Morwen's Maniacle Mumbling

So, I finally decided to get my own personal webpage. With it I got a wordpress account, so expcept to see me do lots more voice posting, there will probabaly even be pictures and videos.

www.morwenelda.com <- That's the website.

www.morwenelda.com/blog <- That's the blog.

Pretty simple. Now GO. LOOK. READ. And for the love of fuck comment.

Well, first, I've been contemplating getting a paid account when I get a job so that I can do more voice posts. But I'm not going to waste the money on it if no one actually likes hearing the voice posts. So let me know what you think of that.

Second of all, I was in the mood to write today, and I thought I would share with you all what I wrote. Tis a short story, very short story, that just kind of popped into my mind. I'm actually in a considerably happy mood, so I'm a bit surprized at the subject matter. Now I really want to hear your opinions on this, so leave me comments people.


Dallas Snow

Alex propped up the pillows on the bed and laid back into them, glancing at the empty spot beside him. Instantly he felt a sharp pang and fought back tears. He reached slowly into his pocket, pulling out a small silver band with "melamine" engraved onto the inside. Alex held his breath, eyes closed, fighting back the pain that was rising with each second he felt the cool metal in his hand.

The soft wimpers of Adlai, lying in his crib a few feet away provided some distraction for Alex. He brought the cold metal to his lips, kissing it softly, grasping it in his hand, as if trying to hold onto something already gone from him, and slipping it back into his pocket.

Alex walked over to the deeply colored crib, placed his hand on the rail, and leaned over to check on the sleeping infant. The sight of the small child, with his mother's eyes, her lips, brought Alex to his knees, head leaning on the rail of the crib, still trying to fight back tears. Alex could see through the wooden slats on the crib that Adlai was stirring, squirming from side to side, wimpering.

He rose slowly to his feet, walking to the kitchen, into the freezer and pulling out a small bag. He placed it under the hot water of the faucet, watching the liquid within melt slowly, touching it every few seconds to make sure it wasn't getting too hot. Alex turned off the water, picking up the small bag, pressing it to his chest while it was still dripping, clenching his teeth and letting a small groan escape from his lips.

Alex returned to the bedroom with a small bottle, perfectly heated, filled with the very last of the breast milk Dallas had pumped for them. Alex picked up Adlai, holding him in his arms as he sank back onto the bed. Almost as if Adlai understood his father, without words, tears welled in the small child's eyes as Alex placed the nipple into his son's mouth, watching the boy suckle innocently.

The last drops of milk seeped into the bottle nipple, and Adlai squirmed away from the bottle, crying and fussing profusely. Alex himself breaking, tears sliding from his deep grey eyes as the last physical essence of Dallas dripped from the nipple, dissapearing into the writhing child's mouth.

Alex reluctantly set the bottle onto the nightstand, cradling the boy to his chest, patting his back as he cried in his fathers arms. Alex patted the youngster's back until he was contented Adlai would not be colicy during the night, and Aldai squirmed and writhed, rooting at Alex, causing Alex to break compleatly.

He rocked Aldai back and forth on the bed with him, tears flowing steadily from his eyes as he reached into his pocket and once more pulled out the cold metal band that had sat on Dallas's finger earlier that day.

Alex bit his lip, as he remebered the scene earlier in the day. Holding the poor child in his arms as they looked upon her body for the last time. The child screaming, like he knew he was being given a chance to say goodbye to his mother, and was reluctant to admit she was gone. Alex had pressed Adlai into his chest, leaning down with the infant cradled between him and her, as they had laid in bed toghether only days ago. He pressed his lips to her still cool ones, his tears dropping onto her cheeks as he slipped her wedding band off her finger, sliding it into his pocket.

The memory burned in his mind. Tears clouding his eyes, leaving him with only the image of his beautiful wife, his tears on her cheeks, looking as if she too was crying for their forced parting.

The snow fell softly outside, as it had done as Alex held their child, their physical representation of how they had become one, how they had been so close. Alex had cradled the child against his chest then too, keeping him warm, as the snow flakes fell into Dallas's soft brown hair, white flakes, paler than her bloodless skin. That last second the tears still on her cheeks, glistening in the grey of the winter light as the lid of her casket closed, and Alex fell to his knees, watching as the crude wooden box holding his beloved was lowered into the ground.

And here he sat, with his child, on the bed he and his wife had shared. The aching in his heart, doubled with the pain of the Adlai's as the two of them laid on the bed, snow gently pressing against the windows, obstructing the view of the outside world, leaving only the image of Alex and Adlai, grieving for their Dallas, realizing only just now, how much they had loved being in her arms.

