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Showing posts with label My writings. Show all posts
Showing posts with label My writings. Show all posts

Sunday, September 4, 2016

Writers Block

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I walk into a piece, I walk out a different being. // - 12 am reading poetry

Hello everyone, 
So I have/had an incredibly cool story in my head, and now I'm turning it into words on a screen and it's suddenly dumb. Oddly, I can't think of the right words for what I'm trying to convey in this one paragraph. I  keep imagining all the reasons people are going to say my story sucks, and it paralyzes me. To put it blatantly, I have writers block. 

It's odd I can imagine my characters well and bits and pieces of the story come to me here and there but I have no idea if I should continue.  My main goal with my writing is impacting. I want to make a difference in someone life. I want my book to have a special place on someone's shelf but my self-doubt is eating me alive... Any tips???

Hope all my writer friends are having better luck than me,
All the love,
Hugs from Hayley xx

Wednesday, April 27, 2016

Bullied.

Throughout my blog you'll discover that I love poetry. Writing it, reading it and taking it in. So of course when my teacher tells us we will be writing one, topic of our choice, I get a little excited.

Rules - 10 syllables per line and a "ababcdcdefefgg" writing pattern aka a sonnet.

Bullied,
It takes being the jinxed or an outcast
To understand what hiding in plain sight 
Means, even with Sun there is an overcast.
Why is his own opinion never right? 
No one cares until you've rounded third-base 
Or you’re dying, wait why are they crying?
How many more ugly words will we have to take?
Course those words hurt, what were you implying
Words of warning we couldn't have been primed 
Bullying shouldn't be used for others' clarity 
So next time before you speak keep in mind 
A bullet is cheaper than therapy,
Remember don't blame the shaken finger, 
It's always the thought behind the trigger. 

_Hayley Olivia_


Some of my friends said this made them cry and others didn't know what I meant. I think now a days people tend to over-analyze too much or try too hard to understand poetry. On that note I'll let you all decide for yourselves what this poem means.

Hope all is well,

Hugs from Hayley 

Friday, April 22, 2016

Happy Earth Day

>> The real reason people take photos is because they're afraid that moment will never happen again << Hayley Olivia<<


Happy Earth day everyone <3

Hugs from Hayley

Tuesday, February 9, 2016

If I Didn't Write, I'd Die

      I have a dream where I'm sitting at a desk in a Books a Million store signing copies of my published book.
      I have a dream where I'm sitting next to Ellen Degeneres on her talk show because she loved my book so much.
      I have a dream where I go into a random book stores and write notes on the inside covers of copies of my book for the reader who buys my book next.
      All writers have these fantasies but this isn't the reason why I write.
Where it Started
      Ever since I was a little girl teachers have asked me if I was going to be a writer because of how lengthy and detailed my stories were. And at that age I laughed because I wanted to be a dog and that was so much more practical then being and author. In eighth grade after a tough move I decided joining a writing club called power of the pen because sports was out of the option and I wanted to meet people. After doing well in tryouts I made it on the team. Like any team you train for games or in my case "competitions." Midway through training I got a nasty concussion and honestly I thought I wasn't going to be able to write. The pains in my head and neck were triggered by light, reading, pretty much anything that required to much thought/processing or movement. Which means writing was off that list. 
     For a few weeks strait I did nothing. By nothing I mean I ate slept and crawled back into bed surrounded by total darkness. I had an ongoing headache. The kind that hurt to bad to cry but hurt to bad not to at the same time. To but it mildly life was tough for a while. As things got slightly better I was allowed to go to school for half days but not to the Power of the Pen practices 2 or 3 weeks before the district tournament. 
      You all are going to think I'm nuts when I say that this never ending migraine only stopped when I slept or wrote but I can't think of how else to put it. For someone who wasn't even supposed to be thinking strait I tied for twelfth place in the district tournament (out of 200 kids). I don't know if it was a miracle, a sign, or mind over matter; either way I'm pretty sure I broke science. 
      Our team as a whole placed first at regionals (850 kids) and me and another girl made it to states. At the end of the competition I placed 274th out of 8,000 of the best 8th grade writers in all of Ohio ...with a concussion. I don't play sports and I'm not part of a quiz bowl team or anything like that so when the results come back and I placed that high I can officially say that was the first time I ever felt a true sense of pride in myself. I'm not saying that I wasn't happy when my teachers complimented me on my manners and high grades because I was and moments came and went in my life before then where I received an award of some sort; but never had I felt such a great sense of happiness and self confidence as I did in that moment.  
      I read somewhere that "every writer has that point in their life where they realize they want to write" and for me power of the pen was that "point in my life." Not to be dramatic but from that point on I realized that writing is a piece if me. 


