Between the goddesses

Skin
The moon shines through navy clouds
She wades and shines
Dark hair tied back
Shoulders glow pale in night shade
Goddess revealed in water
Skin

Waves
Lapping at rounded hips
Dipping and turning
But she is still and around her flowing
Yellow-grey reflected in tiny dimples
In the sheen
Waves

Eyes
Watching and absorbing
In the face of beauty
This is life
Natural and abundant
In the peace
In the dark
In the water
Eyes

Hands
Resting flat
Rippling surface
Touching the cool
Caressing the wake
Feeling the world
Hands

Night
Arousing the water
Drawing the magic
Dancing its ritual around
The lunar orb
Accepting sacrifice
Night

Tide
The sky goddess
Envy abounds
Waves crash and beauty is tossed
Pulled beneath
Drowning once more
In the tow
Tide

Flashback

In the moment you realize
You’ve been here before
Although long forgotten
It returns
And you feel the flash of fear
As fingers wrap around your throat
But you did nothing
Praying on mercy of dead eyes
In a flash
Fingers change
Becoming the cool edge
Of your nightmares
Blackness begins
The blade presses flesh
Praying the mercies
Hear silent pleas
But you did nothing
Blackness envelops
Flash back
And you’re in it again
Memories rise
Out of darkness
Not this time
Not this fight
No mercies to hear no pleas
No prayers
No silent screams
No pain
No darkness
Your fight
Your life
Your mercy
Take hold
Take down
To knees
To the floor
Disarm
Destroy
Its over
And it’s done
The fight neverending
For now you’ve won
Flash back

Short Saturday (it’s after midnight): Eyes in the night

I had only put the dogs out  fifteen minutes ago. Yes, it was freezing out there, but that had never bothered them before. They may dance with the cold on their paws for a moment, but I’d be damned if I was letting them in before they did their business. And as I waited, hearing their feet trample around on the icy deck, it was the perfect moment to suck down a couple gulps of scalding tea.

All went quiet and my heart dropped. The dogs were never quiet. Even when they were in one spot they wrestled and groaned and acted like fools. I set my mug down with unnecessary force, wrapping my sweater around tighter, and slipping on my boots. The moment I opened the door I was nearly knocked from my feet as they rushed inside, tails tucked between their legs, whimpering in cowardly whistles. Rolling my eyes I stepped out into the bite of the the night.

Squinting as my eyes adjusted to the light reflected off the snow, I tried to make out a shape at the property line. As my pupils dilated accordingly, the glowing retina of a beast stared back at me. He was larger than the hounds, immediately defined as a wolf in my mind. I knew they were becoming prominent in the area, but this didn’t match the description. This “wolf” was bordering the size of a bear, and the color and shape were wrong. There was a bronze brindled in with the grey of the fur, and patchy fades of white that drew an idea of age.  The color in itself screamed “coyote”, as well as the shorter, pointed nose and larger ears, but nothing added up in my mind. Occasionally one of the coywolves would make its way through, but this was just too large.

The illuminated eyes stared into my own and fear twisted at my gut. This was so wrong. There was no animal that would just stand there, assessing, waiting—for what? Warmth flooded to my fingertips with adrenaline. I stooped, keeping my eyes locked, grabbing a split of wood from the rack by the door. With every ounce of energy in my right arm, I threw it at the beast. The distance was too great and it fell short, but the split was  large enough where it should have spooked the animal.

The eyes never left my mine. They stared into my own for innumerable seconds, punctuated only by the twitch of a tail. Finally, after what felt like a century, the animal turned and walked away on its own premise. I released  a breath I hadn’t realized I had held, grateful for the oxygen returning to my bloodstream.

Evening next, I had done my best to forget about the trespassing and let the dogs out as usual. When they quieted for the second night in a row, anger flushed through me and I stomped to the porch, bracing myself for the dog’s forceful entrance. My vision adjusted quicker this evening, but my boots froze to the wood when the sight registered in my mind. Instead of the one, there were now three of the beasts, watching patiently, breaths puffing steam into the night air, gazes fixing me to my spot.

