To Inspire. To Inform. To Free...a reader into a world of wonder, second thoughts, and the imagination. Hello, my name is Samantha and I am an educator by day and penned crusader by night.
Behind the Starting, White Line
The Scene: The runners are crouched at the starting line. Anticipation builds as they hope that years of preparation will propel them to victory. Bang! The gun goes off and the runners sprint. Their steps move without hesitation in hyperactive motion toward the finish line. Who will pull ahead? Who will fall? The race that started at the white line at their feet will be determined by who will be the first to break the ribbon across their chest. What lies beyond the finish line will be continuous euphoria for the winner and gratuitous disappointment for the competitors; both emotions intensified by the cheers of the crowd.
The Stench of Revenge
The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. The flame began its ascent like fingers slowly separating from a fist. As the light wiped the sleep from the corners of the empty cabin, the shadows were delighted upon seeing their reflection once again. Their friend and foe, the light, highlighted their curves and they danced in the flicker.
Purple Rain: 3:46
It was 1984. Mama and I were on our way to spend some quality time together at the movies. We had originally planned to see the movie “Bambi,” but I had a master plan. My 7 year old mind did not want to see an animation about a deer; I had already had my weekly cartoon fill on Transfomers, Smurfs, and He-Man. Samantha wanted to see a grown up movie, her first, about a man in purple. He wore ruffled shirts and had big, curly hair like the ladies at the beauty shop. As mama drove, I imagined our brown Firebird to be a “Little Red Corvette.” However, unlike in the song, my mom did not drive much too fast. Looking back, she was more like “The Slow and the Curious.” We cruised to the small AMC theater tucked in the back of our local Kmart and parked in front. I had rehearsed my devious, temper tantrum scheme in case mama said no to seeing the movie. As we approached the ticket booth and saw the showtimes, she began to request two tickets to Bambi when I nervously exclaimed, “Ma, I want to see THAT movie!” I pointed to the picture of the man with an intense stare on a motorcycle shrouded in semi-darkness.
The Hubbard House wasn’t like other haunted houses. The 3 story gray and white Victorian sat amongst others in downtown Sacramento. Though there was no one living inside, the paint looked fresh and no cobwebs lurked in its corners. No bare trees with branches like bony fingers and knuckles scratched the head of the house. The grass stood devotedly neat and dark green. The hot Sacramento summer suns tried their best to add splashes of brown and yellow highlights to the tips of their green blades, but yet it remained still, unscorched, and stubborn. Weeds dared not cross into its borders and the flowers grew beautifully and flagrantly across the porch. Of these, red roses were the most abundant and colorful, but they always remained closed, never blooming open, and petals never knowing the taste of the ground. They stood as the Queen’s Guard armed with thorns aimed at anyone who dared breach the royal blue double doors or approach the stone with the shimmery piece of metal embedded inside. No one had been inside the house since old man Hubbard passed away 5 years ago; The house simply wouldn’t allow it.