Fantastical Observations

scent

2010-01-12T11:19:00.000-07:00

The car beneath me is grumbling about the abuse of a 12 hour drive, and I am of a mind with it. So ready to get out of here. My two brothers and sister are probably the most annoying people on Earth, and by now my dad is so grouchy that everyone is silent for fear that he’ll decide to just turn around and drive back home. It’s happened before. We don’t want another 12 hours, so we stick to glaring and making mean hand signals. I pull out my portable CD player, possibly my most precious possession at 14. I flip through my CD’s, even though I already know what I’m going to pick. Two weeks before, for my birthday, I received a couple of fantastic presents. One was a large tube of Cucumber-Melon lotion, my favorite scent, and I wear it constantly. The second was a CD. The Madding Crowd by Nine Days. Not only am I completely in love with the CD itself, but I am even more in love with the boy who gave it to me. You see, it’s his fault that I nearly failed Algebra this past school year. All the note-passing and back-of-the-head staring. He was, and is still, very distracting. So it goes without saying that this is my favorite CD. I have a feeling I will still love it a decade from now. I plan to spend several hours listening to this, trying to ignore my family. We’re currently rolling through Southern California. We finally see Sea World on our right, and know that we’re close. We all start to get excited and happy, and my dad becomes marginally more cheerful (a very good sign), until our chatter makes him angry again. The rest of the silent ride is filled with our faces pressed to the window. We get to our beautiful beach house rental, and it is just spectacular. We run inside, and explore. After we’d settled in a bit, I peeked into the bathroom, since it wasn’t typically something one would be excited to explore. My eyes grow wide as I see the gorgeous skylight window above the toilet. I stand on the toilet and open the latch, throwing the window wide open. There is a fantastic view of the bay, the lazy sailboats, the smooth sand, and the smell…oh, the smell. I close my eyes and breathe deeply. The smell of the bright, sunshiny salt air mingled with my cucumber-melon lotion is the most refreshing scent I’ve ever experienced, and I know that one smell alone will remind me of this trip my entire life.

Scent: a) the faculty or sense of smell b) perception by the senses, feeling c) the odor of an animal or man as means of pursuit by a hound; hence a track or trail as indicated by this odor d) distinctive odor. Now applied almost exclusively to agreeable odors, e.g. those of flowers e) an odoriferous liquid prepared by distillation of flowers, etc.; a perfume

I’m sitting on the floor playing with a Christmas My Little Pony. She is white with a red mane and tail, and has a candy cane on her bum. Her name is Peppermint. Or Sugar. Or Candy. Or Melanie. I can’t decide. Mommy and Oma are sitting on the couch talking, while daddy is changing Taylor’s diaper. This is Christmas morning, and we’re waiting for daddy and Taylor to come back so we can open presents. Grandpa comes into the room and I run to give him a hug. That is to say, give his knees a hug. He takes my hand and we walk to his favorite recliner chair, the one he sits and watches football in. He lifts me onto his lap. I am very happy, because I love Christmas, and especially Christmas in California, because I love Grandpa’s house and his pretty trees and his waterslide and pool and his goldfish pond and the sunshine. Daddy carries Taylor back into the living room, and everyone gets excited because it’s time to open presents! I open lots of fun toys a 4 year old would like. I open a present that is a mermaid doll. She is so pretty, with beautiful yellow hair and a bright green, glittery tail. And the package says that she changes color in water! Her hair will change to yellow with streaks of pink and her tail turns a beautiful light pink color. I love her! She is from Santa! I get a present from Grandpa. I open it up. It is a Little Mermaid beauty set. I love mermaids! I saw the movie in theaters last year, when I was just three, and now that I am older I still like them a lot! There is a pretty pink comb in the kit, and a mirror, and nail polish, and a bottle of perfume. I stared at the kit for a while, not talking. My parents looked concerned, because I never stop talking and I never stand still and I am doing both. I reverently open the package. I look at the shiny pink mirror, then put it aside. I look at the sparkly nail polish, and vow to make mommy paint my nails later. I look at the pretty pink comb, and run it through my wild hair. It gets stuck. I leave it there. I take out the beautiful perfume bottle. I’ve never had one of those before. I open it up carefully, and put it to my nose. The smell is very light. Mommy says it smells like roses. I think it is my favorite smell in the whole world, and that Ariel MUST wear it too. Mommy shows me how to apply it to my wrists and neck. I feel beautiful. Grandpa beams with joy.

Smell: a) the sense of which the nose is the organ; the faculty of smelling b) that property of things which affects the olfactory organ, whether agreeably or otherwise; odor, perfume, aroma, stench, stink (olfactory: an organ of smell, the capacity for smelling) c) a trace, suggestion, or tinge of something, the special, indefinable, or subtle character of the object, event, etc., described

I like to sit outside in Autumn. September, October, those are my favorite months. I am outside, sitting on a blanket on the grass, in the shade. My typewriter is next to me, fresh sheet prepared, my dog laying in the sun, soaking up rays of sunshine. The raw, sharp scent of Autumn always makes me feel a mix of joy and melancholy. Joy, because it’s the perfect temperature, and the air is charged, the year is winding down, and there’s always the anticipation of my favorite holiday, Halloween. Melancholy, because Autumn is so short-lived and ephemeral, and I never seem to enjoy it enough before it is already gone with the first winter snowfall. So I am sitting outside, meditating and ruminating on the questions of life. I take a deep, deep, long breath of chill, refreshing air. There is a scent of the cycle of natural life taking its course. Things dying, things hibernating, things winding down. I can smell the decay of leaves, I can see the beautiful colors that you never get any other time of year, and I can feel the world preparing for the onslaught of winter. I never get tired of this scent or this feeling. It is too fleeting.

