dandelions

Gregory?_ I called. I couldn__ help myself. It was irrational, but I was scared to see him run from me. He turned my direction, his feet pivoting in the dirt. Warily, I crossed into the light for a moment. __o you, um_ I inhaled deeply. __o you think you__l still want to be my friend tomorrow?_ I held my breath and waited for his answer. Although I could feel the sunshine perceptibly tingle every inch of exposed skin, the way Gregory smiled at me produced a swell of warmth unmatchable even for the sun. ____l always want to be your friend, Annabelle. Do you want to be mine?_ My head nodded like mad, ecstatic, all on its own. I disappeared among the shadows again and watched my new friend until he stepped around the Hopkins_ house. Then I waited until his car drove off -- Gregory and his mother headed for home. I was on a high like no other, but I__ not lost my grasp on reality entirely. I knew that the real test would come Monday. It was one thing to befriend an outcast in the privacy of the woods, but quite another to risk ridicule and reputation when surrounded by peers. This was true even for those with the biggest of hearts, which I now believed Gregory Hill to have.

I realized at that moment - observing his form move further away without once turning back - that I__ already begun to rebuild the imaginary wall between us. I was shielding my heart with stone cold feelings again, the only way I knew to protect it. I still planned to try my hand at prayer. If God would grant me this one request, if I could keep my only friend, I would give anything in return, even the treasured books trapped beneath my arm. I__ tasted enough of a dismal life to know that a real, true friend was of greater worth than the collection of every imagined fairytale in the world.

... ancient days of sorrowancient days of pain-heartaches of the pastslowly began to wane ...(from gleaning granules)

Dandelions are just friendly little weeds who only want to be loved like flowers.

Does poem also walk through the valleys seeking tongues from dandelions?

Okay, so we know that someone at your place of work hacked into this laptop. That's what we know, that's all we know; let's not jump to conclusions...yet." "Unless...it's backward...

Knowing even as I craved permanence in New York City, that would never come to pass. The pair of us would live for as long as we could. As well as well could. That was all. Then we'd blow away like wishes made on dandelion heads.

There is nothing in the world more pathetic than a bunch of wilted dandelions.

... on the lawn one late summer day, her pale hair tangled because she'd cry if anyone tried to brush it, spinning around and around until she got so dizzy she fell in a pile of bare feet and dandelions and sundress.

Nobody loves the head of a dandelion. Maybe because they are so many, strong, and soon.

The interruption did nothing but earn her a similar slap, as I__ sure she knew it would. Sometimes I wondered if my mother spoke up at the wrong time on purpose. As often as we endured my father__ abuse, she had to be aware that it wouldn__ save me from a beating but simply earn her one as well. Or was it that sharing my fate made her feel less guilt-ridden about those things that happened to me?

He panted over me, winded by his own absurd lecture. The stench of his alcoholic breath stung my nose. Again I didn__ answer. I hoped he__ tire out and end his speech and hobble back to the living room without touching me. Such hopes were unlikely, as was the case this time. __nswer me, you good-for-nuthin_ wench!_ The pain bit instantly as his hand connected with my cheek. I shook my head in answer to his crazy questions, feeling a rise of warm tears.

My fingers combed through my dark hair, short and straight, landing in choppy, uneven ends nearly level with my chin. The color reminded me of every evil character in any fairytale. It seemed all were characteristically black; black hair, black eyes, black clothing, black demeanors, and black intent. I never thought I was truly a villainous character, not like I knew my father to be, but I was his offspring and devoid of any princess-like characteristics, so that left only the wicked side of the story to play. In my dreams, though, I imagined myself more like Snow White__avy, raven hair, a perfectly fair complexion, bathed in rose scents, and exhibiting a natural feminine grace that would dance musical circles around both Ginger and Elizabeth. No, I never hoped for such a thing to be real, but I dared to pretend it with perfect clarity in my dreams.

Dare to imagine. Dare to be. Books are the seeds. Dreams are the soil. The fruit of the harvest, a world reborn.

Have you ever felt as if your dreams were more memorable, more alive, than what you knew to be reality? Have your dreams ever seemed so tangible as to make you question upon waking if you__ truly only dreamt them? Have they at times been addictive enough to consume your waking hours; blurring actuality and pretend together until your wishes and passions stare back at you with open

I turn and run, watching my feet trample a massacre of weeds. I mourn them. The only thing that grows is dandelions in the cracks of the sidewalk and we always end up killing them.

The blood dried on his good hand, he passed his palm over her hair. It curled about his wrist and sprung back into displace as the breeze fluttered by. In the firelight, it was golden like the dandelions of which she__ spoken. The ones that had grown along the Franklin riverbank in late summer. The ones he had lost any faith in since he__ committed his first murder there.