BraveWrite, Week 3
She fears its gentle hands have found her again. It whispers in her ear all the things she shouldn’t to hear. The truth long gone, her heart long since battered, she welcomes the cold. It hollows her out. Vacant of emotion. It’s too late when she names it. #Depression
In the state of #jejune, we were all consumed by our fables. We were a unique center whose storms were unlike any other. The Gods aimed for us, small and insignificant though we KNEW different. But then our eyes opened. We wore others’ shoes and heeded our empathy.
Their trunks, china cabinet, and every nook and cranny served as a #cache for their precious items. The house seemed willing to burst at the seams with their collections. It was a glorified storage unit filled with the sentimental. She worried it would go up in flames
The world is full of the #esoteric. It haunts the realms of math and science. It teases everyone. But it belongs to the artists most of all. The ones who draw, paint, compose and write for themselves, hoping some will understand. They bare their hearts for acceptance.
Wanna know what I think? she asked all of a sudden.
What? His eyebrows raised above a curious gaze.
I think life is a marinade in which we all #marinate. It’s experiences, people, and choices are all the spices we added, She smiled and nudged him, Don’t you think?
The clock chimed #twelve in the middle of the night and summoned the witch from her workings. Her feet bounced down the stairs, jostling the book she held in her arms.
Ah, there it is, she said while flipping through the aged pages. Clearing her throat, she began to recite.
The abyss was #tempting, as always. It called to her in seductive whispers. It threaded its fingers into hers, holding her hand, pulling. Her shoulders drooped in defeat and matched the dark bags under her eyes. The image in the mirror wasn’t her so why continue?
Very Short Stories, Week 23
Another weekend has come and gone and I already long for the next one. I find them relaxing in such a new way in the fall. Here’s hoping Autumn will help me blossom.
Anyways, I tried to not to be too repetitive with this week’s set of prompts and I think I pulled it off. Not gonna lie, I feel I have lost the sensory aspect of my writing and I’m trying to tap into it again. Working on my description that way as it were. So here’s hoping that’s noticeable in the future!
The wolves prowled the ground, tracking the scent until they came across their prey. Low to the ground, they crawled forward in the dense grass. In the quiet evening sun, their paws dashed forward in thunderous waves. Their #carnivorous fangs sank into the fat of the calf.
His warmth welcomes her, leaves her #infatuated with his presence. His words soothe her, teaching her to love who he is inside.
But their souls?
Those meet in the dark nights, wrapped in need and want for each other. Connecting their broken pieces for one whole being.
The path into the dark is never lined with light. It’s a #cavernous descent into the bowels of one’s own soul. Eyes adjust slowly to constant night and it’s left to one’s imagination how the trail begun. But it is home now. Its warmth and smell of brimstone there always.
In the heat of the moment, passion #devours the mind. Thoughts of laundry and chores vanish. And they’re at the edge, the peak, the tiptop of release. They disintegrate into a husk rocked by wave after wave of climax. The body controls the wheel and only lets go after orgasm.
In the depths of her bones, in its very #marrow, were the answers to her abilities. And she couldn’t let him harvest it. Struggling against the restraints, they frayed and snapped, freeing her. She grabbed the thin shaft of the scalpel and lashed out at the doctors.
My #garden lies barren. Its soil hard and unyielding. There are no weeds to pull, no flowers to tend. Instead it weakens further, unnurtured. The sun dries it and the wind kicks at its dust. When the rain comes, I fear it will be too late. Another patch of death.
The #Equinox seemed to approach faster this year, leaving her frazzled. She ran her hand through her hair and collected the stones she owned. The polished black of the hematite called to her and she held its rounded edges in her palm. This will do, she thought and began.
Used To Be A Home
I’m tired of my dreams
and their surreal realities
They taunt me with memories
Riping screams from me
and torturing me
I long to abandon them
They make me miss you all
those passed and yet to come
My dreams used to be a home
Clouds crawl like vines across the darkening
sky absorbing hues of a setting sun
retreating past a foreign horizon.
A lone woman stands beneath its growing
mass with head tilted back to see its forms.