1888

2009-12-06T16:28:00.001-07:00

As I prowl the nights of London
the air is diffuse with
heavy despair.
The lamps flicker, casting
their muted glow on
the dirty street.
A cacophony of noise
reverberates against
the windows and boards of
dilapidated buildings,
nearly shanties.
Feline
Canine
Infant
Laughter
Anger
Clatter
Susurrus.
White Noise.
The vermilion feeling
on the brink
inside me
threatens to spill over onto
the broken cobblestones.
I need to cleanse
this city.
My disgust nearly
overwhelms me.
The papers have it
wrong.
Justified cleansing of
wrongful acts is not
‘terrorizing’.
Their own
guilt
is what makes them
afraid.

modern death ritual

2009-12-06T16:26:00.000-07:00

I’ve always had a difficult time with funerals. I have a tendency to cry at the drop of a hat, most especially when other people are crying. Funerals are sad. I, personally, don’t think they should be, and I honestly believe that being desperately sad at a funeral is a little bit selfish. The funeral is held for the family, to express and deal with grief, though often organizing a funeral only worsens the depressing feeling of losing a loved one. It is also held to revere the memory of someone, but who is doing the remembering, and why? Why is someone sad at a funeral? Is it because this person is gone from their lives? It’s a biological certainty that we are all going to die. We, of course, don’t know for certain when or how, but it’s inevitable. The funerals that I’ve gone to have confused me. I understand the general air of grief and loneliness and loss that accompanies such an event, but when family members and friends start sobbing, I start crying too. Not necessarily because I feel sad, but it’s just my general reaction to tears streaming down another’s face. I cry at TV shows and movies. I cry at letters from my brother. I’ve even cried at a Hallmark commercial before. Maybe I’m unconsciously extremely emotional, but on the surface it doesn’t register to me. My tears are a Pavlovian reaction.

I’ve been to seven funerals in my life – at least that I can distinctly remember. The most recent of these was the funeral for my aunt Cherie. She had just finished a long battle with breast cancer. I remember going to visit her in the hospital. I watched my uncle and my dad, and the utter sorrow evident on their faces. It troubled me to see them so distraught. It was a sad situation, to be sure, and it was difficult for me to see her in that state as well. Her funeral was packed with people I’d never met. It was a nice service, and I tried to keep my sobs quiet, though focusing on that made me miss most of the service itself.

I think the strangest thing for me at these funerals, though I believe it occurs at most, was that afterward we all get together at have a big potluck meal in some church cultural hall. It seems an odd change; people are gloomy or hysterical, and then 20 minutes later smiling and laughing and eating a large meal. A very odd dynamic. But I digress.

Then there was a funeral for an acquaintance of mine, Dustin. I didn’t know him extremely well, but could see that he was a very kind hearted and caring person, as well as a wonderful musician. I believe he was in his early twenties when he passed away. I only really remember what the weather was like, that it was icy. I know that he died of an overdose, though I can’t recall whether it was drugs or alcohol, but I do know he had struggled with his problem for a long time. I didn’t think any less of him for it. His family members were surprisingly gracious and seemed at peace, like they had come to a blessed understanding of Dustin’s afterlife. I felt it was a more appropriate feeling for a funeral, to be happy that someone had lived their lives, and their time on Earth was remembered with love and warmth, rather than getting stuck in the cliché of sorrow and grief.

The funeral for one of the co-owners of the theatre that I’ve worked at for the past nine years was interesting. Anything involving actors usually is; they ‘seem’ to wear their hearts on their sleeves, and perhaps some of them do, but I remember the reactions were more melodramatic than usual. She was a wonderful, strong, kind, amazing woman, who had succumbed to cancer, but had made peace with it and was able to spend a good amount of time with her loving family. The line for her viewing was out the door, and even the LDS prophet (though not at the time) came to pay respects. It was sad, but I mostly went out of a feeling of obligation and a desire to see many of the friends I only see once in a great while.

I had the opportunity to know both my Great-Grandmother and my Great-Grandfather. They were lovely, interesting people. I was asked to sing at both of their funerals, which was nice, but difficult for me, since everyone was already crying and I had to face the entire audience and sing a somber, sorrowful melody while keeping my composure so it sounded nice and didn’t mar the memory of their lives. I think my Great-Grandfather’s funeral was more memorable for me, because he was afforded military honors from being a veteran of World War II (he was flying into Pearl Harbor in an unarmed photography plane when it was attacked). But I was at peace with their passing. They both had lived wonderful lives and left a plethora of offspring which I can call my extended family.

The summer after my Junior year of High School, I received a call from a classmate. She informed me that one of our fellow students had died. I was told that he passed away while attempting to get a high by choking himself and then releasing it before he passed out. He had a seizure, and essentially was hung by his own tool of pleasure. A horrible, horrible fate, and extremely sad and unfortunate. I was also told that myself and the other 11 girls that were in the Madrigal Choir for the next year would be performing a song at the funeral. I don’t think I would have gone otherwise. It was very odd for me to be at a funeral for a 17 year old that I had just seen a few weeks before. It was also my first time seeing a dead body, and to be honest, it was a surreal experience for me. It looked like him, but didn’t. I had a subtle tingling expectation that he would sit up, look around, get out of the coffin and leave.

The first funeral I ever went to, that I can recall, was my Grandfather’s. He was special to me, and still is. He died when I was six years old. My mother received a phone call from her sister, and immediately flew out to California to be with my Grandfather. I remember feeling anxious for my mother, and wasn’t really sure what was going on, but I was worried that everyone was so distressed. I like people to be happy (which is most likely a big reason why funerals bother me). He passed away sometime that night or morning, and the next day my father, little brother, baby sister and myself began the drive to California. We came to his funeral, and I barely remember it, except that it was vividly green and gray and sunshiny, and my mother and aunts sang tearfully under a white shade tent, while I wriggled uncomfortably on a hard folding chair, unsure of what was going on.

So there are my experiences so far with modern civilization’s death ritual, the funeral. Full of mournful hymns, potluck food, tears, flowers (OH, the flowers! So many.) impartial dead people, and confused relatives and friends, nearly all sad and in the smallest way a little bit selfish, because they don’t have that person anymore in their lives. Life goes on, ends for some, continues for others, on and on and will always continue that way until the end of the world, whether it be an implosion, explosion, fiery cleansing of sinful souls, mass alien attack and domination, widespread plague, global warming, or any other number of things.

consciousness slowed

2009-11-21T18:50:00.003-07:00

The anticipation is tangible. The crisp, autumn air creeps in through spaces in the door and windows. She stands in her room, shivering, naked. The wretched pile of tulle and satin sits on her bed, mocking her lack of royal blood. She can only pretend. She feels bitter. Her mother's voice wafts upstairs, asking if her dress is on. She grudgingly puts one foot through the mounds of fabric, then the other. An arm goes through a gaping lavender hole. Then another. Her bare back shakes with cold. A knock at her door. Her mother enters, armed with paint, brushes, powders, and other suffocating devices. Her mother clicks her tongue and zips up the open back of the dress. She sits, while her mother arranges the ingredients for disguise. A sponge piled with tan goo comes toward her face. She closes her eyes, cringing inwardly, gulping down a whimper.

