AllisonV's blog

Chapter One, Secretes or Just Lies

The soil was damp below my feet, and held a certain chill. I tip toed over the ground, each step cooler than the last. My accustomed toes found spots vacant from crunchy leaves and twigs. The brush ahead of me was particularly difficult to pick my way through without a sound. I slowly edged my way into the dense area of bushes. Sticking my head into an open area enclosed by leaves, I spotted the trap. It had a still live rabbit caught in its jaws.

I searched the clearing for hunters on their way to collect their rightfully caught meal. Unfortunately for them, I was going to steal the game right from under their noses. As long as I wiped the blood off the trap and reset it, they would just suspect that no animals happened to pass by.

To be extra careful I checked the little meadow full of spring flowers, once more before I dropped to my stomach. Slowly and silently I wiggled through the underside of the bush. Twigs and rocks threatened to tear my cloths and hair, but I have since learned the ways of the wild. The rabbit caught in the trap looked at me, but didn't do anything else to reveal my existence. Its fur was a slight color of brown, but its white coat had not yet disappeared. Read more »

I felt this poem needed a little more explination. I wrote this just to write haiku, but it means more to me.
Lines 1 and 2: there are worse things that have happened to you besides what is happening today. Line 3: keep the pain because it is better than the worst. Lines 4 and 5 and 6: when the pain comes, it doesnt follow code. It comes unexpected and takes unexpected turns. Lines 7 and 8 and 9: the feeling of sadness and the sensation you get in your nose when you cry. Line 10: what you take in when your upset. How you understand things when all is not right. Lines 11 and 12: phisically looking at a long cord of pink brain. It's so long because it's been dismantled, and you can no longer understand anything because of how upset you are. Line 13: the fact of being sad because everyone has to be. Line 14: the revealing that there are worse things that have happened to you and will continue to happen. Line 15: this is what everyone has. They may have different hurts or less severe, but they will still have them.

The wind is colder
Than the sprinkle of today
Sprinkle forever

Rain is peculiar
It frosts in the winter sun
If muds when spring comes

Mud drenches my nose
Seeps into my deepest thought
Inside mind and soul

Mind brain perception
Lashes of long long long cords
Unraveled of brain

Unraveled by fate

The weather comes into life
Destiny of world

(This is a series of Haiku poems)

I am not a manipulator.

I mean what I say

and what I don't.

If

"I love you"

is not in my speach,

you should understand.

I try

not to say things

to be normal,

I try

to say things

because

I believe

in them.

Sure, I speak about

unnecessary things,

but when

I do,

I do.

Everyone does.

But if I speak a belief,

you better be sure

not to strike

my real love down.

Because

I love my ideas,

and I certainly don't love you.

Running wild were the pigs. Their oinks spread through the thicket of branches like a wild fire who has ben starved for 1,000 years. Crazy people lurch from the canopy, dropping like pine needles. The pigs squeal and a man with hardly and cover over his parts hits a pig in the eye, with a spear as sharp as his aim. It falls, no longer whining as pigs do. It's curly tail just twitches as its adrenalin runs to an end. More and more drop. Soon it's silent but there is a cacophony of twitching tails. Bruised eyes leak juice as the pigs get tied by their hooves to belts and walked back through the thicket to become a meal for over 100 other barely clothed people of the Forest of Vines.

Golden as the belt buckle on the cowboy who swings his rope as he ties down a cow in fifteen seconds. Golden as the sun before it rises, setting on another part of the world. Golden as the giraffe in the animal park that escaped. Golden as the chains re-put around its neck. Golden as the bees in their hive. Golden as the honey. Golden as the red leaves in the fall. Golden as my brown hair. Golden as the thoughts in my head that make me imagine such that is not there.

I remember way back when the hay swayed in the fields, luscious with golden. It's stems laced with beads of wheat. I'm not sure what it looked like exactly, but I do know I remember. No one can blame me for my non existent knowledge of plants that lived their last days when i was three. Now bread is made form particles in a machine like everything else we eat. Wheat was the last plant to go. I remember it. Now green hills were once laid with yellow and shine. As much as the sun they did glow. My family's field. The movement of a wave of air used to fly through the glorified grass. It's unison and brotherhood of love would show in the shower of gold.

It's the only thing that's been like love. What a horrid word in my time. Matches are intended and parents are required. We're all just cloned anyway. Love. The fields of gold are love. A word so lost in the sea of tech waste piles in the Arab countries. Nothing is left to it besides the toxic acidity of the possibility of loosing it. All gone I wish it. Rather to forget than remember it as sour. Screw the golden lace pulled over miles of farm. Screw it. I can tell my grandchildren of the thing we have lost, or I can just let love die, leaving it's potent memory to be lost. Love will not rise again in the wrong hands. Rather, it will die in the right ones, mine.