Reasons Why I Write
I have a story to tell.
      Maya Angelou once said, “There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.”
Seems to me like not enough of us are telling our stories. Even if your aren't a writer most people have untold stories of their own. For example if you've ever gone to a public place and you see your character in real life then why aren't you writing? Some of you may not understand when I say that random strangers have walked past me and had the same face I imagined "Mary Jane" to have in my story; it's the weirdest and coolest experience in the world. I'm constantly typing lines (or parts of my story) into my phone or writing them down in the journal I've started. I had a dream the other night about the climax in my story. A bloody, intense, and detailed dream. I think at this point I can easily say that this story has taken over my brain. Okay, maybe that's a little extreme; but if I didn't write I truly believe the story would in fact, take over. With that being said I have a story to tell, one that's eating at me; and if I didn't write I'd die.

Impact.
 This excerpt is from one of my favorite books, 13 Reasons Why. Ironically this quote is one I've chosen from a book that had a great impact on me.Books, poems, songs, movies, any example of literature can have a great impact on someone.  I wrote a poem that made my aunt cry and it made me feel good that something I made could have such an impact on others. I'm not going to lie, making money off my writing would be wonderful but changing peoples lives or making them cry or writing that book people make their children read. That to me is worth more then the money.

Pain.
Just like exercise in writing can be painful. Writing can be a difficult exercise to maintain. You are forcing yourself to maintain a certain level of inventiveness and imagination over a consistent period of time. Writing can seriously break you, and I am in love with that.
Yes, running or weight lifting can be painful, but there is always a reward. With writing, there is always this reward of improving the more you write. No pain no gain.

It makes me a better human.

Writing improves almost everything about me, and it's not just being better at the practice. Putting my thoughts on paper is therapeutic and seems to ease daily stresses. While I get angry at the people who interrupt me while I write I've become a more understanding person. Even my compassion has greatly improved the more I write, because when done correctly, writing is two-way communication.

You learn.
In the last chapter of my book I knew nothing about a certain topic. After about an hour and a half of research on the topic I was an expert. This is the only time I've looked up something like that before though and as I continue to write I learn not only about new words and topics but about myself. 

It's me.
My writing is reflections of me. My characters, my thoughts, my plot, my writing style, my everything goes into my writing. I purposely put pieces of me into my characters and stories because it adds that authenticity to my writing; something that not every writer has. 

Freedom.
If you want to be technical they're are the rules of the English language but that isn't what I'm referring to. My father likes ducks because their free. They can fly wherever they want and they don't have to answer to anyone. Writing is my freedom. They're isn't anyone standing over me saying you have to write about this or that and no one is telling me how to write it.

I love it. Nothing else to be said.

-Hugs from Hayley

Friday, December 11, 2015

Monkey Bars


 You were like a monkey bar and I held on.
It was fun at first
my feet dangling high above the ground,
but then blisters formed,
and my pale hands,
they started to sweat;
I started to slip
but kept my grip
refusing to look down.
I adjusted my hands
trying to hold on
to something that was holding back.