the closet

2009-11-21T18:41:00.004-07:00

I unlock the olive green door and even more paint chips fall off as it moves. I got this rusty key by giving the greasy landlord 20 bucks. The apartment is musty and dank. It's difficult to see in here. I shine the dull beam of the flashlight ahead of me, catching the dust motes my passage has tossed into the air. I make my way to the filing cabinet I glimpsed the other night at the party he held. There is just something so...off putting about him. Why can't anyone else see it? The filing cabinet is there, in the bedroom. I creep over the rancid carpet till I'm finally there. I open the third drawer down, on a hunch, and beneath a sheaf of invoices lies the box. The box I am SURE holds the truth about him. I hear a key scraping in the lock. My heart beats like an African war chant. Closing the drawer as soundlessly as possible (which isn't much), I race to the gaping mouth of the closet. The mildewy darkness engulfs me as I shut the door. ....

secret

2009-09-28T21:36:00.002-06:00

complex, ugly pyramid
this template of
aesthetic lies
I'm in love, a
recipe for wrong

hard to remember the
navy blue marriage
less control
everyday lives
a rigid tempo
of boredom

type type powerpoint
stolen glances
visualizations
torrents of pink/yellow seizures
sight = fire thrives
electric guitars & bagpipes
type type powerpoint

then home
clearly, legibly
dull

shakespeare's intelligence

2009-09-21T18:19:00.002-06:00

mandatory, cordially awkward character
chopping, broken, heavily primitive

isolated skeletons pose in cupboards

sheepish gondoliers fight humanity

exaggerated actress caught on film - shock

absent, deluded frogs babble on boats

tetchy santa claus' cookies = puffing buttons

dramatic, jealous lover's poisoned consolation

queen beauty, mistaken fertility is treacherous

battles, accidents, division, slaughter - paradise?

knuckles grate against emo foreheads, teeth

a strong, drastic melody becomes fiercer in the vicinity

ceiling secretion - red; a lantern gourd

excellent fire rages, racing across the sky

unspoken riddle, mysterious world

key - rabbits

bueno.

monsoon season

2009-09-21T18:10:00.003-06:00

the water is jumping off the sidewalk
the air is white with spray
from the drops forcing their way
to Earth
in sheets
the gutters are choking
trying to deal with
the excess of water
they weren't built for this sort of thing

spears of lightning crack the sky
into pieces
thunder resonates around the city
scaring every animal
and small child
how could something be so
loud
the very air seems heavy
and swirling dark clouds
loom

across the street the wind
carries cardboard boxes
around a white trash neighbor's lawn
though they get heavier with
each new bit of
torrential rain

lightning crosses the sky again
the puddles reflect it
distorted by ripples
shingles
roses
wind chimes
basketball hoops

drip

this is monsoon season in suburbia

windham terrace

2009-09-08T10:00:00.008-06:00

Children are a joy; I’ve always
Loved their unabashed smiles,
Enthusiasm for life.
Honest, inquisitive, sprightly,
Refreshing.
Destiny never gave me
A child
Nor a wife.
Instead she gave me eyes
And the knowledge; wisdom
Only loneliness can bestow.

I sit here with useless, arthritic legs;
Sit here in this chair, this
Mobile substitute.
The leaves fall, the corridors
Hum with anticipation of visitors.
For others.
The first holiday comes.
Our 'home' will be visited
By a group of small children
Dressed as vampires, princesses,
And the occasional astronaut.

I hold my butterscotch candies anxiously
In my lap, mangled legs covered.
My own costume, a witch mask
With grassy hair
Sunken eyes
And a vicious, gap-toothed leer,
Wasn't my choice
Though, seems a fitting commentary.
I sit in dappled sunlight, crisp air
With the others,
butterflies pummeling my stomach.
The children never come.

hunger

2009-08-30T13:36:00.003-06:00

He stands stark, in the corner, presence often ignored, unwanted, yet always there. An evil, bony grin lingers on his face, pressing on the olive air. His emaciated form echoes that of those he afflicts. Smudged with dirt, ragged clothing hangs in tatters off his body, but he doesn't mind. In the duty assigned to him, he excels, is well-fed in that way. He is present in endless homes, slowly leeching the life and will out of otherwise strong souls. He is happy with his results, but in the back of his mind there is a hollow space filled with doubt and regret.

early summer

2009-07-29T23:18:00.003-06:00

The air crackles in anticipation of the coming storm. Birds fly frantically, leaves shake violently, the sun consents to be hidden, all in preparation of the beautiful, awesome event about to take place. The last vestiges of blue are erased, as the sky flashes with light, and a distant, yet ever-present booming is heard in the distance. The very atmosphere is suffused with potential. This is truly the most magical time of all. Anything could happen and still seem plausible, when taken away from sunlight's harsh realities.

she

2008-12-10T14:15:00.005-07:00

So she’ll write about it. The things she’ll never see, the places she’ll never get to go, the things she’ll never achieve, the dreams she’ll never get to fulfill, the people she’ll never get to meet. It’s all in her head, waiting to be passed on to the next dreamer, while all the other folk of the world get to experience the things she can only imagine. Life is too confusing, too disturbing and riddled with mire for her to partake in. She can see all the things she wants, but knows she will never amount to anything because she wants too much. So she’ll write about it. To get it out of her head. To have done something. To be able to tell herself that she has lived, albeit vicariously through her carefully crafted words.

She knows her stories, her worlds, don’t exist. But the world is too scary, too real to be lived in, the only way to stay alive is to replace the broken things with idealistic things, things that can be explained or, at the very least, be magical instead of empty and hopeless. The stories ignite a fire in her, and are the only thing through which she has ever received solace. The blank page screams to be given a structured world where the character knows their own mind, is sure of their feelings, is tested through conflict and struggle, and always has the courage and good heart required for the happy ending. Black and white. Structure. Resolution. Clarity. The words and ideas and stories and hopes have been bottled up for so long, it is difficult to get them out. Difficult to write through the haze of forgetfulness. The racing thoughts don’t leave until they are expressed on the screen, or to the as-yet-unknown person that actually wants to listen.

romance

2007-12-03T11:25:00.003-07:00

Where are the Darcys and Rochesters of this world?
Unrealistic dreams of what romance should be, could be,
Are thrust upon us by countless movies, books, and songs.
Unrelenting, they give us a rosy-hued view of what we want,
But what is never likely to be for many, if not all of us.

