I Wrote This Last Month

He breathed life into her cold soul,
Setting free the demons that had plagued her.
In his eyes, she saw a new beginning.
In his hands, she found heaven.
And in his arms, she found solace.

His lips sought hers,
Tormenting and caressing
Until they could no longer.
Warm kisses exchanged hastily,
As though the last may come too fast.

She laid her head against his breast,
Whispering her secrets to his heart.
He whispered secrets into her hair,
Breathing the fragrant softness with his soul.

He touched her heart
and broke it without much thought.
She stood atop blackened cliffs
Beaten by the angered waves.
Lightning flashed,
And the rain pelted her reddened eyes.

She walked in shadow,
Searching corners for her love.
He had stolen her heart,
And she wanted it back.

For an eternity, she sought it.
She begged him to return it,
But he claimed he had lost it.
Bitter tears stung her eyes,
And angry words bit her tongue.

“You once loved me,” she said.
“You once whispered your love to me.”
She stood before him;
Barren, lost, and hurt.

“I thought I loved you.
I whispered naught those secrets you claim.”
He stood defiantly before her,
Smiling wickedly.

She turned away, walking amongst the light,
With their lively hearts.
“I have lost you, mon coeur.”

Haunted by memories,
She shall ever be.
What once was,
And what will never be again.
She closed off to the world,
A daughter of the black.

-3/7/13

About My Bookshelf

Your Bookshelf is Comforting

You collect books because you love to read. You love stories, and you reread your favorites over and over again. It's hard for you to pass up a book by your favorite author. Once you find a writer you love, you tend to read his or her whole catalog. Your favorite books are full of engaging stories, relatable characters, and surprising plot twists. You like to be immersed in a story. You read when you want to relax a bit or get away from the dreariness of life. Nothing renews you like a book. You love books for what's in them, and you don't get too caught up in the apperances of your collection. In fact, some of your favorite books are well worn, sentimental favorites. That's worth more to you than the latest shiny hardback.

The Bookshelf Test?

Blogthings: 100's of Fun, Free Quizzes and 3 Stupid Ones

Lack of Postage

Can be attributed to many things. Lack of inspiration? Nope, that's not it. I have written a great many things, but my sisters occasionally frequent this site, and I would have to do A LOT of editing for them to look at my stories and not judge them.

I also have decided in my infinite wisdom to return to school.

I haven't been in school since June 2001, when I was almost eighteen. So after eleven years of no educational background, I have returned to school. To say that it's been adventure is an understatement. It's going to be a long 4-year journey, that will end when I am 33 years old.

Yes, you read that correctly. I am a 29-year old college student, enrolled in an online branch of the very college I wanted to attend when I was nineteen. It's taken me ten years, but I finally got there. I am studying to receive my Bachelor's in English with an emphasis on Creative Writing, which essentially means my degree will get me no jobs when I am done. But I am pursuing my passion, so that makes me happy. Besides, Eoin Macken has a degree in Psychology and he's an actor, so I am not too worried.

Short Poem

To you I extend my heart
For I always carry yours.

We are one being,
In mind and soul.
In you, I see myself
And I love you all the more.


-I have no clue when I wrote this, or even what the inspiration might have been. I do know it was written within the last two months.

Kisses

His lips cling softly to mine,
Searching for a ending
But unable to find one.

I laugh lightly,
My smile breaking the bond
Between our mouths.

God your lips are addictive,
He murmurs into my neck.
His lips trail slowly down my throat,
Sending mini waves through me.

Yours aren't too bad either,
I manage to squeak out
Among the kisses he lays upon me.

In an instant,
His hands frame my face.
His thumbs stroking my cheeks,
Slowly and seductively.

My eyes close in response,
My breath going shallow.

His lips cover mine again,
And I am backed against a wall,
Assaulted by passionate kisses.

The Hellish Eighth Grade Year

When I was fourteen, my family moved across town. In this upheaval, I had to go to a new school for my final year of middle school. And we moved literally two weeks before school started. My first day was horrible, and it set the tone for how the rest of my school year was going to go.

A Poem

The rain pelts incessantly.
Street lights illuminate the rain as it falls.
I look out the window,
Through water droplets that collect like snowflakes.

I wish I could see the moon.
The moon whose light
Awakens my soul.
I smell the rain,
And I am calm.

Random thoughts come and go.
I wonder where I'll be in a year.
Trapped in the silence,
Or free as a bird.

Love is an illusion,
Boyfriends are imaginary.
Kisses a thing of the past.
My heart and soul long to be touched.

The night-time is when things happen.
The world changes,
And I change with it.

Even if only in my mind.

-9:52 pm

Titanic

Titanic

Today you sunk six miles beneath the Atlantic.

Your opulent fixtures forever marred.
The once-majestic ocean liner
Is no more.

