Judas

The chief priests huddle together, waiting for you. The high priest, Caiaphas, stares at you with piercing eyes. They know why you're here.
Your mouth feels dry. You call, "What are you willing to give to me if I hand him over?" The priests nod. Caiaphas walks up to you, handing you a small bag. You open it, just enough to see the glint of silver. They turn and walk away, shuffling past the empty marketplace. You leave, thinking of silver and betrayal.
  ***
You enter the house for Passover. The other apostles greet you. Jesus enters and sits. They pass the unleavened bread and wine. Jesus glances at you, his face serious behind his darkened beard.
"Amen, I say to you, one of you will betray me."
The others chime in, choruses of, "Surely it isn't I, Lord?"

He pauses. "The man who dipped his hand into the dish with me is the one who will betray me. The Son of Man indeed goes, as it is written of him, but woe to that man by whom the Son of Man is betrayed. It would be better for that man if he had never been born.” He looks at you again.
You begin to feel uneasy. You lick your lips, trying to moisten them. You call to him, hoping he doesn't know. "Surely it is not I, Rabbi?" Your voice is hoarse.
He frowns. A shadow from the flickering candlelight crosses his face. "You have said so." You think of the silver, sitting within your reach. He doesn't know. He couldn't.

He takes the bread and blesses it. Looking around the table, he says, "Take and eat this; this is my body." He hands it out. It is silent as they eat it, one by one. You bring the bread to your mouth.  Then he takes a cup, and gives it to them, saying, “Drink from it, all of you, for this is my blood of the covenant, which will be shed on behalf of many for the forgiveness of sins. I tell you, from now on I shall not drink this fruit of the vine until the day when I drink it with you new in the kingdom of my Father.” You raise the cup to your lips slowly. The burgundy wine sloshes inside. Sweat beads on your forehead. You shouldn't do this. You have to, though. You promised. Besides, you already have the money. The other disciples don't notice that you finish the meal in silence.

You walk to Mount Olives with the others. You sing along to a hymn, your lips barely moving. They don't notice over the pounding sandals and jubilant songs.  The scent of ripe fruit hangs heavy in the air. Jesus gathers you. You stand in a circle with the others. He glances at every one of you, lingering on your face, your strong brow and dark eyes.
  "Tonight all of you will have your faith in me shaken, for it is written: ‘I will strike the shepherd, and the sheep of the flock will be dispersed’; but after I have been raised up, I will go with you to Galilee." The silence echoes his solemnity.
"Though all may have their faith in you shaken, mine will never be," a voice calls out. Low and hollow; Peter's.

Paul chimes in. "I will never desert you." The others follow, voicing their assents.
The trees rustle in the night-time quiet. Everyone looks at you. You cough, as fake as your words.
"I will not betray you, Lord." Jesus' piercing gaze lingers on you, long after the rest. You slip away under the cover of night.
***
You walk over to the priests. Their faces, shadowed by darkness, show nothing. Caiaphas pulls you close to him, against his tunic. "What will the sign be?" he whispers hoarsely.
  "The man I shall kiss is the one; arrest him." He nods, a smile on his weathered face. He leaves, to the temple. You hear the beating of footsteps, pulsing on the ground. He returns with hordes of men, clubs in their hands. Their faces are grim. They rush towards you. You realize you are the leader. You walk back to the hill, dotted with scrubby trees. You should turn back. You already promised. Your feet march on. Your sandals become clotted with dust, and soon, you are there. The men stand behind you, ready to fight the one who calls himself Messiah.

  Jesus stands, unsurprised. Peter, James, and John flock him, like sheep. They always were the followers. You pause for a moment, your legs trembling. You step forward and kiss him.
"Hail, Rabbi," you call. Your voice is tight. You kiss him, your mouth on his bearded cheek. He looks gravely tired and innocent. This isn't right. You are a traitor.
  "Friend, do what you have come for," he replies. Instantly, Caiaphas and another priest walk forward, pulling Jesus from the crowd, binding him with rope. James takes out his sword with a look of fury, slicing the priest's servant's ear. The crowd steps back as blood pools on the fertile ground. It's all your doing. You step back, hesitant to see more bloodshed.

