Trapped in a world where people can see what others cannot... Yet still no one sees the truth.
Fourteen-year-old Mattie Hutchinson has been Kavi, a seer, for as long as she can remember. Some of her best friends are living in a parallel dimension, invisible to all but a few. She finds herself juggling between two worlds, straddling the difficult task of living a normal life in small-town Minnesota and spending time with the Veolish, ordinary people who have been turned into little more than ghosts. She has always been able to hold a balance, but now that her father has been diagnosed with terminal lung cancer, everything is different. Mattie's world is falling apart. But as the dimensions begin to fall into disarray, she and her friends are faced with questions that have dangerous answers. What is Veol? Where has the missing girl in town gone? And who can they really trust?
There are some things we never forget. Stories we never forget. Stories, in fact, that live and breathe inside of us every day.
Ask any reader, and he or she will explain that first true love in detail. That glossy cover, ruffled pages between fingers, shimmering glimpses of another world haunting the horizon. Because sometimes, words have the power to change lives.
My favorite book is not the first book I read, not the longest, most famous, nor best-written. My favorite book resides in a quiet corner of the library, gathering dust that glitters like dragon’s smoke in the sunlight whenever a new boy or girl picks it up for the first time. It is the first book of a quartet. It is called Secret of the Sirens.
The story follows the adventures of a young girl named Connie, whom is half-heartedly embraced as a member of a secret society of “companions”--people who can see and befriend certain mystical animals. However, Connie is different. She is a universal, the perfect companion to every animal, real or fantastical, on the planet. As a young girl, I was fascinated by the idea of discovering a special talent like Connie’s....
Is E-Reading Taking Over the World? (I think not).
January 14, 2015
You know something’s wrong when you salivate over the scent of flattened, bleached wood pulp.
Or maybe the real problem is knowing that that is, essentially, paper.
Maybe it’s because I grew up in a paper house. On Saturday mornings, my mother would balance her tea and bacon over the musty tablecloth of newspaper, explicitly spelling out images of goodwill, crime, and bad politics. Even before I remember being able to read, I know that words, as the mere vehicle of adventure, fascinated me. I would beg my dad to read me two, three bedtime stories some nights. As I entered kindergarten and learned to recognize my sight words, I started shoving my finger across the page and haughtily scolding him whenever he deviated from the text in the slight. It’s undeniable; Books have power.
However, in the advent of modern technology, the old tang of dusty library books is growing more and more rare, as people evolve from reading on paper to reading on screens. Whether in the form of fanfiction, blogging, ebooks, compilations of odd facts, or news spread around the globe with a dash of a finger, online media has taken grip of our society and...
I’m just like you, can’t you see? I just need some help. Can’t you see me?
It is all too common to rush pass a homeless person on the street, head bent down as you shuffle on your way. Once you pass, you look up and breathe. It is behind you.
I’m guilty, too. But I’m learning to change.
My first real encounter with the homeless was when I was in Wisconsin for a writing competition, in seventh grade. Mom was driving my sister and me down Main Street, and we saw them, huddled in the doorway of an old store, wrapped numbly in each other’s arms. A boy and a girl. Probably only a few years older than I was.
At first, we kept driving. But then, Mom pulled into a grocery store parking lot and disappeared. She returned with a huge deli sub. She told me I was going to give it to them.
I was scared. Was this safe? Was it the right thing to do? Would...
I’ll admit it, I’m not all that thrilled about going back to school.
So last week, clinging on the final dregs of summer, I spent several nights backyard camping. I was awaiting the early morning, when dew and sunbeams would wash away the darkness for a new day. Morning has always been my favorite time. The crickets, birds, and smell of wet dirt reek of innocence and hope. After all, it is a new day, bursting with possibilities; Anything can happen, if you wait and see.
And see I did.
I woke up at 3:30am, dragging myself from my blankets and stomping barefoot through the wet, itchy blades of grass. Chilled and haunted by the night air, I was careful to scrutinize everything I could in the dim light, on my guard for ax murderers and piles of deer droppings, two things I most definitely did not need. That was how I first saw it, through the corner of my eye, looking for nasties hiding in the darkness. Above me, the night sky was unfurled in all its glory, a blanket of black velvet, untouched by clouds. Stars were smashed across the darkness as...
It’s pretty undeniable that I’ve been going through a flower stage.Check my phone, and you’ll find that about 80% of my gallery is comprised of impromptu floral close-ups, intermingled with a couple foodie shots.
Why have I been so fauna-fascinated this year? I’ll blame it on the long winter- there’s only so much snow a person can take! After the months of bitter cold and darkness, I’m taking in the sunshine with open arms.That’s my favorite thing about spring: the return of light. Don’t get me wrong, I love winter and Christmas caroling. But once January rings around with its wind and ice-storms, I’m ready to call it quits for the season. It feels rotten to get up before the sun and go to bed after it, and it can be downright frustrating. But spring and summer? Between the golden light sifting through dappled leaves and the fresh reek of earth, I’m taken. Add Easter, swimming, and ripe fruit salad? More than enough to make me happy! And don’t even get me started on the symbolism of the renewed life spring breaths- I’m a sucker for metaphors.
Lights low, the pulsing rhythm glimmered in the air, so strong and pungent that it filled the room’s lungs with a cloying dazzle. Shimmering before my eyes, the beats melted into a powerful pounding in my chest.
It was actually happening. It was actually working. A burst of happiness bubbled up from the clenched muscles in my stomach. Sweeping across the stage, waving my hands like chaffs of wheat in the wind, laughter blossomed through my whole body, the sound of swirling costumes rustling softly alongside the tick-tock of claps in the audience.
Who would have thought I could dance? Certainly not me. From the minute Amira had called me to ask me to join in her Indian dance routine, I had adamantly declared (a claim to be repeated in the coming days), “I can’t dance. I’m uncoordinated. But if you don’t mind that, then I would love to.”
It was true, true to the most offbeat tune there could be. I’d performed onstage a handful of times in my life, an energetic pastime I’d always adored. My strength, of course, had always lied in acting, particularly comedic. Singing? Not so...