One-hundred years later,
You lie beneath the sea;
Rusted, and covered in aquatic life.
Your opulent staterooms stand as tombs,
Telling stories of tragedy.

Into the depths of a frigid April night
You were lost forever.

You are not forgotten.
Nor are the many people
You carried across the vast ocean.

-Written April 15, 2012

A Poem I Wrote When I Was 20

Oh, god it's going to suck. I wrote it for a story. A fan-fic of all things, about Josh Groban.  Please excuse the possible crap of it. I post this strictly for the amusement it will bring me.


Who moves through life with beauty and grace,
Always carrying a smile upon her face?
Who touches me with a gentleness all her own,
Without a frown or groan?

Who loves me no matter what I do,
Or who is beside me,
Because she knows I think of her only?

She is my fire,
My ice,
My hope,
My dreams.
And even though it seems as if
We are separated too much;
It is only with one touch,
One breath, one kiss,
That our souls reconnect again.

Who, is this  goddess without a name?
Only two words sum up this elusive rhyme.

My wife.

Written January 27, 2004.

Waffles

This post stems from a conversation I had with my younger sister in March 2011. Basically, she brought to mind this thought that I hadn't had since I first began talking to that guy who inspired my story "Morning."  And I literally mean since I first began talking to him.  

At the time, he was living in his parent's house, in the basement. His "place" was in disarray, he couldn't bring himself to unpack the shit from his actual apartment, where he lived with his ex-girlfriend.  And early in our talks, we spoke of breakfast and cooking.  I can cook.  I cannot bake.  And in talking about breakfast, I mentioned I hated eggs, which he likes.  He said he could make a mean batch of banana nut waffles.  So, a week or two after conversations began, I started picturing it.  

And I thought about it maybe once or twice in the first week or so we'd talked, and not again until last March with my sister.

Basically, she says she plotted marriages with each of these guys she was interested in. And I told I never thought of things like that. When in actuality, I had. I think the point of this was that we weren't living with them, but staying at the house for vacation or something along those lines.  

I took this from a private blog of mine, so elements from still exist, just not the guy's name.

Parts from the original post will be in purple.

I'd come up the stairs, where he was sitting in the kitchen talking to his mom in boxers and a t-shirt.  The putrid stench of eggs hung in the air, and glasses of orange juice sit on the table. He smiles at seeing me, and gets up from the table, and gives me a gentle kiss on the mouth.  I sit in what was his seat, and he asks me if I want anything.  I reply with an "I'm not sure."  He laughs, and suggests that he can make me some banana nut waffles.  I nod, indicating I am okay with that.  He sets to start prep for them.  I sit at the table, across from his mom, and I glance out the window at the summer leaves blowing in the wind.  He is hard at work, mixing batter, and pouring it into the waffle iron.  I sip at my water, and smile at him working diligently to make me breakfast.

"Do you want some bacon, babe?"

"No, I am fine with just the waffles." 

He flips out a finished waffle, and places it before me.  He brings over his plate with margarine and maple syrup.  And we eat breakfast.

I think when I pictured this, we were married.  But I never once planned a wedding.  I might of thought what it might be like if we were to get married, but I never put plans into motion.  I never thought of the color scheme, time of year (at the time I was very interested in getting married in August), or anything like that.  In that one respect, I kept myself from being hurt any further.  Because had I planned something like that, it would have destroyed me far worse than the breakup already had.

I hadn't thought of the banana nut waffles since we spoke of it all those months ago.

Huh...funny.

I'm Just Thinking

About this story I wrote over three years ago.

I remember that morning I wrote the paragraph that I have since expanded and made into a short story.  I woke up early that morning, and I just remember that it was so quiet outside.  Summers in New Hampshire were always noisy in the morning, between the birds and squirrels going berserk outside my bedroom window (at least it seemed that way at the time).  It was a warm, balmy morning. I think it was June, maybe July.  The night before a nasty thunderstorm raged outside.  You'll notice I use the same words in the first few sentences.

I had this urge to write down words, because these pair of eyes just jumped out at me.  It was still early enough that no one else but me and the family cat were up, so I pulled out my faithful laptop, and wrote what ended up being this incredibly poignant paragraph. It's more of an essay, I suppose.  At the time, I was just writing this thing that popped into my head, and when it was finished, I was pleased with it.

I often went back and reread it, because it just struck a part of me.

I moved in October 2008, two or three months after writing it, to rural Oregon.  There really wasn't much to do except sit in my room, watch TV, or wile away the hours on the Internet.