 - Written by me of corse
I don't know how much I love this one but it just kinda came to me so why not write it out?
Hugs from Hayley

Tuesday, August 18, 2015

Happy endings

      Do u ever just dream. Like about your story followed by your "happily ever after". Not the cliché one where your knight and shining armor comes to your rescue or a prince chooses you over hundreds of other girls; I'm talking the kind where you live in the moment, care less about making the perfect memory and more about the people, your youth, and the factors that make you love the present. I'm talking about that moment where you discover who you are, what you stand for, your purpose. It's living for the now and not worrying about the future (but still dreaming). It's loving life and living on the edge but not being unrealistic. And it's finding the good characters and the bad for your story, but still managing to be your own hero. And that my friend is how you live your story to the fullest that's how how you have that non-cliché but still happy ending ↫

 

~ Drawing done by me ~

 ~Hugs from Hayley

Friday, August 14, 2015

Music


What is music to you?
Notes?
Lyrics?
Rhythm?
Beat?

All of the Above?
      To me, music has always been so much more then scribbles and symbols written on a piece of paper. Music is actually very different then poems; I like to think that the reason some poems are made into song lyrics is because they were never meant for paper. Like the paper physically couldn't handle the words written down so they were made into something more. Something the whole world gets to share, gets to relate too. 
       It's funny how something you can't touch, can touch you in so many ways. Something you can't see can send you visions. And isn't it odd how a three minute song can make us think for hours, sometimes even days at a time. 
      Music is the trunk of an ongoing tree. A tree with large limbs that  lead to tons of different variations, the "branches" of that style. With the main limb of Pop music comes the branches of Adult Contemporary, Brit-pop, Bubblegum Pop, Chamber, Pop Dance Pop, Dream Pop, Electro Pop, Orchestral Pop, Pop/Rock, Power Pop, Soft Rock, Synthpop,  and Teen Pop. With the limb of rock comes, Acid Rock, Adult-Oriented Rock, Afro Punk, Adult Alternative, Alternative Rock , American Trad Rock, Anatolian Rock, Arena Rock, Art Rock, Blues-Rock, British Invasion, Death Metal / Black Metal, Glam Rock, Gothic Metal, Hair Meta, Hard Rock, Metal, Noise Rock, Jam Bands, Post, Punk, Prog-Rock/Art Rock, Psychedelic, Rock & Roll, Rockabilly, Roots Rock, Singer/Songwriter, Southern Rock, Surf, Tex-Mex and Time Lord Rock. And the limbs along with their branches continue into the infinite music tree.
        Music has the power to make someone cry, smile, laugh, feel better and dance. People use music to heal, to advertise, to bring people together, and to express. Music is magic. The artist's are the magicians.
        It doesn't matter if you look at music like the impossible poems, or the touching untouchable, the ongoing tree, or magic; Music will forever be a part of everyone's soul. Will always be a part of everyone; whether it's their thumb or their backbone it's the one thing we have in common. The one thing that keeps our separate worlds close to our one big one. Music.
 .

What is music to you?
Notes?
Lyrics?
Rhythm?
Beat?

All of the Above?