Morwen Elda
8-2-06

VoicePost 646K 2:54

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^ Listen to the voice postness.... You want to cliiiicky, cliiiicky, CLIIICKY. *cough....blink blink* Just click it.

VoicePost 443K 2:10

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Ok see, down there, the button that says "Talk to me, bitches" you're supposed to click that and TALK TO ME, you bitches!!! *coughCOMMENTcough*

VoicePost 566K 2:41

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http://dannysrantings.messano.net/ <- Danny's Blog

http://www.2l2o.com/ <-2l2o

Listen. Comment. I realized after I finished it, that I was going to also say, that I like my voice, and I have to compulsively listen to my voice posts before I can post them, unlike Danny.... Anyways, enjoy. Or not....

Moments ago I read the blog entry of a friend. It was about his hero; his grandfather. As I read my mind was filled with memories of a woman in my life who I would call my hero. She is my great-grandma.

Her name is Tennie. My parents considered naming me Tennie, but decided it would start a family feud over them trying to suck up. She was born in 1906, and was an amazing woman. She lived through the great depression and two world wars. She married a man named Joe, and they were together for more than 65 years. Tennie had a grand total of 10 children.

The day I was born, as soon as my parents were allowed to leave the took me straight to Tennie and Joe's. I can't recall if Joe or Tennie was the first to hold me out of the hospital, but it was one of them. My parents have told me how everyone was worried because Tennie was so old, she shouldn't be holding the baby. My mom just told them she raised 10 kids of her own and that my mom would leave me with her any day.

I have only a single memory of my great-grandpa Joe. He died when I was about 6 months old. I'm sure psychologists would say there is no way I remember this, but I do. I was laying on my back in the floor, and he was sitting on the floor in front of his hair, playing with my feet. My friend who posted about his grandfather, said he always liked to think he was the favorite. Joe looked up at Tennie while holding me one day and said "this is the best one yet." I was the favorite, everyone knew it, and no one tried to hide it.

I have many more memories of Tennie though. She lived next door to my grandma, and grandma Kay was my babysitter while mom and dad were at work. Tennie taught me the first thing I ever really remember learning. I would go over to her house around breakfast. She would pull a chair up to the stove and stand next to me, teaching me to break the eggs into the skillet, and how to flip them without breaking the yokes. Everyone thought she was crazy for letting the 3 year old cook, but no one ever got hurt.

I remember going out and playing in her yard, helping her water the flowers. She would go outside and walk around in her yard for hours. I remember how she used to let me put her make up on. Everyone said I made her look like a harlot. But she still let me put her make up on however I wanted, and she would let me fix her hair, much to the annoyance of her daughters who would just have to fix it again. I would help her hang the sheets and towels on the clothes line, and bring them in when it rained. I think I learned all about domestic chores from her.

Like my friend, my family was much closer with her around. Every other year we would have Thanksgiving at her house, and the inbetween years were Christmas. With 10 children, our family was rather spread out. They were only all together when they were at her house. I remember Christmases, there would be so much food that it would take up all the counters plus three tables to feed us all. There would be anywhere from 30-50 of us depending on if all the grandkids and great-grandkids made it. She would even let us have Halloween parties at her house so us little kids didn't have to go out and do a bunch of walking in rain or cold, depending on the year.

I too remember thinking she was immortal. I remember comparing her to one of those punching bags, you knock her down she just pops right back up. She would get sick, and get better, it just seemed like she could beat anything at all. She was in her 90s and still doing just fine living on her own. Then came the day that one of her daughters cancelled her dr appt because she didn't think Tennie needed to go. That afternoon she had a bloodclot. They found her unconcious on the floor. They put her in the hospital, and that was where she stayed until the day she died. I begged over and over again for them to let me go see her. Everyone knew this was it, and I kept begging them, just let me say goodbye. Everyone said they didn't want me to see her like that. The last memory I have of my great-grandmother is of us sitting in chairs across her living room tossing a stuffed ball back and forth while everone else was cleaning out the garage.

She died a few days before Christmas, the year 2000. I have a picture of her, taken no more than 24 hours before she died. I can't say she died painlessly, but in that picture, she looks happier than I ever saw her. Most my family says she knew she was going to heavan. I like to think she's in heavan, even though I don't really believe there is one, and that my wild little bitty kitty is sitting right there beside her, and Joe on her other side. My grandma Kay gave me the watch she had bought for Tennie for Christmas. I still have it, but I've never worn it. I can't bring myself to wear it.

I started going to church alot after she died, the same church where she went as a child. My self journies in life have lead me to believe that there is no God, but I do believe there was something special about that church. Not because of God or Christ, but because my great-grandma held it so close to her heart.