Once again I reached down and drew back, throwing a split with oomph, and more desperation to make contact. No surprises, it fell short. The beasts continued to watch me as I refused to back down. Moments later, with the twitching of tails, they turned on their haunches and vanished into the wood.

On the third night, when the dogs fell quiet again, fury rose anew.  I stormed out the door, raising my fist in the air in anger.  “What the fuck do you wa—“ My words halted.

Instead of the one or the three, there were now at least ten to twelve of the creatures, all standing, watching me.  With one hand I threw a split, and with the other I grabbed the splitting maul that was leaning against the rack. Heaving with both arms, I threw it as far as I could, certain this time it would make contact. My heart sunk as it landed feet in front of the beast that had visited the night before.

I expected them to watch for a few moments yet, and then take their leave, but this time they held their ground. The eldest, with the white patches through his coat moved first. He sat back on his haunches, walking his front paws in front of him so that he lay, nose pointing the porch where I stood. One by one, the pack followed. That was when I heard the most terrifying sound of my entire life. In synchronization, the pack opened their mouths and let loose the hunting yelps I knew were of the coyote. So many of them, ringing out together in the night, so close, clawed at my ears.

I brought my hands up to cover the noise, but the pain was too much and my knees buckled beneath me. I screwed up my face to keep my eyes open, and panic flushed through my nerve endings as I realized I couldn’t move. Between the beasts and myself a cloud of snow was whirling, the maul I had so indecorously thrown was floating within it.

The Alpha let loose one last yelp, cutting off the others, and followed it with a low growl. As his snarl penetrated the night, I registered the cloud of snow rushing toward me and I knew that this was it. The night was over, and this was what they were waiting for.  A thousand questions rose in my mind as I tossed my hands in the air, still on my knees, paralyzed by fear and bitter cold.

The enveloping cold and the smash of the maul against my skull was all I knew as the night went black.

Saying what needs to be said: breaking censorship

As you scroll through your social media, you turn on your TV, have a chat over coffee, or even listen to the radio, there will be a story about somebody being offended.  Offended by a flag. Offended by a few words. Offended by a statue. Offended by love. Offended by a skin color.

You have rights in this nation. The United States was founded in part so that religion could be practiced freely. What you do not have a right to is to not be offended. There is hatred spreading rapidly through the population. Persecution. Racism. Social divisions based on class and occupation and life choices and birth rights are rising and it needs to end!

Think of all of the books that have been banned, yet we still can hear stories about children being molested and police brutality, beheadings and rapes and war, when we are only looking for the weather.

I want to tell you today, that you have a choice. You can scroll past it. You can look way. You can walk away from a conversation. Things you don’t like are happening around the world every day. People are sinning. They are swearing. They are making mistakes and learning from them. They are fighting their own battles that you may never understand. And if as a society we continue to ban everything that makes us uncomfortable, we will never learn. We will never be able to help one another because we are so high on ourselves and our own righteousness that we will lose the ability to admit to ourselves that we, too, are human.

Underneath layers of clothing, we are all naked. With breasts and penises and vaginas and hairy bits and scars and freckles and fat and bone. Inside all of our minds we wage personal wars, fights for right and wrong. Some of these struggles are more visible to others and some we may never see. Have you ever been fighting with something internally, and felt so grateful–so relieved to read a book, talk to someone, hear a song, that lets you know that somebody out there understands how you feel?  Have you ever had a nightmare that tore and clawed at you but you couldn’t talk about it for fear of shame? Have you ever been broken so far down, but couldn’t speak on it because you might be viewed as weak? When you ask for something to be banned, think about the insight you are taking away others.

As for me, I will write the story that needs to be told. I will swear. I will write sex scenes. (And yes, people do have sex, in all different sorts of ways.) There will be violence. (In fiction, of course.) There will be suspense. (Got to hook you somehow.) There will be gore. There will be pain and abuse. (But these things must be said. They happen.) There will be laughter. There will be love. (There is always love.) There will be empathy and understanding. (Don’t we all need those?)  All of these things exist in all of us, and it must be understood as such. My writing may not always be politically correct–or non-offensive, or however you want to word it–but it will be said. If it’s not something you are interested in, then don’t read it.

