powered by your voice
Jul 23

We Moved Sailboats with Our Tears

I watched you sit on the boardwalk,
And dangle your feet into the water,
Sandals and all.
I started to walk over,
So we could sit together and talk,
About how great life is,
How great love is,
But then,
I saw you start to cry,
So I froze and watched,
As your tears fell deep into the water,
And as they scared away the fish.

I'm not sure why,
But watching you cry,
Sparked some sort of sorrow inside me,
So I slowly sat myself on the grass,
And continued to watched you,
But suddenly realized,
That my face streaked wet,
As my tears fell gently,
And drowned helpless ants and their homes.

This angered me,
How I knew you were crying,
And how I knew I was crying,
So I promptly stood up,
Forced my feet to walk the 50 paces towards you,
And sat my rugged jean-shorts down beside you.
That way,
We could cry together,
And instead of scaring fish and killing ants separately,
Our tears could move sailboats and startle dolphins together.
The best part about this was,
We didn't even look at each other,
Didn't even acknowledge each other's existence,
Until you grabbed my hand,
Scooched closer,
And held me.
What was even greater?
We never even stopped crying.


Jul 23

If I Were Older

If I were older,
I wouldn't still be reaching for the stars,
I would be in the stars,
Counting and watching,
Holding and coddling,
Not imagining what life awaits me. 

If I were older,
I would be able to think straight,
Instead of wandering aimlessly,
Trying to figure something out,
Anything out,
Like I'm trying to do now. 

If I were older,
I wouldn't be so afraid,
To stand my ground,
Make my own decisions,
And life would be carefree,
More or less,
Unlike it is now. 

If I were older,
I would have already fixed my worries,
Figured out how to control them,
And make them work for me,
But instead,
I work for my worries. 

And yet,
If I were younger,
I would still believe that all of that,
Would be true,
Unlike right now. 


Jul 23
Fiona Ella's picture

houseboat life p40-50

again, language in this part. or, more to the point, language in the rest of the screenplay. 
also, one of my main concerns from hereon in: does charlotte have any personality/motivation? because i'm kind of worried she doesn't. 


Ida stalks back in and everybody perks up.

Let’s go.

She won’t want to see you.

That’s all you know.


Conrad, Etienne, and Hazel are walking down the corridor with clear intent towards Nina’s room. Dr. Woolf tries to intercept them.

There’s a two-person visitor limit—

Go stick your head in a hole. Or else I’ll put it there for you.

Dr. Woolf retreats.


Nina has been scowling. At the sight of her guests, she brightens.

Aha! Here you are. I’d hug you, but I’m sadly entangled in an IV tube.

Everyone glances at each other. Nina doesn’t look healthy, but she does look happy.

Are you okay?

I mean, I’m in a drug-induced fog and everyone thinks I’m evil. But I’m okay.

We don’t think you’re evil.

Yeah, well, you guys don’t count.
(they glance at each other)
Jul 22

oh dear

oh dear
here i go again
writing silly words about you
i promised myself i wouldn't
not ever again
never never never
but when i caught a glimpse of your profile
the lovely symmetry of your face
i found it difficult not to stare
you looked at me but not really
just a skimming sort of glance
one you could give out to anyone
possibly or possibly not
and see
here i go again
wondering what you think of
and what you don't
oh dear indeed

Jul 22


In my freshman English class
​we were asked a question:
Are people as a whole Good?

​The class was split in half,
some citing acts of selfishness
and cruelty to proclaim
that people are not innately good.

​The rest spoke of acts of
​pure kindness and heroism
​to prove that people are good.

​I was with the people who
believed people are good.
​I stated that everyone
​thinks they're good,
even Hitler thought he was in
the right, that he was good,
that everyone tries to be good.

​My teacher cut me off
​because I was making it too
​complicated by bringing up
​that everyone has a different
​view of what is good and right.

