Sep 05

My New Gentleman

He took my arm with a gentlemanly smile.
"May I walk you home, young lady?"
He had to bend at the waist
To reach my thin elbow. 
My eyes, too large yet for my face, 
Blinked.
Mommy told me
Not to go with a strange man. 
But surely he wasn't such a stranger now
We were acquainted. 
... surely. 
The moon was very bright
So the Man in it could keep
An eye on my new gentleman. 
"It's not safe for a girl like you
"To be alone at this hour."
On this black night. 
 
Feb 17

Clear

Oct 14

A Day Late and a Dollar Short

I guess I'm more than a day late and a dollar short. 
I've been putting this off, frowning and vomiting the words "that's terrible" and "I feel so bad" whenever someone brings them up. While a flood of emotion and support has washed over Harwood, the most I did was sign a banner my school had in the cafeteria today. I put a heart next to my signature, my first and last name, as if somehow that made my contribution more important. What did I even mean by adding that heart? Was I signing a greeting card, "with love"? Saying, "my heart goes out to you"? I colored it in with the same marker I signed with. Black. Why? Because it was a little lopsided, and I wanted to make it even. 
Sep 27

An Artist's Honor

The canvas crooned softly, “come, there is something I must show you”. I could not ignore it, beautifully cast as it was in the morning light shining from my bedroom window. Heartstrings tugged my limbs as if I were a marionette, a puppet to the master that was the pale square before me. While the grain crosshatched just so minute shadows rendered the plane a shade darker from across the room, I could see it was far purer now that I was close enough to feel the coolness of its surface. I heard its whispers once more; it was understandable why Van Gogh might take drastic measures to escape their captivating pull, yet only after years of reveling in the act of obeying them. Perhaps my brush was entranced as well, as my hand rose unbidden to offer color to the canvas, gaining in return an earth-shattering joy that resonated through my bones and turned my skin to gooseflesh. For this was the joy of being an artist; this was the divine honor of giving life to a canvas.
 
Jul 06

Make Your Peace



Tear down the tearers of trees and lives, lives and livelihoods within our own nation. 
Break what has broken and make new what has marred the face of our Earth, the Earth that faces such trials. 
Uproot disregard and reap understanding. 
Plaster all places with newspapers, spreading the news and who knews? of our world. 
Where one ship's shipment spills into a slick, a biological technology is being born to replace it. 
Jul 05

My Expectations For Best-Selling Authors

Some big-time authors are just plain stupid. 
I mean, if they're making millions off best-sellers and movie deals one would expect they have quality work, yes? I know popularity isn't everything; I've found some gems while perusing the library aisles thirty years old and still on the same stamp card. Yet, when I pick up the newest hit, it can be absolute trash! What the heck makes these things so appealing? Are readers nowadays just dumb too? Maybe it's me... no, I'm sane (mostly). I can't be the only sane fantasy fan still out there. Okay, yeah, we're a special kind of sane-- but still. C'mon. 
My biggest pet peeve is when the story is riveting (or at least inspires grudging respect for the writing, if not the story) and then the ending is a steaming pile of "curveballs" seen from (insert page count here) pages away, loose ends, what-ifs and WTFs.
Jul 05

A Curious Girl

She never saw the hands that molded the clay of her body, the glorious hands that gave her form. 
And she never would. 
She never heard the even, measured breaths the owner of the hands took as they gave birth to her. 
And she never would.
She never tasted, never smelled, and never would taste or smell of these hands that were her world. 
Instead, this curious girl felt. 
How could clay feel, you ask?
Well, how would it do anything else without eyes, ears, nose or mouth?
A clay doll has no skin, either.
Ah... she was no doll, though we certainly like to believe she is a plaything. 
Anyway, while no one knows for sure when this girl began to feel, it is only natural to assume she began to feel when she was.
At first she withdrew deep within herself with the intent of NOT feeling, for her creation is, in some versions, chaotic. 
Painful.

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