Last Days…

On of the strangest sensations i have ever felt was nothing at all. If I had to describe it as anything I would say it would be awe.. I was at a concert, and a fight broke out next to me in the pit. I wasn’t scared. I was more in awe that anyone would want to beat another person up at such an amazing event… the pulse of the music muffled emotion to the point that all I felt was awe. awe at everything.

Now that the year is drawing to a close, I am not sad. I am not happy either. I am more cradeled by the pure nothingness that held me at that concert. The beautiful peace that fills every fiber of my body. My mind of course is always saying you should feel that, you should feel this, like at the concert it said, aren’t you scared? No. I am not sad, nor am i happy. I know that I will miss all the friends i have made that are going to different schools, but right now it doesn’t seem relevant. Nothing seems relevant, I’m sleepwalking. In the rebirth of highschool, i consider myself in the soft indifferent womb of my intellectual journey.

I hope to be reborn as a person i am proud of. I hope my friends will grow into people they will be proud of. 

A Hero….

There goes my hero
Watch him as he goes
There goes my hero
Hes ordinary
My Hero- Foo Fighters

The definition of Hero varies, depending on who you ask. It could be the fire-fighter, the police man, or the guy who jumps in front of a bullet for someone else. Or, someone in tights, pushing an asteroid out of earth’s path and saving the human race.

To me, I guess it’s somebody who is ordinary, somebody who just does little things to help others out. Those who run the soup kitchens, the people who defend the one person everybody makes fun of. The one who is overseas with the peace corps or something like that. But a lot of my personal heroes didn’t do anything. all they did was be my friends… although some of them I haven’t even met. how can you befriend someone you don’t even know…. most of them are authors, or bands.

How do you become my hero?

speak to me, don’t just talk.


You say color I say YELLOW

You say color I say yellow

You say why I say because

You ask me to elaborate

I tell you to consentrate

on the words I’m about to say

Daffodils, emotional

undiluted optimism

sunny days and died prisms

the rays that light a dusty prision

the advocate of sight

to the shadows we say good night

shank the fright still inspite

of our childish insecurites

the questions left unanswered

the mysteries that lasted

are the wonders

left to be undiscovered.




What if…

If there were… what’s the word… standards one must achieve to be found worthy to vote… what would they be?

This question is hard. Not difficult in the nature of I’m not sure of what would be the standards… honest, trustworthy, hardworking, clearheaded…. but difficult in the nature where I could never tell someone they can’t do something. I could never tell someone who went through rehab but has been in jail that they couldn’t vote. Because then it wouldn’t be the people’s choice. It would be the people who are considered worthy’s choice. And that’s not what America’s about.

And besides… How many of us would be considered antiquate?

Dangerous Questions

 A dangerous question, is always one that does two things to the person being asked: A) Makes them leave their comfort zone B) Makes them let their guard down C) Makes them admit something they REALLY don’t want to. Any questiong that does that is dangerous. But to me, the most dangerous question is when your sitting tied up in a wearhouse and somebody has a gun to your head. And they say…

“Why shouldn’t I kill you? What makes you so remarkable that your life is worth saving?”

It’s dangerous because a lot of people wouldn’t know what to say. I wouldn’t. All of us, supposedly, have a purpose, but if asked what it was a lot of us would stop short. My purpose? To write. But does that really grant me the extraordinary spark to keep someone from taking my life?

Trail of Tears

I pulled on Ulisi’s skirt. “Yes Adsila?” she said, rough as the trees around us. “Is that home?” I asked. Home was taken away from us many months ago. No one spoke of a new home, or where we were going, just talked bad things about Jackson. I don’t ask Ulisi much, for she doesn’t know how to talk to a child. She talks to me like I am a horse fly, buzzing in her ear. She is my mother’s mother, and she is not like Unitsi. Unitsi left to the great spirit after we walked through the big river. Cold and wet clothes always made her sick, and Ulisi calls her weak. My Doda went with Unitsi, we knew he would. Ever since they were young like me he had always hung on to her like she was his faviorite unaguhu, while the winter never ends. I pulled my Unaguhu around me, digging my face into the warm soft wool.

We have walked for miles, my feet are bandaged with corn husks under my mocasins. I wiggled my toes between the dry husks. We lived in a small house for six sun paths. It was cold, and there wasn’t enough of anything. People had to dig holes outside when they had to, and soon it smelled very bad. There was never enough food, but Ulisi always shared what she had left with me. When it was time to begin our journey, Ulisi’s friend Tayanita gave us Galilahi, a nervous horse who would spook at a butterfly but would go trotting thruogh the dark woods alone. He is a very strange horse. He won’t carry us, but he’ll carry many people’s things. Ulisi gets angry with him for refusing to carry us, because even though she hides it, I’ve seen her bandage her feet when we rest, and they are worse then mine. The sun is over my head and it’s light makes the snow shine like the stars.

We walked ahead of where the group gathered and looked at where the sky meets the earth. Ulisi’s face softens just a little as she looks at the clearing ahead. “No, Tsisqua. This will never be our home.”

I wrote this using the picture on slide 7 on the slideshow above, the point of view is of the little girl next to the woman.

I used the following sites with basic informations, cherokee names and word translations.

my not so green family :D

HMMMM…. Our lifestyle isn’t completely planet killing, nor is it lime green with eco-friendlyness. We recycle, but not all the possible things that could be recycled are. We tend to have the lights on when we don’t need them. We waste ALOT of left overs. ALOT of lunchmeat ends up in the garbage. Stuff like that.