“Put your sword back into its sheath, for all who take the sword will perish by the sword. Do you think that I cannot call upon my Father and he will not provide me at this moment with more than twelve legions of angels? But then how would the scriptures be fulfilled which say that it must come to pass in this way?” His eyes plead with the masses. They stare back at him, unflinching.
"Have you come out against me as with a robber, with swords and clubs to seize me? All this has come to pass that the writings of the prophets may be fulfilled," Jesus finishes. The disciples run, their breathing coarse in the unnatural stillness. You flee, barely noticing the ache of your sandals and the dust gathered on your tunic. Instead, a bitter taste grows in your mouth.

You stay away from the crowds, not far enough to mishear the masses' bloody cries, Peter's betrayal, the chief priests' glee at condemning "the Savior." The scene replays in your head. It would be better if you had never been born. Unable to stand the metallic taste of blood in your mouth, you throw up onto the dry ground, over and over.

The bag of coins is heavy in your hand. You handle it carefully, repulsed. You want to bury the money, hide the evidence. Distaste sours your skin. You feel unclean, vulgar. A man's life for some silver. This morning, you stand in a chief priest's courtyard.
He comes to the door, beady eyes set under a stern gray beard. "Yes?"
"I have sinned in betraying innocent blood." The words sting your tongue.
He barks a laugh. "Well, what is that to us? See to it yourself." You leave before Caiaphas closes the door. You walk to the temple, flinging the open bag. The silver coins scatter, glinting in the early-morning sun. You spit on them, glad to be rid of the blood money.

You run to the edge of a mount, your face streaked with bitterness. You alone have sinned, causing Jesus to die. It would be better if you had never been born. You take a coil of rope, and climb the tallest tree. You tie it to the strongest branch as the tree shakes beneath your weight. Fouled sinner. You thread the thick end around your neck, tying it in a knot. You pull it tight. You deserve to die. As you step off the branch, a shout ripples through the air.

"My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?"

5 Reasons for Writing Strong Characters

I've made it a goal of mine to never write weak characters. That may sound weirdly definitive from a girl who's not even fifteen, but I have reasons. And I even numbered them for you.

1. Strong characters are awesome. If characters are well-written enough, no matter how bad their actions may be, they'll be intriguing. 
2. I use my characters to inspire me.
3. If I'm going to be immersed in their stories for a year, they'd better be interesting.
4. I'm pretty sure weak characters aren't sarcastic. 
5. There are enough vanilla portrayals of people in already-written novels. Often, they're stereotypes: the ditzy blonde, the nerd, the football player, the soccer mom, the clueless dad. Even if they are popular, they only work well with a certain demographic and become dated outside of that group. Anyway, there are enough Bella Swans out there to last us a long time.  

Any more reasons out there? Share them in the comments.

Also, I've been working on a historical fiction short-story about Judas, inspired by my contemplative mood on Good Friday and of course, Jesus's Passion and Crucifixion. I'll post that tomorrow night!
Katia

Girl Against Beauty

I just realized that I haven't posted anything creative yet this week and I recently wrote a creative-nonfiction essay that I like, so ... Here it is.
***

I do not remember the last time someone called me beautiful. Looking in the mirror, I see none of the beauty that grants my peers. I have neither alabaster skin nor silky hair, nor stunning eyes or perfect lips. I have zits, and I make no efforts to hide them. My nose is reddened by years of slightly too little sunscreen. My eyes are rimmed with purple glasses. How can I possibly compare?

I don't wear make-up. Why would I wake up an hour earlier just to beautify myself? The money and time I save on not being concerned with my appearance is more valuable to me than mascara, lip gloss, blush and foundation combined. In several years, I'd rather be concerned about my character freshman year than if I hid my zits with enough concealer every day. I have no qualms about wearing makeup for yourself, but when you wear it to garner others' approval, it becomes a problem. Especially today, beauty comes at a cost. In our society, we've been taught that we only have value if we act a certain way, look a certain way. How many teen and preteen girls spend hundreds of dollars on makeup just to fit in?

A few weeks ago, I went to Sephora with my mom. Its lustrous products and ideals of glamour had always entranced me; as a young girl, why wouldn't they? When my mom finished buying her beauty products, she asked the cashier, "Do you have to wear makeup?" She, looking surprised, replied, "Well, not technically, but if we don't, it's a big no-no." She was a pretty woman, striking enough. She stated having to wear makeup as a simple fact that she didn't particularly like but had grown accustomed to. As I walked out of the mall, the event stayed with me. As a young woman, to be resigned to wearing makeup just to have a certain job is too much of a sacrifice.

