Pounding

a construction crew
don’t know what they’re building
but thinking along the lines
of an entire city
perhaps below ground
would account for all the pounding
fit for a jackhammer army
wonder if they’re using
that army to carve out
fragments of skull
as white stone
for the churches

String Forest

her chubby, stubby, rosy fingers
stretched and reached for the strings
but even on her tippity toes
she couldn’t even wiggle or jiggle the ribbons

big booming footsteps pounded across the floor
stopping to sling her up into the air
and fling her onto his wide, broad shoulders

“Look,” he yells. “Look at those beached whales on the ceiling,
the string forest that surrounds us for miles.”

she giggles
as she pulls
on all the strings
she can reach

Giving Up

they lie
when they say
you shouldn't give up

if I hadn't given up
on keeping my love
I wouldn't have you

Collage

Let us peek
into her life.
Come, peer
through the glass
with me.
You see the board?
The pictures that adorn it?

Gaze upon their colors
and their shapes
and they will whisper to you
her tale.

The boy who laughs
and the friends who dance.
The clouds that gather
over the flowers that die.
Miniatures of paintings
bordered with old movie tickets.

Not one portrait of herself.

And perhaps that is the most important point
of her story.

Her Requests

an angel came down from heaven
and stole a woman off the Earth

he said:
“You are the most beautiful.”

she said:
“Let me be ugly.”

he said:
“You have the sweetest of voices.”

she said:
“Allow me to croak like a toad.”

he said:
“You are more graceful than anyone.”

she said:
“Turn my right foot left.”

he said:
“You are the wittiest of mankind.”

she said:
“Make me less thoughtful than a stone.”

he said:
“You will live beyond anyone.”

she said:
“Kill me now.”

the angel fulfilled each of her requests

all humans lost their divine features
so she could be ugly and yet beautiful

all the voices of humanity soured
so she could croak yet sing

the world’s dancing became crude
so she could be clumsy yet graceful

all humans became stupid
so she could be thoughtless yet smart

life expectancy dropped
so she could die yet be aged

the woman went back to Earth
and remained heavenly

Senseless

sand grates
against
the soles
of his feet

but all he feels
is the
sticky hand
in his

azure water
reflecting
the golden sun
lies at his feet

but all he sees
are sunburned cheeks
and twin
blonde braids

sea gulls
squawk and call
to one
another

but all he hears
is endless
happy chattering
mixed with giggles

salt and brine
tint the very
air he
breathes

but all he tastes
is one lick
of strawberry lollipop
she allowed

fish
strong and heavy
head and alive
pervades the air

but all he smells
is her
almost washed away
suntan lotion

he is senseless

Not Just Paper

the paper boat crinkled at the edges
from his tight grip
and sweaty palms

his knees squish into the muddy bank
and the water laps
at his cupped palms

he slowly draws his hands into his lap
watching as the stream
whistles the boat away

his mother pauses at the kitchen sink
“why did you
finally let it go?”

he heads to his room for clean pants
“I wanted a boat
not just paper”

Six Words

My life.
In
three words.


Her.

The

end.


My life.
In
two words.


Heart

monitor.


My life.
A
word.


Over.

Who Says Dresses Have Nothing to do With Writing?

Dresses do not all look the same. They can be a multitude of colors. They can be long or short, maybe somewhere in between. They can be skintight or loose. They can have sleeves, spaghetti straps, even vests or jackets. Or they could have nothing. They can have sashes or belts or neither.

However, they also all have things in common.

They all cover the area from chest to at least a bit below the crotch (if they don't, it's not a dress). They all share that characteristic where they're, ah, open at the bottom. They're all considered clothing and are made from fabric.

They all have the same basic characteristics that make them dresses.

Stories, whether in book or script or poem or short form, are like this too. (Yes, this is another one of those posts where something is turned into an analogy for writing.)

No two stories are the same. They all have plot and characters and setting sure. But every one of those plots and characters and settings are different, even if only in the smallest way. And even if two plots or two characters or two settings were the exact same, the words describing them wouldn't be.

For instance, if I asked you to describe that purple dress over there, what would you say? (This is the hint for you to leave it in the comments so we can compare.) Here's mine:

Shades of purple fall in ripples down the fabric, losing their way and missing one arm.

Yours is probably very different from mine, but that doesn't mean it's not good. Just as two dresses can look nothing alike and yet both be pretty, you can be a brilliant writer without writing like J.K. Rowling or John Green. A dress could have ruffles or it could have lace. Your book could be paranormal or contemporary. And it would be wonderful either way.

Celebrate differences because without them I wouldn't have all these pretty dresses and the world wouldn't have so many awesome books.