Since then our family has never been the same. Two of her children preceeded her in death, the other 8 were split down the middle. It's been a considerable amount of time since I saw Morgan, Dorthy, or Janice. I've seen Carl recently, but it wasn't till after he left I realized he wasn't a stranger who had walked up to Kay's house to ask directions. Wanda, Junior, John and my grandma I am very close to. I take every chance I get to spend time with them, so we often play card games late into the night. The last time the whole family was together was at Tennie's funeral. I went, I said goodbye, I took a single rose from a boquet home. I didn't cry. I felt bad for not crying, but it was about two weeks after she died that I did. The only way to explain it is that I was beyond tears. A grief that could not be shown through tears alone.

I have some various items that once belong to my great-grandma. I cherish them greatly, and hope to pass them down to my own kids someday. To show them that I still have the last dollar she gave me, to tell them how she used to hide money in the furniture, and let you keep it if you found it. Usually it was just a dollar, sometimes it would be a $5, and on occassion one would be so lucky as to find a $20 suffed under the couch coushins.

I haven't given much thought to going back back to visit her grave, but now that I do, I don't think I can. I was young when she died, but as soon as my father said the words "she passed away last night" I stopped being a kid. Everything became more real. Everything became more difficult. Suddenly my family was all fighting, on mom's side and dad's. They didn't all live on the same few blocks where a 5 year old could safely walk from one relative to another with no concern from the family. Life stopped working out. Before everything eventually resolved itself, and everyone was ok. Since then, I have been suicidally depressed, I was kicked out of school, I lost all my friends, I've been stalked, I've been harassed, I was threatened and hit by school officials and the kids at school, and the sad part, all that was within a year of her death. Some of them are childish problems, others are very real. To go back to her grave, would be going back to the place where my life changed forever. Someday, I will be able to face it, and put these last 6 years behind me, to finally start to recover and move on, but it probably won't be soon. I want that to be the last step in moving on, and that's a step I'm not ready to take.

I plan on moving away from here, sadly breaking our family even more. Perhaps her grave will be the last place I visit, concluding that which started there. Finally beginning another chapter in my life, memories of her brining back the joy they were to live, rather than the pain of what I lost.

Since rants are currently topping the poles, and this was just pissing me, off here's my first rant. And since I've not writen rants before, I'm borrowing the format Xalpharis uses until I find one of my own.



When I was younger, I used to always worry about offending blacks.

As I've gotten older, I don't give a fuck anymore.

And now something has come to mind about "proper terminology".

"African Americans" has always been considered a proper way of referring to black people.

As of this moment, I shall never use it again.

You are either African or you are American, you don't get to be both.

I get so sick of niggers complaining about how they are discriminated against.

They bring it on themselves.

The way they talk, dress, act, their music, it all segregates them.

You are either equal or different, you don't get to be both.

If you use a word with your friends, you don't get to take it as an insult if someone else calls you that.

I get sick hearing about all the niggers who try to take people to court to get money for what their ancestors went through.

Unless you're a fucking slave against your will, you don't have a right to a damn dime.

I continue to be disgusted by the United Negro College Fund and Black History Month.

If you want to be equal, you don't get a month about your history.

If you want to be equal, you don't get your own special college fund.

It is NOT ok to go from being discriminated against in a negative way to EXPECTING to be treated special 150 years later.

This is why I have a problem with most niggers.

They think they're special because they're black.

You're not. Get the fuck over yourselves.

Get a job, stop claiming "rap" is actually a form of music, and quit asking for hand-outs.

Well, I can't think of what kind of stuff I should write about, and I either don't get enough comments from you people to know what you like, or no one likes anything I write lol. So, here is your chance. You tell me what you want to see me write about.



Poll #765105 New Posts
Open to: All, detailed results viewable to: All, participants: 2

What would you like to see me blog about?

Just because I think he's an awesome writer, I'm doing a promo for Josh's website and blog. He's awesome, what He says is funny and true, and He has a very unique way with words that makes his writing fun to read, even if you don't agree with what he's saying.

http://www.xalpharis.com

http://rage.xalpharis.com/

Go. Read. Comment.

I had to share this with you all.


The Twenty-Third Qualm*
(Written by a retired Methodist minister)

Bush is my shepherd; I dwell in want.

He maketh logs to be cut down in national forests.

He leadeth trucks into the still wilderness.

He restoreth my fears.

He leadeth me in the paths of international disgrace for his ego's sake.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of pollution and war,

I will find no exit, for thou art still in office.

Thy tax cuts for the rich and thy media control, they discomfort me.
Thou preparest an agenda of deception in the presence of thy religion.

Thou anointest my head with foreign oil.

My health insurance runneth out.

Surely megalomania and false patriotism shall follow me all the days of thy term,

And my jobless child shall dwell in my basement forever.