Of course, makeup isn't the only beauty ritual girls go through; their hair matters disproportionately as well. My hair, naturally, is a mess. I inherited a mass of thick, wavy, curly hair from my mother. It rarely stays still, and picture day is awful, every single year. Whether it's a weave, straightening their hair, dying it, or curling it, most girls my age don't keep their hair natural. Sometimes I'm envious of the girls whose hair always looks like they're in a Pantene commercial. Do I really want to spend the time on using a hair-straightener just so I can look the same as everyone else? Sometimes my mane may look disheveled, but if I really care about the way my hair looks, I think I should change my priorities. In time, my views may change, but for now, they're constant.

I only shave about once a week. By the end of the week, stubble starts to creep up. Two weeks ago, I was sitting in gym. One of my classmates looked down at her legs, and said, "I've got to shave!" It had only been two or three days since she last used her razor, but in her mind, this was crucial. Obviously, we are nothing if there's a slight shadow of hair on our legs. Aren't we supposed to be mindless beauty objects, after all? Sometimes, I too look down at my legs with a pang. Oh, I'd better shave. Then I catch myself. It's been drilled into our heads that we can't have any body hair whatsoever, but at the end of the day, it doesn't matter. If someone judges me on the amount of leg hair that I have, that's their problem.

We've been taught that beauty is manufactured. It comes with attaining certain things: the perfect look, the perfect style, the perfect body. In reality, it doesn't matter how ugly and unshaven my legs are. It doesn't affect my athletic ability, my intelligence, or writing abilities. Whatever messages the media sends, not wearing makeup, or  doesn't make me some hag who's destined to live alone and kidnap children. I'm often stricken with self-doubts, just as every other teenage girl is. Sometimes I look in the mirror and wish that I cared enough to conform to unspoken peer-pressure to look good. But I'm different, and false beauty is not my priority. No matter how others may see me, I refuse to strive for perfection at a cost to myself.

Procrastination, Poetry, and Prose

Note: I'm rather proud that I created that alliteration. It was going to be Procrastination, Poetry, and Parsley, but then I realized that everyone who loves parsley and sees this post was going to be disappointed. And I wouldn't want to wish that fate on anyone.

In the past week, my novel has reached 30,000 words. I've been working on it for several months now and I'm pleased to say that it is halfway done. I'm going to finish it with the help of Camp NaNo.
However, I have been procrastinating a lot lately. I've discovered that the root of procrastination is the luxury of time--you only procrastinate when you have enough time and can afford to do so. With my school's weird spring break, I've had lots of time to wander around my house and read and go on the Internet. While my daily 500 words usually takes me about a half-hour, recently it's taken me over an hour.

Last night, I decided to take action. (That sounds so official, doesn't it?) I sat down at my desk, and used Write or Die for a while. Forty-five minutes later, I had 1,800 more words. I'm planning on using it much more often, as I'd forgotten about it in the aftermath of NaNoWriMo.

  Here's a poem I wrote a few months ago, called The Silence of a Tree:

A tree stands alone,
weathered color, pockmarked
skin waiting
for a slow, silent death
his hollows have been forgotten,
his achievements erased,
Holding tired branches
dragging memories
still clinging to his sorry bark,
as the world around him
crumbles, ricocheting, melting
into dust,
still the tree stands tall
waiting for the spark-colored sky to end

the silence of a tree
remains

Rememberance: finished

I don't belong here. The pews are filled with your family and neighbors. Your mom gestures to me. I walk over to her, close enough to see her fallen mascara and her brown eyes blinking back tears. She tries to hug me, but I break away, unable to see her frailty. I walk out of the church, bitter tears dripping down my face. I can't do this.

***

"Katelyn, dear, it's not your fault." She folds her crepe-paper hands on the desk, gazing at me with unadulterated pity in her bleached-blue eyes. As if that's going to help.

"If it's not my fault, whose is it?"