Bonus dress analogy: Dresses look different (aka better) on various people and various people like different dresses. Various people will do better writing different genres and different genres will appeal to various people.

And I promise I'm not conceited. I just prefer to use pictures that are mine and not Google's.

Dare

the phone
rings

but we
ignore it

too busy laughing over
unimportant things

and not paying attention
to the movie

we’ve both seen
about a million times

each wishing the other
would lean in a little closer

but not daring
to do it ourselves

the phone
stops ringing

Is

the cold side of the tub
snuggles up to my back
the cool of the tile floor
cradles me, head to toe

they’re all that’s left of the real world

me?
fake
creak of front door?
fake
feet down hall?
fake
shocked-horrified-familiar face?
fake

but most of all
the red-dyed body -
not her – floating
with inside out wrists
is
fake

Pouring

she looks like she’s sleeping
and the little boy says,
“momma?”
stark in the brittle air
he takes a step, another
soft clicks shake the fragile tranquility
“momma, momma”
more steps, soft little booms
quick, quick, hurry, hurry
splinter, splinter, crack, crack
his chubby fingers splay across her cheek
slack-jaw mouth is red
blue eyes glass
and the room crashes to the floor
raining sheets of mother-filled childhood
to puddle around his feet
as he screams

I Guess This is What I Get for Calling Seven a Clique Number

I'm a firm believer that seven (and three too) is a clique number. It doesn't matter that Harry Potter is amazing or that in THINKING OF YOU each team has seven people. Seven is clique. End of story.

Which is probably the reason this meme uses seven as it's center point. -sigh-

However, I do consider the meme itself to be unique. And I've been tagged by Tara Tyler, Christopher S. Ledbetter, and Kate Coursey. Plus just everyone is doing it. So I'm going to participate.

The Rules (and at least there aren't seven of them)

1. Go to page 77 of your current MS/WIP.
2. Go to line 7.
3. Copy down the next 7 lines – sentences or paragraphs – and post them as they’re written. No cheating.
4. Tag 7 authors.
5. Let them know.

Since I've been tagged three times, I'm going to post three excerpts. Lucky you. (Yes, you're very punny, Brooke.)

looked like it was an effort for him not to frown. Their features were distinctly different, only their hair and eye color proved they were siblings.
           “I never knew there were so many people with violet eyes in the world,” he whispered and handed it back.
           He could sense Acorn’s hesitation before she spoke. “William, have you considered that these people might be your parents? I mean, they share your name. And how many people have eyes like that? You know, not many.”

-from THE LULLABY

going to make that happen.
           I managed to press the keypad through the denim of my pants and get inside the car. I quickly reached over and locked all the doors. Erinn was still crowing after me, yelling things that might have been curses or might have been the sweetest nursery rhyme, the words completely primal and unrecognizable.
           I should have gotten the keys out while I was still standing. It was harder to maneuver in the car, around the wheel and the console and the broken arm.

-from SHADOWMAN

light peaking through, reaching down to almost my feet. My feet shuffled across the carpet, only eight steps usually but now just one eternal one. My right hand reached out, white with fingers splayed, kind of looked like a skeleton hand. It pushed against Mom’s door, ever so slightly. In gave in easy, with just the littlest creak.
           The last time I had been in here searching for something, it was for information about Lillian, Dad’s first and only real love. And I had found what I was looking for. But I hadn’t liked it. Why did dead people always lead to me snooping through my parents’ personal stuff?

-from GHOST SISTER

So there you go. Exactly seven lines from each of my last three (so many cliques!) rough drafts completely unedited. Don't be too harsh.

And, if you're not too tired of sevens yet, here are the seven I'm passing it on to.

1. Angela Brown - I know she has more WIPs to show us and I've been enjoying her pieces for the A-Z Challenge.
2. Steph Sinkhorn - Her current manuscript is amazing. And if she can't show it to us (she has an agent!) she'll probably have something else just as amazing up her sleeve.
3. Rachel Morgan - I'm hoping to get a sneak peak at Creepy Hollow #3. ;)
4. Teralyn Pilgrim - She's an amazing blogger and I want to see a bit of one of her WIPs. Her writing has both an exciting and a soothing effect on me.
5. Ella - I want to see what her writing is like. She is slowly posting one of her stories on a nonblog website, but I haven't had time to check it out.
6. Madeline Bartos - I have the feeling she needs post topics and I want to see what she's working on. (The girl gets a lot of ideas.)
7. Nick Hight - He's a new blogging buddy and what better way to get to know a person than through their writing?

Listening & Dirty Glass

The mirror
doesn’t lie.
It’s just how
you chose
to hear it.

