When I was young, I built a throne of roses,
and said, “One day it’ll be I who sits
there, with a scepter of silver
in my hands and a beaded
crown woven into my hair.”
But shadows are tricky creatures, my friend,
and they stretched across the lands
with fingers that drained the blood
from my skin and cast
my heart in dusk.
Now I am old, and sit upon a throne of thorns,
with broken glass plaited
into my hair, and a bone dagger
in my hands that weeps
tears of red.
This bloodied blade is cleaner than I,
for its hilt still gleams like the day
it was forged, with black eyes of
diamond encrusted in
its body and silver
steel strewn
along its
neck.
These
hands of mine
are bloodier than
my blade, for they’ve seen
the red clash of war and passed
over countless weeping women and
babes, without daring to beg forgiveness
for being the one who silenced their sons.
If I could dance like a gypsy
all the world would be my fair,
and the swelling night would shimmer
like beads dangling in my hair.
If I could sing like a gypsy
no other voice would compare,
for my song would bleed brokenness
like the pain before a prayer.
If I could play like a gypsy
my pan flute would be the air,
and the earth would tremble at my tune
like a doe caught in a snare.
If I could live like a gypsy
I’d perform in the bright square,
before the world I’d light my fire;
before all I’d make my dare.
The wizened crow sang me a song
of blue fire that
melts the flesh off your bones,
and violet mountains that hunger
for the sky. I did not know
what any of that meant
at the time, but I smiled,
and nodded.
The wizened crow sang me a song
of needles that fly
and pierce the skin of the earth
and broken bows that fling
their sorrow into
the sea. I laughed, for
it did not make any sense
to me.
The wizened crow sang me a song
of assassins who weep
and armies that crumble to dust
in the heat of battle, before the
sun bleeds over their corpses. I
shook my head
and walked away, for it
was all nonsense.
The wizened crow sang me a song
of a fate further
than the stars, and a lonely wanderer
reaching into the dark,
with nothing but the snow on her back
and a heart in her hands.
I looked at him, and wondered
why.
The wizened crow sang me a song
of crippled worlds
and torn puppet strings, and at first
I didn’t hear him.
But now I sit
and train my ears, and
all I do is
listen.
Welp, here’s a free-verse. I wanted to try my hand on a “speed” poem, so I didn’t take any more than ten minutes on this.
I am not controlled
by the worming beast that nests
within my body.
I am stronger still
for the scathing claws it wields
can never rule me.
I will never stop
waging my long fought battle
against its army.
I am more than this
disease, so its fatal hands
won’t ever mold me.
I recently lost someone young to cancer, and I’ve been reflecting a lot on her message lately. Though I never knew her that well, she was always so cheery and positive, and made everyone feel like they were her best friend. Which I think was true; she was best friends with everyone. And more than anything, she never let the disease rule her. This string of haikus is my feeble attempt at paying tribute to her and her incredible and heartbreaking journey.
You stitch the stars with
brittle fingers that tremble
as the night expands.
A seamstress of dusk,
you paint the sky in coral
when the sun descends.
You breathe life where there’s
dark, your children of the night
wake at your sweet hands.
Oh, Mother of Murk,
bend the black in swelling shades-
govern the night lands.
This is one of my first attempts at a haiku quartet. Somehow the last syllable of each stanza ended up in cadence- but maybe that’s just my innate desire to make everything rhyme!
Writing is painless. Said no one ever.
More often than not, words take a little coaxing to get past your reeling thoughts and onto the page. Sometimes, you have everything planned out in your head, and know exactly what you want to write- but your fingers remain frozen over the keys, refusing to cooperate with your train of thought. Other times, you’re raring to go, and ready to string sparkling, eloquent sentences out onto the blank page- but you have nothing to write about, and zero inspiration. Basically,
A blank piece of paper is God’s way of telling us how hard it is to be God.
– Sidney Sheldon
Never fear, my fellow scribes, for you’re not alone in this plight. I used to be a “wait till inspiration strikes” kind of writer. Sometimes I’d go for weeks without writing a single word, and when I did sit myself down to write, I’d spew out a few pitiful sentences and then be on my way. I told myself that writing without motivation wouldn’t produce results, or at least not ones that I’d be satisfied with. I told myself this, and I never wrote anything. Don’t wait around for inspiration; go hunt it down and tear its guts out.
