The Voice of The Rain

The Voice of the Rain

The voice of the rain tells me I cannot. Cannot be happy. Cannot do it. Cannot be…anything.

The voice of the rain tells me, you are not worthy.

The voice of the rain says, “God is laughing at you.”

The voice of the rain drowns out the hope of the sun.

No light shines in. There is only darkness.

The only sound is the voice of the rain.

And it tells me I can’t.

I believe the rain.

It is louder than the beat of my heart.

There is no escape from the rain.

The voice of the rain is a flood.

And I am drowned in it’s swirling waters

Saying “Cannot” “Won’t” “Nothing”

“Never, nothing, not a thing.”

I am the voice of the rain.

I am regret, disappointment, despair.

I am hopeless, faithless, beaten,

I am the voice of the dark.

I am defeated, tired, crushed.

The voice has won.

I am done.

Hold Hands

Mom holds my hand.
She brushes the knots
out of my hair.
She dresses me.
I am two.

Mom holds my hand.
She lays my clothes out
on the bed.
My hair is very short.
I am seven.

Mom is working.
She lays my clothes out.
She makes my lunch.
She makes my dinner.
I am ten.

Mom is working.
I lay out my clothes.
I make lunch.
I help with dinner.
I am a teen.

Mom is working.
I am in college.

Mom is working.
I am working.
Mom makes dinner.
We don't hold hands.
I am in my twenties.

Mom is retired.
Dad is sick.
Mom is working.
I am working.
We don't hold hands.
I am in my twenties.

Mom is sick.
Dad is sick.
I come home.
We do not hold hands.
We laugh and cry together.

Mom is alone.
Dad is gone.
We hold hands.
I am a mother.

Mom is alone.
I am sick.
Mom helps.
We don't hold hands.

Mom is alone.
I am better.
Mom is alone.
We hold hands.

Mom is alone.
Mom is confused.
Mom is....old.
We hold hands.
I am old.

Mom is a child.
Someone makes lunch.
Someone brushes the knots.
Someone dresses her.
They hold her hands.

I am away.
Mom is old.
I am old.
I want to hold her hands.

Poppin' Pills

Poppin' Pills they hit my teeth they don't hurt
Not anymore, half the bottle gone
I rest my heavy head for support
On my heavy hands. I have done
The easiest thing to keep from
Feeling your goodbye again
The unsaid words swarm
Like a storm and rain
In my overflowing heart
The flood of your unsaid
Words has ripped my calm apart
And I am drowning in a sea of dead.

Poppin' Pills how many was that?
What's it matter, don't wanna come back
To your world where I patiently sat
And waited for you to contact
Me. I knew I wasn't good, pretty, smart
Enough for you. I never was.
But you swore you loved me from the start,
Up until that day. Applause
For your performance for breaking walls
Set there to protect me from you.
And you broke them,  I fall
In love with you again, you do what you do.

So I'm Poppin' Pills. A few more left in the bottle.
I'm gonna throw it away and continue to swallow
The pain that I feel at the thought of your face
At the time spent together, how my heart raced.
When you kissed my lips for the very first time
When you held me and swore you wanted to be mine.
Lies and pretty words, wrapped in ribbons and lace.
I shouldn't have listened I should have watched your face.
Those eyes would have told me the truth I didn't want to believe
That you are a liar, a cheat, that you deceive
I don't know why, I don't know what you want
But I'm at the bottom of the bottle, I win you don't.

Red

Red, red, the knife cuts deep
The slit flows blood red and
Drip, drip, drip your words keep
Flowing out of me onto the sand
Predators, you, your kind, prey
On the vulnerable, the weak
Sucking us dry, Wanted to say
I love you, Can't speak.

Poppin' Pills, how many was that
A river of red races down my
Leaden arm. It is big and fat
I trace it with my eye
To the lake on the table, floor
Up again. Poppin Pills don't feel
a thing. I wait, watch the door.
No one comes. You seal
My fate, just by coming back.
I am crazy, lost, manic desperate
And you make me feel everything I lack
From being perfect. I am desperate.

Poppin' Pills very tired now.
Is it the river of red
Or the numbing power
I lay down my head
In a puddle of blood
You made me you took me
This red, bloody flood
These pills that you see
That's you not me
I was fine you made me crazy.

Drip,drip, drip
Pop, pop, pop
Drip, drip
Pop, pop
Drip
Pop
.

Fucked

That is how I feel. It isn't what I wanted.
I wanted to be loved and touched
Softly with fingers that caressed my skin.
I wanted whispers of how much I was loved
How beautiful I was in his eyes.
I got fucked.

