The Boy on The Bus

Across the bus, a young boy caught his eye.  His blue eyes were rimmed with red.  His curly hair sat is a messy mop on top on his head.  He looked utterly hopelessly alone.

He knew that look.

The boy reminded him of the summer when he turned twelve.

He had sat on a bus, much like this one.  Shipped to his distant aunt's home after that wretched accident.  That awful day when reality pulled the rug out from under him and whisked his parents away forever.  He remembered crying for days at a time.  He remembered sitting in the ugly bus seat with burning eyes begging his heart not to break in such a public place.  That was the most he could do back then, beg the feelings not to overwhelm him and curse them when they disobeyed.  His cousins didn't understand why he was always angry.  No one did really.  He was sick of their pitying looks and their meaningless condolences.  It was all words.  Nothing could change what had happened to him.  No amount of sorry was going to fix it.

He had taught himself not to cry that summer.  He managed to take all the rage, confusion, and pain and twist it into his own tool.  The feelings fueled his art, made him successful.  But he'd give it all up if it meant never feeling that pain at all.

He wished he could tell the boy it would be alright, whatever it was that he was fighting to push down.  He wished he could reach across the seat and console him.  But how would that look?

Instead, he gave the tiny girl with the blonde, ringlet curls nestled under his arm an extra dollar and told her to buy some candy to share with the little boy.  His daughter obeyed immediately, excited at the prospective new friend.  When his wife gave him a questioning glance, he sighed and told her it was nothing.

When the girl plopped down next to the boy, he seemed wary.  But her constant chatter was infectious and soon he was easing into conversation.

If only someone had done that for him, the man thought maybe he wouldn't have spent so long feeling alone.

Made of Lace

She had a habit of hiding behind a curtain of golden waves of hair.
It was safe behind the curtain, no one could see her.
No one could see the pale blue of her eyes or try to read the stories stitched on to her heart.

Her voice was gentle, like she was afraid her voice could shatter the air around her.
Her hands were soft;afraid of touching something too hard.
Afraid of breaking someone the way she had been broken.
Afraid of scaring someone off.

Everything about her was fragile, delicate, soft.
Her heart.
Her dreams.
Her words.
Her hopes.
Her mind.

She was like ancient lace; beautiful, intricate, subject to deteriorate under too much friction.

She needed someone who could put her behind glass and keep her safe, but all her life she longed for someone who could unravel all her threads only to weave her into some new material more suited to the roughness of the world.

It Wasn't a Movie

I always wanted a romance worthy of a Nicholas Sparks novel, or a classic movie.
I always wanted Hollywood.
And I thought I got it.

I thought I finally got to be that girl in the classic.
The cliched, predictable love story.
I thought I was the young innocent who fell for the older, guarded, misunderstood.
I thought I was 16 and in love with a dangerous, mysterious guy that I would end up fixing and finding forever with.

It was perfect.
It was love at first sight.
It fell beautifully in line with every great romance story.
It rose and fell in the right ways at the right moments.
Tragedy struck right on cue, when everything was perfect.

I waited four years for the big resolution.
For the happy ending.
For my own happily ever after.

In the end, I got faked out.
Reality flew on set, wrecked the studio, tore my script, crashed the cameras, and blew out the lights.
And I was left with a suitcase full of broken hearts and shattered plans in the harsh sunlight of life.
Life showed me that it wasn't love, it was adoration and infatuation.
And it hurt like hell for a long time until I learned to see it as a lesson and not a tragedy.

So maybe I didn't get to be Belle in The Beauty and The Beast.
I wasn't Molly Ringwald, he wasn't Judd Nelson and we weren't living in The Breakfast Club.
But I also don't have to carry the weight of a "lost love" with me for the rest of my life.

I don't think I'll ever be able to forget his name.
I don't think I'll ever forget how happy I was.
I don't think I'll ever forget how much I cried.
I don't think I'll forget any of it.

But I know what I deserve now, and what I want, and what love doesn't feel like.

Choosing to Write

I think I've vented on this subject before, so if this seems familiar, forgive me.

I don't understand why people continue to tell me to find a "back up career".  And I cannot figure out for the life of me why they always suggest nursing as that back up.  News flash: I hate needles.  And blood.  And pretty much everything dealing with the human body.  And other humans.  And science. Needless to say, nursing is nowhere in my future.  Ever.

