Toothpaste

Hi everyone! So this is another assignment for Creative Writing class. We each got an object and it had to be significant in our story. Most people got something like jewelry or a rock, or candy, but I got toothpaste. Anyway, I ended up having a really good time writing the story, and here it is! I hope you like it!

P.S. - By the way, in case you were wondering I did get a limit on page count, it was three pages.

Guinivere stared at the box. It was small, made of dark wood with golden clasps and fittings. Her mother’s box. Linnet Stone.

Four years ago, her mother had died of cancer. Always trying to make her laugh, her mother had joked and smiled, never letting on how much pain she was in. Guinivere remembered the last days, when she had peered into her mother’s eyes, but seen nothing of her mother. That had terrified her, the glassy look in Mom’s eyes. And finally, the roses, the tears, the I’m so sorry for your loss, as the coffin was lowered into the ground, as people tried to make condolences. It would never work.

Her mother had given her the box. This is yours, my princess. Only promise me one thing. Promise me, princess, she had said. Promise me you will not open it until you are sixteen. On your sixteenth birthday.

So Guinivere had promised. Her mother had sighed in relief.  It had seemed so important to her that Guinivere didn’t have the heart to refuse. Her Mom had been the one who was always there. Mom had always been the one who gave her a warm hug when kids were mean to her, and baked brownies on Sunday afternoons.

Guinivere glanced into the mirror. She wished she looked like her mother, with long, lush dark brown hair and matching eyes that radiated a kind, gentle demeanor, a tall, commanding figure. She always wished she was like her mom, could move with the same easy grace and exude the same confidence. But Guinivere had rich, dark red hair, such a truly red color that people often wondered if she had dyed it, and vivid green eyes. She was small and slender with a splash of freckles across the bridge of her nose.

Sighing, Guinivere realized she had to open it or she would always wonder. She slid the nail of her finger along the box and up to the beautiful gold clasp. She slid her nail under, and flicked it up, unlatching the clasp. Slowly, slowly, slowly, she pushed the box opened.

Two objects lay within. The first was a beautiful little bracelet, made of glossy, midnight blue gems, the bracelet her mother had always worn. It seemed wrong, somehow, that Mom hadn’t been buried with it. She had never seen Mom without that bracelet.

The second was a fat to the bursting tube of … Toothpaste. It was Colgate, a shiny white tube, with blue writing on the side. She uncapped the tube and smelled it. She smelled the sharp scent of mint, cutting deep. It smelled like her Mom when she hugged Guinivere, and promised that life always got better.

Guinivere noticed something. Under the tube of toothpaste was a thickly folded note. She pulled it out and unfolded it, relishing the feel of her Mom’s best creamy writing paper against her skin.

My dearest Guinivere,

I imagine you are very angry with me right now, or perhaps very sad. I apologize for these vague instructions, but as you know now, I have very little time left.

Guinivere, you must put the bracelet about your wrist, then eat a bite from the toothpaste. Every day it will give you a new power, the power you need to survive, because as soon as these stones touch your wrist, you become The Protectress. Also, when the gems come in contact with your skin, you are a target by The Others, who want control of the bracelet, want our family line’s powers to be there’s. You should know this now, I did not die from cancer. It is a poison invented by The Others, and it mimics the effects of cancer. It is a slow, painful death.

Guinivere, know now that you are not a normal girl. You are a princess, descended from King Arthur and Queen Guinivere. Before Arthur went to battle against Lancelot, his former best friend and first of The Others, he gave Guinivere the tube, a gift from the sorcerer Merlin. He told her it would protect her. When Guinivere was infected, she passed the tube to her daughter, and so it has gone down, Mother to daughter. Now, my princess, you must hide. You must use the tube every day, and most important of all, you must run, my darling daughter. Your father can never know of this. You must run, and one day, find a place to settle down, and when you feel the effects of the poison, lock away the bracelet and tube in the box. If you keep wearing the bracelet and eating the toothpaste, they will be stolen. You must protect it. You are now The Protectress. Take the bracelet. Eat the toothpaste.

Run, princess. I love you. You must run, princess. Run. You may hate me now. If it was my choice, I would have never put such a burden on your shoulders.

My princess. Guinivere.

Eat the toothpaste. Run princess. I love you. I believe in you.

I trust you, and I hope someday, you will be greater than me in every way.

A poor Happy Birthday, is it not princess? The last time I tell you, I love you, darling, and I am so proud of the young woman you have become.

