Thursday, June 2, 2011

UNSTOPPABLE





Pendant

This pendant was designed for me and I wear it around my neck to remind me of who I am. 

"It's not a question of who will let me. It's a question of who will stop me." Ayn Rand

How can we teach girls to be fearless, to be confident, to be assertive, to be focused through writing. It could be as simple as writing down their goals in a goal book and then checking on the first of the month and marking themselves -

What girl wouldn't love to write in this brightly colored journal from pinaloves?


Journal - You're perfect just the way you are


Reading about fearless girls are inspiring. I've been writing for girls and have published seven books, with two more coming out. Take a look at




The Day the Fortune Teller Died



And please be sure to follow my newest novel For Such the Angels Go - chapters right here!

    FOR SUCH THE ANGELS GO
               By
Marianna Heusler


XVI
                                    To fight aloud is very brave
                                    But gallanter, I know,
                                    Who charge within the bosom,
                                    The cavalry of woe.

                                    Who win, and nations do not see,
                                    Who fall and none observe,
                                    Whose dying eyes no country
                                    Regards with patriot love.

                                    We trust, in plumed procession,
                                    For such the angels go,
                                    Rank after rank, with even feet
                                    And uniforms of snow.
           
                                                            - Emily Dickinson



                                                                                    Chapter 1
With her heart beating fast and furiously, and her legs sprinting underneath her, Jean Mantuidi raced through the streets of Kinshasa.
            Don’t stop, she told herself, whatever you do, don’t stop. Just keep kicking up your heels and breathing in the air and running like the wind. If you stop –
            It means certain death.
            She tried not to think about dying –being dosed with gasoline, lit on fire, beaten with chains or boiled in scalding water. She wouldn’t mind dying, if it were quick and painless. Death would mean that she could be with her mother, with Jesus Christ and with all the saints, in a place where she would never be hungry or thirsty again.
            Keep running, she thought, don’t look anywhere but straight ahead. If you look into the eyes of the hordes of people walking aimlessly along Avenue Kinshasa, they might guess what you’re fleeing from. They might come after you, looking for a reward.
            She kept going past Liberty Market, past the Ville Blanche, the Boulevard der 30, past the 22 story Sozacom building, past the Hotel Intercontinental , past the Avenue Kasa-Vuba, past the post office and the commercial stores and the municipal offices.
            Pretend you’re running in a marathon in America -in that land far away where children are expected to go to school and people who hurt children are put in jail. I’ll be the first to finish the race and everyone will cheer me on and chant my name. I’ll get a trophy and a lot of money, then I’ll come home to the Democratic Republic of the Congo and I’ll use my power and my fame to change things—
            She thought she heard someone screaming at her. She didn’t answer.
            She just kept sprinting, past the beggars in the street, past the half-finished cinder-block compound which called itself a church, past the children covered with scabies and biting fleas, crying for their mothers, who would never come home, past the cheap hotels, the night clubs, the discos, past the soup kitchens, the street vendors and errand boys.
            Past the city, unto the dirt road, leading to her aunt’s hut.
            Just three kilometers to Brazzaville, she thought, I can do this.
            She could do it, even though her breath was coming out in spurts now, great big gasps and she could feel the hole in the bottom of her unlaced sneaker growing wider and she was covered in sweat and when she ran her arms slid from her body and she stank so bad that she was feeling nauseous and sick.
            Two more kilometers to go. She could manage that with her eyes closed. She had practiced lots of times while her mother sat on the ground and watched as Jean flew back and forth and her mother counted the seconds so Jean would go faster and faster.
            Jean had to go faster, faster than all the crazy people who might be chasing her.
She was too young to die.
            She was thirteen years old.
            One mile to go and then she would be safe. Her aunt would help Jean. She would give her something to eat, even if it was just rice and water. Jean would hide until she was older and stronger. Somehow she’d find work and she’d save every penny. She’d go to America.
            If they didn’t catch her first and electrocute her.
            She was almost there. She could see her aunt’s hut in the distance. The door was partially open. Her aunt would be happy to see Jean because she loved Jean’s mother, who had been her baby sister.
            Jean started to slow down, her steps smaller and more deliberate, catching her breath moment by moment.
            I’m safe, she thought, thank you, Jesus.
            Jean had no way of knowing that her aunt had died three days earlier.       


2 comments:

  1. Ok, I have to ask if you have lived in Kinshasa. My family lived there is 1988-1989. It is one of the nearer and dearer places to my heart! I will be looking forward to reading more:)

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  2. Hello!

    This is Pina from Pina loves. I just want to say I love your blog and I find it very inspiring to young women everywhere. I enjoyed reading every bit of it and am extremely happy and full of gratitude when I saw my journal could be a part of it.
    Thank you
    Pina

    ReplyDelete