Everyone knows that incorporating the senses into your writing is essential to crafting a story that comes to life on the page. But what about using the senses as inspiration for your writing? I used to write my stories and poetry while sitting at a hard desk with nothing but the sound of a humming fan for company. Not exactly the most stimulating writing environment. I learned from my slump, though, and discovered a few things that you can do to heighten your senses during writing.
Sound
Sound is probably one of the biggest inciters of inspiration in my writing, and perhaps one of the most accepted on this list. Music elicits the emotion within us; it immerses us in a world that is all our own, one where the outside is nothing and it’s just you and your thoughts. Compiling and listening to a soundtrack that fits with the project you’re working on is a creative and fun way to further delve into the minds of your characters, the world your story takes place in, and the bigger ideas you’re trying to get across.
There are an endless amount of resources and online radios that supply music playlists, but the one that I’ve found the most satisfying is 8tracks.com. It has amazing playlists in every genre imaginable, about every topic imaginable. Whether you want to listen to movie soundtracks, instrumental pieces, emotional piano ballads, indie rock…you name it, they’ve got it. You can check out my account for a few of my playlists, or go exploring on your own. For example, search the explore section for “epic + battle” and you’ll be supplied with an endless list of playlists that will set you in the perfect mood for writing a war scene.
If you’re a pluviophile like me, the sound of rain immediately places you in a peaceful frame of mind. Rainy Mood is perfect for those days when the sky is clear, and paired with the perfect playlist, sets the mood for a writing session. Other synthetic auditory sites that I recommend include Soundrown and A Soft Murmur.
Sight
I’m a visual person. I like to map out scenes by illustrating settings and develop characters by painting their portraits. Obviously not everyone is going to opt for this, but you can’t deny that writing is a visual affair. When you write, you want to be able to picture the scene in its entirety, from the colors to the shading to the smallest details and nuances. Seeing is believing, even if you’re only seeing it in your mind.
Anyone who knows me knows that I am very passionate about colors. Yes, colors. Colors are what breathe life into the world around us. They set up the mood for a scene, an idea, or an emotion. I could probably go on and on about my deep devotion for striking colors, and how they inspired my last book, but perhaps I’ll save that for another post.
I’ve found that picture prompts are innovative ways to generate that “spark”. I suggest browsing sites like DeviantART where endless archives of artwork are just waiting to kindle the inner workings of your mind, or checking out Flickr for a vast selection of photography and multimedia art. The tumblr Write World, which posts daily picture prompts, is another great resource for writers.
Scent
Scent as a stimulus isn’t exactly what comes to mind when you think about writing, but in truth, it adds a whole new dimension to creating the ideal mood. Aromatic tea and scented candles are surefire ways to get me in the writing mode. If you really want to get into it, try these author scented candles. Ever wondered what Charles Dickens’ candle would smell like? Apparently tangerine, juniper, and clove.
Taste
I don’t know if this is just me, but I feel like every writer has their special “writing” food. For me, its trail mix and tea…and when it’s really, really late- coffee. Yes, I know that stuffing your mouth with food every time you write is not the healthiest of habits, but sometimes, when you need a little extra energy, the right snack can be the difference between a blank page and a paragraph.
Touch
Touch is perhaps one of the hardest senses to pin on writing. I mean, writing is all conceptual. There’s nothing to touch, so how can it influence your writing? Sometimes just placing yourself in the right setting is all it takes to give birth to a brainchild that will grow up to be your story. Really, it’s all about being relaxed. Situate yourself in your most comfortable desk chair or couch, make sure the temperature is just right, and dress for comfort!
All in all, don’t shy away from writing because of a fear of the mediocre. Embrace your mediocrity! Because without it, you’ll never get any better.
If you are a genius, you’ll make your own rules, but if not–and the odds are against it–go to your desk, no matter what your mood, face the icy challenge of the paper–write.
-J.B. Priestly
Your breath is like ashes
that flake off your lips
and your voice is the smoke
that shades an eclipse.
With words blacker than blood
you streak the sky red
and your eyes burn a fire
that devours the dead.
The white mask you model
serves a waxen shield
that born against virtue
wrecks the playing field.
Lies act as your arrows
and spite is your mace,
my steel and rusted words
crumble in their place.
But my armor’s iron
and plated with gold
so your blade won’t bite me
or melt down my mold.
This black battle you wage
with crimson-tipped spears
is all smoke and cinders
that thaw futile fears.