If you are a writer, if you are a painter, if you are a singer, if you are a dancer, or if you simply want to express yourself–do it. Do what you have to do to show the world all you have to offer and never be ashamed. There might just be someone out there needing to hear exactly what you have to say.

Inspiration: What floats your boat to get the creativity flowing?

Let me illustrate for you an irrational pie chart. Irrational because the lines are so blurry between what inspires when and how much. So math people and technicality junkies, look away now.

What inspires me? Harry Potter and Twilight. Yep. I said it. It’s probably 90/10 between the two. The first time a teacher handed me the Sorcerer’s Stone, I didn’t make it through the first chapter. Boring! And that was a best-selling novel? Two years later, I picked it up again, after finally seeing the movie, and I fell in love. An engrossing tale of emotion, self discovery, all in a magical world of wizards and witches and ghouls that we never, as muggles, knew existed. I read and reread the series, in an out of order, depending on what kind of adventure mood I was in. Whenever I’m feeling a lack of creativity, I pop in one of the 8 movies or open up a book, and I’m reminded of what our words are capable of. 90%

Then there’s Twilight. Loved the story. Couldn’t wait for Breaking Dawn to come out. The constant references to Edwards cold skin (he’s dead!–just saying) creeped me the eff out, but their love and inevitability was enrapturing. I didn’t like the “weakness” of the
characters and it drives me to do better. Bella, who faints at the smell of blood, a kiss, and is so clumsy she can hardly handle daily life. Then you have Edward, the virgin(really?!) Vampire, with an insane amount of self discipline, who can’t stay away from this plain girl. 10%.

Next up is music at a whopping 95%. Definitely not the “Twerk it Twerk it thump the junk” stuff, although it’s on my playlist and great for house cleaning and weddings. Metal, alternative, classic rock and country all inspire me. I remember as a kid listening to Angel from Montgomery and Beaches of Cheyenne and getting goosebumps at the picture they painted on my mind. My brother and I would act out stories with our toys to go along to Shania Twain songs. Then we got older and absorbed into the darker genre. Vertical Horizon and Eve 6 told us about beautiful oblivion and everything she wants. There were the songs that told a story from beginning to end, like Never Again by Nickleback. Or there were the ones that painted an emotion that begged for a story, like Down With the Sickness by Disturbed. I won’t get into every song–that’d be five blog posts all together–but music is where the scene unfolds. I listen to music as I write, and whenever I hit a snag, I think of what emotion, what color  scene I want to paint, and I find a song with the same sound.

Dreams=30%. I’ve mentioned before that I have ridiculously VIVID dreams. Sometimes that’s great, and othertimes not so much. There have been many occasions when I’ve woken up from dreams and nightmares alike and said “I’ve got to write that down!”

People in my life and past experiences 100%. There’s nothing like killing off a character based on someone who done you wrong. For real though, so many parts of my stories are snippets of truth, dramatized and fictionized and woven into a crazy web of a plot.

Other books and movies inspire at a good 60% but that list will be a post or two in themselves. Stay tuned.

What inspires you to write, sing, paint, sculpt, dance, create?

Short Saturday: a Fairytale of Misfortune

Once upon a time there was a queen. She was beautiful and omniscient and wise, fierce and strong, and the kingdom loved her. She protected her people and fed them although meager was her palace.

She had princes and a princess beneath her, and generations across the land, but the royal family held a secret. The secret was not of jewels or riches, but one of a dark sort, the kind  that would tear at the hearts of any that knew.

The ones closest to her, those that would someday inherit the kingdom, were broken.  The queen was harboring a brokenness herself, that she shed harshly onto her children as she tried to balm her own pain. Passing kings came through the land, and in their quests to dominate and lavish in the offerings of the queen, they hurt the children. The  queen saw nothing. Blinded by her own desperation for love, she forgot how to love her own.

