Luusje Walstra

Where I’m From

By Luusje Walstra

I am from hair accessories, from Cheerios, and Nestles chocolate.

I am from the tree-covered yard with barking dogs and blasting music.

I am from ivy and herbs growing in the spring.

I am from making three different kinds of cookies every year for Christmas, and being party animals who sing and dance around, from Oma, and great Aunt Suzan, and Iris.

I am from singing in the shower, and everlasting projects, from, “Never cut your own hair ever again!”, and, “Go see if you’re upstairs!” I am from, “Don’t cry because it’s over, smile because it happened.”

I’m from the Netherlands, Pittsburgh, granola, and ice cream. From the dog running around with milk jugs on his leash and the aunts laughing SO hard when we celebrate Thanksgiving.

I am from the bookshelf in the living room full of family pictures and memories of France, Germany, and Holland that fit all together to make my life story.

Writing Is….

By Luusje Walstra

Writing is a quilt. It is a feeling of hope, anger, disappointment, and excitement that weave together make a story.

Writing is art. It is creativity.  It falls together like a drawing with words, sentences, and paragraphs. It excites you, makes you cry, or even makes you extremely angry.

Writing is music. It is your imagination splattering all over a blank piece of paper. The words that come together fit in a perfect harmony, or they can fall apart into an unfinished scrabble board.

Writing is a sibling. It can be the most annoying little brother or older sister in the whole world. It keeps bothering you until you find the right words to fit in the story. Just like when you fix a fight with your brother or sister, you need to fix your writing and revise.

Writing is a dark cloud of rain. It can make you feel gloomy, or it can help you grow like a flower.

Evil Fire Angel

Inspired by The Lost Hero  by Rick Riordan

By Luusje Walstra

He stepped down from the throne, his wings furled against his back.

Anger welled up and spilled out of him.

Extending his fingers, he felt them tingle,

Like they were waking up.

Flames flickered to life.

Curls of hot flames danced across his palms,

Purplish flames,

That seemed to cast more shadows

Than light.