I wanted to be made love to.
Sweet gentle lips on my body.
Warm, strong hands to hold me.
His eyes to look into mine and shine.
To feel like I was the only thing that mattered.
I got fucked.

I wanted to be loved
Cherished
Adored
Worshiped
Treasured.
He fucked me.

Now, I don't want him to touch me.
I don't want to be alone with him.
I don't want his hands or lips.
I don't believe his words.
I no longer trust him.
Him
Him
Him
You
You...
You fucked up so
Now, you're fucked, too.

Memories

Memory

Man is she a bitch. Or maybe he is. My memories. Or my nightmares. This one, I keep thinking I've lassoed it, tied it up good and tight, in the corral, no in the barn locked up tight. And dammit if someone doesn't open that barn door. Usually me. But prompted by someone else. Someone like a therapist. Someone that knows what they are doing but unfortunately, can't get that nightmare back in the barn in those 15 minutes left of your session when you finally admitted what happened. 

"Oh but I've dealt with it. Forgiven and gone on. He's dead. I've moved on. I'm over it." Except I'm not. Or I would have told her about it the first time I saw her. I told myself I was just testing the waters to see if we were a fit. No need to drag all that out if we weren't going to mesh. Truth is, I wanted to hide it from her. I wanted to pretend it hadn't happened. I wanted to be "normal."

We talked about how often it happens. One in four. One, two, three, four. I can be volunteering at school and know that if there are five of us there, it's very likely that one other woman has had this happen to her. She has my nightmare or something similar. And once you say it happened to you...women come out of the woodwork admitting it happened to them. Or at least that has been my experience. Or they don't. But I know, I can tell by the way they drink too much, or keep their arms around themselves make themselves small or big, it happened to them too.

Memory. Yeah, it's a bitch. Let's not give it a gender. It sneaks up on you in the most inopportune moments. Makes you feel small, insignificant and helpless, all over again. You get stuck in that place of memory. And getting back out, it takes some strength. Some people stay locked in their nightmares, never escaping. But that isn't where I want to be. I did not survive my childhood to be paralyzed by it. So ugly dirty thoughts come to me again. The self loathing and despising my body comes again. But I will pass through on the other side. My nightmares will not hold me back. Time to open the barn door. Let them run at me. I have hands to hold to help me through their ugliness. 

And then I'll pick myself up. I'll start over. I wasn't beaten as a child. I certainly won't be beaten as an adult.

I just can't quite announce that label yet. Not yet. But one day, I will proudly wear that badge. Until then, I'll battle the nightmares 55 minutes at a time once every other week. And hope to keep the barn door closed til then.

Real life- in pieces

I missed you today. I read what you wrote and I wanted to talk to you and tell you how good it made me feel, but you weren't here. I know where you are and where you will always be. But for just a minute, I wanted to pretend you were here and wrap my arms around you. I wanted to smell your smell and bury my face in your neck. I wanted to feel your arms wrap around me, too. I wanted to feel you squeeze me tight against you. Feel you smell my hair, my skin. I wanted to pretend we were still. That nothing had ever happened to bring this sadness, this separation.

I wrap my own arms around myself and try to warm myself in the chilly air of the day. I try not to remember. I pretend. My life is one big theatrical production. Hiding, pretending, numbing the pain, pretending. It is a half life. And behind the scenes...that is where the real life happens, only in pieces. Maybe that is all I can stand to have- real life in pieces. I can't handle a whole real life. Or maybe I don't deserve one for pretending so long. Even now, I keep the secrets of one so others can keep their saint on his pedestal. I try to stay whole. But how many secrets do I have to keep before I crack into pieces. Will they be the pieces of a real life or the pretend life? I hardly know which is which anymore.

I turn inward. I am in here somewhere. My heart beats strong. I have born many things. In some small corner in this body I exist. There is a true me here. I am real. I may be small. Infinite. But I am not pretend. And I can grow from that small piece. I can fill this space, this body with real pieces that connect to make a whole me. I can have a real life. One away from here where I don't have to pretend. I can be new. Whole. Strong. Fearless. I can be Me. I only have to find that infinite piece. Til then, the play goes on....

Walls

Walls, four make a box or a rectangle. They can also make a room.
A safe place to stay. Or a prison filled with nightmares.

Walls can be movable. Wrapped around us reaching out
infinite or small. Protection from them.

Walls can be made of stone, glass, flesh.
Their purpose remains constant.

