You reach for me,
Pull me from the water.
And I know I am broken,
But accept me as I am.

I will be good to you, Fisherman.
Take me in, dry me off;
Make me into what I wish I was.
I can be something beautiful.

You place me before your hearth.
The fire frightens me into silence.
Will you warm me or burn me up,
To finish life in a bed of ash?

I can’t always read you,
But I hope you’ll keep me
And pass me down as a keepsake
With stories of my valor.

You are lonely, Fisherman.
I think this land is killing you.
So take me to sea in your father’s boat.
I’ll go anywhere with you.

I will be the fishing rod
Whose spine never breaks;
The knotted carving knife
That fits your hand alone.

You see me for what I am:
Flooded, softened driftwood,
But you’ve made me beautiful,
Because you love me as I am.

She had not been here for many years, and it had not been as cool the last time. When had it been? July, perhaps August. Her mind had been kind enough to let her forget some things. It had been hot, though, she knew, even into the night. She could remember the stench of sweat and the buzz of mosquitoes.

No breeze disturbed the water, and few fish made kiss rings at its surface. The air felt crisp, as though winter were clawing away at autumn, soon to draw the life out of everything around her. Branson Glen became a haunting, depressing place in wintertime, and so she was glad she only felt the coming of winter now, than all of winter itself.

Taking a deep breath, she slipped out of her shirt and pants, and then her underwear. It felt primal to stand like that, exposed to nothing but nature, an unforgiving entity known to restore and destroy many that crossed its path. Kate wondered how many had stood naked before its beauties and horrors in the past; she wondered how many stood as she did then.

She breathed hard until she got used to the water. It was colder to the rest of her body than it had been to her fingers or toes.

When the water reached her waist, she let herself sink in completely, her black curls floating above, slithering on the surface like a tangle of snakes.

Underwater, fish darted away from her hands as she stroked back and forth. There was a fold-away picnic chair at the lake bottom, as well as a few mobile phones and a colorful, burst beach ball. Kate imagined the children that might have played with it–a girl and a boy, teenagers perhaps. Their relentless teasing, which had surely only ever been about puppy love, had led to the beach ball’s popping. She imagined the distant sadness and disappointment that might have been felt, a remnant of childhood emotions upon the sight of a broken, much-loved toy.

She swam upward when her lungs began to protest. Breaching the surface, her pale skin contrasted starkly against the green-black water, with its reflections of the surrounding trees. Her face was wet, and she was crying, despite herself. Neither time nor her mind had erased all memories.

The sun was setting, and as the glen became colder, so too did the lake. Kate’s teeth chattered, and her wrinkled fingers felt stiff, but she stayed, both adoring and despising the many thoughts that raced through her head as she floated.

Her parents would be wondering where she was, and she was sure she had heard her phone vibrate from the shore numerous times since getting into the water. She had told them she would come home for the weekend, and a small part of her felt guilty for having turned her commitment into a lie. She hadn’t planned to be here, crying and floating on the cold water, but she had taken the left turn on her way home, not the right, and so here she was. No one would think to find her here, not after everything she had been through and not after she had led everyone to believe it was a pain of the past.

After some time, there no way of knowing how long she had been at the glen. The stars told her it was night, but they were silent otherwise. It could be minutes or hours until sunrise; she could not be quite sure. Nature had little sense of time, and so it gave her little indication of it. However, she thought it was maybe near midnight when she saw the four lights in the west. And even after years of having therapists tell her it had been two cars that night long ago, she knew the lights did not come from any car–not then and not now.

Branson Glen felt colder still, as it had felt hotter then. She saw one of the many-armed creatures bend in the distance, a silhouette before the bright lights. It touched the water, and immediately she felt a shift, a violent jerk at the very atoms that made up the lake. They were so powerful, that not even nature could control them.

She remained as still as she could, though her body rocked back and forth. She had stopped crying when she saw the lights. The dried tears made it feel as though she had a mask on, and yet only once had she felt so real. There were no clothes here, and there were no lies.

Kate did not regret taking the left turn as she was forcefully drawn under. Her black curls were the last to be taken, and they slithered on the surface like a tangle of snakes.

Details

My first short story in a long while. I like to give my readers the chance to make the story fit to their lives and meanings, so I rarely give out too much information about what I was thinking when writing my pieces. However, I will say that it is about making choices that are true to yourself, so that you will have few (and hopefully no) regrets.

I also hereby declare that I think I am officially the first person to refer to the ripples caused by fish “kiss rings.” So there. I’m proud of that one.

No more getting on my knees,
Wanting, wishing, willing it to be.
It’s my mapless journey.
I’ll crawl, walk, run up every mountain.

I’ve clawed away the blindfold,
Fallen drunk on a world awash with color;
Climbed the warped picket fence,
Got splinters and saw blood like red wine.

This journey isn’t easy, but I’ll keep on.
I’ve cast those superstitions behind me.
Nothing can stop a mind set free.
The road’s clear, though winding, twisting, turning.

I’m not blind, not fenced in.
I see this journey for what it is.
A road to the end of my existence.
Another life leading to another death..

But no more getting on my knees.
I’m living this dream, walking this road ’til I die,
To know the truth, to know why,
To never believe another lie.

Details

Never accept something until it is worth accepting. Never allow yourself to be blind when you can see a million colors. Never think once where you can think twice.

You can’t take this one from me.
It’s mine, said it’s mine, not yours.
A sweet, hot flutter within.