The wind dances around her legs and soars
towards the majesty of the Lady
in the Moon. She envisions a brighter
world just beyond her senses and soft touch.
Ignoring temptation, she wanders home.
#PicturePoetryPrompt: Gun Control
From North of the border,
I watch my American friends
suffer time and again.
A vicious cycle repeating.
Bullets fired from GUNS
are worth more than
I hear again and again.
And yet there’s a growing chorus
They scream for CONTROL
United against a bigger threat.
They don’t want to hide
Afraid and alone
from angry people who take their rage
like tidal waves
and crash into innocents.
They want change.
Not to take all the GUNS away
But to restrict the types
Create stiffer rules.
What threat is this
to your freedoms,
My GUN owning friends?
They should be free
to feel SAFE
In a Grocery store
In a School
At a Concert
At a Hospital
At a Synagogue
At a Church
But the NRA has friends
who view CONTROL
as an evil worse than plague
WHICH IT’S NOT.
When did your fellow Americans’ LIVES
come to mean so little?
I see this on my screens
In our papers.
As a Canadian,
I’m thankful for our GUN CONTROL.
I feel SAFE.
If only the change Americans need
would come on swift wings.
I wish you all could feel SAFE
On every day’s journeys.
I think no man, woman or child
should be afraid to leave their home
for fear of flying bullets
shot from vicious GUNS
hunting them down.
A Writer’s Prayer
I don’t know what to write.
Ringing fills my ears
And my voice is a faint whisper.
Words vanish as I reach for them
Thoughts die in vain
And all I want is to fill this page.
Light a candle, say a prayer
Maybe someone out there
Will send me something to say.
Sorry for this crappy poem
But this bug has made my body
Its vile home.
Robbed of health, I cannot write.
Here’s hoping tomorrow
This will be set right.
To This Writer
Why I keep writing
It gives purpose.
It builds a home.
It joins lives.
It allows for calm, peace.
It fills a void.
It answers a call.
It sparks life.
It sedates anger, fear.
It adds to the light.
It takes from the dark.
It mediates experiences.
It awakens love, hope.
It is medicine.
It comforts the breaking.
It builds the broken.
It breaths help, justice.
It takes time.
It ages and dies.
It is born again and again.
It thinks on life, death.
I Found Something Else
Today has been one of those days. Low energy, but restless.I decided to help my husband, Andrew, look for his old phone while he’s at work, and it has been a roller coaster ride for my emotions.
Our house is a bit of a storage zone. Every room has nooks and crannies that I have managed to make useful, but it’s becoming less and less effective. While we have done a huge purge of stuff, we still have a ton of ‘crap’ one of us or both of us refuse to part with.We collect Lego (Star Wars, Marvel Superheroes, Batman, etc), Star Wars items, and movies/TV shows. We are also huge fans of fireworks, and they take up a decent chunk of the garage. As individuals, he collects pig related stuff, and I have my Cherished Teddies collection.
Add in necessities, and you can imagine the warzone our house is when we need to find something.
Andrew has gone through the workshop, the garage, the small animal room, the office, our bedroom, front hall closet, kitchen, and laundry room to find his old phone. He has done this multiple times. I tinker here and there trying to help, but he gets so obsessively frantic, it puts me on edge. I can NEVER find something when I am on edge, so today, I decided to do it while he is out of the house.
I started with the workshop where I found two of his old, old phones, but not the most recently old phone (if that makes sense). I dug through some of the boxes in the office, and ripped through my trunks in our bedroom’s closet and some of his drawers. No luck.
Well, this is where the roller coaster starts for me.
After failing to find it, I decided to go through our many totes of Lego kits, Christmas village stuff, wedding stuff, and my Hallowe’en town stuff. (Side note: Hallowe’en is my FAVOURITE holiday, and the biggest reason I want to learn how to sew). Anyways, as I am rifling through these totes, I find wedding stuff.
To note in the wedding stuff I found
-the reading “These Hands” from our ceremony
-my maid of honour’s speech
-a motivational, loving book from my mom
Dumb ass that I am, I read “These Hands”, and it resonated with the life I wished for more than anything. Hands that loved and cared for me. Hands to hold me in the dark times. Hands that would hold our children. Hands that would help mine in keeping our family one.