The princess ran away, to a far away land where she learned many things, became wise, and learned how to love her mother despite the lack of affection that was what she had known.

The princes stayed, broken beyond repair, and desperately hoping for a mother’s love. They were so beaten, and so poor, they believed there was nothing beyond the kingdom, and if there was, they didn’t deserve the greatness. They wore shackles coated with poison, and the queen provided a fresh supply to keep the heavy iron drawing on the princes’ spirits.

The younger prince became brave, trying again and again to run away, to finally see if the world had better to offer. But the shackles weighed on him, and time and time again he returned to the broken castle, still broken himself–still hoping. His hope failed him. The queen attacked, and he was gravely injured. He ran away again, only to be shackled in the dungeon of another kingdom.

The older prince tried to balm himself with festivals and music, but still he went to the only home he knew. Late in the night, he could be found in his chambers with a brush, slathering the poison on his own chains, because once again, it was all he knew.

Over time the older prince came to discover a new poison and it numbed his pain, but pulled him away from the festivities and he was lonely. As he grew older the poison took its toll. His body rotted from the inside, and the queen watched. It killed him, and the queen shed tears–for she had brought a profound loneliness upon herself. Both princes were gone, and she was left to speak to ghosts, watching over kingdom from afar. The only heir left was a sad, saintly princess, who watched and prayed for the love a queen didn’t understand.

Flash Fiction Friday: “Never Again”

The John lay in bed, unconscious after trusting the brandy that had been poured for him, and she snorted at the overall pathetic scene. Here he was, thinking he was paying for an evening of all of his wildest dreams, and he was nearly comatose, still wearing his suit and tie.

As she gripped the cool, solid metal in her hands, tomorrow’s headlines flashed through her mind: Murder of Governor, Body Found In Hotel. Of course they would cover up the fact that he was picking up hookers, that would make the people question the scumbags he had surrounded himself with in office.  Everything about it was corrupt, a well-known and well-hidden lie. But she knew. She knew everything. Every night for the past month, she watched him, carefully developing her plan. She knew about the money he stole from the working families, the drugs he put in the hands of children to increase his revenue and gain votes as he worked to “fix” the problem, and she knew about the women he paid for and abused under his wife’s nose.

Hell, he thought she was just another trick.  He was so far off the mark it was nearly comical. The last prostitute he had beaten nearly to death, covering the story up well with all of his briberies and blackmails, had been the last one. Never again. While he was out, gaining votes and protecting the criminals, her sister had been recovering in the ICU, breathing through a ventilator, unable to speak even her own name.

Never again. It all ended tonight. Examining the weapon in her hand, strode over to side of the bed. This was too easy. A couple grand and the right contacts, and the gun was hers. To do with however she saw fit. Why not use it to destroy all that was wrong in the state, the one who nearly took away the last bit of family she had?

It only felt natural as she raised the steel alloy, leveling it at the balding head that was pressed into the tacky printed comforter.  A squeeze of the trigger and it was done, the sound nearly imperceptible with the silencer. Looking down at the carnage that was now the bed, not even a flicker of remorse swept through her. It had to be done. Heading to the bathroom, she wiped the blood from her face and hands on one of the crisp white towels. Hanging the DO NOT DISTURB sign, she left, locking the door behind her.

The hospital lights were too bright, the beeping too loud, the smell too clean. A smile spread across her face, despite the constant rush of air that kept her sister alive. Reaching out, she rested a hand against the bruised porcelain face.

“Don’t worry, baby girl. Never again.”

What are you looking for? What are you writing for? Don’t worry, it’s all Fiction.

Throughout the school years, I hated when teachers left us to try and decipher stories on our own. They’d ask us to look for this technique, and this style, analyze it, and dissect it until it was nothing but a jumble of words pinned to a lab tray before our eyes. The only way I could focus enough to do this was to participate in class discussions, because it unglued my eyes from the story and forced me to step back.

