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@wingiby-iggiby

I live in northern Indiana right now. To me… it’s rather a boring state to live in, but I think most people get bored of their own home states at some point, cause it’s so well known to us. It’s not new and exciting like looking through beautiful color photos of far off places in a travel brochure. 😀

I can post more of my story. 🙂 I only have the first seven or eight chapters actually written down, plus random scenes I’ve written out, but I’ll try to keep stuff from earlier sections so I don’t spoil too much in case it ever is finished. 😉
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Here’s the very beginning…

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“There are all sorts of feelings in this world; sadness, joy, guilt, contentment. They twist around people’s hearts, drape over their shoulders, or walk beside them holding their hand. Wherever they are, I can see them.
When my mom and dad were alive, they called it a God-gift. My foster parents don’t understand. Most people don’t, but I’m okay with that. It feels special to know I’m the only one who can see the whirlpool of feelings, even the hidden ones, dark and secret. When I walked around campus, I would open my heart eyes and stare at the churning sea of college-student emotions flooding out of their hearts and hovering around them.
I knew that if I could see myself, I would only have one feeling hovering around me.
Loneliness.
It’s me to a ‘t’; lonely Felicity, walking around with her head down and her shoulders forward, barricading herself from the odd looks, the jeers and the whispers.
I get them for a lot of reasons. Because I don’t wear make-up. Because I failed a Chemistry exam. Because my jeans aren’t tight-fitting, and my necklines aren’t low. Because I read my Bible during lunch hour. I sit by myself in a corner while the words ‘idiot’, and ‘Jesus-freak’ float over and seep like poison into my heart.
There are people I’ve seen that bring out the best feelings in everyone, like happiness, or love. The only ones I see in other students when I’m around are the worst ones. Anger. Superiority. Mockingness. That’s not even a real word. I made it up for all the people who like nothing more than cutting me down every day, until I’m almost sure there’s nothing of me left for them to cut.
But I was going to change that.
I knew when the bell rang at the last class of the last day of the semester. I knew when I swung my backpack strap over my shoulder and walked past a line of whispering girls. I knew when I stepped out of the Anslor College doors and squinted up into the brilliant summer sky that I wasn’t going to come back.
I said a silent farewell to the looming brick building behind me, unlocked my ten-speed, and pedaled for home.”