For the crows you unleash
to pick at the dead
leave my body intact
and tear yours instead.
They painted me red
in a sea of black,
and I laughed, I think, as I fought them back.
My steel kissed more flesh
than iron and stone,
but I’m not a killer, at least, not on my own.
I won’t be remembered
as gallant and brave,
for this crimson snow shall bury my grave.
But it makes no difference
that I live or fall,
I would say my friends were dead, if I had any at all.
They bit out our pride
as they burned our barricade,
but I was immortal, you see, I couldn’t fade.
Now the sky spits fire
on a sea of roiling reds,
and moaning ghost ships wave their flags in shreds.
I’m accustomed to pain,
Agony’s but a quest,
I’d get up, mind you, if not for these arrows in my chest.
I have not been beaten,
my soul’s not yet reaped,
But I’m weary, you see, all I want is to sleep.
They painted me red
as the stars smiled on,
I may die here, I think, but I’ll never be gone.
I’m not running.
I’m not running…at least, not anymore.
I can still hear her laugh, like the tinkling of crystal bells. Her song still dances through my mind untainted, and her voice is as clear and pure as it was on the day I lost her. Every child I see on the street is her; every giggle makes me turn my head, ready to call out her name. The little boy next door’s smile stirs buried demons within me; it awakens monsters that tear through the crust that has over time come to encase my heart, and with searing claws they rake at my already battered spirit. They moan of dead beasts, long trapped away in the recesses of my mind, and cry out in a bitter agony.
I would sit in my room and stare out the window, watching as children scurried across the pavement. Their happiness churned up discarded memories, and unable to handle the asperity that the sight of them brought upon me, I’d draw the curtains and crank up the volume on the television. I ran. I always ran.
But not anymore.
I sit on the porch and watch as they play. I allow the demons to devour me, and I don’t struggle when a pearly vision bleeds into my mind. A lone swing creaks in the sweet-smelling wind. Little blue shoes with the buckles undone rest in the dirt by the tree. A distant call, a mother’s song, brushes the warm air. Then I hear a string of laughter, her laughter. I smile and push aside the branches of a bush. She’s there, where I knew she’d be, her hair snagged with crumbling, brown leaves. “Found you!” I say.
She sticks out her tongue, stained green by the popsicle she just ate, and leaps from the brambles. “You’ll never catch me alive!”
A laugh escapes from between my teeth as I watch her bolt for the house, and I see my mother standing in the back doorway, her hands planted on her hips. She yells at me for playing in the dirt, and scorns my unkempt hair. “Get in for dinner!” she says.
I pick up the blue shoes left behind in the shade and dump out the wood chips. I hear her voice again, coming from the house. She reminds me that I still haven’t caught her, and that she won’t let me rest until I do. A smile peaks on my lips as I start after her. In this moment, everything is perfect.
Nothing ever stays perfect.
The fingers of my memory creep across the scene, and now I’m in a church. She sits beside me in the pew, her black-stockinged legs kicking at the kneeler in front of us. Her gray, cotton dress is ruffled up to her hip, and her braid has fallen apart in ribbons of frizzy hair. She looks at me with solemn eyes, and asks, “Why’re they putting Mommy in that box?”
Tears tug at the corners of my eyes, and a lump nestles in my throat. I want to stay strong for her; I want to show her that I’m brave, but I feel limp. I look away, my eyes losing their focus as I stare ahead at the droning priest at the altar. I tell her the same thing I told her ten times before. “Mommy’s dead.”
The air is stale and thick with incense, and the smoke from the candles burns my eyes. I don’t look at her reaction. I don’t offer her a comforting arm. I’m a cold statue, stony in body and mind.
“She’s not dead,” she says to me, grabbing my sleeve. “She wants to get out, she doesn’t like it in there. It’s too dark.”
My eyes well up with tears, but my cheeks remain dry. “No,” I say. “She’s dead.”
Her voice turns sour. “No! Can’t you hear her? She wants to get out!”
I pull my arm away and grab her wrist. “She’s dead, and she’s not coming back!”
My voice rings through the church, and the pensive faces of chromatic saints look down on me with judging, glass eyes. The mourners pause in their sniffling to look at me in pity, and I know what they’re thinking. Those poor children, scarred forever. Forced to live with a mother who didn’t care, a mother who didn’t bat an eyelash before she tightened the rope.
