Friday, December 17, 2010

Nina Semen1

Hello candy!

I've been nina semen since forever! Well, i'm actually loving the way she writes, it sort of dark and well pleasant. I'm sure some of you agree with me when you read her i'm not sure to call it a blog. but anyway, here it is, her URL click on it...

have fun reading! I think some commented on my writing to be very gloomy or sad and prefer it to be more scary or action and magical like harry potter, narnia and etc... I'm not sure what they mean but I write from the heart so I'll take note on why they said that and maybe just fix things better. SO if you please, maybe you'll like nina semen as much as i Do.. it is after all one of my idols though i have no freaking idea who he/she is for all i know her name is nina semen and well she exist as some one in this world who i can't trace! 

to nina: I just love the way you write and what you wrote is wrenchingly heart warming! love it!

here's a preview of what she wrote!

tucked away in the corner of town is my great uncle’s old house. he’d lived in it since the day he was born. he’s dead now; he was schizophrenic. my great aunt - his older sister - said he came back from the war like that. apparently he’d been fine before. anyway, he went particularly nuts one night and jumped out of a three story window thinking something was after him. a demon or something.
the house has a rusty tin roof; the wood it’s built from is grey; the porch sags. can’t live in it, but i visit ever so often, just because. it’s a good place to think. it’s in the far back of a cotton field that no one tends to anymore, overgrown with brown and green, little bits of white speckled throughout it like dandruff. when i visit my dogs like to delve through it, chasing whatever animals they find until they come back to me, moping, with thorns and pricklers stuck in the fur.
past the field, before the house, at the edge of the yard is a white oak tree that my uncle called the lynching tree.
he said one night, when he was young, the white man that owned the farm his daddy worked on and some of his white friends strung up a black boy from it for not saying sir. that white man had been nothing but nice to our family, he said, and they thought he was fine, as far as white folk went, until that night.
that night they sat in their house, my uncle and his parents and his dozen siblings, including my great grandfather, crouched in the kitchen windows and watched that fine white man - that had treated his black father fairly and was always kind to his Cherokee mother - kick that boy in his ribs and laugh at him pleading for his life and murder him.
he said that after it happened his mother begged his father to cut that tree down, but he refused and that when he asked his daddy why, he just looked down at him with ice in eyes and told him “it’s to make sure ya’ll never forget. you can’t trust a white man as far as you can toss him, ‘less you plan on gettin’ hanged.”
i don’t know if the story is true or something the crazy in him invented. i never asked anyone else in the family: it seemed distasteful.
sometimes in the fall i’ll take people to that house and show them that tree. i rarely tell the macabre tale but i point out how when all the other trees’ leaves start whittling down and turning yellow and orange and brown, this one’s turn a deep shade of burgundy, almost like the red of deoxygenated blood

so visit her page now will ya!

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