War Alone

She never did like peace much.  It was a nice reprieve but the real beauty was in the chaos.
When her pulse raced beneath her skin.
When her hair stood on end.
When her breaths came in quick succession.
When her vision sharpened and her hands were quick.
That was the moment she lived for.  In that moment, she felt quite acutely the reality of life and the pang of existence.  It was then that she was at her finest; when every instinct kicked in and instead of a clumsy mess, she was an instrument of pain and vengeance.

She felt the tingle in her spine and the knot in her stomach and let out a sharp, dark laugh.  They had made a terrible mistake, bringing this to her.  They would pay with their lives.

From every angle, came arrows, flying through the air, aimed for critical points.  They hardly mattered, she was a machine.  She was created for this.  Let them come.
But she wasn't fighting enemies, she realized as the fog of battle dispersed.  These were friends.  These were trusted faces.  The realization caught like a lump in her throat.  She stumbled, thrown by betrayal and a rouge arrow slit her arm open.

Letting out a pained, disturbing cry, she fought harder.  But her mind was whirling and her hands were sloppy.  For every two attacks she fended off, one caught her by surprise, nicking her somewhere, somehow.

The tears came as she realized how alone she was.  Rage, hurt, and anger buoyed her strength and she tore through their defenses.  Even if she won, she wouldn't have really won at all.  She wouldn't exit this one unscathed.  She was fighting this war alone.

Willingly Blinded

I am neither a pessimist nor an optimist.
My mood changes like the wind; it is never fixed.
But on days like today, when sadness and light mingle in equal parts of my soul, I can see it all.
I see the darkness and the hardness of the world.
But I can also see where the light seeps in.

Sometimes the light hits the right angle and shimmers in a rainbow of color over what we see.
It illuminates the right points, contours the right edges and brings focus to the right angles.
It makes the ugly a bit more beautiful.
It gives harshness the appearance of softness and makes everything more gentle.
It shines on the shadows and makes them less dense.
It shows a path of hope though an otherwise dismal forest of despair.

When the light shines in the dark, it's hard to focus on anything else.
It's hard to lose yourself in the blackness.
It's hard to look anywhere other than directly at the hope that blinds your eyes.
And maybe that's for the best.
Because in total darkness, there is no up or down.
There is no order or reason; there is only chaos and frantic fear.
I'd much rather blind myself on light than let the darkness blind me.

Paths

I am caught, flitting between two roads with no foresight of where they will lead.

I know one is dangerous.  

Full of peril and heartache but undoubtedly full of feeling.

The other is safe, bright, hopeful. 

The moment I decide to slip into trouble, the light shows up.

It calls to me with reason and stability, never wavering an inch.

But the itch for excitement nags at me, tempting me to stray for a moment.

The mystery is alluring but the light is warm.

My mind turns in unending circles trying to decipher right from wrong as they swirl together.

I ask but no one has an answer.

Their words are as twisted as my feelings, going back and forth; reaching no real end.

I am stuck and I am lost.

I fear tumbling down some unwanted path due to dizziness.

And sick to my stomach with incessant turning, I begin to fall.

Walking Into Fire

I am begging you to get away from the fire but you just keep walking farther away from me, closer to eminent destruction.  I can scream my throat raw but you won't listen.  You aren't willing to help yourself and there's nothing I can do from here. I just watch with teary eyes and cry for you to stop.

I've run into the fire too many times to save people who wanted to burn.  They never thanked me, they never wanted my help.  I was the one burned beyond recognition time and time again.  I have too much fear, too much pride, too much self-preservation to run in after you.  It's a shame, because you're the one I'm most scared to lose.

But you just keep going.  I try and reason with you and you counter my every move.  Always another reason why you're destined to die this way.  Why you can't be saved.  Why there's no hope.

It's infuriating.  Maddening.  Sickening.  And it makes me want to stop trying to help you.  If you could only see how dangerous this is.  If you could only hear how ridiculous you sound.  It seems so simple, stop and turn around, but you swear it's more than that.  Still, you don't even try.  You let the flames lick your shoes and bite your nose and I know there's not much time left.