What’s standing in our way? We’re walking in a trent of not making an effort to be ecofriendly. I mean with school, work, cleanliness (darn hygeine takes my mother forever, anti aging cream and the whole nine yards) of house and ourselves, eating, getting in bed at a descent hour, me trying to teach myself to play the guitar, it gets hectic.

I want a more eco friendly family. I will not consider myself neglected if it never happens, but hey, I love being outside, and if we all end up drowning from the melting Ice caps, then I will be mad.

Ways to be green:                                                                                                                               

-Use machinical pencils! instead of using wood, we can just reuse the machinical ones.

-Let the light from outside light our insides (keep door open, storm door closed)

-Make homemade solar panels! (what does it take? glass and some wires right?)

-Run our cars on our waste. (stinky but will we ever run out? NOOOOOOOOO)

-Walk more, ride bikes more, drive less.

-CAR POOL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


-Burn our garbage and use the ashes to run our cars


The Listener

This is a story I wrote about the election of 1824. There are mispellings and incorrect grammar because of the girl’s young age and lack of education.

The Listener

By: Kayla


Mama always said, when god closes a door, he opens a window. She said that a lot ‘cause god took away my sight when I was just a babe. I dunno what he did that for- but I ‘spose it’s so he could open two other windows.


I am very good at listening.

I am also very good at not getting seen. Sometimes it’s like I’m invisible. 


Sometimes I sit under tables at restaurants, just listening. I like it when I hear people talk good words, but sometimes they don’t talk so nice. But I got to listen anyways, ‘cause if I don’t a lot of things go unheard.


I’ve been here for a while. I like it here for one thing: I can see here. It’s big, kind of empty like. Not like people used to talk about heaven, talk like they putting a picture in your head. Heaven’s real different then what mama used to go on about, with the clouds and god sitting on a big gold chair. No angels. Just a lady at the desk who calls herself a ‘Receptionist’. She gave me this real heavy book, all blank inside. She told me to write down why I am here, and if I am proud of my life or not. Mama used to talk about pride as a bad thing, so I’m mixed up.


I am here ‘cause I told somebody some bad talkins that I heard, a whole room of important people. And they gots all mad, but they tried acting nice to cover up that they were mad, but I could still tell.


I still remembers the cold hard wood on my back, the feel of the real small place I put myself in so I could listen in on the elections.


It was 1824. I had sneeked in before anybody was in the courthouse. I pushed myself in a barrel in the way front of the room, so I could hear everything stat was agoin on. I pulled the top over my head. So I sitted and I sitted for about 100 breaths and the door opens real quiet, like the door doesn’t want to be heard. But ya see I’m really good at listening, so nutin ‘scapes my ears. Two mans walked in, real quiet like they really don’t want to be listened to. One pair of feet sounded real guilty, sorta like when I broke Mama’s bestest plate and I had to tell her. The other steps were mad. Mad like evil, like the big bad wolf. Then the whisperin started.

“I’ve got a little deal for you, Clay.”

“What is it Adams?”

“If this gets tight, I need your support.”

“You’ve already got it.”

“Well if you really help, I’ll give you the position of secretary of state. Something tells me I’m going to need you.”

Nobody talked then, it was all quiet again, and the man called Clay was thinking real hard. I could hear it in his breathin, almost like I could listen to his thinking. He was scared, real scared. I knew the Secretary of State was under the vice president, and that meant what Mama called power. She said power and pride, and they were all bad when there was too much of ‘em. She said men love power, and would do anything to get it.

“Alright Adams. Whatever you want me to do.”

Right then people started coming in, everybody was talking at the same time, saying things like ‘this is gonna be a close one’.

They counted, said the votes.

It sounded like that Jackson Man won. He got the most votes out of everyone. That is how you win right?

“Considering the fact no one has enough electoral votes to win, it is up to Clay to choose.”

I took in a real fast breath inside my barrel.

“Ad-dams. John Quincy Adams.”

“I guess it’s decided then. Congratulations President Elect.”

Lots of people clapped, yelling all happy like, but some were yelling, all mad.


No. Jackson Man should’ve won. Adams man only won because Clay, the man with guilty footsteps said he’d help him if he made him Secretary.


I pushed my hand up on the wood, falling over, rolling out of the barrel. Everybody was quiet, i could feel them all looking at me. I got up, brushing my dress down.

“That’s not right. Jackson should’ve won.  He got the most votes! You can’t listen to Mr. Clay. Adams told him that if he helped him win then he’d make him secretary of state! I heard him! I heard him say it! Mr. Jackson should’ve won. Mr. Jackson should be our President!”

I felt hands on my arms, holding me back.

“No! That’s cheating! He cheated!” I said real loud, pulling and pulling at the hands. I put all my strongness in it, pulling as I kept saying real loud the same thing.

“I think you’re confused, honey. Where is you’re mother? Somebody get Louisa Smith! Get her in here!”

“No! He cheated! Mama’s got nothing to do with it! He cheated!”

My throat got real dry and hurt a whole lot. I was getting tireder and tireder.

I heard Mr. Jackson yelling and yelling about ‘corrupt bargain’. 

“He cheated! He cheated… He…. Cheated…”

I felt something hard hit my head. My head hurt really bad, and I couldn’t hear as well. I was like a scarecrow in the hands.

“Let her go! Let her go!” Jackson was far away, I couldn’t really hear him. I felt like I was slipping… slipping into a pool of warm water, like a bath.

I remember once, when Grandmama was dying. She was all scared like, crying. I wish I could’ve told her that it’s just like taking a warm bath.

‘Close your eyes Mary, we don’t want to get soap in them.’

 ‘Why can’t I tell people when I hear some one talking not so nice about them?’

‘Some folks don’t want to hear things. Life is much easier for them if they just close their eyes, keeps the soap out.’