Keep out. No trespassing.
I don't want you here.
Go away. please....

Walls don't stay. They leave when you need them.
They come up when you don't. You can't control the
walls in your world.

In my world. Walls used to mean safety.
Walls meant loneliness. Walls meant days of sorrow.
Walls meant reliving the pain of childhood.
Walls meant never getting hurt again.
Walls meant never living again.

I've tested my walls. They are shaky.
If they fail, who will be there? Can I stand
without my walls? They have held me up
so, so long. I feel like a baby on new legs.
Where to look, who to trust, what to do?

Maybe just one wall down at a time.
I lean back against the other three.
You may come in. But wipe your feet.
This is my home. For now.
Me and my three shaky walls.

My Story

*****Picture credit Bits of Truth

Recently, an old friend from college days emailed me and suggested that maybe I didn't appreciate what I had in my life. This wasn't a random email. We have been emailing back and forth and this is completely out of context. But it got me thinking. I have just finished reading I Am Malala. Certainly, I don't appreciate being able to turn on the faucet and get fresh water. I don't appreciate medical care available to me, or grocery stores or cars or schools. I take them all for granted. But my friend came down a little hard on me.

We've been out of touch for 22 years and he has no idea what has transpired in those years. Most people that know me don't know. In fact, there are only 4 people that know. Five if you count the one that's dead. But I don't.

It did get me thinking though about how judgmental we are of each other when we think our own stories are so much worse than the other person's. How do we know. And why is any one person's story worse than another's. Is it a competition? "Hey my childhood was worse than yours so I get to ...." What? Be more judgmental as an adult? Have a worse life as an adult? Fail as an adult? The truth is, we all experience things differently and one person's worst day might be mild to another. A bad day is a bad day, it doesn't matter what happened or to what degree. When someone shares, "I had a crap day," listen to them.

It's like pain. We don't all react to physical pain in the same way. I have one son that would want to go to the hospital for a splinter when he was young. The other son could have a toe nail hanging off and be bleeding through the house and not even know he was hurt. It's the same with trauma, painful things we have endured, trials by fire. We need to have more compassion for each other. What do we get out of judging each other?

Does it make you feel good? Not me. The next time you want to tell someone your story when they are sharing theirs, STOP. Listen to them. Just listen to what they are saying. They don't want you to solve their story. They just want to be heard. Don't judge. Don't share. Just listen. And when they are done with their story, if you can think of nothing else to say, tell them, "I hear what you're saying." Be a listener for a while and you'll be amazed at what you learn.

So my story? Stop. Listen. I'm sure you can hear it in the words I don't say.

Practice listening and compassion. I hear you. I care. It's what we all want to know. That we are not alone.

You Cannot Be Replaced

                                         ***

There was a time, when I didn't care if I saw another day.

I didn't believe anyone would miss me.

I thought my presence was worse than my absence.

Depression works that way.

It isn't rational.

It doesn't listen to people who tell you all you have to live for.

It doesn't care if you had plans.

It just doesn't care and it makes you not care.

Depression is like a heavy blanket on your brain.

You can't think through it.

Your brain can't function through it.

You can't see through it.

You can't feel through it.

You can't.

That's what Depression tells you.

You can't.

You aren't.

You won't.

You don't.

Burden

Unworthy

Waste

Alone

Failure

Fail

Ail

Ill

I

I

I

...

..

.

But

You are not alone.

There is a community of us.

You Cannot Be Replaced.

And when you think of it like that, that kicks Depression's Ass!

You Cannot Be Replaced.

You Cannot Be Replaced.

You Cannot Be Replaced.

That's bigger than the Black Dog.

Bigger than the blanket.

It's bigger than you and me.

It's something to hang onto when all the light is gone.

You cannot be replaced.

Remember....and be a survivor.

There is no one like you

You cannot be replaced.

****Picture from To Write Love on Her Arms

National Suicide Prevention Week Campaign

Mama 11-23-13

Where am I? My husband was here right by my side just a minute ago. But my daughter says no.
"Mama, Daddy has been gone sixteen years." I thought he was here right by my side. Where am I?

Someone has gotten married. I don't know the couple. The music is loud. I want to go home.
"Mama, it's your oldest grandson. You remember him. It's his wedding." I know him but he doesn't look like the little boy I remember. I want to go home.

I am angry. It is night. I want to go home. I don't know these hands. I don't know this girl that rubs my back and calls me "Mom." Surely my girls are younger. Where is my husband? He was just right here.