​Ever since then I haven't
been able to stop thinking
about how different people's
​perceptions of good are.
There are some general perceptions
of what things are right and good
​and what things are wrong and bad,
but nothing is set in stone,
its always changing,
​there were acts performed in history
that would be condemned today,
but then were thought of as good.
​Good is constantly evolving.

Everyone thinks they are
​in the right, that they are good,
​everyone tries to be good,
but who decides what is actually good?

Jul 22

Write a Revolution

I drew this for a block on revolutions last school year; the assignment was to draw a raised fist. Many people connected their drawings to America, I took a slightly different approach....

Jul 21
Fiona Ella's picture

houseboat life - p30-40

oh, right: fair warning. mild language in this part. or mildly strong, depending on your standards/threshold. 



The home is tall and austere. Children mill about in the backyard, looking depressed.

I did grow up in care—if it’s any consolation, I didn’t lie about that bit.

A MAN and WOMAN appear at the gates. The man is tall and austere and angry-looking, the woman grey and narrow and vague. They beckon to YOUNG SADIE (8).

Only I did know my parents. They lived right down the road from the home. Picked it in particular because of that, to leave me on the doorstep of.


Conrad breaks in.

They could still face you after they abandoned you?

Sucks, don’t it? Some people are awful.

She’s still distant, and falls back into her story.


Sadie sits in an uncomfortable-looking armchair across from her parents. She’s older now, maybe 15. Her father sits across from her; his mouth moves soundlessly as he talks. He gets more and more animated during Nina’s voiceover.

Jul 21
in poem 0 Comments challenge: Milk
jbird18's picture


The milk spilled and the barn cats came running. Not just the usual two or three who turn up at milking time for a squirt from the udder, but all forty seven of them. You know how cats walk silently and are so talented at sneaking up on things? Well, it turns out that forty seven cats racing all at once towards a single pail of spilt milk sound just the same silent way. And so, when the milk spilled and the barn cats came running, no one heard them.

The pail was full right up to the brim and a fly buzzing by had paused to soak up the sun on the shiny rim. Somehow, that little black fly had landed and placed its weight just right to tip over the pail of foamy, warm, fresh-from-the-cow milk.

to be continued
Jul 21
in fiction, humor 0 Comments challenge: Wings
15hensandarooster's picture

Diving out of Illusion


It was the morning of my birthday. I was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling. Here were the cracks, forming animals, birds, and flowers. There was even a sort of fairy, with wings of delicately caked plaster. How I longed to fly, like that fairy! If someone could give me a gift of WINGS!!! I imagined myself doing cartwheels in the air. Wohoo!!!

But, no one had invented gravity defying accessories for people, so it must just be a dream that lies deep in my heart.

I rolled over and stretched,  preparing to dress, comb my hair, and get ready for my birthday ‘surprise’ party, when something fell off the edge of my bed. I picked it up: was my brother littering the room with useless junk AGAIN?

I glanced at the paper. It was scribbled on with weird old-fashioned handwriting. It wasn’t my brother’s or anyone else’s I knew. Looking closely at the note, I read:

Hello, Lucky person.
You have hereafter claimed the MAGIC ability of KALUMARTIKA. You will have the ability to sprout wings! However, they will appear whenever anyone says fly.
The Monster of Paaparas

It must be a joke… Right?  But what if this is real magic?

“There’s no way to know except to test it out,” I concluded, my heart pounding with excitement and a tad bit of skepticism. This was the best birthday ever! I clutched the note in my hand and got ready for breakfast.
Jul 21
Fiona Ella's picture