"He had a mental illness. It couldn't have been helped, really." I try to fall asleep. Why does the school pay for a counselor who wears hair extensions and gives gaudy speeches like she's trying to save the world? Does she really think that her words are going to make me forget my pain, the sleepless nights of texting with you? Does she think that's going to make me forget your smile and the way you watched my debate competitons and laughed with me afterwards, your eyes shining?

Her words only bring me back. "You're not to blame," she harps. Well, that clears it up. She doesn't know what I did. I fought with you. You needed me more than I realized. I let you down. I yelled at you, played the bad guy until I won. I didn't talk to you for days until you died. A tear runs down my cheek. I wipe it away with a bitten-down fingernail. I don't want her sympathy. The woman looks up at me.

"Oh, honey."

I roll my shoulders back. She can't make me a coward. I fold my hands uneasily. She reaches out to me, placing her fragile hand on top of mine. I stand up, knocking the chair back. Only when I get to the bathroom do I let the tears fall from my eyes.

***

            I scrolled on my phone, checking for new messages. My screen lit up. I clicked on Zach’s text. My hands started trembling. He can’t be right. I called him. The dial tone sounded. I called again. I leave a message. He calls back, his voice shaky. “Kate, Jamie’s dead.” His heavy silence stuttered, his shallow breathing transmitted through the phone. I hung up, unable to listen to your best friend cry.

            We walked down the beach, holding hands. You stopped to laugh at something I’d said. Your green eyes sparkled. “Did you hear about how Montgomery led the Battle of—“

            I hushed you. I was tired of battle talk, always this war, that war. Life was nothing but a series of combat for you. I drew closer to you, protecting myself against the overcast sky and jaded winds. I kissed you quickly, letting the moment linger between us.

            You glanced at me, your tired eyes scanning my mood. “Let’s go.”

            “In the water?”

            You nodded. I took off my shoes quickly, and we walked together on the deserted beach barefoot. I linked my arm between yours, hugging you for warmth. You nodded again and we took off, circling the beach, arms spread wide, and dashing in, letting the frigid waves pull us under.

***

The next morning, the school president announced the news. “It is with deep regret that we inform you of a loss of one of our students, Jamie Holmes.” I sit in my seat, feeling numb. The math teacher doesn’t look at me.  I bite my lip. The girls in the back whisper. So much for delicacy. I taste blood, pooling on my lips. It tastes like corroded metal, the shrill cry of an unspoken scream. Perfect.

            I walk down the halls. Gossip cracks around me like eggshells as I walk by. I stop at the army-green locker, twisting the code I memorized by heart. 52, 39, 14. I pause only long enough to slip a note inside. Its words are thin, trembling. The first note you ever wrote to me. My eyes blur with tears until I can barely make out your careful script, as if it was a blank page and you’d never existed. I walk to history. Mascara runs down my cheeks. I hold my head high as hordes of students pass me, whispering. I have nowhere to hide.

***

            I hold the tip carefully, letting the knife graze my skin. Words cascade through my thoughts, hard words, revered for their drunken power. I deserved every one of them. I tried to fill the emptiness you left behind, to harden my heart. I’d test myself. I was addicted to danger, every new thrill leaving traces of the dull ache behind. I was never strong enough to forget, though. Every day brought memories fresh to my mind. I press against the hollow of my wrist, hurting.  You’re not here anymore. I press harder, until I forget about my pain.

***

            It’s been eleven weeks. It’s April seventeenth. You would have been eighteen. You always talked about enlisting in the army, got this big grin on your face. I miss that part of you. I did, anyway. I’m a different girl.

I stand up, my legs asleep, and get the car. Mom doesn’t yell at me anymore, not since after the accident. I drive to the beach alone, the engine thrumming beneath me. Seaweed lies around the shore, scattered like ashes. Rain pelts my face. I kneel, briefly. My footprints, for a minute, are captured in the sand. I watch them disappear, the bitter waves washing them away. I whisper a word. “Jamie.” I soak in the ocean spray, my face tilted towards the winds threatening to be my demise. I drop a tear-stained letter on the sand, full of strike-outs and painstaking words bleeding through the page. I let my Dear John fragments die noble deaths among the seaweed. You would have liked it that way. I walk away, my bare feet making divots in the sand. Men on the battlefield aren’t the only real heroes. If only you’d lived long enough to realize that. The waves fragmenting on the beach whisper your name, but I don’t listen. I don’t belong here anymore.