­­- Mom

Guinivere stood stock still in her bedroom. She looked out the window. Weak gray dawn light came and the sun was beginning it’s slow rise. She checked her clock. It was four o’ clock. She had been up so early, agonizing over the box.

Guinivere slipped the polished, midnight blue gems over her wrist, and slid the golden hooks together, closing it on her wrist.

Eat the toothpaste, then run princess. I love you. The thoughts echoed in her mind. I love you, her mother had said. My princess. She didn’t need to put that.

Tears sparked in her vivid eyes, and spilled down her cheeks, heaving, gasping sobs.

She had to listen to her mother. Guinivere took a shaky breath, air rushing into her lungs.

She closed her eyes, eyelashes brushing her cheek ever so slightly.

Guinivere hugged her pillow, and stared at the fat tube of toothpaste. She cried.

Why?

She lifted the tube, and slowly uncapped it again. She squeezed a tiny dollop onto her finger, took a deep breath, and placed it on her tongue.

She almost spat it out, not because it tasted bad, but because the taste was so unexpected for a tube of toothpaste. It was something Guinivere had not tasted in four years. It was the chocolatey brownies her Mom baked, with gooey melted chocolate chips, best eaten warm with a scoop of ice-cream. It felt like her Mom was hugging her tight, promising everything would be okay again.

Guinivere looked down, and gasped. There was nothing there. She was … invisible.

“No way,” she breathed. Her own voice wasn’t heard. She took a deep breath, and screamed. No sound came out.

“Wicked,” she whispered … but no sound came out. It was a sign.

Guinivere rose, and grabbed her favorite bag, an embroidered maroon one, that had a flap that buckled down. It turned invisible when she held it. She tossed in folded clothes, sweaters, hats, and gloves her Mom had given her. Warm clothes and summer clothes. She crept down to the kitchen, and tossed in some food. She grabbed all the emergency cash they had, feeling a little bad about taking it, but knowing she needed it. She disabled the alarms and stood poised at the front door, her feet bouncing slightly. She stared at her sneakers for a minute, then stared at the dark road.

She knew she might not survive The Others, whoever they were. She wasn’t sure if she could do it. She might die, and not be able to give the toothpaste and bracelet to her child.

But she also knew that she had to do this, for her mother.

Run, princess. I love you. I believe in you, princess.

I trust you, and I hope someday, you will be greater than me in every way.

She needed to do this. She knew in her heart, she could.

Guinivere ran down the road, her white converse thumping against the hard, unyielding blacktop, her maroon bag swinging.

The road before her would be hard, that much she knew. But as long as she had her mother’s love, her mother’s belief, she knew she could do anything. She glanced down at the cool, polished gems lying against her the curve of her wrist, golden clasp shimmering.

I love you too Mom. I’ll make you proud.

Guinivere didn’t stop running. And she didn’t look back.

4:11 AM

Hi everyone! So in my school, we have Yearbook as an elective, and in third trimester, Yearbook turns into Creative Writing! We had a prompt to write a story with our assigned number. Our number had to be the title, and the word count. I think the reason we get word counts or page counts now is because the first assignment we got, I wrote 75 pages! Anyways, here’s my story. My number is 411, and the title doesn’t count in the word count! I hope you like it!

I stare at my motionless sister. Hope's hair streams over the crisp white pillow, like a river of golden honey. The strands are fine, soft, and straight. When she hugged me, those strands felt like a curtain shielding me from the world. She would promise everything would be all right.

Perhaps that is the most cruel joke of all.

An unnatural pallor is in her cheeks, normally glowing and rosy, full of life. How can this be my sister?

We got the call at home. Hope had gone over to a friend’s house. A drunk driver slammed into her tiny, run-down car on her way home.

It was his fault. So why is Hope lying here, close to … death? Why not him?

I don't hear the doctor's commands, as they work around me. I don't hear my mother's wails.

But I hear, louder than a shout, as the last, feeble breath escapes Hope's lips. I hear the beep as the line on the heart monitor falls flat - just as the minute hand swings. 4:11.

"No!" I scream, shaking her shoulders, futilely pleading. "Please, Hope! Wake up! Hope!"

My father stands by me. Tears streak down his face. I am afraid, because I have never seen my father cry before. “Sky. It’s … it’s too late.”

"No!" I scream. "Tell him he's wrong, Mama! Hope! Please, wake up!"

But my mother turns away from me, her shoulders shaking with sobs.