I want children more than anything, a family with Andrew, but we just aren’t there in our lives. It sucks, because he will be 33 years old towards the end of this year, and I am going to be 27 in twelve days. It feels so old, and yet I know it isn’t. I know I have more time than not, but it feels like it is slipping away faster than I could have imagined. I know it will happen when it is meant to, but damned if I wish it would happen now.
Reading that bit of our vows though made me realize that a marriage, a life together, is very much like art. You have to work for it. Sometimes, there are mistakes that you can correct, and other times, you just push past it. Sometimes, what you think you are making is nothing like it, and you go with it to find something amazing, or you correct your path. I am very lucky to have Andrew in my life, willing to fight for our marriage, and help me make it all it can be. I wish I had of stopped reading the stuff I found after this, but I didn’t.
Dumb ass that I am, I read the speech, and it is beautiful. But it is over two years old, and it made me realize how much has changed between my maid of honour (my future sister-in-law now) and myself. She said we had become closer, had become friends in the speech, but that isn’t the truth anymore. I can’t tell you when it happened, but it happened.
One thing you need to know about me… I don’t really have friends. I have my parents, and I have my husband, and that is it. I don’t let people in as easily as I once did, because of the many betrayals I faced at the hands of so called friends. It killed me inside to read this beautiful speech, and realize the lie it had seemingly become. I don’t know how to change things with her, and I would if I did. I would love to have friends to do things with, but I have been shattered by past experiences, and am hesitant to let it happen again.
Thus, I bawled my eyes out in big, wailing cries. Once it was a small enough feeling to be bottled, I did, and continued on with the task at hand. That’s when I came across the book from my mom.
Dumb ass that I am, I read the book since it wasn’t long, and it was amazing. It is exactly what I needed to hear, and yet… it devastated me. It was about showing your true self to the world, how you’re beautiful no matter what, and amazing regardless of nay sayers. It is how I wish things were, for sure, but the constant feedback I have been given through life is that I am ‘too much’ of everything. I need to tone myself down, swear less, lose weight, lie…. All to have friends, and be liked. That never made sense to me. Shouldn’t people like you as you are?
Anyway, I took those notes and applied them to myself. I struggle with some, (like my volume and weight), but overall, when around my siblings or my in-laws or in public, I try to be that likable person who people want in their life. I don’t know if it is remotely working, (I do have two nephews who adore Andrew and me), but I don’t have friends asking me to hang out. I don’t have family, (outside of my mom and two nephews), asking to spend time with me.
I know that part of it is on me. I need to put myself out there, conquer my insecurities, and find people who like me for me. Join a sport, or club, or something. But it is amazingly, soul cripplingly tough for me. I see someone ugly in every way in the mirror. I dissect every interaction I have with other humans, and find myself lacking. I had a New Year’s resolution to change that, but I am going to be honest, I have no idea where to start.
Sorry to ramble, but I felt the need to put it down on ‘paper’, to better reflect on it all. Maybe it is a sign that I don’t need to change, just push for my dreams, and fight for the things I want from life. Maybe it is a sign I desperately do need to change in some ways, to feel better and live better. Maybe it is a bit of both. Hopefully I figure it out sometime in the very near future.
In the meantime, any tips or tricks to help me out, or tales to relate to, would be amazing.
Thanks for reading this randomness!
Ruins Lie Waiting For Us All
She dances in circles
An ivory dress hangs on her
Twirling about her legs
While she swirls.
The cobblestone is cold
Sleek on her bare feet
And she spins again
In the shadows of ruins.
Thunder sounds in the distance
A flash of white light
Through the cracks.
Freezing in place
She looks to the heavens
A pale hand stretched above her
And the wind surrounds her fiercely.
Closing her eyes
She breaths softly
Rain falls from the darkness
A drop, a drip, a dribble
It crashes into her palm
And she tightens her hold.
Pulling it to her heart
A smile tugs at her lips
And she leaps toward the sky
Shown through a decimated home
Only to fall back to the earth.
The true dance begins
With the inner storm
She summoned into existence.
And still a smile remains on her rose coloured lips…