The selfish part of me wants to scream "I've written a book people! A real book!  One that is on my shelf that has my name on the cover and my picture on the back and words in the middle that I came up with!"
But I don't want to be that person so I smile and nod and say "maybe" to ever stupid suggestion I hear.

No I don't want to teach.  I'm not called to teach.  I don't have the patience for it or the desire to do it.
Yes, I'm going to major in English.  Yes I think it is a career, and yes I think it's a good idea.

Honestly though, it's no ones business, and I don't get why everyone thinks I need their opinion.

I have prayed over the decision to pursue writing as a career more than anyone knows.  I have had anxiety about how I'm ever going to make a living.  But what I know for sure it that writing brings me peace.  The idea of being a writer, in any capacity, brings me joy.  The idea that I get to do what I love for the rest of my life is exhilarating.

It's not easy.  It's incredibly difficult to find a thread of inspiration and unravel it completely only to spin it back up into one contiguous story that other people want to read.  I'm not just sitting around day dreaming, I'm researching so my facts are right.  I'm sketching and googling and Pinteresting and erasing and rewriting.  I'm waking up at 2 am because some thought that HAS to make it into my manuscript hits me in the head.  I stay up until 3 am because once I grab hold of some trail, I want to write it out as far as possible so I don't lose it.  I waste my entire check on spiral notebooks because I've filled all twenty piled on my desk.  I write until my hands cramp up because my computer is on the fritz and I have six manuscripts that have to be finished anyway.

So to those people who think writing isn't a career: I don't care.  Every time I look back at my life, all these tiny pieces that never made sense before finally fit together and they all come out to one thing; me writing.  When I look at the progress I've made, the things I've accomplished, I know that it is 100% God.  He is behind everything that I do, and I think if I was following the wrong rabbit whole, I wouldn't be nearly this successful.

No one has to like my choices except for me and my savior.  No one gets to determine if I'm where I'm supposed to be but me and Him.  As long as God is guiding me, no one can tell me I'm on the wrong path.

Cobwebs in The Corner

Thin spindles of silk hang in the corners.
Dust clings to them, ignored for years, decades even.
Dim light filters through grimy, broken windows littering the floor with broken shards of light.

Frost hangs in the corners and winter makes it's slow approach.
Warm wind fades to cool breezes that fall to stinging gusts of ice.

A man huddles in the corner, half frozen.  Close to death.  Transfixed by the cobwebs in the corner.

He mutters the same few sentences over, and over, and over once more.
Some would call him crazy.  Homeless.  Sick.  Deranged.
His frail ears wouldn't pick up the sound anyway.

Stronger than steel.  Smaller than thread.  Holding together till the end.
Stronger than steel.  Smaller than thread.  Holding together till the end.

He chants until his voice goes raw.
Until the effort of speaking is too much.
Soon, he is silent, but the words echo in his head.

The cobwebs in the corner catch the dusty light as the door creaks open.
Boots thunder on the soil floor.  Men rush in, hunch over him, call to one another, talk to him.
He stays silent, holding onto life like a spider's web; by a thin, stretching thread.



It is warm when he wakes up.  The light is brighter;whiter than the cottage's ever was before.  Nurses bustle back and forth.  He's too weak to say a word.

Sleep.  Sleep.  Sleep.  Then strength.  Ounce by ounce, it returns to his bones.  His muscles.  His heart.  His soul.

Much later, a woman reaches for the corner of his room, swatting at a tiny, abandoned web.

"No."  He croaks.  The sound startles her and she stops.
"I don't mind them.  They kept me safe."
She eyes him with confusion but backs away from the webs.

"They teach us.  Stronger than steel, smaller than thread, holding together till the end."  His voice is a whisper as she inches to his bedside.

"Just when you think it can bear no more, it proves you wrong, even when it's been forgotten."  He whispers as he falls asleep.

The woman shuffles out, careful not to disturb the man or his cobwebs.

You Were Poison

I didn't want to let you go.  You have to know that.  You have to realize that leaving you was one of the hardest things to do.  You were my last string, my last anchor holding me to my past.  The part of my heart that longs for the familiar screamed at me to keep you close.  But reality told me different.  You are a toxin that I had to be rid of.  Had I stayed in your presence, I surely would have died.

It's different up here.  Floating above the things I know.  Landing for a moment anywhere I please, but never growing my roots deep enough to stay.  It feels a touch like freedom.  It feels a touch lonely.  But mostly, it feels like breath is finally coming back into my lungs.