It's all I can do to save myself.  I can do nothing for you.  You've resigned yourself to this fate, this destiny that was never intended for you.

I'm sorry I couldn't pull you out.  I'm sorry I'm too selfish to save you.  But in all fairness, you never tried to save yourself, and if you didn't want it, could any power on earth ever really change your mind?

Maybe she could have.  Maybe you just didn't want me to be the one to save you.  But I was the only one here.  Yet she was all you thought of as the flames took control.

Tranquility of Feeling

She stood and gazed at the ocean with its crashing waves and rolling white caps.
What a beautiful scene.
What beautiful, thought provoking, inspiring place to be.
They seemed, to her, a metaphor for feeling.
Beautiful when gazed upon, and gently stirring in the shallows.
But dangerous and crushing in depth.
If you didn't get caught in the tumult, she supposed, and lived to make it out even father where depth became impossible to fathom, it might be beautiful again.
She surmised that underneath the torrent, if one could only hold their breath long enough, they might submerge to find the tranquility underneath the danger.

A Floating Ribbon

Wind whipped and picked her up, tossing her through the air.  

She lived for the feeling of being whisked through the wind.

She danced amid the clouds and twirled like a fallen leaf.

Every once in a while she would come down low enough to be caught by an innocent passer by.

They might tie her to their wrist and she would revel in the heat of their skin against her.

But the silken ribbon was slick and no amount of knots could keep her tied up for too long.

After minutes, days, weeks even, she would slip out and catch a breeze that shot her towards the sun.

She lived both among the living and among the clouds, never settling for long with one or the other.

Landing

He was like Ferdinand, frightful on the eyes and easy on the heart.

I didn't expect to feel so safe under his shadow.

But his kind words and his gentle hands brought me out of my cocoon of doubt and showed me hope.

He wasn't too soft, he didn't treat me like I was breakable.

And in that way, he helped me realize I wasn't as fragile as I thought.

He messed with my mind, my life, my hair.

He had a little touch in every aspect of my life.

My nose burned with the scent of his cologne, but the smell was pleasant.

It smelt like home.

I realized I felt safe with him beside me, teasing me, making me smile.

He knew when to be harsh, and honest.

But he knew when to be kind and quiet and give my heavy heart a reprieve.

It was like in one moment, in the breath of a second, as midnight slid into morning, I had found a rhythm and a home.

I was tired from constant flight, never stopping, and in the moonlight he looked to be the perfect place to land.

A Woman of Words

I am a woman of words.
I live to place one word after another.
I strive to make people feel, to make people connect, to make them feel like they aren't alone.

Words are all I care for.
They take up a massive space in my heart.
They make my world turn.

I am never at a loss for words.

I had an alarming realization tonight.

I will never know what to say to you.
I will never know if it is alright to speak.
I will never know what you want to hear.
I will never know when my voice is appropriate.
I will never know the right words for you.

For a woman living for words, you put me at a loss.
And nothing in my life is more terrifying than the thought of you and my precious words not being able to exist in the same space.

Writing Prompt

It was time.  She fought against it for to long.  She had been selfish for too long.  This was her one chance to help.  Her one shot at salvation for her family and everyone else.  Knotting her hair at the base of her neck, she painted on makeup like a war mask.  She slid thin arms into a burgundy jacket and zipped up her suit of armor.  The town was eerily silent as she trudged through the empty streets.  Her family would worry when they found her missing but surely they would thank her when they found out what she was doing.  Tomorrow, people would be passing the news along as gossip in the streets.  It would reach her sister's ear by mid morning and she would inevitably rush home to deposit the gems of information on their mother's ears.  And all the worry would subside.

She tried to convince herself of that scenario as the gleaming mansion came into view.  He was waiting in the window, watching her walk in the moonlight.  All the town thought him mysteriously handsome.  She thought him grotesque.  His square jaw and eternally squinting eyes screamed danger to her.

But here she was, walking up the steps to his home to offer him a compromise.  This had to save them.  That had been his ultimatum hadn't it?  He would protect the town with his army of humanoid soldiers if she trained him.  She knew, of course, there was more to his request then the simple desire to learn.  They way he leered at her made her skin crawl.  But she bolstered her courage and with a deep breath, gave the door one solid thump.  He had no idea how soon his lessons would start.

