought one of the best of my kind, and yet I sat in the closet. A few words are all that are needed to describe the “place of no use”…. Aka the very darkest parts of the closet. Somewhere around June, however I once again saw the light, so to speak, and was transferred to a box.

               

I then found myself on another shelf. This time in the Goodwill. Ahh, now this. This. Is where my real story begins.

                

Katie found me later that day. Quickly exclaiming that I was her favorite brand and that I was in excellent condition (which sadly, was more than true) I was on the way to her car in no time.

                

I can’t even begin to explain the joy of being on a real runner’s feet. Countless times we pounded the pavement in search of joy, energy, and… and… oh I’m not sure what else, sometimes we ran just because. We went everywhere; we ran in the early morning as the sun was rising, we ran when the sun had set, we ran in the heat of the day, when I was nice and sticky with sweat.

                

Katie and I were inseparable. For the time. I was packed in a bag, and went with her to run on the beaches of the Bahamas. I went to France to visit her family. We ran down sidewalks, down long dirt roads, in the city, in the fields.

                

Slowly though, I wasn’t able to offer her the support she needed. My arches started to fall, and my soul was run thin. I was outgrown, and wore out.

                

I find myself on another shelf now, this one in the basement. It might be as dark as the closet was, but this time I’m satisfied. Maybe someday I’ll be pulled out again, and wore for some special reason, but if not I know…

That I served my purpose. I lived my life to the best of my make-up. I gave everything, including my soul to the racer I believed in. And now, I can rest happy, that if that day never comes, I still gave it all.