Flame burns and fire flickers. Balls of mirage shaped gas bloom from the source. A shining brilliant ball of space and stone sits on my living room floor. A meteorite. All it's glorious beams of heat filled colors shape my vision. Nothing has ever been so vibrant or held as much curiosity as this.

I look to the wall. A picture of my grandmother lives in an old frame. Then I remember, there is a meteorite in my living room. I should get help. It's going to burn down my house.

My eyes flick back to the space rock. What awe fills my brain as it burns gently, creeping across the carpet. I had never understood the phrase of flames licking until this very moment. The points of fire fight as ravishing tongues, hungry with lust for air.

The flame of my grandmother's picture catches my eye once again. Eating away at its edges are soft yet bold flames. The police, I should call them. I should get out of the house. A meteorite is going to destroy my home and me along with it.

A small explosion bursts from the meteorite. Oh how marvelous it's aura is. Brilliant red and orange mix into a crazy yet collected burst of color.

The picture falls from the wall and I think, grandmother almost died in a fire. No one knows what started it but she has chanted get out of the house, get out of the house ever since.

Fantastic light shining from the center of the living room consumes me before I am lost to it forever.

I stepped into the subway car and sat in the closest seat to the doors. The car slowly filled as the buzzer warned of the doors closing. Lazy warn down people joined me. One very dangerous looking white boy with hundreds of tattoos sat next to me. I hate the subway. So many white people judging my darker skin. Creepy black men give me suggestive eyebrows.

That day was just another day in the life of Tabitha R. Sanders. My name, a constant reminder that I was named before my parents knew their adopted child would be black.

The car rattled and clunked as it pulled us through daft tunnels and made its subtle turns, bringing us across the city. Arm pits hung in the air above my face.

Then it happened. The subway car took a sudden unrealistic turn and stopped. The stop was not a slam nor a jolt. It jest stopped. It would have been unnoticeable if it weren't for the tunnel lights that suddenly stopped flashing. One light was fixed over the window to my back. I was the first to stand and announce the train had come to a stand still.

One man stood and called in an obviously drunk voice, "I needez my bed!" and fell into a woman next to him, unconscious.

"Slime!" called the woman who now seemed to be more of a college girl who should have a little more clothing on.

Faces shown all around. The eyes were curious and scared and impatient and completely different in every way on each person. No one held the same eyes. Read more »

Occasionally I assume the feeling of ass kicking. Because of the crushol fact that there is most often no one around, the world becomes the victim of my violence. I mean. why does everyone need to be so god damn obsessed with things? The things you wear, the things you say, the phrases that sink others so far into their hole of security that they have no way of being heard on the surface, and they have to climb claw by claw up to the opening of the hole, where you go and kick their face, making them fall back in. They do their climb enough times that they feel as if they will never succeed. They might as well stay down there, alone, to live their days with silence and a pin hole of light streaming down on them. It's never enough because even if you get tires of kicking me, another will take your place. They'll help me out of my hole before they pick me up between their body sized fingers and dangle me above the hole, with no chance on stopping myself on the way down, and splat. So I'll kick the ass of the world so you'll be too scared to plant your foot on my face and watch as I tumble for the last time.

I'm split between

the earth and

sky.

My edges are

paper cuts

waiting to happen.

My life

is the blood

seeping from

already split knuckles

that will never heal.

My future

is the fan blade

exhausted from it's speed,

and also the

thankfulness

of finally

resting the blade

with the flip of

a blue light switch.

I am Ocean.

I want freedom.

The open field

that even the deer get.

Shade,

that even the grass craves.

Can't I stand,

shout, swear,write?

Can't you see

me

for who I am?

I don't know

much of anything.

I don't watch or listen to

the things you would like me to.

I'm still a person.

Even the sharks

have individualism.

Even the guppies

have the expanse of their

whole world.

Even the color yellow

is free to appear

wherever it wishes.

I don't know

a lot

of words,

but I know

how to

stick them together.

Like a child

who sticks

his hands

together.

Because I know

I love

the glue

between words.

It keeps us,

all united,

and brings

the pen

out of

its cage.

A pen is

a pen.

Chickens are enclosed

in pens,

while my pen

is the opposite.

It opens me

to be complete,

filled with the

only thing

I call

truth.

The way

poetic words

swim

in the river

of your soul,

climb

through the canopy

of your mind.

