My Writing
My collection of poetry, prose, and short stories
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As children Prince James and I played in the courtyard together. We were unlikely friends, the second born son of a king and the only son of the castle sorceress, but we spent every day together since we were scarcely out of the nursery. He, as a second son, had few royal responsibilities, and I…
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I become obsessed with perfection when my anxiety spikes. Filling every moment of my time with self-improvement tasks, as if I could compensate for my own shameful humanity through diligence. It’s a performance, with myself as the only audience. A dance of of wild precision – a single misstep will bring me crashing down. It’s…
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Like many writers, I have a backlog of writing. My files and folders are stuffed with projects I’ve started, but abandoned at various stages of development. Short stories and novellas in many genres: speculative horror, suspense, fantasy, and romance, children’s books, and personal essays- all still waiting for their first draft mock-ups. In honor of…
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Creeping into the backyard from over the garden wall. Her big orange belly is as round as her tip-toeing paws. Orange swirls like cinnamon on her pumpkin rolls. Asking for pets as she stops by on her daily stroll.
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The well ran dry. Where life once overflowed, only a clanging echo remained. Still, the hopeful still came with their pails. They patiently lowered their empty vessels, into the dark below. For they believed that which is empty can be refilled again.
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He’s nothing like you Excerpt for the way he stands. The same height and casual stance- Wrapped in black jeans. He’s nothing like you Except for the way he talks. A shouted voice full of mirth When excited in conversation. He’s nothing like you Except for that face he makes. Dark eyebrows raised, wide mouth…
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*A poem about feeling overwhelmed by life. May be triggering for some readers* I’m drowning in a self-created sea. Made of tasks, duties, and responsibilities. I asked for this. I thought I wanted more, but I’m in over my head. The water’s getting deeper, and I’m too tired to tread. I’m slowly slipping under- anyone…
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I can never go back to Tooele or I might pass that Greek Cafe and remember the afternoon we ate lemon-rice soup and baklava after shopping in the one antique shop in town. I can never go back to Tooele. Or I might drive up that canyon road and remember when we escaped to the…
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Prompt: Write about someone’s eyes without saying the color. You would have thought they’d be cold. Cold, flat, and hard- like a sheet of ice on the lake in January. But, those eyes weren’t cold at all. They were bright. Bright, expressive, and lively- like light dancing off the waves in June. People are full…
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Inspired by the Pintrist prompt: “Write what he said about the coffee” “It’s cold.” He said it blandly, an observation rather than a complaint. It was a short sentence. A mere two words about a cup of coffee after a stony 16 hours of silence. “Should I warm it for you?” I asked, careful to…
Bringing Mae Flowers 