"No," I whisper. I look into my sister's face, studying it, memorizing every detail I know so well. How can she look so different in death? Her face is pallid now. Her eyes, always so bright, sparkling with laughter, are shut, the long gold lashes just barely brushing her cheek. I have never spent a day without my sister. We never had sibling rivalry - the two year age gap was nothing to us. We were best friends. I study the tiny details you wouldn't normally notice, the light brown freckle by the corner of her left eye, the nails kept rounded with a file, the way that her eyes slant slightly, giving a catlike impression. She was always bursting with energy, so alive. Come back to me. I need you.

There is no one in the world I loved like Hope.

There is no one I will ever love like I loved her.

4:11. That is when my sister died.

4:11. That is when part of me died.

4:11.

The Colors I Saw

Like I said in an earlier blog, I live really close to the ocean, and I love the sea, or even just water in general. I love swimming, even though I’m not very good at it, unlike some of my friends. One of the things I love most about the sea is all the colors, so I try to write poetry about it, because I love poetry almost as much as I do writing stories. Anyway, here it is. This poem is called The Colors I Saw. I hope you like it, and please comment! I’d love to hear what you think!

Once upon the time, when the world was young, my grandfather told me

Look out, child, upon the ocean blue

And look at it with eyes young and untainted, and true

And tell me

All the colors you see

And I told him: I see the white-capped waves as they break on the shore

And the turquoise calm of the bay, and the azure of the tide pools, and many more

I see the candy colored sails of the little fishing boats, where they run

And the deep, impenetrable blue of the deep sea, dancing with the yellow of the sun

I see a deep green calm, where no humans go

The pink of the jellyfish, plastic-y green of the seaweed waving to and fro

And yellow, and pink, and blues from the fat fish who dart

The white sands swirling at the clear bottom always gives me a start

The ivory oysters, which lie on the seafloor like the pearls they mill

And the red of the blood from when a shark made its kill

I see the smooth slick gray of a dolphin tail

And the deep blue spout of a humpback whale

The baby pink of a starfish

The gleam of an oyster’s pearl, I’ve heard if you have one you can make a wish

And many more colors, too many to count

As I look out on the seashore, the number my eyes perceive amounts

What about you grandfather, what colors do you see?

- S.P. Kumar

The Colors of the Sunset in Paradise

Hi! This is another poem I wrote just for fun. I live close to the ocean, and the sunset always looks incredibly beautiful, so I thought I’d try capturing it in a poem one day.

It’s called The Colors of the Sunset in Paradise. I hope you like it!

As the sun dipped low

Over the mountains, just a faint glow

I swept my brush across the sky

And blended, mixed, and painted colors, on the fly

And then the sky stained with the colors of my sun brush

The colors, sharp, vivid, beautiful, as the song of a meadow thrush

Gold, pink, pale blue, red

Purple, orange, fiery yellows, and upon the fringes, the color of plain gray lead

But the gray blue of the sky, I had once thought so beautiful

Seemed paltry at the sight of this sunset, incredibly wonderful

The colors mixed and blended

To powerful oceans, majestic mountains, and placid lakes, beauty was added

The colors stained and merged together

I looked back once, so I would remember forever

The colors of the sunset in paradise

-S.P. Kumar

Writing The Cave of Mystic Dreams

My name is S.P. Kumar. I am twelve years old, and I live in San Diego, California with my mom, dad, and little sister.

Ever since I was little, I have always loved reading more than anything else in my whole life. Books were a way of escaping boring, normal life, and going into new worlds. My favorite books were the ones that opened doors into new worlds, always, and I loved visiting these imaginary places in my head. When I came into fourth grade, I discovered a new love - a love of writing. I started off telling my sister my stories. I made up dozens of new worlds we explored together: Candyland, Stewed Vegetable Land, Funland, Fairyland, Giantland, and more. Eventually, I began to write down the stories on paper.

After many failed attempts, in sixth grade, I came up with the idea for the Cave of Mystic Dreams after school on one of the last days of school. The ideas flowed: two sisters, warrior queens, and three tests. The characters came first to me, starting Jason, Claire, and Zac, moving on to Leianara and Deimada and ending with Jackson, Jessica and Marguerite. Later, the setting began to flow, and with it, a million other details. A world called Zairon, people called Zaira, who could take to the air as easily as birds. Mondens, goisli, hair that dyed and curled up by itself.

For the past eight months, my book has been a very big part of my life. Creating it was one of the most fun, incredible experiences of my entire life. The reason that writing is so incredible is that it's completely yours, and you have complete control over anything that happens.

I think the biggest thing that this experience has taught me is to always believe in myself and go for what I want. No one ever believed I could write a book except for me.

Now I know and believe with all my heart that I can do anything, as long as I believe in myself.

-S.P. Kumar