The Shadow

So, a few things – I am finally getting settled in my new apartment, in my new city, in my new state. I have a job, and I am excited. It has taken awhile (which is why I haven’t posted much (or anything) on the blog). I was supremely stressed out. Now that I have time to breathe, I have time to consider adding posts. The piece I’m adding now is just a little bit- I may turn it into something or not: stay tuned.


She couldn’t feel anything- it was emptiness. A shadow had been hovering over her and now it was following her into adulthood. It seemed she would not escape this icy grip that clung to her skin dripping death as it shed tentacles spiraling in all directions. Was this her life? To watch helplessly as those she loved turned into ashes and dust; the Earth swallowing their remnants back to whence they came.

How many times could she purge tears of sadness for the lost souls departed to the nether world? It was done. The ache was stretching her thin. She could live amongst the breathing like this, but it was hardly satisfactory and no where near whole.

There had to be more than just the casual explanation that all things wither, as to why death was stalking her. Why she couldn’t go more than a few weeks or months with out the darkness corrupting her life, leaving her breathless. This was all she could thing about. It crawled across her mind tearing her thoughts, until nothing was hers, but the pain she clung to in the pit of her stomach as she considered how death was eating away at the life she had created.

Looking for contributors

Hey everyone out there in WordPress land! I am using my blog as a platform today, so please forgive this break in my normal poetry/short story posts. However, I am looking to start-up my own zine online. I would love to find some contributors. The topic is going to be geared toward LGBTQ youth. So, if you know anything about gender, history, fashion, coming-out, and would be interested in writing a 200-500 word article for me. Well, you know where to find me. I would love to have enough articles for the inaugural issue, and be ready to publish by the end of the summer. Please share this with your friends and other writers. Anyone that you know who would be interested in writing. If you have any questions, feel free to ask. I will share my email with those who would like to participate. Thank you!

The Punishment House

April is National Poetry Month. So, I am going to try and write as many poems as I can. I am not promising one a day, but I will do my best.

 

The Punishment House

Tear drops spill

staining her cheek

screams reverberate

through the kitchen

hot air slices across

her back

a raised hand

she ducks

too late

a red print stamps

her shoulder

anger spews, painting

walls of-

the punishment house

 

 

Circles

I don’t think I will ever understand this thing we have come to call life, or the people that inhabit it. Three days into this new year and another precious person has been taken from this world. What I don’t understand is not the death. That is part of the life that we live. But, how so many can choose to make a mockery of this life when there are those that will never have that opportunity.

Society sings about “dying young” and fills the young ears with echoes of “get high all day”. People drive at 75 miles per hour (drunk out of their mind) smashing into innocent victims, stealing their lives, without a care in the world. (This was in our local news yesterday and is separate from the above mentioned person.)

Not only are they teaching children to devalue the only life they have, but we are making fools of those who don’t have a choice. Who were not gifted with health, and opportunity. Who are fighting with every last breath to stay alive past the age of four, twelve, twenty-eight, thirty, forty-two. Why should their lives be of any less value than others?

It is time we take a look in the large mirror of society and ask: What kind of imprint do we want to leave on our children? On the world? From where I stand the life my mother fought for, my friends fought for, and that most humans want to live every day is made a mockery by the words that we allow to be exploited in the media everyday and ingrained into young minds.

Life is not about, “Living fast and dying hard,” but rather, “You must live in the present launch yourself on every wave, find your eternity in each moment,” as Henry David Thoreau stated. Only then can we truly be happy. When we simply stop and enjoy each other, remembering the moments, not the race to the end. We will get there soon enough, some far sooner than others. Why teach children to throw it all away before it’s too late?

 

NaNoWriMo Boycot

For awhile now I’ve been asking myself what is the meaning in all of my writing. It seems as though all the ideas I have been brainstorming as of late are senseless, meaningless. And, then I just did it. I boycotted National Novel Writing Month. The one month when I was supposed to spend the whole month working diligently on one of my many novels, I couldn’t do it. I didn’t see the point. I have so many that I want to write, yet they all seem like nothing. That they will never be worth one good story, whatever that story is.What is that story? Where is it? Why am I boycotting writing in hopes that a story will come to me that is worth writing about? My whole notion seems senseless. Yet, here it is December 5th, and I have once again been writing for a little over a week now. But the writing is nothing of consequence. Where is the passion? I need something to once again threaten me and give life back into my words. I cannot say that boycotting a whole month devoted to writing novels is the right choice, though I feel like a book worm is making it’s way through my brain and eating my words as I type. I only hope that my inspiration returns once more, renewed and refreshed.

A New Ending

Ella watched as the shoe slid comfortably onto Dru’s foot. Her eyes widened in shock.

“IT FITS!” Dru screamed at the top of her lungs. The coachman toppled over. Ella folded her hand over the other glass slipper, what did it matter now?  She glanced sideways at the coat closet where she and her step-sisters kept their shoes and other effects. Ella and Dru had always shared, of course Ella would get Dru’s old, worn shoes, they had the same size feet; it made sense now.

The fact that the Prince would decide who he had met at the ball last night, with a shoe, was such a daft idea. Hundreds of women in the kingdom must have the same size foot, thought Ella. She shook her head. Her stepmother looked at Ella an evil smirk playing at her lips.

The coachman, who had regained his footing, went outside and returned with the Prince. He didn’t look like Ella had remembered in her mind. His nose was pointier, and his eyes were scrunched together, too small for his wide face. Obviously, he wasn’t very intelligent either. The Prince looked at Dru, the shoe sparkling on her unmanicured toes.

“You are not the woman I met last night. I know I would recognize you right away,” He said to Dru. Ella snorted into her lap. The Prince turned and stared momentarily, but then turned back to the woman who was wearing the shoe.

She threw the shoe from her foot it conked Odile right on the head. “OUCH!” yelled her sister who had been watching with frustration. Ella stifled a giggle. The Prince turned and left the women sitting speechless.

But, Dru was not going to give up that easily. She grabbed the shoe which sat between Odile and Ella, running after the prince her curls frazzled and every which way, yelling, “IT FIT! IT FIT! IT FIT!”

Ella looked at her stepmomw who watched in horror. “COME BACK HERE RIGHT NOW YOUNG LADY!” she screamed from her perch on her sitting room chair.

Ella stood up, still clutching the other shoe. “I’m leaving this abominable house. You have never treated me kindly. I don’t need you or a prince,” she looked out the door with slight distaste, “to see me for the good person I am.” She walked past her stepmother and dropped the matching shoe in her lap. Her stepmother gasped, though it was hard to know if it was because of the shoe, or because Dru was now running barefoot after the Prince’s carriage which was rumbling away.

Ella took the few dresses she owned in a bag and left the house that day. Never did she let anyone call her Cinderella again.