My Fan Base

I have a fan base. They're called my extended family who never reads anything YA or dark fiction other than my writing. I loaned The Fault in Our Stars to one of my aunts once and she liked it (amazing book, by the way) but other than that ... When your extended family wholeheartedly supports whatever you enjoy doing, whether it's soccer (I've had to hear about my cousins' soccer abilities for years), playing an instrument (good thing I never got into that), or writing, they like to talk to you about it. A lot. Even though they don't read that much and have never really enjoyed writing, but they still want to hear about whatever you've been doing. And offer suggestions on the topic they don't know very much about. At times, this presents problems ...

 

My extended family really likes the fact that I write. Once it went around the grapevine (yes, I tried a social experiment to figure out how long it would take them to find out), they all started talking to me about it. At first it was just "oh, how long have you been writing, do you like it," etc. Once I did NaNoWriMo and told a few people about it, though, it was all over. Early December, I opened up the top card from our stack of Christmas cards to find my grandpa's Christmas letter.

 

In it, he detailed the trips he and my step-grandma had taken over the past year, how they'd been golfing, a small blurb about all of their kids, step-kids, and grandchildren. I found the following passage about me: "Katia, a freshman, wrote a 60,000-word adventure novel." (I'd found that there was no easy way to explain a dystopia to older generations, so apparently my dystopia involving a trek through cornfields was turned into an "adventure novel".) My favorite part of being mentioned in the letter was that I had done nothing else important enough to worthy a mention. Not starting high school or starting a new sport or anything else. I had officially been summed down to a writer. And, of course, I was his granddaughter, whose novel (he hoped) would be available for download on his Kindle very soon. (Grandpa Peter, in case you're reading this, The Chosen is in second-draft purgatory right now. Your granddaughter won't be an author anytime soon.)

 

My writing also shows up at family gatherings in other ways. At Christmas for a talent show, I was ordered to do something creative (and people wonder why I write dystopias). I decided magic tricks and Gagnam Style weren't my thing, so I sat down with everyone else and wrote an awful Christmas poem in the allotted time, and once I was done, read it aloud. They seriously thought it was the best thing since chocolate or something.

Of course, whenever I see my family, they always ask what's new. They also know I write, so they try to work that in too. Helpful, see? Our conversation goes something like this:

 

AUNT: So how are you? (Hug which I resist)

ME: I'm good

AUNT: (pauses) So, have you been writing anything?

ME: (not wanting to go into details) Uh, yeah. I've been working on a novel. I've been rather confused, though, because I've been trying to edit it, but I don't have an ending.

AUNT: Well, I've heard that joining a critique groups would be really helpful…

Variation:

AUNT: There are some great writing classes you could take if you wanted to build your writing expertise with professionals…

ME: (noncommittally) Oh, I'll try that ... Sometime.

 

I love my family, seriously. They're awesome, crazy, and funny, and I know they're there for me. If I ever wanted to get feedback from them on my writing, I could, and I'm sure many of them would take me up on their offer. I get frustrated when they all offer suggestions for my hobbies. Ultimately, as useful as their feedback is, it's up for me to decide. If I feel like I'm not making the choices for something that I do that I really love, then it's time for me to step back and reevaluate my priorities (of course, I do take their advice with a grain of salt). The thing is, I write for myself. As selfish as that sounds, if I don't enjoy what I write, if I don't laugh at my own sarcasm (not like I do that or anything), if I don't love my characters and stories and plots and metaphors, there's no point in writing, no matter how much my grandparents may want to read my work.

 

Katia

Rememberance

I am now going to switch my weekend postings to Saturdays so I don't procrastinate as much. As you can tell, I live on the edge.

On a serious (and yes, unsarcastic) note, a junior from my school died last week unexpectedly, so I'm writing this in honor of him. I plan to finish this in the next week and post it fully for you to read.

 

I don't belong here. The pews are filled with your family and neighbors. Your mom gestures to me. I walk over to her, close enough to see her fallen mascara and her brown eyes blinking back tears. She tries to hug me, but I break away, unable to see her frailty. I walk out of the church, bitter tears dripping down my face. I can't do this.