When the door swung inward to a dimly lit parlor with no one in sight, she was momentarily confused.  Taking a tentative step forward, she reached with her mind for his being; the power coveted by so many.

She couldn't sense him.  She couldn't sense anyone.  The moment she was inside, the door swung shut behind her.  So the myths were true.  His mansion was haunted, or magic, or rigged to look that way at least.

He was behind her, uncomfortably close before she could sense him.  That bothered her.  Before she showed surprise, she turned the tables, grabbing onto his consciousness and twisting hard.  His knees buckled and his tall countenance hit the stone floor.
"What?  Not ready for your first lesson?" she sneered.  He moaned on the floor and writhed in imaginary pain.
"Fight!  Fight back!"  She yelled, inching closer to him with every agonizing second.  He groaned loudly and tried to sit up but she sent a fire down his spine.  No stench of burned cloth floated up.  No smoke of burned skin.  But the man screamed with the pain of a thousand fires.  The familiar twisting in her chest began as she looked down at the tortured soul.

She removed the pain with a breath and leaving him sweating and panting, she walked away.

"Welcome home little tormentor."  He choked.
The comment caught her off guard and made her grimace.  She spit towards his face and stormed up the massive stairwell.

Once on the second floor, she realized she was lost.  Swearing under her breath she scanned the doorways for a sign of her new prison.

"Last door on the left."  a smooth, condescending voice breathed from a few feet away.  He wasn't too close as he had been many times before, and she could hear a touch of fear in his voice.  Ignoring him, she made her way slowly down the hall, coming to a stop at her new door.  It was closed, like all the secret horrors hidden away inside were too distasteful for prying eyes.  Her hand shook as she clasped the doorknob and turned.

This is Me Asking

All I ever wanted was for you to say we we were the same. To say we fit like puzzle pieces. To say we were destiny spun up in a whirlwind of hope and forever. 

All I ever hoped was for you to see me through the same haze of love and adoration through which I saw you. 

We fell apart a thousand times, and I always seemed to be left alone, picking up the broken pieces that sliced open my hands and my heart. 

Now, all the words I wanted reserved for my reverent ears only, have been spilled out to the world. I feel like I'm hanging on a string, perilously close to falling. Again. 

I was right though, about you. All your silence, all your darkness, all the issues running through you like blood in your veins. I was right. 

You sent an open invitation to over a thousand people. An invitation calling them to ask. To say. To tell. To hold you accountable for their confusion. And my fingers are itching to tear you apart. To beg for resolution. To ask for another chance. To demand you explain what you ever felt, if anything, for me. My heart is tearing at the seams, trying to pull itself from the hollow spot in my chest and race to you. But my brain is scrambling backwards, reeling, grappling for control. 

My biggest question, is how do I reconcile this tearing in my chest and aching in my head? How do I ask you all the things I want to know? How do I begin to explain my twisting, ever changing confusion that melds with my affection? 

I don't even know what to ask. I've waited so long for an open door, for a chance to get inside your heart and figure out what you were thinking. Now that it's here, I'm not sure I want to know. The hopeless romantic in me sings that this is fate, and your way of calling me home to your arms. The cynic in me is screaming it's a trap. 

My worst nightmare is that you'll say you never cared. That I was fun to play with but you've graduated to bigger, better toys. My worst nightmare is you not wanting me when all I want is you. 

I saw your darkness before you said it was there. I was willing to help you fight it off, for I have darkness of my own that I'm learning to tame. I say "I was" but I mean "I am". 

I am willing. I am still here. I am always going to want you. I am waiting for you to tell me you want me. I am waiting to hear that you saw this and knew I was speaking of you. I am here, ready, willing  and wanting to be yours. But you have to let me in.

You speak of being closed off, of having trust issues, but you can trust me. You can always trust me. Even if you don't want to. Because there will always be a space for you in my universe. It might orbit farther away and then come home to slam in my chest, but it will never disappear, it will never be filled. 

I'm floating out here, dangling above the world from a worn and weary thread. 

Please tell me it's safe to come down. 

Please tell me I'll find solid ground.

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.