Broken body, tired mind, but a flame still burns,
And my firefly can fly with one wing,
Little phoenix inside, my secret weapon.

You can’t kill it, can’t control it.
It’s a wildfire, there to draw you in,
Consume you, as you tried to consume me.

It’s not over. I’m still here.
I’ve got a flaming firefly inside.
Said it’s mine, not yours.

Details

There are some things that no one can take from you.

I see your face,
And hear unspoken words
About what they did,
A secret carried by birds.

Yet your laughter echoes–
A joy to my heart,
Bottled in summer’s bliss,
Before the tears, when we depart.

But I am returning
To heal old pains,
In memory of summer
And gentle rains.

We’ll break iron chains,
Set you free
To soar through clouds
And laugh with me.

Make blind eyes see:
How beautiful you were,
Are and will be
In this feverish heat.

So satisfied as a sponge,
Taking in lies and political grunge.
Feels good to not question
And to call that freedom,
To think of it as progression.

No need to read a book,
When you only want a brief look
Of truth, both beautiful and dire.
Your heart’s colder than the coffee.
It won’t come alive with a little fire.

You sip your coffee
In front of the TV,
The only light of the room,
The one who will speak to you
From modern womb to tomb.

Details

“Freedom is for honest people. No man who is not himself honest can be free–he is his own trap.” –(Quite ironically…) L. Ron Hubbard

What is normal anymore? What was ever normal? How do you know you’re sane? Isn’t part of being insane the denial of insanity? Maybe we’re all a little crazy. Maybe it’s just a matter of to what degree.

Maybe I am crazy. Am I crazy?

The blue light is flashing amid the black. I don’t have to look at my watch. I know it’s around three in the morning. My eyes have closed only briefly. I’ve stared at the ceiling for hours.

I don’t have to check my mobile. I already know who it is. I know it’s her. I know the numbers that will be there, right by her name. I can see them. The slanted back of the seven, the curves of the threes, the endless knot that it is the eight. I see it all. She called. She wants to talk. I want to talk, but I know better.

I don’t need to get up and talk, because I know that light actually isn’t flashing. It’s just what I want to see. My doctor is calling these hallucinations part of the stress, part of the temporary insanity that my mind is putting me through after the accident. I just call it hell.

He says it’s weird that I see things, that people only usually report voices, that there are usually only flashbacks and nightmares. But what is normal? They don’t know everything yet.

And I am a guinea pig, a part of the great continuing studies.

I wish the light would stop flashing.

Sometimes I wonder. What is real? Is it just my mind willing me to see that blue in the night, or is it happening—somewhere? Not here, maybe. Not in this room where my body is lying—where I think my body is lying—maybe somewhere else. But where?

The pill bottle is on my nightstand, right beside the blinking-non-blinking phone. I let two rest in my palm until they melt. Wonder what’s in them. Names of things I can’t pronounce, probably. Tested on mice I’ll never meet. Trial studied on people who are never spoken to.

I’m supposed to trust this.

The blue light is not flashing. Telling myself this, does not make it stop. I bring the pills to my lips, reach for my glass of water.

But I want to believe it is blinking.

My hand drops to my lap.

What is normal?

What is real?

Details

Considering the comments I have initially received in several places, both on and off this website, I feel it should be clarified that this is a work of fiction.

Rain fell down to chill and soak her through,
Pooled around her ankles
And swallowed up the tears
Of hurricane anguish and currents of lies.
And it’s been too many years
To have prayed enough that her knees are raw
From all the kneeling to a God who never hears.
She’s weary from battles and won’t go to war.
There’s nothing left to scream, nothing to say,
Nothing left to do but swim away.

Details

No abuse is too small. In the U.S., it is Sexual Assault Awareness Month, but I recommend, no matter the country you’re residing in or the month that you read this, be aware. All advertising money made this month was donated to RAINN.

I dance for you,
For you alone,
And yet you are gone.
Tears darken my many colours.
Some shall laugh.
Some shall fear.

The lights burn brilliantly–
Golden hues upon my powdered face,
My red smile melting
To mix with many colours.
Some shall laugh.
Some shall fear.

I am iconic
As the circus shame,
The joker and the monster
In my cloaks of many colours.
Some shall laugh.
Some shall fear.

Yet you will not,
You for whom I dance
And twirl and smile
In my many, many colours.
Some shall laugh.
Some shall fear.
The saddest of all clowns.

Details

Inspired by a random conversation.

The teachings and trust are deeply rooted,
As all the children stand tall and proud;
Hand on heart, eyes cast upward: liberty drips from little lips–
The haunting echo of words in a one-room schoolhouse.

The guards have them lined up now; the roar of planes above,
As the innocent are made suspect and filled with fear;
Patting, rummaging, questioning to demonstrate control–
The price of rights for temporary security.

The McCarthyism’s quiet; replaced by a patriotic act against themselves,
As a robotic, airbrushed man reads the morning headlines;
Hands on mouth, eyes closed tightly, ears deaf and dull–
The Whiskey Rebellion was the least of their worries.

The stars are yellow against slate grey,
As faded lines wilt in still air;
Drooping, wrinkling, dying blood lines–
The dead silence of a flag at half mast.

A whisper is left
And carried on the wind,
To fly with dandelion seeds–
To be forgotten and faded in the distance.

Details

The government is merely a servant–merely a temporary servant; it cannot be its prerogative to determine what is right and what is wrong, and decide who is a patriot and who isn’t. Its function is to obey orders, not originate them. –Mark Twain