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And here’s a part where she’s been taken in by a family and convinced to stay for a while…
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He led me down a narrow hallway lined with picture frames. Dimpled babies and frizzy haired children smiled at me from the walls. Once again, I noticed love, folded up and tucked into the corners of the frames. I glimpsed a cozy looking living room with large arm chairs and shelf after shelf of books through an open doorway to my left.
Clay stopped me and I saw I was in a kitchen, a homey, sun-warmed little room tastefully decorated in blues and yellows. A woman stood at the sink, her back to us. Brown hair with streaks of pale grey was swept up into an elegant twist, and gentle humming floated on the air.
I breathed in deeply… I could almost smell the happiness. It smelled like flowers and fresh air and a sweet, bread-like fragrance I couldn’t place. I could certainly see the happiness at any rate. It stood next to Mrs. Dawson, swaying a bit to the music she hummed, and little scraps of it peeked out from every cupboard and shelf and hung in bits like pieces of material over the back of chairs and the oven handles.
“Mother?” Clay said. I froze. What was she going to think of me? What in heaven’s name was I even doing? Why had I agreed to do this?
Clay nudged me forward, having seen my hesitation to go any farther. “Mother, I ran into someone on the road who needed help. She doesn’t have a place to stay tonight. Her name is Felicity Jones.”
Mrs. Dawson turned from the sink, wiping her hands on a faded dish towel. Her face was kind and gentle, but I braced myself for criticism as her eyes swept down, taking in my plaid vest, worn-out jeans, and scuffed up cowboy boots. She stepped forward and held out her slender, calloused hand. “I’m pleased to meet you, Felicity. My name is Ann Dawson.”
I took her hand, surprised by the strength of her grip. “I’m glad to meet you too, Mrs. Dawson.” I paused, scrambling for something to say. “My middle name is Ann, too.” Random, but okay. At least it was something.
“Well, isn’t that special.” Looking over my outfit one more time, she broke into a smile, saying, “I love your style, honey.” Grabbing my shoulder, she spun me around. My swinging braid whisked into Clay’s face. He sneezed. I was surprised she didn’t seem to be taken aback at all.
“Thank you.” I struck a fashion plate pose and slipped a little French lilt into my words. “I call it, ‘Le Goodwill Chic’.”
Mrs. Dawson laughed and reached into a cabinet. She pulled down a china plate and set it on the table. “Please, won’t you join us for dinner, mademoiselle? I believe I’ve already grown rather fond of you.”
Suddenly, I lost my nerve. Flustered, my words came out jumbled, like jigsaw pieces poured out of a box. “You… for dinner? I-I’m… hungry… no, but… I mean…” I flushed and looked away. “I don’t know what I mean.”
Mrs. Dawson smiled. “It’s all right. We really do want to have you.”
I nodded confusedly. Clay pulled out a chair from the table and waved a hand towards it. I sat and rested my elbows on the table. Mrs. Dawson spun from oven to sink to table, graceful and smooth, a ballerina in the kitchen, I thought, while Clay set to work emptying the sink of clean dishes. I observed the inquisitive glances he gave his mother, and the slight nod she gave in return.
“In fact,” She set a glass of water in front of me and slid a plate beneath my arms. I drank in quick gulps, dehydrated from the bike ride. “In fact, we would love to have you as a guest.”
My fingers tripped over each other, and water sloshed over the cup rim and down my vest. Clay, hardly pausing from his sorting of silverware, pulled a towel from the cabinet and tossed it to me. I blotted at my shirt, too embarrassed and confused to try talking again.
“I understand, Felicity, how hard it must be right now, and how confused you’d be that complete strangers would want to take you in,” Mrs. Dawson said, laying a gentle hand on my shoulder. Her kindness crept softly down her fingers and settled close to my heart. It was an odd feeling. “But we really do want you here.” She paused, seeming to be waiting for something.
Clay looked over his shoulder. “We do. Really.”
Everything they said couldn’t process fast enough. Arguments and questions ran through my head like a marathon, so fast I couldn’t register them all.
“Why would they… you don’t know… you don’t have anywhere…”
“Trust Me.”
Trust… trust that God, somehow, had a plan. Maybe… maybe these people were part of it?
“I… okay. I mean, thank you. Very much. I… If you have the room, then…” I took a deep breath, “yes, I would be happy to be your guest.”
“Wonderful!” Mrs. Dawson pulled a cake pan from the oven and slid it onto the range. She slipped a knife around the edges, gripped the rim with a towel and turned it over onto a plate with a practiced hand. A golden edged cake slipped out, and a delicious smell drifted towards me.
“Strawberry shortcake.” My mind clicked the aroma into place suddenly. Clay turned around to stare at me.
“Yes.” Mrs. Dawson smiled. “You recognize it?”
“Uh, yes, I – I do. My mom…” I blinked quickly, pressing down the sudden tears. “My mom used to make it a lot.” Ten years and still I could barely say her name.
“Hmm. Does she still?”
“I…” It was too sharp and pointed this time, the pain. I couldn’t speak. I glimpsed Clay’s foot as it scooted out and tapped his mother’s shoe. She glanced up and he shook his head.
‘No, you’re stronger than this.’
I took a deep breath, so deep I thought I would choke on all the air filling my lungs. Then I spoke quickly, rushing to get the words out, to just say them before something stopped me again.
“My parents both died when I was eleven years old. My foster parents have never liked me, and they threw me out of the house two days ago because I dropped out of college. I have nowhere to go, and very little money, so I won’t be able to pay you.”
Might as well get all my cards on the table.
In the seconds of silence, I could hear a cuckoo clock burst into its call. Seven o’clock.
“Oh, we won’t want money.” Mrs. Dawson worked the knife through the shortcake, tactfully skipping over almost everything I’d said just now. Or maybe it just didn’t faze her. “We’d love for you to spend a few nights here. Maybe,” she gave a tiny glance at her son, “you would like to join us for church on Sunday?”
Relief washed through me. “Oh, I would. I haven’t been… I haven’t been in weeks,” I confessed.
Mrs. Dawson smiled and it went straight to my heart, reminding me of every smile my mother had ever given me. “We’d be delighted for you to be our guest for services.”
“Thank you.”
Clay drizzled juicy sauce over a slice of shortcake and plopped a spoonful of cream and a few strawberries on top before sliding the plate over to me. I stared down at it, confused.
“Shortcake… before dinner?”
Clay winked. “It’s the fruit course.”
For the first time in days I let myself laugh.

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Sorry if that was way to super long! XD I wanted to give you some context. 😀