-Hugs from Hayley

Friday, May 22, 2015

Power Of The Pen

Ignore my face I got up at 5 today for a power of the Pen Tournament... haha



      As much as I miss PA I'm happy I got the chance to experience Power of the Pen. This is a writing composition for chosen excellent writers in 7th and 8th grade, other known as Ohio's award winning educational enhancement program devoted to excellence in creative writing. The process is simple; writers are given a prompt then are given a certain amount of time that they have to create, write, and finish a short story. 
      There are three rounds, districts where you have 45 minutes to write, Regional's with also 45 minutes to write, and finally states (States is a huge honor to get into) the total amount of time you have to write was 35 minutes, unless you made it to the power round in which you would only have 30 minutes. 
      Out of 8,000 top writers in the state of Ohio 350 make it to states. I made it to states along with Raquel (to the left of me in the sunglasses), and the twins Noah (Second one in on the top left) and Ellie (First one on the bottom left). The rest of the team came to states to support up and to be runners (they run our papers from room to room). The pictures above are almost all of my team however some were elsewhere while we took the pictures. Anyway the power round is the top 30 or 35 7th and 8th graders who go and write for one last round. From there they are chosen for individual prizes and high placements (although it helps if most of your team is up there for team awards). The only one who made it to the power round was Ellie, we were so proud of her! Honestly I wasn't upset I didn't make it to the last round it was already awesome that I made it to states with my concussion (hence my shades).
      I didn't get any personal awards but my higher scores accommodated with my teams fellow scores we placed second overall for 8th grade in districts, our seventh grade team placed first in districts, first for eighth grade in Regional's, first for the eighth and seventh grade combined in Regional's, along with many personal awards given to Ellie, including a scholarship for Kent State University and a few "Best of the Best" awards. These are the highest awards given to any member of the Power of the Pen and is based off of the greatest writings of that particular person and is further published in an official Power of the Pen book. Kara also got fist place as an overall writer in districts!!!
      I had a great team this year thanks to all the members of my team,

Raquel, Noah, Ellie, Zoe, Kara, MeiMei, Chad, Mandy, Phillip, Taylor, Lily, Alaina, Caileen, Caity, Rachel, and Mason. Also a special thanks to my family for the ride and support, and of course a great deal of thanks to my coach, Mrs. Lovelace <3


Hugs from 
Hayley 

Sunday, April 12, 2015

The Sun Thief

I wrote this story about 4 months ago now as another writing assignment. This piece was based upon the title "The Sun Thief."
The short story is about a boy who is sent to a Nazi camp back in World War 2. He finds that his Uncle is already at the cabin and has been there for several months. The story takes about 10-15 minutes to read, enjoy!

“The Sun Thief”
By Hayley Olivia H.

