My Writing
My collection of poetry, prose, and short stories
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The winter sky is white As the milky waters of Lethe. The stark clouds blend into a horizon: No beginning and no end, Like oblivion. The impervious sky, The impersonal snow, Blur the lines of heaven and earth. A void without warmth. A void without memory. A void without emotion. Only the bliss of nothingness.
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The cold moon rises in a lifeless sky. Silver as the winter, Bright as a midnight sun, Shattering the darkness. Snow illuminates the landscape. A reflection of a reflection, A false dawn? Or heaven’s mercy on an endless night?
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Can you capture a person in a handful of stories? Summarize a life in a few anecdotes? If our experiences are the threads that weave our lives, and tell tales turns back wheel of time, Do we continue to exist when the yarn is spun?
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In a quiet little town-close enough to the coast to look for seaglass in summer. Is a cozy little house-close enough to the woods to watch the leaves change in fall. With a few good neighbors-close enough to share baked goods and gossip in winter. Who sit around a fire-close enough to imagine the warmth
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My mind is a bowl of alphabet soup. A mess of mental health diagnoses- reach in and pull out a spoonful. Arrange the letters to guess the imbalance that keeps me in vertigo a single cooling blow and I dive into the bowl.
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Gray is the color of neutrality, nuance, and ambiguity. Maybe that’s why so many people dislike it. People like clear-cut sides and answers; they crave the simplicity of black and white. Gray is more complicated than that. It blurs the lines with it’s many shades. You could call it “indecisive”, but I find it to
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Part 1: HERE Part 2: HERE Part 3: HERE Part 4: HERE Part 5: HERE Part 6: HERE Part 7: HERE King Franz and Queen Marigold were devastated by John’s loss. Their grief was so great that even their dreams stopped. They spared to expense to free John from his entombment, and sent knight after
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I used to be afraid of color. Afraid that if I dressed to bright, or wore my makeup to bold that everyone would see the person hiding behind the mask of curated neutrality.
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John’s hands were burned, his fingertips were blistered from their brief contact with the poisoned bridal shirt before he threw it in the fire. How he had managed to find the dexterity necessary to draw the poisoned splinter from Marigold’s chest was a mystery to him. The court panicked around him, calling for his arrest
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The old raven, as loyal to the princess as he was to her mother before, had followed his mistress to the sea. Once he was assured of the Princess’s safety with her new husband, he flew back to the palace in hopes of learning of Midas’s plan. It was many days before he returned, exhausted
Bringing Mae Flowers 