November 6, I was having my normal day of boredom, and I decided to read this essay/paragraph again.  Out of nowhere, I am suddenly stricken to further this story.  I get names and faces in my mind, and so I go with it.  I spent eight or nine hours straight writing this story.  The only breaks I took were for dinner, and to pick my youngest sister up from school.  When I first finished it, it was 19/20 pages long.  After I woke up November 7, I quickly ran through it, and cleaned it up.  I couldn't let just my eyes go over it, so I sent a quick message out to this guy I had gone out with very briefly, who I knew was always open to my sending my writing to him.  I sent out this story, very roughly edited, and I gave him no timeline to read it, since he had a job that demanded a lot of his time (and probably still does).

I got an email back from him around 5 PM Pacific Time (which would have been 8 PM EST), thanking me for giving him no timeline, since he was a busy guy.  I replied back that he should take his time, I will be patient.  I was clearly lying, because I was DYING to know what he thought, since he was honest about what he thought, and I trusted him.

No more than an hour later, I find another email from him. Thinking he's sent a duplicate message by accident (which had happened before), I thought nothing of it when I opened it.  What I found inside made me giddy.

I just finished reading your story. I was hooked and ended up reading it straight through with only a short intermission. I CANNOT believe that you wrote that in only eight hours and edited it to perfection in only one hour! I thought it was incredible. You've got an amazing talent for writing and storytelling. This is also really improved over the last story you sent me in terms of cohesiveness and pacing, and having a clear plot line. Bravo! I can't tell you how impressed I am. I hope I'm not the only person you're gonna show this to, I think a lot of other people would really enjoy reading it too. OK, hopefully you'll get this tonight, it's not too late but I know you generally retire pretty early. Take care and keep up the good work,

Giddy is not the word I'd use to express what I felt right then and there.  I was over-the-moon.  I didn't harbor any romantic sentiment for this guy any more, but I could have kissed him if he'd been right there in front of me.  The other story he speaks of is a horrid atrocity about two ex-friends forced to sleep in the same cabin, and end up falling in love.  God, it was horrible.  I sent him an email detailing how happy I was he liked it.

It could also be unusual to read, since I don't normally write in chapter form, and I decided to convert it to Chapter form since it's going on Kindle, and I wanted positive reviews of it, and not hear about how it appears to be run-on sentences.

There's also a sequel, which is around 90 pages, by far the longest thing I have ever written.  It needs severe tweaking, so I am working on it.  

But Last Words and Moving On (tentative titles) are my babies, and the two pieces of my writing I am the most proud of, so I want everyone to read them and love them.

I might just post a preview of Moving On in the future, and see what response it garners.  It might not be much, since only two people have left comments on this site.

My History With Depression

Inspired by a post by my favorite female blogger Joanna Goddard, I want to open up about this experience.


People might view me now as this bookish person, who usually has a sunny disposition, and mostly likely was a straight "A" or "B" student all through school.

That's where people would be very wrong.

Something I Wrote For My Sister's Homework

Like in the title, I originally wrote this for my sister's English class two years ago (and I realize I was not helping her learn by doing this for her). Since I am the Shakespeare freak (as my mom refers to me), I was the one my sister begged to have write this paper.  I am happy to say, this paper got an awesome grade, which makes me wonder why I couldn't write papers like this one when I was in high school.  I was a slacker in school, but I loved Shakespeare.


Basically, the point of this assignment was to take a quote from the play, and then explain what the character is feeling or thinking, and why it resonates with you.  Basically, pick a quote and explain why it means so much to you.

I decided to pull this essay off one of my three thumb drives and let you read it.  I appreciate all comments anyone leaves.  

Enjoy!

A Poem For My Grandpa

My dear beloved Grampy died September 17, 2001.  He was man that had this "spirit."  To me, he was immortal. When he died, a light in my life diminished.  I want to thank Eoin Macken for posting that poem he wrote about his father, because it caused me to find the poem I wrote 10 years ago for him.  It is horrible, makes no sense, but it was definitely my feelings at the time.

Grandpa

You held me close

When I was put into your arms.

So tiny,

So fragile,

But you knew what to do.

In the later years,

I played with the Velcro on your shoes

And you made it seem like it hurt,

But I knew you were tricking me.

When I wasn't feeling sweet

Or pretty,

You made me feel important.

There won't be another Grandpa like you.

And you left me so quick.

And why?

The penalties of mistakes made

Before I was ever born.

Grandpa I miss you.

And wish I had another moment with you.

Now you are with Him.

He will protect you.

And you will watch over all of us

Protect us with the love you've given us.

I love you Grampy.

He died about a year after he was pronounced terminal.  In late August 2001, I asked God (when I still believed in Him) that if he had to die, that it should be sooner rather than later, since he was suffering.  He didn't even make it a month before he got bad and died.  And I am fighting back tears writing this.  I shall type up the recounting of his last days, the day he died, and his funeral.  It's on my private blog.

2003 Poem

To love,

We need to forgive.

To forgive, 

We need to understand.

To understand,

We have to listen and help.

-March 30, 2003