Mar 30

Well it's been a while...but here's an idea

A small girl with bright, wide eyes and wild hair once looked up at the sky and decided she wanted to fly. To be free as the birds are. Wouldn’t it be grand, she thought, to soar above everyone else? She declared that one day she would fly around the world. On wings if she could manage. She had a inkling about Evolution: if you needed something badly enough you could grow it. The grown-ups patted her hair and said, “The little ones have such cute notions,” for small girls are made of flesh and bones and not feathers and air. As small girls do she paid them no heed, so she practiced jumping off of tall things, for if the drop was high enough surely her wings would be scared into existence. She was smaller back then, and wore trousers with wide pockets for collecting odds and ends, and she ran about barefoot with her hair loose.

The grown-ups became concerned, for these are the first signs of Dreams: a dash more than usual of childhood imagination.
Dec 25

Untitled

The Night it All Began.

That morning it was snowing hard like it would never snow again, massive flakes pouring from the sky. We all sat around the old dinner table, the one full of scorch marks and tiny stab wounds which we covered up with checkered napkins and festive holly branches. Grandma’s Italian china was in the cupboards; we ate on yellow plastic plates. I had toast with nothing on it.

“Flakes of angels,” my mom said, looking out the window.

“What?” my dad said.

“Never mind,” she said.

“It’s snowing,” I said.

“Oh,” he said. “We don’t need it.”
Oct 01
fiction 0 comments challenge: Scary

On a Dark Road

On this black night the sky is cloudy. A good place to disappear, I think. These old country roads, they don't go nowhere cept up the mountains to the fire houses and the wardens. Ma always told me that they was there to protect us from the fires. I shoulda ask what they coulda done for us down here. We all so small from that high up.

Something's howlin in the woods but I know it's just a coyote. Not anybody think there's coyotes up here but they be wrong. My heart is tryna jump outta my chest, I tell ya. I gotta think about something else but everything keeps coming back like a bad song or a tootache. I hear Ma shouting and the door slamming. I hit my hand against the tree until it stop hurting inside. 
Sep 20

Mirror Girl Part 2

The door slams late at night; her father, back from wherever he goes at night. But his eyes are clear and bright and his voice sharp. He laughs and dances in the kitchen, Alma can here him. She goes into the kitchen because he is never like this, not anymore. Who is this happy late-night father?

    “Alma!” he cries out. “I’ve just heard the most wonderful news!” He grabs her hands and  looks deep into his daughter’s eyes. “Christ. Is about to be reborn.”

    “What?”

    “Our savior!”

    Mike had been raised by a grandmother who wore a habit every day and counted the rosaries before bed. Alma has seen the pictures of her, faded and ripped at the corners, her wrinkled face set into a frown. Her father wore a tiny suit and pouted. He told her about this, once, how he hated the rigourous beliefs of his grandmother, who made him pray before every meal. He never took her to church; he seemed to have given up all religion.
Aug 30

Ok. This is revised a bit.


Everyone loves the old broken towns, half buried in oaks and prickly nettles and rusted maroon farm equipment. The houses are “adorable”, laced with white icing siding and scaffolding, bricks falling from the chimneys. The shops are “quaint”, family run and tight knit with hand-painted wooden signs proclaiming, “Vermont Maple Syrup” and “Liquor.” Porches peel. Driveways are gardens of exotic weeds. Old barns and shacks crumble, surrendering to the endless tide of winter and summer, frost and rain, their backbones breaking and sloping to the ground. NO TRESPASSING signs layer these monstrosities, hidden in the woods. Here everyone goes to the same church, school, grocery store, post office. Ancient cellars with dingy lights and dusty washing machines are filled with polished mason jars of pickles, james, winter delicacies. On cold nights an unlucky child is sent to brave the dark, the uneven cement floors, to find these small treasures.
Aug 23

Mirror Girl (This is a Different Version; I actually have a plan)

Chapter 1.
Everyone loves the old broken towns, half buried in oaks and prickly nettles and rusted maroon farm equipment. The houses are “adorable”, laced with white icing siding and scaffolding, bricks falling from the chimneys. The shops are “quaint”, family run and tight knit with hand-painted wooden signs proclaiming, “Vermont Maple Syrup” and “Liquor.” Porches peel. Driveways are gardens of exotic weeds. Old barns and shacks crumble, surrendering to the endless tide of winter and summer, frost and rain, their backbones breaking and sloping to the ground. NO TRESPASSING signs layer these monstrosities, hidden in the woods. Here everyone goes to the same church, school, grocery store, post office. Ancient cellars with dingy lights and dusty washing machines are filled with polished mason jars of pickles, james, winter delicacies. On cold nights an unlucky child is sent to brave the dark, the uneven cement floors, to find these small treasures.
Aug 07

Mirror Girl

Flotsam words-random vocab
Everyone loves the old broken towns, half buried in oaks and prickly nettles and rusted maroon farm equipment. The houses are “adorable”, laced with white icing siding and scaffolding, bricks falling from the chimneys. The shops are “quaint”, family run and tight knit with hand-painted wooden signs proclaiming, “Vermont Maple Syrup” and “Liquor.” Porches peel. Driveways are gardens of exotic weeds. Old barns and shacks crumble, surrendering to the endless tide of winter and summer, frost and rain, their backbones breaking and sloping to the ground. NO TRESPASSING signs layer these monstrosities, hidden in the woods. Here everyone goes to the same church, school, grocery store, post office. Ancient cellars with dingy lights and dusty washing machines are filled with polished mason jars of pickles, james, winter delicacies. On cold nights an unlucky child is sent to brave the dark, the uneven cement floors, to find these small treasures.
Aug 07

Pain and Ballet

Ballet. 
It's a timeless art, always changing and flowing. Ebbing. Like the tide. 
You go to an Opera house.
You see.
What do you see?
A stage. 
A curtain. Lifting.
A stage.
With girls 
On the stage.
Waiting. 
Music. A single strum. A pluck. A pure flute sound, rising in the air. 
One moves.
Another. 
And Another. 
And now they all move, twirling and flinging themselves about the stage
Leaping.
Twisting bodies bending into new shapes, new forms, 
A man who leaps and hangs there, for just a moment
A girl spinning on one leg, over and over and over and over and over.
Beautiful sparkling creatures. 
You don't see.
You don't see the shoes.
You don't see how the girls must stand on the ends of their toes, and dance,
And bleed.
Right through the shoes. 
Red on white on the stage. 
Blisters. Cuts. Sprains. 
Hours and hours and hours of class
Jul 23

The Pemi Trip

I was waiting for this trip since I got off the last one. There was just something about being so alone in the woods, so isolated, so self reliant, that appealed to me. Of course it was also beautiful out there. 

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