something really unbelievably saccharine and sappy

when i was really little
maybe seven? 
i was convinced that there were fairies on the island we went camping. 
my parents called it "magic"
and that was the only kind of magic
i knew about. 
i'd build little houses
in the hollows of tree roots
beds out of leaves
stones as plates 
sticks and grass woven for entryways
for the fairies to leave in. 
i left notes with them, 
in a childish scrawl. 
and year after year, 
the fairies wrote back. 
they made extravagant promises, 
told of fairy balls 
and inviting me to their kingdom
and all those things you're supposed to tell a seven-year-old
who believes in fairies. 
when i grew up
and realized that fairies didn't exist
i probably should have had a moment of betrayal
why did these people lie to me?
but i didn't. 
for a while i was ashamed of having written them
for having made those island staff
"deal with me" 
then, recently, i realized. 
these strangers, 
teenagers mostly? 
working on an island just to earn money
and the odd older person 
who'd been here forever
found those hopeful letters
written by a seven-year-old
on a rock on the beach
in a marker from father's bag
and returned them. 
lies to a stranger. 
but it was the beautiful kind of lie. 
Jul 21

Deep and Dark Thoughts Until the Sun Saved Me

The night holds secrets,
For itself,
And for others.
It lurks down our spines,
And tries to grasp everything out of us,
And plant terrible things there instead.
And then,
It lets go,
Of everything it held,
Of everything it was close to hiding in us,
When the sun comes up,
And it captures the night.
Don't get me wrong,
The night puts up a decent fight,
But the sun wants to save us more,
Than the night wants to harm us.

Jul 21
Fiona Ella's picture

houseboat life - p20-30

this is probably about where it starts getting messy and awful. just a warning. 


Nina gets off of the boat in a hurry, followed by Conrad and Etienne and Hazel, and then Charlotte.


The fire station is small and full of busy people. The door bangs open and Gemma Veale barges in.



Gemma pushes open the door of a disordered office.


IDA LAWSON, 29, a short and pugnacious brunette with a messy ponytail, looks up from her desk.


She doesn’t sound pleased.

That’s Mrs. Veale to you.

Gemma, Mrs. Veale, whatever. What
do you want?

I have a small favor to ask you.

Ida’s none too pleased by this either. She throws Gemma a look of extreme frustration and leans across her desk to listen.


A police officer opens the door, ushers them in, and then leaves. He slams the door shut behind him with a loud CLANG.

The police station is deserted. Everybody takes seats in the corner, as far away from the empty desk as possible, and waits.
Jul 21
Sidney B.'s picture

Something I Forced Myself To Write

Honestly not worth reading, I should have just deleted this...
Jul 21


A long time ago I think I would have been a pioneer
pushing further and further west towards a place
where no one had been before.

I am captivated by the concept of no one,
by the idea that when I find this place I will see true wilderness
because there will be no footsteps to precede me.

Even now I long for places so wild and innocent
where no other person has seen those trees
and no other footprints have been left in the mud.

It is in that spirit that I love places without names
trailless and nearly forgotten, empty green blobs on the map
these are the places I feel free.

Most of all I love it when there is not a telephone wire in sight
and not even a whisper of cell phone service
no paved roads, or tired gas stations.

I long to be alone.

Jul 21


  Bare feet barely touch the ground as legs spring forward, propelled by arms covered in goosebumps and lungs filled with damp air.  A girl races ahead, pale cheeks flushed a lively hue and light eyes sparkling vivaciously under her dark brows.  The course grass scratches across her legs and her skirts tangle about her knees as the wind howls and tears across the landscape savagely.  She's persued by a boy with dark hair, wild like the landscape, who's face is streaked with the same mud that is caked upon the girl's hands.  He follows dutifully, persistantly, closing the lengths of quivering grassland between them.  Striding forward with strong bounds, reaching for the fleeting girl as he does so, a hint of a smile upon his lips as she twists away with a laugh half lost in the vast emptiness surrounding them.  Her clothing flutters about her like the wings of the larks circling overhead as if she might leap from the rocks they now approach, and fly, stretching her arms outward and taking to the sky, disappearing amongst the abyss of mist closing in around them.  The boy reaches for the earthy tones of fabric that whip behind her, grazing a soft bit of sleeve just below her elbow.  Instead of pulling her back he matches his pace with her own, clambering along beside her as she climbs the crude shards of rock that potrude from the earth in uneven shapes.