The barracks were small, but the amount of people crammed into the them  wasn’t that small. All of the faces in the room were blank and ghostly pale in the most disturbing way. Hundreds of pairs of sad eyes fixed themselves on me but eventually looked away. The stripes on their pajama-like attire and all their heads almost hairless, was making it even harder to find someone, anyone I could recognize. I felt my own buzzed head and winced remembering the short man with a sharp black uniform, and how he’d taken away my once-long brown hair, and the suitcase filled with the only things I’d owned. A tall lanky man with a dirty face and sunken crossed eyes moved across the room stepping over people that were lying on the cold wooden floor. 
“Jamie?” the man asked.
“Uncle Rolf? Is that? I didn’t even recognize you!” We hugged, and my heart skipped a beat feeling how bony his body had become. 
As if reading my thoughts, he spoke softly, “I’ve been here for three months, and the portions here are quite unhealthy. I haven’t seen your Aunt Dina or your cousins since they abducted us and took us here.” There was a long silence before he spoke, “I’m sure they’re okay, Jamie. Don’t worry,”  His voice quivered, and his eyes started to fill with salty tears. He inhaled deeply before putting a hand on my shoulder and guiding me through the barracks. I felt eyes burning holes through the back of my head; the hair on my back like racing horses, as they galloped top speed up my spine. 
“Have you seen my parents?” I asked regretting my question as soon as I spoke it. I knew very well my parents had been taken in the opposite direction as I did. There was a one in a million chance I’d see them or even my brother again. 
“I don’t want to lie to you, Jamie. These are tough enough times; even the wind seems to whisper lies. Therefore, I’ll tell you straight up that no, I haven’t seen your parents. The likelihood of that happening is slim. I’m truly, deeply, sorry.” As if planned, the moment he stopped talking we reached our destination; a bunk in the far back corner. I took it that the lower bunk was ours due to the way my uncle flopped down on it kicking up little chocolate colored specks that seemed to be--- moving. Dirt? No dirt, doesn’t move...
“Lice,” he replied to my thoughts. “The little brown things are bugs. They nest in your scalp and feed on your blood.”
“And you still sleep there? That’s gross! Haven’t you informed the soldiers about…”
“Jamie, let me ask you a question. Who put us here? Who took away our families and belongings? Who shaved our heads and filled these cabins with an overcapacity of people?”
“The soldiers.”
“I hate to break it to you, my boy, but I doubt the soldiers are unaware of the lice.”
I sat next to him curling up in a ball and letting my body rest against his side. He wrapped an arm around me and sighed deeply. Suddenly a loud BANG came from the front of the cabin. My head bolted upright and turned to see an older looking soldier with a mustache and goatee, dressed in the same black attire the rest of the soldiers wore. 
The whole barracks was silent as the soldier spoke, “I’m looking for number 4528.” The soldier looked around impatiently, “Now!” he screamed. Across the room an older looking man struggled to stand and limp his way across the room. He had a grey beard and tired looking eyes.
“Come with me!” he barked. The man turned his head and fixed his gaze on an elderly woman and mouthed I love you. The soldier tetchy, grabbed the man by the wrist and dragged him out the door. The woman cried out then began to ball. A few people shook their heads in dismay, but most hadn’t even looked back when the soldier came in, looking like the life had been sucked right out of them. Uncle Rolf lay down, and I decided to do the same before my head reached the pillow I was out cold. 
The days went by slowly, and soon they turned to weeks, and to be honest, I stopped keeping track of how long I’d been there. It didn’t matter; we were all dying anyway. Even I became bone-thin, and judging from my reflection in the only glass window, it didn’t get much better. My face looked like something from my worst nightmare. My eyes had rings under them so dark, and cold it was like night itself had seeped into my skin. A bony face stared back at me, not the pudgy face I had recognized. Dirt layered my face like icing on a cake. Uncle Rolf shifted his weight, we’d been lying there the whole day too tired to move. 
I’d finally become one of those lost, hopeless souls that no longer had a name or a drop of energy to spare. The only time I had a name was when Uncle Rolf and I talked, which we did often. We’d talk about how life had been before we were brought here. We talked about random pleasures and how much we took them for granted. Like bitter-tasting lemonade or popcorn at the movies. I think my favorite topic we came across though was the one about the Sun Thief, aka  Adolf Hitler. 
“He stole the sun,” he’d said. 
“He’s a cruel man, but he couldn’t possibly…”
“He stole our families, he stole our rights, and well being. He even stole something as simple as a proper meal, all of which made me happy.”
“I’m sorry, but I still don’t get how he stole the sun…” 
“Without the sun, we wouldn’t have anything to live for; all our happiness and simple pleasures would be stolen out from under us. Therefore, in my eyes, Adolf Hitler is indeed the sun thief for every unfortunate soul here.” I nodded in agreement suddenly realizing what he meant and how much sense it made. My thoughts were soon interrupted with the door opening and slamming shut. 
