Wednesday, June 17, 2015


 So, I wanted to tell you somethings that have been on my mind and sometimes the only way to share is through a story, so here is a super short story. It's completely fictional, kind of just flooded right out of me at the last moment...

Little girl doing creating

Babies can paint too

Somehow it became finger painting

{S O M E D A Y}

"So you like art?" the woman with the shining eyes asks. 
"Yes," answers little girl. I don't just like art. I breathe art. Ever spiraling curve. Every harsh brush stroke. Every soft line. Art is piece of me, not just a hobby. 
"I'll show you some of my work," the woman offers. "Would you like that?" 
Little girl nods. 
Into another room the woman leads her, a room full of art. Shapes. Colors. Unspoken words... all collided into each painting. 
Little girl is speechless. Awkward. I'll never be this good.
"This is what I do," the woman says smiling. "I hoped it would inspire you." 
Little girl is wordless. This is what I want to be. She's amazing. My art is so bad next to this, but maybe someday...
"Your mom said you brought some work to show me," mentions the woman. 
Little girl pauses. I can't show her mine. It's so bad next to this. "It's in my backpack," she whispers instead, and rushes out of the room to get it. 
Little girl brings back a drawing of a flower. Crooked. Light. Plain. It was once beautiful to me, but she'll never catch that beauty. She couldn't.
The woman takes it. Looks it over without a word. Little girl waits, hardly breaths, just waits. 
"That's very nice," The women tells her at last. "Someday you'll become famous." 
Its not good enough now... but maybe someday. Little girl smiles. "Thank you." Stiff. Too short... but what else can I say?
To the women it all feels stale. Did she really inspire the little girl? Doubt. Or just intimidated her? 
Weeks slide by and the woman gets busy and famous and stops talking to the little girl. Stops seeing the hidden artist inside her. 
But the little girls doesn't stop dreaming. 
 s o  m e d a y
She whispers to herself. 
The weeks form months and the months form years and nothing changes. The woman forgets the little girl, but the little girl never forgets that one word 
s o m e d a y 
One stormy March day the woman moves on in the world. She leaves, but before she's gone she sees the little girl and she remembers. Did I ever help her? She wonders. Probably not. She goes. 
But little girls still hears the old promise 
s o m e d a y 
she never let it go
Words are wild things. 
Don't underestimate them. 
Sometimes we watch them form people 
and other times they form people 
on their own. 


  1. This is a good reminder that the little things we say can make a huge impact on others! /Someday./ I could relate to this a lot, actually – lately I've been too harsh in comparing my amateur writing works to the work of published refined authors. Our beginnings don't look as polished as the professionals', surely, but we forget that they, too, went through the rough humble beginnings. We're all the Little girl staring at our own flower paintings and judging them. (Sorry, turned into a bit of an analysis there. x) I enjoyed reading this!

  2. Hey, don't apologize for an analysis! That's what readers are here for. I compare my writing to professionals too and it wears me down. I'm pretty sure I was writing this as a reminder to myself

  3. This is perfect for how I feel all the time.
    Thank you for this post! <3

    1. Your welcome. Thank you for you're beautiful comment.