We’ve all heard the analogy of being sucked into a book. You can probably picture it too if you have a good imagination. You’re sitting over a desk, turning the page, slowly leaning further down until your nose is nearly flattened to the paper. Then a tinkling magical music sequence plays and a glaring light shines out of the book, and you are physically pulled into the written world. Or maybe that’s just me making a Harry Potter reference, but I digress.

But have you ever been affected by a book? Your favorite character dies, and you’re tearing up on the city bus? Your boss is giving you a look, wondering why you look so angry, not knowing that you just swiftly stashed a book under the desk, and you want to force-choke the protagonist?

Some readers focus on facts, scenery, and action. Historical Fiction, Adventure Fantasy (Not my favorite genre’s so I don’t know all of the categories–sorry. But I love LOTR and Watership Down, if you can count those in.) Some readers focus on the emotions, the intensity, and the mind of the characters, such as Romance, Paranormal Fantasy, Horror and Thriller. There are as many genre’s out there as there are writers, to each their own.

I find when I read, I lose sight of the words altogether. I am pulled in and I become part of the character’s lives. Maybe I imagine myself as their Jiminy Cricket–“Don’t open that door!” “Are you sure you want to go there?” “No! Don’t fall for him! Fall for the bad guy over there. You know, the one who’s been watching you all this time?”– I ride their emotions to the end, forgetting the character names, getting so enveloped in their head that you could ask me “Was it well written?” and I’d just shrug.

I have a strange anxiety about new books. I love my tried and true favorite reads. There was at least a year where I read nothing but the Harry Potter series, in varying orders based on what I was feeling at the time. Was I feeling adventurous? Depressed? Angry? Happy?  On the rare occasion I ventured out, I always worried I wouldn’t like the story, irrationally as if it could hurt me–usually resulting in me saying that I will just reread Twilight one more time before I pick that one up– but slowly  I’ve incorporated other stories and series into my list of comfort books. LA Banks ( I get chills thinking about the Vampire Huntress Legend, and Damali and Carlos and what a smooth rap they spit), Sarah Dessen (Even all of the cutesy teenage girls have good plotlines and points to be made), Stephanie Meyer (Even though it creeps me out every time she mentions Edward’s cold body. He’s dead. Gross. Its a great romance)  Michael Faber (The Crimson Petal and the White had me riveted, disguisted, and wishing Charles Dickens would have been around to read it), Melissa Marr (What a great picture she paints, with the fairies and tattoos and the seasons and a war unbeknownst to the humans), EL James(Yes, I said it and I will not sit here and try to explain myself–there is a reason it is a bestseller) Chuck Palahniuk (When I’m feeling a bit deranged and need to know there are worse than me out there), and most recently, JC Stockli’s The Nothingness: Addictions of the Eternal Book 1 (I’m dying waiting for Book 2.  Evie is everything we don’t like about ourselves, a perfect dramatization of our self-destructive vices, and she is getting sucked in to something so much bigger than her. I can feel it!)

I’m trying to be brave, especially now that I’m pursuing a writing career, trying to author my own novels. I’m attempting to expand my reading horizons.  I wish I could analyze the styles and perspectives but I cant. I’m too absorbed into their crazy lives, their emotions, their love affairs, their humanity and I can’t escape the grasp of the story. In a way I think–I hope I am writing similarly. I’ve mentioned it on other forums before, but I write around an emotion and I write around music. I’ve mentioned my color memory, and I get that with music. I hear a song, and I see burgundy and an emotion comes to mind. I close my eyes and the scene wraps around my brain as lyrics wash over me. And then I write. I write around the emotion, nary paying mind to grammar–that can be fixed later–and let it flow onto the paper.

And then I start rambling in my blog posts, forgetting why I wanted to write that anyway.  So what books have you enraptured. Any suggestions? What do you look for when you scan the shelves–or scrolling through Amazon? How would you describe the sucked-in feeling? Or are you one of those mathematicians/historians/grammar people who can’t focus unless everything is right?   Nothing against you if you are, its just something I can’t wrap my own head around.

Song playing right now: Heaven Nor Hell, by Volbeat.