“Ok, listen up! I need numbers 4677, 4678, 4689, 4899, 4803…” That was my number, “and lastly 4672.” That was my uncle’s number. They wanted us both, but for what?
“Let’s move! I ain’t got all day now. He turned around with the people who had their numbers called trailing behind him including my uncle and I. Before opening the door, he spat on the nearest person and laughed exiting the barracks. 
Coming out of the cramped and dark cage we had been stuck in, the sun stung my eyes. The fresh air was nine but other than that, I now trembled uncontrollably. These selected groups didn’t usually get jobs; they received death instead. 
Uncle Rolf and I were walking side by side when we were stopped in the middle of two barrack buildings. 
“Here,” said the soldier, “is where another barracks will be built… Two months tops.” Two months? Was he insane? I was only twelve, and most of the men pulled including my uncle didn’t look like they could last another week. The soldier continued to talk but honestly I didn’t listen to a word. I focused on the main gate and the new arrival of Jews like me who were sent here for no good reason. As the soldier talked on, Uncle Rolf whispered, “This is your chance, son.”
“What do you mean?”
“I see you eyeing up those gates. This is your chance. Go take advantage of it.”
“But what about you? What if they…”
“You're going to die one way or another, Jamie. This may be your only shot.  I’ll cover you best I can.” He was right, but how could we possibly pull this off? 
“I love you,” he whispered. 
“I… I love you too.” I responded, my heart racing. The soldier talked so loudly he didn't seem to notice we had been talking. As if on cue he turned around, and pointed to some areas of land; I bolted for the gates. No one noticed I was making a escape till the group of Jews that were being unloaded stared at me wide eyed. Thanks guys. 
“Hey, you can’t… Get ‘em!” Guns were shot at me, the bullets landing in the dry dirt by my feet. Too close. 
I heard shouts of angry Nazis, then a more distinct shout, “Run, Jamie! I’ve got you covered!” It was Uncle Rolf. I heard men fighting, then a gunshot, then silence except for my heart pounding. Uncle Rolf was gone; the only family member I was sure was alive was now deceased. I didn’t have too much time to grieve. I had to keep going. I ducked and weaved all over the place when a bullet whizzed past my head faster than time itself. Scared, I picked up speed and started to lose my breath. The woods seemed like miles away, even though it was only a few acres from the camp. As if bullets going past my head and hitting the dirt near my ankles wasn’t bad enough, I heard dogs now, the Nazi’s dogs. These dogs had razors for teeth and gruesome growls. Their eyes erie and their noses so keen they could easily find a Jew like myself in a forest in no time flat. Scared didn’t cut it at this point. On the bright side, the forest was close now to the point I could smell the pine trees. 
The dogs gained on me, and my head throbbed from the lack of oxygen, but I ignored it and continued to run. I heard the Nazis screaming out German commands to the dogs I was assuming.
Ihn! schneller erhalten!” The soldier shouted enraged. More bullets whizzed past my body as I entered the opening to the shadow-filled woods. The growls of the dogs were remotely close now, and I lost my momentum. It didn’t help that now I had obstacles like trees and large rocks to maneuver around, rather than the grass-covered terrain I’d just crossed. Not only did the obstacles slow me down, but it increased my risk of injury. With all of the holes and divides, I thought for sure I was going to twist my ankle or something. 
The chase continued for another 20 minutes before I saw a cabin in the clearing. Smoke emerged from the chimney, and a stone path lead to the door. That was my only option. I started to pick up speed,---the dogs only yards behind me now. I heard a gunshot then pain surged through my body like no pain I’ve ever felt before. I took another step with my left foot and collapsed realizing the pain was coming from the back of my ankle. Dazed, I lay there and watched three dogs approach. They snarled, their teeth white knives. A soldier (the one who must have shot me) also approached smiling. I tried, Uncle Rolf. I’m so sorry. Suddenly the throbbing that rippled through my body rose to my head like hammers smashing my skull from the inside. My vision blurred, and the only thing I could see was the one dog in front of me. I didn’t have the energy to brace myself or move for that matter, so I simply stared and accepted my obvious fate. 
Bang! Bang! Bang! A gun shot rapidly behind me. The dog’s ears bent backward, and he snarled. Bang! The dog was shot right between the eyes. It fell to the side, his eyes rolling in the back of his head. The other two dogs whimpered and ran back the way they came, the soldier wide-eyed did the same. I heard faint footsteps coming closer and closer to my body. Then as if being shot again, a wave of pain went through my body and everything went black. 
My eyes fluttered open and instantly as if a punishment for waking up, my leg pulsated with pain.  I moaned and winced. 
“Oh, it’s not infected. Be thankful for that. You’d be in much more pain if it was.” A voice spoke. I couldn’t see her (or at least the voice sounded like a women’s). The ceiling was the only thing in view. “Oh, I guess it would help if you could see me, wouldn’t it.” Then a set of arms wrapped around me propping me up against the headboard of the bed. “There you go,” she said with a mesmerizing smile. I noticed her pretty blue eyes, cute dimples, and short curly hair right away. Not much older than 30, a refined muscular body flowed back and forth from my bed to the kitchen, her blue dress swirling as she walked.