_____________________________________

your eyes                                 windows into
are the                                     your soul


      but what if your glass is dirty?

Perfections

she forgets
everything
two seconds after it happens

she absolutely
fails
at pretending to listen

she can’t
spell
to save her lief

she doesn’t
share
but loves to take

she lets
you know
when she’s moody

she would
live forever
if procrastinating dying was possible

faults?
no
these are all the reasons
that I love her

Standing Far

driving
by your house
is as close
as I can get
anymore

Not Really

stand her up against the wall
to show her denying face
back up the camera
we want to capture the cell phone
chained to her wrist
amp up the lights
won’t the black outline
against the wall look good?
now stand perfectly still, darling
we want a good shot
bring the other camera in closer
no, the other camera
ah, perfect
are we ready? yes?
good and action

she parts her lips
in a big bright smile
“really I don’t need
him anymore”

switch cameras
switch cameras
hurry

she glances down at her wrist
bites her lip
clenches her fist
making the phone sway
its shadow swinging exaggeratingly
“really”

perfect
now let’s do it one more time

Still

my servants run up and down
up and down
adding then going back for more

my outer shell is too thick
for my sensors to reach
and feel their spindly legs

my mouth has long been buried
under the most precious bits of the junk yard
fit into a permanent smile shape

but it doesn’t matter

she stills lies besides me
her eyes half closed
her limbs tucked in

I can still feel her heat,
from toe to head
and everywhere in between

her lips are still pressing on mine
the taste of oranges
with the curve of a smile

it didn't matter that she wasn't real

The Train Tracks Girl

see-through dress, see-through skin
soundless feet, soundless heart

she walks down the train tracks

crusted mud feet, clean busted flip flops
wind pulled hair, flightless bird necklace

she stares down at the tracks

sun reflects off rails, backlights trees
dark swallows the beams, fills in the skyline

she feels vibrations down the tracks

keeps walking
keeps staring
keeps feeling

again

Without a Word

our
eyes
don’t
meet
don’t
speak
yet
somehow
they
say
more
than
our
mouths
ever
would

Delicacy

there’s a mouth inside me
and the mouth is open
and it cannot close
the mouth is hungry
and it can never be satisfied

because you will never crawl in
and let it mold around you
as you pull the lips closed

When the Freaks Come Out

and my mother said
the freaks come out at night
oh, the freaks come out at night

so I ventured into the dark
where the neon lights make it not so
for I had always found myself out of place

in the hole in the wall places
that didn’t exist in the sun
I discovered those people who were truly alive

they danced and they sang and they laughed and they cried
times ten times twenty times twelve
each emotion affecting its vessel so hugely
yet meshing into the enormous wall of rare feeling, of pure living

and I found myself envious
and I found myself joining
adding myself to the creature that held us tight together

then the warm light begn to creep over us
the music quieted, the heartbeat of the beast slowing
leaving everyone to pause, dazed to find themselves alone in their skins

time to go, time to go, time to go
the silent signal called, traveling on the remains of our connection
I felt it but to comprehend the shattering of the magic was beyond me

where do they go, why do they go
I said aloud and when someone answered I was surprised
because no one did before

don’t you know he said
don’t you know the freaks come out in the day
yes, the freaks come out in the day

Forever Loyal

the books
lined up straight
on the shelf waiting
for someone to open them
to read the well worn words,
and they wait and wait, they are
packed into boxes and yet still they wait
and then finally, light shines onto their pale pages
but the wrongs hands hold them: worn, too big, rough hands
the right hands wore down to bare skeletal remains long ago

Finger Blooding

he dips the tips of his fingers
in the paint
drags them across the surface
letting it stick
pulls them out
and watches it drip
then he turns and flicks them
at his canvas,
her bedroom wall
the little spots blend in
with the fiery ball of his rising,
her setting, sun
yet they finish his creation off
he stands,
smears the leftover red
from his fingers to his pants,
and flips the light switch
as he leaves,
the door clicking behind him

she lays in the dark
doused in his paint
fated to stare forever
at his last goodbye

Mr. Piano Man

his fingers press into the keys
and you imagine his fingerprints
outlined, imprinted into the white, the black
then they lift so quickly,
they sweep the image away
if it ever existed

but he looks down too,
at his hands, his keys
which makes you certain they exist
but only he can see
the little portraits
and the words they hide

words you do not know
words you can only know
if you follow his lips close enough
memorize every movement
the bottom barely whispering against the top
with a hint, an illusion, of a sound

he glances up then
his lips freeze, the last line unsung
but the final note lingers long enough
to weave into being everything it could have told
its resonance lines, melds to your insides, outsides
leaving you smoldering in his exposed aftermath

my Mr. Piano Man

Same Differences

your face
is different
from my face
is different
from his face
is different
from her face
is different
from their face

and that
in a way
makes us all the same

they sing
the same words
she sings
the same words
he sings
the same words
I sing
the same words
you sing

but each
and every one of us
does it different

(which, in a way,
makes us all the same)

(im)Perfect

Stand up straight.
Uncross your legs.
Look up. Speak up.
Dot your i's. Cross your t's.
Mind your p's and q's.