I had no idea how long you were holding me under water; denying me air.  Denying me life.  You sat the weight of betrayal on my chest and expected me to carry on like nothing had changed.  I failed you there, but I don't mind.  I couldn't live that way anymore.  That's why I left.

I want to be vengeful and hope that me pulling away is killing you half as much as you killed me.  But I know better.  You won't feel the sting until you've made some drastic mistake.  You won't realize I'm gone until you need something and I'm not there to give it.  But right now, in this moment, I doubt you even know I'm gone.

You were poison.  Sucking life from someone else just so you can live yourself.  Call me selfish, whatever you please, but I'd like to live for me for a while.

The Clouds of People

I've always been fascinated by clouds.

They way they float together, becoming one and splitting apart.

Changing each other and creating new forms.

It has occurred to me that people are much the same.

We come together, impacting and changing the lives of each person we come in contact with.

Sometimes we split and become two different things.

Sometimes we softly drift apart.

And sometimes we drift together again after a long time.

It is in that reunion that storms are born.

Thunderstorms of emotion,

hurricanes of repressed feelings,

beautiful lightning storms of something new and brilliant.

We drift and we collide and we tear ourselves apart, each of us hoping to find a storm we want to live inside of forever.

The Things You Don't Know

I spent the first week of July at my favorite place on earth. Pine Springs Baptist Camp. A place that changes lives. A place the ignites the fire of Christ in icy hearts. A place full of miracles. But something one of the girls in my dorm said got me thinking about how we portray our selves and what others see. She made a comment about me being "preppy" and "happy" and "giggly" all of the time. I was immediately defensive. She doesn't know me. She doesn't know my struggles. She doesn't know my heart or my life. So I thought I'd take a moment to share my secrets, the parts of me that I cover up with smiles and giggles. 
This girl, no offense to her, but she has no idea who I am. And honestly, you don't either. So here I am. Here are the ugly truths that hide deep in my soul that no one knows. 

You don't know that one year and ten months ago my best friend in this whole world died unexpectedly and I'm never going to stop hurting. 
You don't know that my heart physically aches every single day. 
You don't know that it's been five years since I've had a best friend.  
You don't know that in the course of two years I lost 6 friends and I still don't understand why. 
You don't know I have severe trust issues. That I ice out anyone who gets remotely close to me because I'm so freaking terrified of getting hurt again. 
You don't know that I have severe anxiety when I step foot outside the house. 
You don't know I've had to develop my own methods to stop myself from having a panic attack as I walk across campus. 
You don't know that I cry almost every single night before I finally run out of tears and pass out, exhausted on my pillows. 
You don't know that all my pillow cases are stained with mascara from my late night sobbing. 
You don't know that I've been single for fours years because someone took my heart and ran it over with a lawn mower when I was 16. 
You don't know that he's still my weakness, after everything he did to me, I've let him break my heart three times and I still miss him. 
People call me a flirt but they doesn't realize that I prefer the company of guys because they don't snicker about me behind my back or make me feel ugly or fat. 
No one in my entire life has heard this all as blatantly as I'm writing it right now. You don't know how proud I am of myself for being able to post this and not be self conscious. 


There are dozens more examples of demons I had behind my smile. But there's a lot of good too. I like looking up, just walking and looking up and feeling so infinitely small in this massive universe. I push past my insecurities because I want to be that happy person with a constant smile. I don't want my issues to win out. I want to control them, not for them to control me. I'm that girl who makes straight A's but takes an extra minute to get the joke you just told. 


Anyway, this girl doesn't know me. She doesn't know any of this. No one does. Well, you do now I guess. And that's insane. Because I don't speak this candidly to people. 

So if you've made it to the end of this post, I guess what I want to say is first of all, thank you for taking a spare moment to read it. And second, you never really know people. Don't assume. Don't call names. Just be a descent human being and be kind. People are always fighting battles you know nothing about. 


With love,
 M. A. Trappe 

Sunshine and Light Bulbs

He was sunshine in the purest form.

All smiles and glowing and brightness pouring from every inch of his skin.

He was radiant.

Glorious.

Warm and inviting like a cloudless day on the water.

Every time she looked at him, she was blinded by his incandescence.

She couldn't stare directly into his face, not the way the knots in her stomach begged her to.

Instead, she glanced around the edges, where it was just bright enough for her to warm up a bit.

She thought she was good at faking it, her own light.

He set a good example that she tried her hardest to emulate.

