Because

Never one for smelling flowers.
Never one for walking slow.
Never one for over-thinking words.
Never one for sleepless nights.
Never one for blushing red.
Never one for random smiles.
But...
Never one who doesn't change, either.

As fall the leaves, the rain, the snow, and all that comes from the sky, so leaps my heart to my throat and a height to my step, until I might well be the next to fall from the sky that I've reached.

The first moments of snow are magic. Where when you look down it looks like rain, and when you look up, it's like the clouds are falling into the trees...

Better to Be Neat (draft 1)

_____The door closed with a soft clack of the latch taking its place. The wood echoed my father’s “Goodnight” until it sounded like “Goodbye” fading with the footsteps down the hall. Even the footsteps are garbled by the thick tan carpet digesting the noise.
_____I close my eyes tight against the cold. It always gets colder when the door is closed. The tiny bed was surrounded by cold. The soft covers felt rough and frozen in the cold. I know it’s not that cold.
_____“Nothing to be afraid of, it’s just dark, and nothing changes in the dark that isn’t changing in the daytime,” Mommy and Daddy would say before they put me to bed. I had to believe them. I have to try to believe them. My eyes shut tight.
_____Shelves neatly line the walls, holding smiles of porcelain figures, and grinning tiny plastic animals. They smile down to my bed. They can see me better than I can see them, with the light from the lamppost across the neighbor’s yard making a spotlight between the cold pink curtains to my feet at the bottom of the mattress. The whole room looks pink. The tiny bit of light reflects the wallpaper color onto the ceiling and onto the floor.
_____A car drives past, and for a second, I think it’s okay. The headlights turn the room normal colored, and nothing moves. The dolls stay smiling, and the animals stay quiet. But in the red light of the brake lights before the car turns at the stop sign, the mobile in the corner moves. It circles around slowly, and the tiny sea shells on it clack against each other, ticking like a clock. Just the wind. The wind can move things. I remind myself. There’s only silence besides the clicking of the mobile clock.
_____Too many things happen at once. The nightlight turns on with a flicker, projecting stars onto the wall. I close my eyes tighter. The cat scratches at the door to get in, but I can’t move. I can feel their eyes moving, blue and green, even if I can’t see them. Down off of the light wooden shelves, dropping one by one onto the covers next to me. I sneak a peek from under the covers. Teddy shakes himself, fluff falling from his ears like snow. His dark eyes like the night, glinting. Snake and Tiger inch towards me. I close my eyes tight again.
_____The dark is colder than ever. The ticking of the mobile like a clock continues, and my tiny zoo of animals practically roars. I’m sweating in the cold pink light. Why can’t they hear it? It’s so loud! The white toy box lid creaks open. Barbie and Ken giggle with each other. The whole room is giggling, laughing at me as I sweat on my bed.
_____Baby Secret touches my foot. “I like to whisper in the dark.”
_____It’s too much! I scream, silent against the darkness at first until I can breathe enough to make a sound.
_____The door opens and light turns on. “It’s okay, darling,” Mom’s hands block out the light.
_____Dad puts the dolls back on the shelves and closes the toy box. “It’s time for bed, pumpkin. You can play tomorrow.” He tucks the pink covers around me. A kiss on the forehead from both of them, and the door closes again.
_____It’s dark, and suddenly cold, once more. Snake slithers up softly, sliding herself across my mouth. “Sssleep. It’sss our turn to play now.”
_____I shut my eyes tight against the pink room. “Nothing to be afraid of, it’s just dark, and nothing changes in the dark that isn’t changing in the daytime,” Mommy and Daddy would say before they put me to bed. Just the wind. The wind can move things.

Google to the end of the world

Mr. Jessop has assigned us a short story on setting. At the beginning of the year, I was sure that I'd be glad to end the poetry quarter and to get right into stories. Now I'm not so sure; I can find a few words and come up with a half decent poem and be fine. Short stories are harder, because at some level it makes me feel like it's all confined. And, in a way, it is. I only have a page to do it. What story can I write in a page?? I thought. So, Googling, Googling away about short stories, I found Flash Fiction, and I think I may be able to do this now. One story, few characters, one place. Now, just how to write a short story with emphasis on setting...

Sometimes I wish for rain,
because when it rains, it's only water people see;
the red in my eyes is just from a tearing wind,
and the thunder cracks just at the same time as my voice.