These perfect male figures reside only in fantasy,
An unattainable dream for women to sigh about,
Only to realize in hopeless moments of reality,
That their poetical idea of perfect romance
Is likely to fall short in the real world.

What is stopping those dreams from becoming reality?
There has to be someone these characters are based upon.
Can they really only be fiction; a flawless projection
Of what some broken female author thought her life, love
Could, or should be in another, fantastical world?

Women waste their lives, throwing away chances
To be happy, not wanting to ‘settle’, in case that Percy Blakeney
Suddenly pops into her life, willing to whisk her away into
A world where all the ideas she’s had shoved upon her
Might actually be possible.

Maybe some women find these ‘flawless’ men.
Even if they do, is it really fair for expectations to be so high?
I have seen many good men just give up because they couldn’t
Be all that women seem to expect of them. Why can’t it be enough
For them to have a man that will care and provide?

We all want the airport scenes, the professions of undying love,
But maybe we need to take down our image of what makes
That perfect romantic lead in our lives, and see that it’s the very
Small, simple things; tiny moments in an average day,
That are the exquisite examples of actual true love.

aimless

2007-11-30T10:19:00.001-07:00

Aimless wandering.
The same day, played out
Over and over again
With people and conversations
Changing, but the daily
Schedule never something new.

Where is the
Excitement, the joy
Life is supposed to bring?
Why is it that the things
You are supposed to do are
Only dull and meaningless?

If you touched upon the
Forbidden things,
Life could be
So much more wild,
Unrestricted.
As well as painful and damaging.

So you can try for patience,
Half-heartedly hoping
For that knight in
Shining armor to ride in and make
Your life euphoric and
Worthwhile.

But in the end, if he comes,
It would be exciting for a
Time, but slowly the monotony
Would peek out at you again
And engulf your so-called life,
Leaving only a husk in view.

winter

2007-10-03T22:56:00.002-06:00

One scene as I watch the raging snowstorm –

A man walks through an endless sheet of white misery.
Thin sweater, worn shoes, empty pockets.
Tears of tragedy cling to his cheeks
As he searches for a hot meal, a warm bed, a kind heart.

I sip my cocoa.

you

2007-10-03T22:54:00.001-06:00

How is it you understand
Me the way you do?
It’s like you know
Every inch of my heart
Every thought in my mind.
Yet you remain ignorant
Of how I feel about you.

Are you really unaware?
Do you know about the tingle
I experience
Every time I see you
Or think of you?
You are my world.

Maybe you are aware of this.
If so, stop the fallacy.
Help me understand
You as well
I need to
I want to
I love you.

ode to roller coasters

2007-10-03T20:46:00.005-06:00

You cause chills, thrills, spills
Looping around, upside down.
Nausea, joy, money are
What you bring.
You receive no appreciation
For all the work you do
Lugging heavy cartloads of
People up hill, pushing down,
All on a hot, summer day.
Repeating this process every
Day, week, year
Yet you continue tirelessly
Up, down, around, through.
All the drinks spilled, vomit
Thrown and sweat dripped
Is patiently endured.
When will you get your reward?

roger

2007-10-03T20:46:00.004-06:00

Roger trudged home from the lake in a dreadful mood. He was muddy, soaked, drenched, sopping, unclean, saturated, itchy, awash, filthy, waterlogged, and every other kind of wet and dirty you can possibly think of. He had spent the day IN the lake instead of on it, as he had planned. But who could have planned for that surprise rainstorm, and those mean bullies, and those awful horseflies that loved his sweet skin? In his hands he held his broken fishing pole and his empty tackle box; his small boat was in pieces back at the lakeshore. But he told himself that any strong seven-year-old boy, such as himself, would not cry. Oh, no, he would not cry. He was better than that. So, with tears welling in his eyes, but not falling down his cheeks, he walked in the back door and called to his Mommy.

silently

2007-10-03T20:45:00.004-06:00

Silently.
As the moonlight falls
On the shadow of what was once a dream.
She awakes,
Distraught.
Everything is wrong.
There is nothing left
For her.
Someone must save her.
But who?
The wave of tears arrives
Drowning her in sorrow
When will the dawn come?
Not soon enough.

choice

2007-10-03T20:45:00.003-06:00

She pulled down the shade as his car pulled away from her house. It had been so hard to let him go. At first, he would not leave, said he would rather die than abandon her. She knew that he wanted this chance so badly, and losing him was the consequence of the choice she had to make. And she had made it. That was final. She understood how important this opportunity was to him, it was the experience of a lifetime and she had to put away her own selfish feelings and live with the small glimmer of hope she had that she would see him again. If only she could.

sorcha

2007-10-03T20:44:00.001-06:00

She labors so diligently,
Never speaking, always working.
So much pain, behind, ahead.
Too many obstacles.
She wants so much to give up,
But knows she must never.
Without her suffering, they’d be gone,

Forever

Her task is ever ominous;
Yet He comes along.
He, who’s kind has inspired hate in hers for so long.
He, who she should despise,
But, try as she might, cannot.

Their fates are intertwined,
And the trials they endure,
Will bring peace to all, with

Time

swing-set

2007-10-03T20:43:00.004-06:00

I am shiny and new.
Made for young children and the young at heart.
I proudly uphold my appendages
As they oscillate back and forth,
Back and forth,
And the air fills with peals of joyful laughter.
I am loved.

But children do grow older,
And I am not looked to
As a source of enjoyment any longer.
Time passes and my once luminous
Chains are flaked with rust
Never to be used again, I am disassembled,
And taken to the graveyard
Of forgotten thrills and discarded dreams.

the blues

2007-10-03T20:42:00.001-06:00

When you’re busy beyond belief,
Or you have too much to do,
And you’re overworked and tired,
You’ve got the blues.

When boys don’t seem to like you,
Or you can’t find the right words,
And your confidence is waning,
You’ve got the blues.