Brown hair and clothes that expressed moderate wealth was what you would see when you looked upon the boy Henry. You would not see that his father was a man of great standing with those in the English court. How his father would bring home many trinkets of the courts, only to return them the day after. One time there was a robe carried home in the hands of his father. It was of the deepest purple you had ever seen, and when it was in the room, you could not keep your eyes elsewhere. It was captivating and Henry was in awe. But this purple robe, with the rest of the items his father brought home, was removed from over the chair of which it laid, and brought back into the court. Henry did not know exactly what his father did for the court, but it was something very important he was sure.

When Henry was a mere boy of eight, he had asked his father about a book that was sitting on a table. Dust had since settled in the seams of the indented letters on its cover from non use, and wear had since turned its color dim. Although Henry had never seen a member of his family open the dusty cover, it was a book that had always been there. There was not a time Henry could remember its absence. Perhaps it had been there since before Henry was born. Henry was always curious about any book he saw, but this book made him more curious than any other, because it was the only book he had ever seen his own home. Read more »

Annie held my hand as the great old house greeted our feet. She was only seven, and me, I was twelve. They told us that there were over a thousand rooms in this house. Stephen had said that he could take us as soon as he turned eighteen, but for now Annie, Stephen, Malcolm, baby Rachel, and I had to live here. Annie as my sister and the others as the children of our next door neighbors. Both our families had been at that high school reunion when it was hit by a plane.

Mr. and Mrs. Richardson were more than happy to show up at our school and pick the biggest group of siblings who needed a place to live. We had told the school that we were all one family, hoping they'd let us stay together. Strength in numbers, right? It wasn't hard to do because our school was vast and all the paperwork was gone with our parents. Read more »

If i haven't made you mad forever

Call me whenever

If i haven't scared you away

Maybe we could talk today

If i haven't ruined what we could be

Please forgive me

If things could go back to before

Maybe we could be something more

Please know that i apologize

I just get scared around guys

If i just thought and sat

I would say i don't like you like that

If i change my mind later on

I Don't want you to be gone

Again i am truly sorry

But the world is a safari

There are many boys to take

But only one will make

I wonder if its you

But that might not be true

I'm betting its not

So i don't think it matters as much as i thought

And a relationship is not for us

We're just friends sitting on the bus

Never will i want more

Just don't leave completely behind that door

This is my apologetic goodbye

But “i will send it,” is a lie

The sun was the biggest brightest sun I had ever seen fall on the western hills. I looked out over the lapping water and saw the setting of the glowing sphere on the horizon. It illuminated brightly and it grew fright in my stomach. I had another night I had to survive. I knew I should have let it happen. Just let them take me, but I also knew the only way to fail is when you give up. I didn't know if it was actually possible to resist them, but I was going to try.

The rocking of the chair in the kitchen stopped abruptly and I could imagine what had happened as I heard the silent sigh of my grandmother's death. She was too old; she would not be kept as I would be. No one knew what happened when they took you, you only knew you didn't want to let them get you.

There was no moment for me to think of my grandmother as I slipped out onto the roof of her house. I sensed their footsteps and I knew they were close. I jumped off the ledge into the lake below. There was no splash as I glided perfectly below the surface, making a ripple only sufficient enough for a pebble. Read more »

Again, formatting is off, but i hope you can read it okay.

Lane; 16 years old, female, Lane and Kate are class mates
Kate; 16 years old, female, Lane and Kate are class mates

At Rise: Lane and Kate are sitting together at a lab bench about to dissect a frog. Read more »

The formatting is a little off, but i hope you can read it okay.

characters: Bridget, friend to Cameron and Darin, 16
Cameron, friend to Darin and Bridget, has a
crush on Bridget, 16
Darin, friend to Cameron and Bridget, has a
crush on Bridget, 16

  SCENE:  A Park Read more »

A blown kiss can be caught

From anywhere,

Even if the receiver does not know

It's coming.

A blown kiss can reach

Those in heaven or in hell.

It can reach the whole...

Species of animal,

Or children of Africa.

A blown kiss is powerful

And could reach

The pop star in London

You've had an admiration for,

Or a loved one in the army.

A blown kiss can reach

The crush you've had

on the boy next door.

A blown kiss can reach

The boy you stand alone with,

Fifteen feet apart,

Three feet apart,

Or even two inches apart,

And a blown kiss can reach

When it's no longer called "blown".

No.

This is a word

that does not

get said to me.

I can do anything.

No

is not for anyone

except me.

I am at the top of the world,

but somehow I have been grounded.

No.

You cannot tell me

no.

And then when someone

decides to say it,

the world crashes

into snails and tigers,

and anything besides the fact

that I am not on the top of the world.

I finally can't do something.

Yet finally is not good.