Agoraphobia

Stars fall like static,
winking in the crinkled crescent eye.
“Where are you going?”
whisper washed white trunks
to the boy with swift feet.
Branches play a creaking song
to a tune of crickets playing footsie.
“What are you doing?”
question golden groups of orbs
to the boy with swift feet.
Grey clouds swirl infinitely,
dancing with the trunks of green fir.
“Why are you running?”
inquire rocking rolls of wind
to the boy with swift feet.
Another turn,
another crack,
another whip,
on a winding pathway
that doesn’t exist.
He sees it!
A mirror,
the mirror he searched for;
the escape from the open.
As splashed the feet,
as thrashed the hands,
as ashen the face went -
silence.

Shakespearean Jack and Jill

(Also from ninth grade... hahahaaaaaaa!)

He who hast carried the title Jack, and she Jill,
Why doest thee perambulate up vegetated land
heavenwards for the steep-sided cup of liquid to drink?
Alas, collapsed Jack
Upon his fragile pate
And Jill, o’er heel and toe,
Trundled down behind.

The Supernaturalist

A Crown of Sonnets (from ninth grade, teehee)

A Wreath of Pain

Constantly saved and constantly saving
Orphaned, parentally challenged, no sponsor
Sudden vision of that which isn’t supposed to exist
Moscowtown on Cosmonaut Hill, a baby swaddled in trash
Offered a new family after the one he never had.

Failing every day
To be what I was once said to be.
“The future of our world”,
Lying on my shoulders.
Breaking the connection
And immediate correction
By working gloved hands
To save what is too great to save alone.

To emancipate the victims
From the evils of this world
A goal that we all can live with.
Fight off the unseen,
To protect the unprotected.
Civilians.
Friends.
Myself.
No family to hold me back.
No family to hold me back.
It’s a duty to use this knowledge I’m given.

As life drags on,
We are the helpless innocents
Created for the gain of others.
Useless and feeling,
We are the rats running laps.
We’re lucky, to be where we are.
We’re lucky, to be needed somewhere.
We’re lucky, to be able to fight back.

A super city of twenty-five million souls,
Each with a story more heartbreaking than the last.
On their backs. Looking up.
Its features were delicate and impassive.
Weightless. Watching him with large, expressionless eyes.
Sparks rolled in its veins instead of blood.
The agony dipped, faded, and was gone.
His heart. Beating again. And again.
“Please.”
“Take me.”

Constantly saved and constantly saving
Failing every day
To emancipate the victims
As life drags on
A super city of twenty-five million souls.

Leather Boots

The desert is only shortly confined;
muddy paper can only hold for so long.
The winds that bear
carry off to great distances.
Subjects fall
and red mountains rise.
Greatly skilled rough hands form it
and rough hands of nature will destroy it.
Circles always end up where they began;
the desert will always unite
with the drying sand it was once more.

The editor has the exact mechanism.
A pocket-watch altered the music.
The type indicated the sliding tempo.
The initials preceded a note.
A clockwork mechanism,
sliding left, up and down.
A pyramid-shaped pendulum
performed the rate and pace.
A number to indicate the set.
In music, the earlier music
has developed it to later music
and into an electric box.

(Translation poem)

So Cold - first draft of a short horror story for creative writing

Craaaaaa-ch-ch-ch-ch. Craaaaaa-ch-ch-ch-ch. It was late at night, and the birds were still calling. The path from the river twisted and wound back to camp, bright compared to the rest of the brush.

“Daddy, why’s it so cold?” Andrea asked as she tugged at her pigtails.

“Because when the sun goes down, the world gets sad,” I took her hand again and blew out the lantern. We knew our way to the tent well enough out here to make it in the dark.

“D-daddy,” Andrea tripped over a root that looked like a hand in the soft moonlight, “Why don’t the black ones sleep?”

“I’m not sure, honey,” I pulled my hand up and steadied her. I could see a soft red light in the tent, so inviting out of the cold. Andrea was right; it was getting very cold, very fast. “Maybe they’re sad that the sun is gone too.”

“Daddy, I love you,” Andrea smiled up at me as I pulled the sleeping bag tight around her shoulders.

“I love you too, honey.”

Craaaaaa-ch-ch-ch-ch.

“Why’s it so cold when the black ones don’t sleep? Why’s it so warm in the water so deep? Why does the river sing scratches when I sleep? Why’s it so warm in the water so deep?”

“Daddy?” I jolted awake. What a horrible… I dreamt…

“Daaaddy?” Silence. I waited to hear it again. That singsong voice, I knew it…

“Daddy, do you think I can swim like the big black ones?” I slid out of the thick sleeping bag.

“No, honey, it’s too late to go swimming,” My voice dropped like a rock into still water. Even the wind was silent.

“Daddy?” Andrea’s sleeping bag was empty. Andrea? Where are – “Daddy, why’s it so cold?”

“It’s not cold, Andrea,” I zipped the tent up after me. It wasn’t cold at all. The heat felt like it was suffocating. Each breath I released was harder to take back than the last. “Where are you?”