When the day in cold and dreary,
Or you can’t go out and play,
And you sulk in your small corner
You’ve got the blues.

the future

2007-10-03T20:40:00.004-06:00

The fear of what my future holds
Consumes me.
I prepare assiduously, but blindly.
It is so hard, not knowing.
I know what is expected.
But will I live up to it?
Once, I tried living day to day.
Now I live in the

Future.

What must I do to prepare for
Tomorrow?
Next Week?
Month?
Year?

I pray for the strength to see
All that I must do.
But once I receive the answer
It overwhelms me.
Too much to comprehend,
Yet I have no choice.
They depend on me;
All of them.
I will not let them down,
Whatever the price.

the boys

2007-10-03T20:40:00.003-06:00

Get away from us
They say
Four-eyes, chicken legs
Their words
So insulting
Such a strong boy
He turns away,
Not listening.
Then he goes home
And cries.

Years later
In High School
They are in sports,
Popular
He is in Calculus,
Chemistry
The names they call
Him hurt more now
But he will not show them
He will be brave.

After college
We see where our hero stands
Higher than them all
Laughing at those men
They were only
Lonely bachelors
He had wife and child
And was leading, CEO
Of a most prestigious
Company. How comical.

the note

2007-10-03T20:39:00.002-06:00

Mariah hungrily opened her lunchbox and found, next to her apple, a slip of canary paper. "What in the world could that be?", she thought to herself. "Oh well, it can wait until I’m done with lunch." So she ate her peanut butter and jelly sandwich, juicy apple, and nutritious granola bar. When she had finished, she picked up the paper and unfolded it. It said:

"Mariah, my love:
I have yet been able to summon the courage to express my undying love to you. I fear to tell you my identity lest you shun and spurn me. If that should happen, I think I might perish. But I must try, so if you would kindly oblige to meet with me by the monkey bars, northeast corner of the playground, 3:00 P.M., I would be overjoyed beyond all measure. Till we meet again, adieu."

Mariah looked up from the paper with a puzzled look on her face. Her being a 1st grader, she only understood about half (if that) of the words on the page. "Oh well", she said aloud as she threw it in the nearest trash receptacle.

the wallet

2007-10-03T20:38:00.005-06:00

Wolfgang was a bitter, hard, cynical man, who had no love for the world. In fact, the only reason he was still alive was to spite his meddlesome relatives. He lived in a small, dingy flat and had no common luxuries such as a television, a microwave, or even a typewriter. Yet within this shabby home could be found amazing treasures, and one only had to look as far as Wolfgang’s astounding collection of books. Obviously he read in his spare time; in fact, he even read on the job. That was easy though, since he worked at a library.

One day, Wolfgang was walking through a favorite bookstore when he noticed a black, leather wallet lying inconspicuously on the ground, almost under a shelf. He contemplated whether or not to pick it up, but his curiosity got the better of him, so he bent down to retrieve the wallet. When he opened it, he saw that there were quite a few well-used credit cards, quite a lot of cash, and an identification card. The name was Georgina Honeydew. Wolfgang, though he was a contemptuous man, was not stingy or dishonest. So when he got back home, the first thing he did was call the number from the wallet. Little did he know that was only the beginning of things.

the red dress

2007-10-03T20:38:00.004-06:00

This was her night. All of her toil, pain and sorrow had been leading up to these few moments. The anticipation surged throughout her soul. She looked down into the deep glorious eyes of the man she waltzed with. His touch, his smile, his demeanor all spoke of what her life could be; should be. She soaked in every detail: her scarlet dress, the crystalline chandeliers, the lilting melodies from the orchestra. Yet, she was plagued with the agonizing thought of midnight. What was to happen when that dreadful hour came to pass? Such a terrible thought. She must forget that for now and bask in the overwhelming rapture she felt with her Prince. She must treasure this forever.

time

2007-10-03T20:37:00.001-06:00

Time
Slipping past
We take no notice
Will we waste it
Or use it wisely?
It is a gift.
Only you may decide
What you will do
With your
Time

turtle

2007-10-03T20:36:00.001-06:00

How nice would it possibly be
To carry your home
On your back?

To traverse
Wherever you please
And never have want or lack?

So it is
With my turtle Louise
Who I brought home in a sack.

And I will
Bring her a partner home soon,
who's name shall be Jack!

vacation

2007-10-03T20:35:00.004-06:00

Isn’t that just like parents? Dragging you places you have absolutely NO desire to go? Taking away from all your luxuries and friends and forcing you to get dirt under your fingernails and smell like campfire? Who cares if it’s a "family vacation"? I have so many things I’d rather be doing than camping. I HATE camping! Of course, I can’t see why ANYONE would like it. You always end up hot and sticky, surrounded by bugs, and covered in dirt. How anyone could possibly, in their right mind, enjoy that, I’ll never know. Don’t get me wrong, I have always been a pretty aesthetic person, but one can only handle so much. The only nice thing I found there was a complete solitude while floating on an inflatable raft in the middle of the sparkling lake at dusk. Every once and a while a fish would just, but that was the only sound I ever heard. What I wouldn’t give to have that opportunity for peace of mind every day! But there always comes a time when you have to go back to shore, back to bugs, dirt, and screaming children. I still hate camping…

typewriter

2007-10-03T20:35:00.003-06:00

As I slowly crept toward the typewriter, my apprehension grew with each click. I approached the desk with caution, not knowing quite what to expect. All of the sudden, it stopped typing, and my Great Aunt (at least that’s who I thought she was) sauntered ominously into the room. She seemed very pale and sickly, with yellow, sagging skin and patches of sparse white hair. I greeted her as cheerily as I could, and she responded with a crackly, hoarse, "site down, child". I obliged, not knowing quite what to expect. Was this woman crazy? Why did I come here? Why in the world does she own a seemingly possessed typewriter? A million questions were running through my head as she came nearer. "THWACK!" My world faded into a deep, black oblivion.

warning

2007-10-03T20:34:00.001-06:00

Gliding through sapphire waves
Sleek, majestic
Emphatic whistles of joy
Echo through the ocean air

Yet a cry of danger is released,
Alarm raised
Gather together to
Stay safe, survive

What could harm passes by
And all is again calm.

expectation

2007-10-03T20:32:00.004-06:00

Though you see nothing of what I am feeling
I accept that you do not understand
Your differences have blinded you from seeing
But you must let me alone withstand