In her mind, she was just a star, a little farther away, and only a little less bright.

But he could see through her glare.

He did what she couldn't and looked at her dead on.

And to him, she was a light bulb.

When she was on, you could hardly look at her for the brilliance.

But when she was off, all you could see was fragile glass and wires.

He knew if she was handled too roughly, she'd break apart and the glow would die forever.

She wanted so desperately to hide the glass.

But to him, she was beautiful when she was off; all glass and wires and exposed.

Her delicacy was what made her different.

In a world of rocks who despised the light entirely, and flowers who needed it to live, she could create her own.

But the wires made him fearful too, for he knew that if she kept it up too long, she just might burn herself out. 

Social Media Exile

About four days ago, I decided I was sick of the toxic ideals, vocabulary, and morals of pop culture and America in general.  I'm sick of seeing the words "bae" and "goals" and "selfie".  I'm sick of hearing about how "thigh gaps" are life goals for different people.  I'm sick of hearing about the Kardashians and Bruce/Caitlin and how make up can change your life.  I'm sick of hearing about how pastel hair is the new "thing".

I needed a break from main stream America and Pop Culture and trends and fads.  I needed to take a moment and come back to what I believe, what I know is right, and what is important to me.
So, I signed out of Facebook, Instagram, Snapchat, Kik, and Twitter (all the social media platforms I use) and I turned off the notifications for all five.  Yes, you read that right.  I turned off the notifications.  And the result was shocking.

What did I find? you might ask.  Well, here it is.

Day 1 was torture.  I checked my phone every ten minutes, on the dot, like an addict going through withdrawals in desperate need for their drug of choice.  I couldn't focus, I couldn't sit still.  I was restless, I was bored, I was irritable.  It was terrifying.  Technology and Social Media have weaseled themselves into our lives, convincing us we need the newest, biggest, touch screen.  Or that we NEED to know who wore it best, or what tragic fashion mistake Kim Kardashian made or who the latest celebrities to get divorced are.  We need it like we need air in our lungs.  We HAVE to know what that cute guy from high school is up to or what that crazy girl turned out to be or we'll just die.
But guess what: I'm still living.  I'm right here sucking in oxygen like I have every other day of my life.  And I'm not dead.

Day 2 was a whole new world.  I checked my phone every few hours, but it wasn't nearly as heartbreaking to remember I logged out of everything.  I could focus on chores and laundry and doing the dishes.  I found things that needed to be done and GET THIS: I actually had a good time.

By day 3, my IPod was missing almost 24/7 and I didn't really care where it was.  I only picked up my phone the two times it rang.  I got to spend an entire day enjoying the REAL company of my family, not obsessed with the virtual and insignificant lives of people I will never ever meet.

Today is day 4 and the benefits are really hitting me hard.  Not only is it perfectly okay not being tied to Facebook, or Instagram, but my mood has improved.  I'm not looking at photo shopped or even real pictures of girls who are naturally thin and thinking "man I really need to work out" or looking at filtered versions of selfies that took seventy takes to get perfect and thinking "man I'm never going to be as pretty as her".  I'm not looking at other peoples stomachs and thinking "I wish mine was that small" or looking at other people's relationships and thinking "gosh I'm so alone".
I've stopped comparing myself to everyone else.  I can look in the mirror, or into my heart, and think "hey, God made me beautiful and smart and talented and funny and outgoing and I rock it."  I think "man I'm blessed to have this life."

Without the constant shove of media trying to tell me who I should act like or what I should look like or what "pretty" is, I can find myself and become confident in the things God gave me.

I guess the point I'm trying to make in all of this, is that we don't realize how attached we are to our Faceboook profiles, or how many likes we get on Instagram or how many Snapchat friends we have.  We don't see the negative effect that Social Media is having on our emotions and our mentalities.  It is only when we chose to take two steps back that the real world and the reality of the nature of mass media can hit us square in the chest.  And folks, that isn't a good feeling.  It's scary, and unnerving.  It's like someone's had a hold on your mind and your heart that you never even knew about.

So I challenge you to become a Social Media Exile, try for just a week.  Sign out of all Social Media platforms; Instagram, Facebook, Snapchat, Twitter, Periscope, Vine, Tumblr.  Sign out, and don't sign back in for an entire week.  Fight through the urge to check your notifications, turn them off completely.  If someone really needs you, they'll call or text or email.  You'll be amazed at the results and the mindset you find yourself in.  If you don't believe me, just try it,