Her high pitched laugh glided through the air, even though the air was as heavy as bricks.

I could hear nothing except for the river now. I stumbled and fumbled through the branches. I could feel blood dripping down my arms where the brambles cut too deep, but I couldn’t feel any pain. “Andrea? Where are you?”

“Why’s it so cold when the black one’s don’t sleep?” On the shoreline, a tiny figure stood holding a stick out over the water.

“Why’s it so warm in the water so deep?” She took a step into the water. I rushed towards her, but she was just as far away as ever.

“Why does the river sing scratches when I sleep?” She was in to her waist. The water was flashing black with the body of something that was swirling inside.

“Why’s it so warm in the water so deep?” Andrea waved. I stopped running and waved back. Her head bobbed on the surface before it disappeared.

Craaaaaa-ch-ch-ch-ch. The wind whistled. My heartbeat pounded through my hands into my ears. I thought I could hear tears going down my nose.

“Daddy?” Someone with a tiny hand put it on my back. I jumped.

“Andrea?” I smiled at her and wiped away my tears. She reached out her hand.

“Daddy, I’m tired.” The path from the river twisted and wound in the dark.

“Daddy, why’s it so cold?” Andrea tugged at her pigtails.

“Because when the sun goes down, the world gets sad,” I knew the way back to the tent well enough in the dark. I took her hand again before blowing out the lantern.

“Daddy, why don’t the black ones sleep?”

Second (not totally, only half) Failed Attempt at a Villanelle

Alternate title: Of Forks and Playthings orsomethinglikethat.

The words all spilled backwards across her face,
Good morning, goodnight, farewell, and hello,
And let her sleep at peace in leather walls with her age.

I never know what to put for a date.
Is it ever appropriate for when I read tomorrow?
The words all spilled backwards across her face.

Dear Lovely, I only dance like a kite, to sway.
Sat on a shelf to look like everything and not show
And let her sleep at peace in leather walls with her age.

I feel the sun starting to fade
Why not times like this for the rooster song to follow?
The words all spilled backwards across her face.

Dear Lovely, he'll notice my voice someday.
Sit a pen at mid-morning on paper of snow,
And let her sleep at peace in leather walls with her age.

Whenever it is I leave this place,
I hope my tired existence you will still know.
The words all spilled backwards across her face
And let her sleep at peace in leather walls with her numbered age.


Praying that I can edit this drastically by the time the "final" draft is due. And that he won't make us write any more villanelles.

Yiruma, River Flows In You

Boyce Avenue, Find Me

Is there ever really a thing to say to make everyone happy?

Even on a happy night, sometimes the only thing to feel like doing is listening to sad music and crying to sleep.

Tonight I feel lonely, because I can't see the stars. The clouds are not in the sky; they just are hiding it. They are the child who cries to be noticed.

The clouds tonight were pretty cool! With how grainy they all looked, playing around with the light and contrast made it all look pretty galactic.

(Especially if you look at them bigger.)

When I grow old, all I want is wrinkles around my eyes that will say I smiled more than I did anything else.

Adventitious? Perhaps

I've always wondered when Orion comes out. I've never felt like wanting to look it up; I'd rather be the one looking up to search for his belt, and I'd put the date on a paper and look back on it in half a year and remember again.
I tried to look for Orion tonight. Once it becomes closer to winter, I know that I'll see him soon. If only he could be seen though, one night in the weekend, but the world is always there, and Orion has to hide, if he is there. Shining porch lights, street lights, or headlights and signals on airplanes. So that there's my shadow walking up McGinnis in front of me. It seems like the only shadow that should really be around is over the faces of the moon, but maybe even those faces are lost in the glare off of windows.
People seem to be so afraid of the darkness. And maybe the fear is good. When we're fearful, that's when all the people who are afraid come together to say "I'm afraid". Who'd have ever thought that a fear would make me happy? To have people confront their fear of the darkness would make me happy. The fear of the darkness is maybe just to humble us. To have them turn off their porch lights and look to Orion and Cassiopeia and feel small. If we weren't supposed to be in darkness for hours each night, why are we?
In a whole night, I only saw one amount of light on Earth that made me feel happy. Colored lights strung over chairs, while people watched a strummed guitar and listened to the man singing. I didn't want to walk by. I'd rather just sit on the edge of their lawn and be invisible. I'd rather just be able to watch the people laugh. Because sometimes, happiness like that is contagious, just like yawns and hiccups.
I walked by though, because invisibility is harder around strangers than around people you've known for years. I saw the big dipper, but I still didn't see Orion. I'll be happy when I can see Orion from the street. : )