No.

I don’t want to hear

about how it will prepare me.

I don’t want to hear

it will make me stronger.

I want to hear nothing.

but yes, I agree...

No!

I don’t want

to do anything but dwell,

And dwell is the last thing

that will keep my eyes dry.

Yet it is what I need to do.

The woods were playful and exciting that night in November. Starlight had just begun to fall upon the leaves, dusted in the first snow. Slight glimmers were cast off the icy edge of every angle. John had agreed to meet me here at this particular tree in the woods toningt at midnight. It had been six months since I had seen his pale spotless face. I could imagine his Brown hair in fearless waves over his head, accompanied by dark eyes. The kind of eyes that reflect firelight and smiles.
            Last January we came to where I stand now. We stood here and he looked at me and pulled a pack of matches out of his pocket. I was intrigued about how he always used the lesser technology. The time when he chose matches instead of a lighter, is one of the amazing moments I’ll remember forever. He lit a fire and I was dazzled, as I always am, at the reflection of the flames in his eyes. When the flames danced, his eyes went along with them in a waltz of pure emotion.
            I looked out into the forest thinking about seeing him and finally learning what had happened to make him leave in a haste, knowing if he was okay. The night was drifting with shadows and innocent blows of the bitter wind. The leaves didn't rattle but snow occasionally fell from dusted branches. Swirls of stray snowflakes fell from the sky twirling with the ever changing direction of the breeze. He would be here soon. Read more »

I ran with all my might. The soft steps in the silent forest made soft padding sounds as if I were wearing leather soled shoes on concrete floors. My feet were bare and I ignored the occasional stick that I stepped on. I could hear my breathing. It was louder than my hurried steps. My heart was almost as loud as my respiration but every time I thought it would overcome the sound of my breath, my breathing quickened and became even more labored, conquering the loudness of my heart beat.
            Looking back would be useless. I knew they were still following me. Their sound was silent and their breaths were controlled, but their smell was overpowering. It was nothing like I smelled before. The mustiness of a cellar, but the calm of a camp fire filled my nostrils. The smell of sweat that stung so bad my actual nose muscles began to contract making the process of breathing even more work. Then there was the smell of acid and bile mixed with strawberries. The realization that it wasn't fully a smell appeared in my mind. It was as if a smell could feel in your throat. My throat held the stinging sensation of vomit as if I had already thrown up. Yet, it was a smell; when I held my breath I could no longer feel the uncomfortable sensation. Read more »

Burning Light
Peeping through my hair
Pumping blood
Pounding in my ears
Sticky tears
Running down my face
Melancholy snot
Collecting on a tissue
Hollow throat
Gasping for air
Untouched food
Cooling in the room
Broken life
Hurting all around
Burning Light
No longer inside
Dark void
Taking its place
In the heart

Anger is useless.
Only tears are made
And all points are lost.
No more debate.
Only fear and rage!
The words said are truly fought,
With anger it's all a war.
Bloody swords and happy triggers,
That's all that words become
When they become from anger.
Who cares what is said?
You are not yourself.
Anger becomes and destroys,
After it becomes
Anger is useless--
It only leads to tears of the heart.

My brand new little brother and I play on the beach. We flex and say our muscles are bigger and criticize the other and we laugh. He smiles. We run along the beach and the waves make a swoosh as they come in all frothy. The late morning waves make my mind wonder far from my body. The rhythmic patterns of the waves lull me into my own world. I think about heaven and hell. I think about where people go when they die, and I think about the people I know to be dead. I think about my mom.
            That's when the first flashback starts.
            I see my Mom in the waves. The sky is now hazy with dawn just breaking over the horizon. She fights to shore and I whimper because I am too weak to help. The sun splits over the horizon behind me, like a giant ball of fire too shy to show its glory. The beams cast long thin cylinders that seem like they are captured in place to highlight my mother's face.  Her arms crash and her face is crying. Tears do not show but the sun glares off her water soaked face. The sun creeps a little higher in the sky. My mom sees me on the beach, and seems to give up. Her old body too rusty to keep going. I want to shout for her to keep fighting but the waves hit my feet and I have to crawl the remaining yard to the dry sand. I use everything I have. I dig my hands into the sand and scrunch the mud behind me with my toes. Everything seems to take an eternity. The sun lets out a new cluster of rays as it makes its way up into the sky, gaining self-confidence. The many cylinders that are rays don't have a target anymore and they burst free of their chains, which gives my stomach a sickly hollow. I feel the grains of sand cling to me. When I get to the dry area, I look back to a beautiful now sunlit calm ocean with no sign of my mother, with no hope of ever seeing her again. Read more »