Now she’s crying, and I can’t bare to look at her anymore. I leave her in the pew, and whisk up the middle of the aisle. Her cry reverberates in my ears, but I don’t look back. I run.
They said we’d be happy with the old couple across the country. They said we were distantly related, and that they were eager to have us. And that might’ve been so, we might’ve truly been happy there…but we never got the chance to find out.
I wake up to her screams from the bed beside mine. She flails under the thin sheets, writhing back and forth frantically. I switch on the lamp by my bed and rush to her side, peeling away the sheets tangled in her legs. She looks up at me with red eyes and a nose slick with tears. I grab her shaking arms gently, and say, “Shh, shh…it’s all right. The nightmare’s over.”
She shakes her head, and her forehead creases. “It’s not.” Her voice is clear and mature, and I’m taken aback by her forwardness. “I am so sorry,” she whispers. “It’s not your fault. I know you think it is, but it’s not. I love you.”
I don’t know what to say, and I pull away from her. I realize now that my fingers are trembling, and I tuck them under my arms. “What are you saying?” I ask.
She remains lying, but props her head up on the pillow. “I’m sorry,” she says again, and her voice quavers. “You two don’t deserve this. But I’m scared. It’s so cold.”
I’m terrified now, and I jump to my feet. The aged floorboards of the house groan as I step back on them. “I don’t understand,” I say. “What-”
“Good night.” Then she rolls over, facing her back to me, and pulls the sheets up and over her head.
My last memory of her is her laugh.
She trails after me on the way to school, stepping on the curb one foot at a time like a gymnast on a balance beam. She doesn’t seem to remember the night before, and she jabbers on about her crabby teacher like nothing had ever happened.
I begin to cross the bridge that hangs over the river, but I stop when I see that she’s not following. “Hurry up,” I say.
Her face goes ashen, paler than the moon. She whispers to herself. “No, don’t make me.”
“We’re going to be late,” I say. “I don’t have time for this.”
Her expression switches, and her feet jerk towards the bridge. “Yes, free me! I can’t stand it any longer!” She starts to run towards me, but halts a few feet before me. “No, I don’t wanna! I’m scared!”
Annoyed, I grab her wrist. “Let’s go. School is just around the corner.”
But she jerks away from me, and grabs the bridge railing. “I tried!” she cries, her eyes brimming with tears. “I tried, but I just can’t! I’m hurting!”
“Where are you hurting?” I ask, but she shies away from my hand.
Her eyes go wide like disks, and her eyebrows arch up. “I know,” she breathes. “That does hurt…”
I’m scared now, and I look around wildly, trying to see if she’s talking to anyone. But we’re alone on a rickety bridge, with nothing but the surging creek below us and the golden leaved trees framing the sky.
I look back at her, and my heart leaps into my mouth. She’s under the railing, and hanging off the bridge. I see her blue shoes slip on the ridge, and I lunge forward to grab her. “No!”
She looks at me with shining eyes, and the tears are gone. “Don’t you see? She’s hurting. It’s dark and cold there, and she wants to be free.”
“Who?” My voice is shrill, and I grab at her arm. “Who is she?”
She flutters her eyelids, and laughs blithely. “Mommy.”
Then she jumps.
And my grip slips.
And she’s gone.
I open my eyes, and the little boy from next door is standing on my porch. He grins at me, his freckles stretching across his cheeks, and says, “I’ve never seen you before!”
His eyes are an eggshell blue, just like hers. A stabbing ache roots itself in my stomach, but I ignore it. I’m not sure what to say.
“My mom says you’re a grouchy, old i…intro…introvert!” He struggles over the last word, but seems very pleased with himself when he gets it out.
I can feel the demons shrinking away, and my heart lightens. For so long I have shut away my memories; for so long I have ignored the guilt suspended in my mind. I would drown out her ghostly laugh with pointless tasks, and I wasted away my life without giving each passing day a second thought. And now…I am free. I remember, and my memories are raw and cruel, and they gnaw at my spirit like a voracious beast…but at least I have come to terms with them. At least now I can breathe.
I am seventy-five years old. I have seen hell. And I have survived.
I smile at the boy, and the more I look at him the more his elated grin reminds me of hers.
And it makes me happy.
I excavated this story from the disorderly abyss that is my documents folder. It was a for-fun-thing I did last year, and boy, was it unedited… I was almost afraid to touch it for fear of it shattering beneath my cursor, but I think it came out ok in the end.
Stellular Scribe 