Krisha+Balar

__**I Am From....**__ By Krisha Balar I am from the evening sun, The last emitting rays of heat and light A cool, whistling breeze rustling through my   Tangled, dark, tied-up hair. I am from bikes racing On the cracked pavement, Cars zipping by and leaving an odor of sweet gasoline; The wheels of my vehicle bouncing violently on the pebbles. I am from the laughter of my friend and me   As we acted out stuffed animals going on adventures, Racing across the neighborhood, Our smiles never fading. I am from made-up worlds, Fictional journeys and fantastical creatures. From sheltering trees that protected my friend and me   From the evil, darkening days that slowly crept over the horizon. I am from flickering fireflies that begin to dance out of nothing, And from harmonious cricket concerts hidden in dark places, From distant frog croaks and a late-night plane, Racing across blackness with flashing spotlights of different colors. I am from the dropping temperatures on a summer evening, Another brisk breeze warning my friend and me that summer was coming to a close. From goosebumps that arose onto my exposed skin, And from tripping over the uneven sidewalk as I headed home, smiling. I am from adventures and a vivid, colorful imagination that works year-round to create...   To create beautiful memories engraved in my mind, And then scribbled into a diary that is tattered, but well-preserved. I am from thoughts that could never escape from my childhood before it was taken over By a bright yellow school bus that roared around the corner. **__My Life Twenty Years From Now__** By Krisha Balar #3

Racing across the paper from one end to the other was a beaten and chewed-up pencil. Vigorously, it copied down the words that flowed from my mind to my fingertips. As I felt the graphite smoothly interact with my notebook paper, I sighed happily. My latest novel, a thrilling tale of survival, adventure, and romance, would grasp at the readers, ousting them from their familiar world of reality. Instead, they would be whisked away to my generous world of fantasy and fiction. Chapter eighteen was causing my stomach to flutter as I wrote down the dialogue of the main character. She was angrily hollering at her co-star. About halfway through chapter twenty, I was stumped. Writer’s block was kicking in, temporarily shutting down my imagination. Frustrated, I threw my notebook and pencil onto my nightstand and, with a simple flick of my wrist, I flung my blankets off of me so I could make myself some lunch. As I headed downstairs to the kitchen, I constantly mumbled, “What should happen next? It has to be exciting.... Ugh, I need inspiration!” Slapping my sandwich together, I took it to the family room and switched the television on. A program about the country of New Zealand was showing, and so I watched. The program boasted about the scenery and wildlife. All of a sudden, I jumped because the phone wailed out of the blue, nearly scaring my sandwich out of me. “H-Hello...?” I answered shakily, still in shock from the moment before. “Hey, Krisha!” called a cheery voice. It was my editor, Jackie. “How’s your novel coming along?” “Terrible!” I moaned. “Currently, I am suffering from a minor case of writer’s block.” “Don’t tell me you’re watching t.v. and eating a sandwich so you can get ideas,” Jackie laughed. She knew me too well. “Yup, you guessed it.” We spoke for a few more minutes and eventually hung up. With my eyes drooping from sleep deprivation, I struggled to stay awake to watch the show. But then, a particular part caught my eye, jerking me awake. On the screen, the camera focused on a beautiful flower. It was a lavender color, shimmering in the sunlight. Drawn in the center, where the petals met, was what looked like a dark-colored heart. Mother Nature created a beautiful flower that had a heart-shaped center! “BRILLIANT!” I exclaimed, terrorizing my poor pet cockatoo, Coconut. He squawked and I apologized, giving him an orange slice to snack on. Like the lunatic that I was, I gorilla-stomped up the steps, stumbled into my room, and lunged at my notebook. Grabbing the pencil, I wrote down every idea that first popped into my mind. Soon, pages were being filled with descriptive words and humorous dialogue, and my hand seared with intolerable pain because I was writing so much. My novel was soon to be finished, with a few chapters yet to be recorded.