Sometimes you perceive what others cannot
And you comfort me as well as you can
Other times I am left troubled and distraught
Gone unnoticed and feeling letdown

So much is expected that I can’t give
Try as I might I can’t be what you weren’t
It hurts so much at times I cannot live
If only someone could decrease this hurt

I am not what you’re expecting of me
An image of what you wanted to be

birthday

2007-10-03T20:32:00.003-06:00

One scene as I blow out the candles –

Two princesses dance around the backyard
Through the giggles emerges a cry of pain
Tears and blood fall onto the rough grass
Yet comforting arms enfold, all is again secure

I cut the cake.

fate

2007-10-03T20:31:00.002-06:00

living glances
passed their soul
flooded eyes
opened
shadowed depths
clear
breathing morning

ferguson

2007-10-03T20:30:00.002-06:00

There isn’t much to say about the life of a mushroom. Or so most people think. It all depends on what kind of mushroom is being talked about. For instance, there was a mushroom called Fergi. Short for Ferguson, of course; but he wasn’t just any regular mushroom. No, Fergi was a part of a magic circle of mushrooms, which was a pathway to the Other world. Oh, and the countless things he saw. Let me begin to tell you of his experiences.

forever

2007-10-03T20:29:00.001-06:00

The abundant, though subtle love
of an eternal family,
runs so deep and stretches so far,
that one cannot possibly fathom it’s expanse

Yet, it is through small and simple things
that this love is expressed.
A few tender words on a card, which bring tears,
a random phone call just to check up.

Constant worry, late-night chats,
and eating ice cream while bawling
so hard you can’t see the TV screen.
A constant cry for attention, praise.

Encouragement that can only come
from those looked up to.
The best hugs in the world that
could only come from a small child.

Suffering through endless video games
to appease an overly enthusiastic sibling.
A push in the right direction
no matter how unwanted it may be.

These tiny, usually unnoticed actions
are what makes a house a home,
and no matter what might happen
Celestial joy will ensue.

growing up

2007-10-03T20:28:00.005-06:00

The first day of Kindergarten
Anxiety, excitement, freedom
Mommy cries; I say, it’s okay
I’m coming back.

Junior High brings horror stories
Kids in garbage cans, stuffed in lockers
How quickly I find this is not true
Yet I’m still scared. I feel inferior.

High School. Who would have thought it would come so quickly
And pass even more quickly. So many difficult classes.
Emotional breakdowns, sleepless nights filled with homework.
Hallways of soap operas lay before me. Take me away.

Here I stand at the verge of college, ready more than ever to graduate and leave.
Still a little frightened at what life might hold for me, I never know, how can I?
Worries of every shape and form, for I am busier now than ever before.
The day arrives, my Mother cries again. I hug her and whisper in her ear:
Mommy, It’s okay, I’m coming back.

gone 2

2007-10-03T20:28:00.004-06:00

henry and judith

2007-10-03T20:27:00.001-06:00

In their humble home, Henry and Judith didn’t have much. A meager supply of firewood was stacked in a corner, a dingy bed occupied another, and an exhausted table stood, somewhat off-center, towards the middle of the room. Henry, a farmer by trade, brought in what money he could with his crops, but the amount of land he owned was minimal, and thus so was his yield. Judith was a mediocre seamstress, able to mend and sew as well as the next housewife, although she did have a bit of skill at healing, which also brought in a bit of money. Every day seemed the same for this couple; their life had a monotonous rhythm to it. They never expected more than they had, never predicted that they were any different than any other townsfolk. And they were right, at least for the time being. They continued in their lackluster lives, until one day, when the Fair Folk decided to intervene.

gone

2007-10-03T20:26:00.001-06:00

He walked along the lonely, abandoned road silently. With tears in his eyes, he searched the vast reaches of wasteland for a sign of hope, of life, but only found rubble and desolation. This was not the place he remembered, the place he had dreamed of coming back to. Once, it had been full of lush, fragrant greenery, and jovial sounds had filled the air. Yet he had to leave; there had been no choice. Bitter feelings of regret and sorrow rose in the back of his throat. They were gone. All of them. Everything, everyone, gone. So much can happen in such little time. Your whole world can shatter so easily, like a chisel on ice; that much he knew. He tenderly stepped over the piles of debris intermixed with lost memories and broken dreams. He found an old, rusty metal bench and slowly sank onto it, quietly reflecting on events of the past years, as the memories came flooding back.

It was Briana’s 9th birthday. I could hardly contain my excitement for the upcoming events. Every year Briana’s parties were more colorful, expensive and thrilling than the last. That
happens when your father is the wealthiest man in town, as hers was, he being the only doctor. And I proudly bore the title of Briana’s best friend. We did everything together, ever since we were just babies. Our mothers were the best of friends, so naturally we were too. Life was grand being Briana’s best friend. Her lavish parties were the highlight of our, and the entire towns, year. What made this year so special was the present that I had made for her. It was with all the thought and all the love my heart could muster that I had created the perfect present. I gave it to her before the party started. It was a kind of treasure box that we could put things in and bury it under our favorite tree. She loved it and said it was the best gift she had ever received. We decided to bury our treasure the next day and then wait at least 10 years until we dug it up. Her party was wonderful, as always, but something was different this year. I could never put my finger on exactly what it was until years later when I realized it was me that was different. We buried our precious treasure the next afternoon: my most prized baseball card, her favorite bracelet, pictures of us together and separately, two little baggies, each with a small lock of our hair, and a barb of chicken wire that my pants had caught on during an adventure. Those were happy, joyous times, but little did I know that one day soon everything would change.

His father had been a farmer and a horrible storm had destroyed all their crops that year, the year he turned 10. They had no choice but to go to America so his father could seek new employment opportunities. They had to start over completely, and very soon. Leaving Briana and his small town was the hardest thing he had ever done, but how easily he had forgotten his love for them both. These suppressed memories that had surfaced alighted newfound anguish in his eyes. He must find that tree, that treasure. He dug hungrily through the ruins of his childhood home until he found the burnt, blackened tree stump. Through grief stained sobs he ripped apart the dirt with his fingernails until he found his prize. The perfect treasure box for the perfect girl. He had spent so many hours making this box and the relief he felt that it was still there was overwhelming. He removed it from its sepulcher, gathered up his stamina and trod back to his car. He didn’t know if she was still alive or if she had died in the fire that had ravaged his town, but he was absolutely determined to find out.

i am from 2

2007-10-03T20:25:00.004-06:00

I AM FROM
Curling up with a good book on a rainy day
Roasting marshmallows over a fire
Weekly piano lessons at a neighbor’s house
Busy days and stressful nights

I AM FROM
Service projects and sunflower seeds
Constant infatuation and heartbreak
Singing along to Josh Groban and Frank Sinatra
Late night chats with a close friend

I AM
Endlessly longing for silence
Fear of inadequacy
Eight-hour drives to Colorado
Hot, relaxing bubble baths after a long day.

how alive must you be to die?