“Why are you smiling?” she asked. I hadn’t even noticed I had been doing so till she mentioned it.
“I don’t know… Thanks” I said. 
“For what, dear?”
“Well, I mean… taking care of me and thank your husband for shooting at the soldiers and the dogs. And thanks for not letting me die and…”
“First off, my husband isn’t here he’s… well, dead.” she interrupted. 
I sat straight up, “They killed him!?! Oh no I’m so sorry I…”
“Oh, no no, sweetie,” she started putting her hand on mine. “He’s been dead since last winter. He grew ill and died.”
“Then who shot at the soldier and dogs? Your son?”
“No,” she bowed her head. “I don’t have a son. I shot at them with my husbands semi - automatic gun he left behind.” 
There was an awkward silence before I finally spoke, “I’m sorry. I just thought girls didn’t use guns.”
“Well, it’s good my husband didn’t believe in that; he wouldn’t have taught me how to shoot it and you would be long dead.”
“I didn’t mean it like that, really I…”
“I know you didn’t. Never mind.  Are you hungry?” she asked standing up and walking over to the other side of the room where the kitchen was. I hadn’t noticed how hungry I was till she mentioned it.
“Yes, very.” 
“Very well,” she said making her way over to the icebox. “What would you like?”
“Anything,” I said by this point I realized how hungry I really was I felt like passing out all over again. She smiled and nodded picking out a jelly from the icebox. Next she made her way over to the cupboard and picked out peanut butter and bread. Then she prepared the sandwich putting it on a napkin and handed it to me. I went to reach for it and realized it made me dizzy to move. I planted my head against the headboard and winced in pain. 
“Oh, I’m sorry, sweetie. I wasn’t thinking.” She started to feed me the sandwich. I would’ve inhaled it, but I found out very quickly that she wouldn’t allow that. 
I ended up eating seven sandwiches and finally finished around seven. We  talked as I ate and shared stories and memories making each other laugh till it hurt. I also found that her name was Allison, but she rather be called Ally. I discovered that she and her partner never married but ran away as rebels and built a cabin living here since. I told her about my life and that obviously I was a Jew. I showed her my tattoo of my number and some scars I had gotten throughout my stay at the camp, half afraid she’d turn me in. She didn’t even mention turning me in. In fact, she only talked about how she’d hide me and keep me safe, and I eventually fell asleep full and for the first time in months happy.
Summer changed to fall, Winter transferred to Spring, and eventually two years flew by. It was May 8th and both Ally’s and my eyes were glued to the television. 
“The war has come to an end…” 
That's all I heard because, in seconds Ally and I were dancing around the room cheering, and hugging. Then we both cried in sadness and in happiness. I cried for Uncle Rolf and the rest of my family. For all the other souls who were killed and tortured.On the other hand, I cried of relief. I no longer had to hide or feel unsafe, and best of all I never had to worry about the Sun Thief stealing my happiness and brightness away ever again.
About a week later Ally and I were making cookies in the kitchen when a tall man entered the cabin. 
“Ally, I’m home!” 
Ally spun around so fast it had made me dizzy. 
“Oh, my goodness, Jefferson! I thought you were, but...how?” Ally ran toward the man and jumped into his arms. The man was wearing a Nazi uniform… Oh no. This is it he’s going to find me kill me even… maybe even Ally for taking me in what do I do? Run for it? He spun her around then set her down gently. Then as if finally noticing me he turned around with a look that asked, Ally who’s this…
She beamed and said, “This is an orphan, I ah took him in.”
That's wonderful Ally, wheres he from…” 
“I don’t know…”
“You don’t know, huh?”
Ally tell him the truth then maybe he’ll spare you. 
Ally began to bawl Jefferson wrapping her in his arms, “It’s ok Ally. The war’s over. I no longer have to pretend I don’t like Jews… and neither do you.”
What… he didn’t want to kill me?
She looked up at him, “How did you?” 
“His arm,” he gestured to my tattoo on my arm, the number they had given me. I had pulled up my sleeves while making the cookies making it visible. The tattoo suddenly stung as if freshly planted on my arm. 
He made his way across the room and reached out for my head. I put my hands up to defend myself. He reached over my head and ruffled my hair. 
Bending down to my height he whispered, “ I promise I’m not going to hurt you kiddo. I’m not even against Jewish people like you… I’m a mercenary, a soldier that fights for money. I’d never go out of my way to harm someone out of my religion. I won’t hurt you… I promise. Ally and I have been wanting children for a long time now, and I’d be honored to call you my son if you would accept.”
I didn’t know how to take this so I took a deep breath and said, “Okay… I... ah... except.”
“He beamed well then, welcome home son.” 
We all sat around the dinner table last night. A Jewish child, a rebel woman, and a Nazi soldier all at one table, what a sight. I have to admit that from that point on, I’ve been living some of the best days of my life and in a weird way, I’m happy my life turned out like it did… Happy and full of sun.  