Walk the straight and narrow.
Stare straight ahead.

But...

what if my eyes
are in the back of my head
and my legs
are bowed
and i's and t's and p's and q's
don't exist
and my voice
doesn't work?

do I walk the crooked and wide
with everyone else?

Hot Air Balloon

my escape
my temptation
gone
it hurts
to do
the right thing
was hard
was easy
releasing the rope
without me inside
I sent it away
wishing it would stay

Matters?

a balloon
i t s s k i n s t r e t c h e d t h i n
over the air inside

first pebble falls,
hits,
b o u n c e s a w a y

second, third
fall, hit, bounce
pitter-pattering a c r o s s t h e f l o o r

and then they pour
unstoppable pounding
against the struggling balloon

until the p l a s t i c
just can’t t a k e it
anym o r e

a n d i t

b u r s t s

the air escapes
but it doesn't matter anymore
not as much as

the

s

h

a

r

d

s

lying all across the floor

Inseparable

Like how

strawberries taste good
but taste better
with sugar

Like how

cookies are independent
but can get lonely
without milk

Like how

a hot day
plus a popsicle
equals heaven

Like how

marshmallows just melt
yet make cocoa
better anyway

That is how

my white hand feels
wrapped up in your
brown one

Burning Pretty

ball drops
world explodes



ember
rolled up into
licking strings
of fire

blankets
the people,
breaking
apart, against

the
ir lau
ght
er, their
smiles, th
eir k
iss
es

yet,
burning them
into
frozen place

lips forever
touching
upturned
open



standing over it all
it is a pretty sight

NYR Update - 3 Months

I am no longer going to comment on how quickly the months go by (and no, I didn't just comment on it) because I have discovered it is not an unusual occurrence. Time is like a runner that never has to stop to eat, drink, or sleep. Only to catch its breathe once in a while. Right now it is running full speed ahead. I'm just hitching a piggy back ride while I stop to evaluate my progress.

1. I will have THINKING OF YOU ready for query. I made the first round of revision out of two for chapter four.
2. I will have two new first drafts. I decided on the MC's name for my untitled princess clone fantasy/sci fi: Zoie. I started the notes (aka my version of planning) for my untitled marriage dystopian. This includes making a list for possible MC names.
3. I will win National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo). NA
4. I will submit at least two short stories to anthologies and/or contests. On March 15th, I submitted a story to the “Imagination begins with you…” - Annual High School Short Story Contest.
5. I will read at least one hundred books. I read ten books and started three others. Goodreads says I am one book behind.
6. I will post at least one vlog a month. I posted the vlog that was originally intended for February. I came up with a new idea for a vlog series.
7. I will exercise in some way once a week. The first week (March 4-10) I ran once for twenty minutes. The second week (March 11-17) I ran once for thirty minutes. The fourth week I ran twice for thirty minutes. For all of week one and half of week two I practiced my musical's choreography every week day. There were also three runs sometime before the 17th that I did not record exact dates and times for.

I still have not tried the two techniques I have previously mentioned which were a) unplug for a week each month to focus on writing and b) use lists of short term goals to motivate myself. A, because I have not been able to. Nor will I be able to until May. B, simply because I forgot about it. I'm going to write myself a note and stick it somewhere I can see it.

Many of you are participating in the A to Z Challenge this month. I am not, but I'm still posting every day in April to complete one of my goals. Anyone else doing NaPoWriMo?

Close

empty
white
space
that is not open
but close

splatter everything,
if anything can be said to exist, with
color
with
Red, ORange,
BLUe, GREEn, PURPLe,
YELLOW,
PINK

hang PHotos,
PAINTIngs,
TAPESTRIES,
of places,
where the REAL ONES
are farther than the
fake

position heavy furniture,
Beds, TAbles, CHAirs,
DRESSers, DESKs,
CHIFFAROBES
wherever you think
they think best

step back
TO TAKE IT ALL IN
TO FEEL ACCOMPLISHED
TO FEEL SATISFACTION

realize it is still a space
close
not open
that might as well
be white,
be empty