2007-10-03T20:25:00.003-06:00

A mask of felicity is worn each day
By some who sadly, have lost their way
How alive must you be to die?

Instead of love, some receive just hate
And all they can do is count down the date
How alive must you be to die?

Left locked within a dark, cold room
Some can only contemplate their doom
How alive must you be to die?

Lost, abandoned, nowhere to go
Bereft, forlorn, out in the snow
How alone must you be to die?

i am from

2007-10-03T20:24:00.001-06:00

I AM FROM
Easter Egg Hunts in the backyard
Swimming at the pool
Watching colorful leaves fall
Sipping hot cocoa, watching the snow

I AM FROM
Make-believe worlds
Singing in the shower
Talking so much my jaw hurts
Pushing myself to the brink of exhaustion

I AM
Easily entertained
Happy to help
Sometimes misunderstood
Always wanting to succeed

untitled 1

2007-10-03T20:23:00.001-06:00

As the fog started to lift from her eyes, she realized she had no idea where she was. She began to sit up, but quickly realizing what a mistake that would be, she lay back down on the ground clutching her throbbing head. She took in what she could see of her surroundings. Above her there was a light gray sky, spotted with clumps of darker gray clouds. To her right lay a vast, dense, tropical forest that was as foreboding as it was beautiful. To her left was the ocean; throwing up angry waves onto the shore she was sprawled on. Slowly she began

mandy

2007-10-03T20:18:00.005-06:00

It was Easter. I was younger then, about three, with no brothers or sister yet. My Grandma and Grandpa came over. They told me, "Lindsay, we have an Easter present for you!" I clapped my hands and laughed and asked what it was. They said come into the backyard and find out. I followed them outside with anticipation and excitement welling in my stomach. "What could they have gotten me?" I wondered. We got outside and went and sat under the pine tree by my little pond. My Grandpa took a brown box that had holes in it out of a paper sack, like the ones groceries come in. This was so exciting. He handed me the box and I took off the lid. Inside was the cutest little thing I had ever seen. I looked up at my Grandma and asked her, "Is it a chicken?" She said, "No sweetie, it’s a little duckling who will grow up to be a beautiful white duck!" "Oh." I answered in wide-eyed awe. I had never had a pet of my own before. I decided to name her Mandy. I don’t know why, I guess it just fit. Mandy grew up some, until she really was a beautiful white duck. I loved her so much. I cried when we clipped her wings. I got really mad at my dog, Corky, when he chased her around the yard. I played with her all the time. We made castles in the yard and I was the princess and she was my royal duck. The neighbors would come and play with us. They loved her too, but not as much as I did. One day I came home from pre-school and I dumped my backpack and finger-paintings on the kitchen table and ran outside to see Mandy. I looked everywhere, but I couldn’t find her. I started to cry. Where could she be? Why would she leave me? Did she not love me anymore? What if she had died? I was in hysterics by the time I went into the house to see if my Mommy knew where Mandy was. My Mommy took me in her lap and comforted me until I got my sobbing under control. She looked at me and told me a story about how she had seen Mandy that morning when she was feeding her, but when she came back out that afternoon, she saw Mandy flying away. She tried to yell her down, but it didn’t work. I didn’t believe her for a second. I knew my duck would never fly away from me. My evil Mommy and Daddy must have done something with her, and wouldn’t tell me. I started crying again. My Mommy tried to comfort me again, but I jumped off her lap and ran to my room. I grabbed my pink blankie and ran outside. I collapsed near Mandy’s and my pond. I sat for hours, or what seemed like hours, hoping desperately that my Mandy would come back for me; but she didn’t. My Mommy came outside and told me that she was sure that Mandy was happy and making all sorts of new duck friends, but I still didn’t believe her. I survived that day, and I now know what really happened to my Mandy. She sure as heck didn’t fly away and leave me alone. We had a little girl/duck bond that could never be broken, and I still smile when I think about my cute little duck swimming in my cute little pond. Now, every time I see a white duck fly overhead, I say to myself, "What if that’s Mandy? I really hope she’s living a happy life."

jealousy

2007-10-03T20:18:00.003-06:00

Your green eyes betray me,
Your wicked tongue deceives.
How can one be so enticing,
And so utterly diseased?

Your apparition alludes me,
You shift at every turn.
Yet you are always with me,
In a different shape or form.

How can I find peace,
In this cruel and hateful world?
Your tendrils of suspicion
Cannot be assuaged or turned.

You are spiteful, malicious,
In your quiet ways.
Planting seeds of envy
So that we may go astray.

Many pretty faces,
Trifles, charms, and treats
Are the way that you seduce us,
But I have seen the truth of your odious deeds.

How can we be rid of you,
I ask on pleading knees?
We must be content with our lot,
For we shall never, never, be free.

But we must continue sanguinity,
For that may be the key.

moment

2007-10-03T20:17:00.001-06:00

On silent wings
Through the night sky
A snowy fowl flies
Starts in with a dive
A small, unaware rodent
Innocently nibbling seeds
Sits on his haunches
A ruffle of feathers startles
But it is too soon, too late
Life is snatched in an instant
Yet also sustained

persecution

2007-10-03T20:16:00.002-06:00

Why do you trample upon my dreams
And crush them like dead leaves under your shoe?
You have no right.
I am a person, with feelings.
Maybe you didn’t realize that,
Since you are so wrapped up in yourself.
Vain, conceited, arrogant, uncouth;
There are many words that describe you.
I am not nothing.
I am, in essence, more than you’ll ever be;
And too good
To let your rude remarks hurt me.
Therefore, be gone,
And prey no more on innocent souls
To assuage your insecurity.

piano

2007-10-03T20:15:00.002-06:00

I am ivory and ebony. I am her sanctuary.
She takes meticulous care of me and I, in turn,
Reward her by proudly sounding my taut strings.
Light from a high window illuminates my shiny black surface.
Admired by all that see and hear me,
I soothe sorrow and frustration with a few melodious tones.
Through concertos and ballads,
My heart soars with the lithe fingers of my soul mate.