***

"Katelyn, dear, it's not your fault." She folds her crepe-paper hands on the desk, while gazing at me with unadulterated pity in her weirdly blue eyes. As if that's going to help.

"If it's not my fault, whose is it?"

"He had a mental illness. It couldn't have been helped, really." Um, thanks for the news flash. She drones on. I try to fall asleep. Why does the school pay for a counselor who never listens and wears hair extensions? Does she really thing that her words are going to make me forget my pain, the sleepless nights of texting with Jamie? Does she think that's going to make me forget his smile and the way he watched me and laughed with me, his dark eyes shining?

Her words only bring me back. "You're not to blame," she harps. Well, that clears it up. She doesn't know what I did. I fought with him. He needed me more than I realized. I let him down. I yelled at him, played the bad guy until I won. For days, I didn't talk to him. Until he died. A tear runs down my cheek. I wipe it away with a bitten-down fingernail. I don't want her sympathy. The woman looks up at me.

"Oh, honey."

I roll my shoulders back, determined to stay strong. She can't make me a coward. I fold my hands uneasily, and she reaches out to me, placing her fragile hand on top of mine. I stand up, knocking the chair back. Only when I get to the bathroom do I let the tears fall from my eyes.

 

Tree Petals

I'm going to be posting some of my creative writing from YoCW once a week on here, from now on.
This is a story I wrote with the prompt "Dancing Through the Leaves."

***

He grasped a rake in his strong hands, pushing it against the firm grass. He knelt close to me. "We're going to rake these leaves for your mom, and then we're going to have a party." I nodded.

"Here, like this." He showed me how to drag the tool against the ground. My pudgy fingers slipped from the rake. Instead, I sat on the side of the grass, watching him, crouching underneath a tree. Sunlit swam through the trees, warming me. The air smelled like fresh apples and donuts. He finished raking quickly.

 

He laughed, a sparkling sound. "Know what we're going to do now, Gracie?"

 

"Have a party," I answered, proud of my six-year-old self for remembering for so long.

 

"That's right," he smiled.

 

"Come here, Gracie." He knelt on the ground, not caring that his jeans were filled with dirt, or the scraggly amount of dirt that we did have. He walked over to a corner of the lawn, where he'd put all of the leaves.

 

"What are we doi--" He picked me up easily. I fell into the leaf-pile, my hair filling with leaves. I giggled, overcome with joy.

 

"Again, Daddy, again?" And so he did, over and over, until my head was full of excitement and Daddy pronounced me "a regular hillbilly."

 

"Now what are we doing?" He glanced at me, his face glowing.

 

"We're going to dance in the leaves," he replied confidently. And so we did. I was slow at first, stumbling over the steps, but Daddy was a good teacher. We waltzed around the pile of leaves, my almost-golden hair flying behind me. We danced to the birds' chirping until we'd danced so many times we couldn't keep track and our clothes were covered with fragments of leaves. I fell down, and he followed me, until our clothes were full of leaves. I rode on his shoulders.

 

We laughed when the trees sprinkled their petals on us. Only later would I remember the glint in his teasing grin, his flannel shirts, the rock albums he always listened to. I remember so I have something to remember him by. He's in Iraq now. Either that or gone. He doesn't rake anymore, but sometimes, when I'm alone, I still pretend we're dancing through the leaves.

YoWC

            While stalking the “December and Beyond” forums on NaNo, I found out about a challenge called “The Year of Continuous Writing.” I looked at the post, found out a little more about it, and decided to join in. After all, I liked writing, and writing continuously, and years, so what did I have to lose?

            The Year of Writing Continuously is an organization where you sign up to write ___ words a day, for a year, starting on March first. Basically, you can write as much as you like, and then send it in at the end of the month. If you don’t write exactly ___ words per day, it’s fine, as long as by March first, you reach your word-count. You can include Camp NaNo and NaNoWriMo, in order to achieve your total word-count, and there are writing prompts and contests to encourage all of the participants. About sixty people are doing it with me, and I’m already enjoying the group support. I would have mentioned this sooner, but due to 100-for-100, school, and working on my WIP, I was busy. To be honest, I also forgot that it was coming up. My goal is 500 words per day, roughly, to achieve a total word-count of at least 182,500 words by the end of next February. Three days in, it’s going really well, and I’m excited for the year to come!