Tuesday, April 7, 2015

Childhood Poem

So I was assigned by my literature teacher to write a poem based of of Nikki Giovanni's famous poem Nikki- Rosa.

"Nikki-Rosa

By Nikki Giovanni
childhood remembrances are always a drag   
if you’re Black
you always remember things like living in Woodlawn   
with no inside toilet
and if you become famous or something
they never talk about how happy you were to have   
your mother
all to yourself and
how good the water felt when you got your bath   
from one of those
big tubs that folk in Chicago barbecue in   
and somehow when you talk about home   
it never gets across how much you
understood their feelings
as the whole family attended meetings about Hollydale
and even though you remember
your biographers never understand
your father’s pain as he sells his stock   
and another dream goes
And though you’re poor it isn’t poverty that
concerns you
and though they fought a lot
it isn’t your father’s drinking that makes any difference   
but only that everybody is together and you
and your sister have happy birthdays and very good   
Christmases
and I really hope no white person ever has cause   
to write about me
because they never understand
Black love is Black wealth and they’ll
probably talk about my hard childhood
and never understand that
all the while I was quite happy"
 
The assignment also required us to include certain lines from this poem, and to base it on our childhood. This is my finished result, enjoy!
 
"Hayley Olivia

Childhood memories are the prologue
to your story.
You will always remember things like the way Suloman’s
rich ice cream melted in your mouth;
just like the way an ice cube melts in a fresh glass of southern made lemonade.
We all used to crave being famous,
and now if you become successful in that way,
with your face plastered on the front cover of People magazine,
you will find that you miss the non – judgmental world that you lived
 in as an innocent child.
They never talk about how jovial it made you
when you captured the flag.
Your teams cheers ringing out in different pitched bells, so cheerful,
when you flew across the yard, and past the guard
winning it all for your team.
Somehow when you talk about home on Romig Road
you get misty eyed as you remember,
the outdoor games, and the unprejudiced people, who once played amongst you
like one big happy family;
along with memories of Suloman’s on the corner and fifty cent lemonade stands.
And even though you remember the drop kick to the stomach when you heard the news,
your biographers will never feel your pain or your family’s,
as the movers placed the last box in the truck,
along with your current contentment.
Though you’re told to sit tight and face the music,
it isn’t them telling you this that bothers or concerns you…
It’s the reality of moving far away from everything and everyone
you’ve known and grew fond of.
Although your parents knew what was right
when they moved you out here you still find it hard
to cope because,
life as you knew it to be was the rug that took
seven whole years to weave
being taken out from under you;
only to be replaced by a loom and newly colored threads.
I really hope that should anyone write about me they know that
I took those threads and with the help of the loom, started a new carpet.
Because the one thing that I want everyone to remember is
life goes on."

~Hugs from Hayley