But time passes quickly. My elegant airs gradually cease.
She visits me for the last time, with a sorrowful look in her eye.
I am silently covered with cloth, and wait patiently for nothing.
I gather dust; my delicate strings grow brittle with disuse.
My keys ache for exercise; and grow weaker with each moment.
Then the darkness ends. My confining cloth is stripped away.
I am suddenly caressed by a new set of slender, young hands.
My future holds promise, like the dawning of a new day.

ode to the potato bug

2007-10-03T20:14:00.001-06:00

Six tiny, agile legs and a sleek obsidian exoskeleton,
Children love you
And the way you tickle
Their small hands.
You make them laugh.
Adults look at you listlessly
With no concern as to where you are going
Or where their foot lands.
Do you have a mate, Potato Bug?
Children? Family? Home?
What is your quest at this moment?
Food? Shelter? Escape?
You are more than you appear
And I’m afraid most people
Underestimate you.
But you live daily with the fear
Of sudden death, of no food.
You are hardly different from any one of us.
I salute you.

princesses

2007-10-03T20:10:00.001-06:00

For some reason, my sisters thought I was scared of everything. I wasn’t ever really scared, but I was occasionally paranoid. And in this case, I had every right to be.
I had been taught all my life how to be a lady; how to dance gracefully, how to sew, how to speak eloquently, and how to conduct myself properly. This I did cheerfully and optimistically around everyone but my sisters. We all got along fairly well, except for me and my oldest sister, Gwyneth. I hardly ever do anything right, according to her. We have always had very opposing views, but she usually won every argument because she was older. She never really said much to me unless we were arguing about politics or she was telling me, "be quiet Kiara!", but I usually ignored that. Then on one of her nicer days, which also happened to be my 14th birthday, she and my other sisters decided to let me in on a little secret. During the festivities of the day, they presented me with a beautiful, flowing gown and new dancing shoes. When nighttime came and all was settled we all sat in a circle in the middle of our enormous bedroom. Gwyneth proceeded to tell me this story:
A few weeks before, my three oldest sisters were desperately bored and could not sleep. Gwyneth had slammed her hand down hard on her top left bedpost in utter frustration. She was shocked to see that after she had done so, her bed slowly sank into the floor. A staircase came into view, and the curious sisters descended it.
They would tell me nothing more except for that the bed would only sink at precisely midnight, and that I would soon see for myself what they had discovered. I assumed it could only be something wonderful because of the ecstatic looks on their faces. At that time we proceeded to get into our elegant satin ball gowns and dancing shoes. All the while my curiosity about this mysterious place was growing stronger and stronger. Midnight approached and the anticipation grew higher. The moment came and Gwyneth tapped lightly on her top left bedpost, having found a couple of weeks before that she didn’t need to smack it to make the bed sink. We descended the staircase, and as we emerged from the passageway, I saw a most magnificent sight. Standing in front of me was an entire forest comprised of trees made of silver! My sisters smiled at me and said, "just wait, it only gets better". Our dresses whispered as we wandered through the silver forest. After a time we came to an even more beautiful forest. These trees were golden. Our lithe feet made indistinct sounds on the golden forest floor. A short while elapsed and we came to a forest made of glistening diamonds. This was by far the most beautiful of the forests. We finally came to a wide stream of sapphire liquid, on which its shore waited twelve splendid vessels, along with twelve of the most handsome young men I had ever seen. I was introduced to Rhys, the young prince selected for me, and we got into our boats and sailed across the river. We reached shore and there was a gorgeous olive green field. There we danced for hours and hours until our shoes were worn through completely. Our princes escorted us back across the river and we sauntered home in a blissful state.
I had been dancing every night for about a week when my father became suspicious of our constant need for new dancing shoes, since we wore holes in them each night. He locked our door at night, but in the morning our shoes were still worn through. He hadn’t the faintest idea of what to do, so he sent out a royal proclamation that said whoever could tell him where his daughters went at night could have one of them for a bride. We weren’t too thrilled about that. No one ever found out thanks to Gwyneth’s persuasive powers and a potion she put into each man’s wine to make him fall fast asleep. Well, no one until the soldier. All the rest of my sisters thought he was just like another suitor. Somehow he tricked us. I knew something was wrong from the beginning, but my sisters didn’t believe me. As we went down the staircase that night, I couldn’t help looking over my shoulder every few seconds and jumping at the slightest sound. I was sure someone had stepped on my dress as we were coming out of the stairwell, but when I looked behind me, nothing was there! When we got to the shore, Rhys commented on how much heavier our boat seemed tonight, which flung me into a panic once again. I knew there was someone following us. When we got to the emerald field, I slowly forget my unease, and immersed my self in the pleasure of dancing with my beloved Rhys. On the way home I started to worry a little more but Gwyneth pounced on my observations by calling me a silly goose and saying I was scared of everything, so I sulked all the way home. We got back to our room to see the soldier sound asleep outside our door and Gwyneth turned to me with a little smirk that seemed to say "I told you so".
The next morning, my father called us into the customary meeting that was always conducted after a suitor spent the night in our hallway trying to figure out our secret. My sisters thought nothing of it, but I was still a little anxious. At the meeting, our father asked the soldier if he had found out where his daughters go every night. To the King’s surprise, the soldier said that he had found out. But he made our father promise not to be angry with us. The King complied and the soldier proceeded to tell him where we had gone every night for two months. Apparently he had followed us the night before, just like I had suspected. I stole a glance at Gwyneth, who was furious that I had been right. I grinned until I looked over at my father who was brimming with rage. Then he remembered his promise to the soldier and suppressed his feelings with difficulty. "So which one of my lovely daughters do you wish to marry?" my father asked the soldier through clenched teeth. The soldier replied that after seeing how much we loved the princes we danced with each night, he only wished for us to be able to marry them. My father consented, but insisted that the soldier come up with something for himself too. The soldier, after much consideration, said that he would like some farm property and a title for his name. So everyone got what they wanted in the end and hopefully we will all live long, happy lives.