Where am I again? Do I need to pay for something? Do I need to be somewhere? Do I need to change my clothes? Will someone drive me? Where is my husband? Who's hands are these? I want to go home.

There, there is my sister. She looks old. She will sit with me and I will understand. She will help me understand what I do not. But she just talks and I can't hear over the music. It is in my ears and through my mind and I am so dizzy. Where am I? Will someone take me home? I just want to go home.

My sister is gone. I am alone. I shut down. It is all I can do. I want to go home. I am lost here. This is not my home. I do not know any of these people. I just want to go home. Where is my husband? He said he would be here. Always.

Someone brings me more wine and I drink it. It gives me something to do. It does not help me feel better. Where is my husband? No, I am drinking something brown and fizzy through a straw. My daughter is here. She sits by me. She holds me while I cry. Why am I crying? I don't remember.
I want to go home but when she asks, I tell her no, I do not want to leave.

My grandson has not spoken to me. Neither has his bride. Or maybe they have and I don't remember. Where is my husband. He was just right here. I want to go home. I'm ready now. I want to go home. Will someone take me home. I think my husband is waiting for me there.

I don't know these hands in front of me. They are old and wrinkled. They are spotted with age and bruised. Who are these people sitting with me? Where is my husband? He was right here beside me. He said he would always be here. These are not my children. My children are young. They tell me my husband is dead. For sixteen years. But I would remember. I would know. Where am I? Where is my husband? I just want to go home.

The Wrist

Callum bent down and took her hand softly in his. They were so small and soft in his large, rough hands. Pale and warm, he felt like there was a fragile magic between them, like glass, and if he moved too sudden or too far, it would shatter and she would disappear. Slowly, oh so achingly slow, he turned her wrist over and rubbed his thumb, just one, on her wrist, the one with the writing on it. He tried to read the words, the letters so foreign yet familiar to him. Her breath caught as his thumb barely stroked them. Their eyes met. There was only this moment between them. A small thread, thin as a silken strand of hair pulled them closer. His other hand moved just as slowly, touching her cheek as delicately as if she were spun sugar and  he were rain. His thumb touched the corner of her lips and he watched mesmerized as her eye lids floated down, her face turning toward his hand. The quiet stillness between them was filled with question. With a moment of hesitation Callum bent to where his thumb was on her wrist and kissed it. The sigh from her lips was music to his soul. Something he had never heard, not expected. He wanted to continue up her arm to her lips, but this was a dance she led, he would follow. And so he continued to plant kisses on her wrist until she pulled him to her and kissed him, hesitantly, right where his thumb had caressed her lips. She opened her eyes. There was something undeniable in them. Callum wasn't the only one that felt the fragile bond between them.

"What does it say?" he asked as quietly and slowly as he could, hoping to keep the moment alive. She looked down at his thumb tracing the words written there. They were a painful reminder of her past. But it was the past.
"It says, 'you are not alone.'" He nodded as if he understood. And Callum did understand. Maybe not what the words meant to her personally, but how they could be significant to anyone.
"It's beautiful," he told her, meaning the tattoo.
"Yes, it is," she agreed meaning the sentiment.

The magic still held them and she leaned into him. His thumb left her face, and his arm encircled her, only gently pulling her to him. She was feather light, leaning against him. Her sigh again spoke to his soul and he could only just stay himself from robbing her lips of all he wanted. Instead, he lifted her face, and with the promise of the gentleness and restraint shown in all his touches, he breathed against her lips, a whisper, the wings of a butterfly, a soft breeze. A promise was made. "You are not alone."

Tiffany Blue

Tiffany Blue

Don't give me boxes with rings and diamonds the color of Tiffany Blue.

No, let that be the color of the water we swim in together or the dress I wear when we dance as husband and wife.

Don't buy me sapphires or rubies or emerald greens all tied up in blue boxes.

No, let that be the color of the sky we see as we peek between palm branches. Let it be the color of the sheets we slide beneath as we wrap ourselves together.

Don't tie up trinkets with bows of white and priceless gems of gold and platinum.

No let that be the color of the walls of our house, the icing on the cake for our twentieth anniversary, the first blanket of our grandchild.

If it must be a box of Tiffany Blue, let it be when I am too old, too gray, too brittle to dance, to laugh, to sing. Fill it with our memories of all things Tiffany Blue.

Blood Red and Snow White

He watches her from the bar where he sits. Her blood red lips parted as her drink touches those lips. He imagines them touching his mouth, his throat. He aches to press his body against her, feel her mouth against his, hear her moan his name.

He watches her flirt with other men. Their hands rest on her arm, her back. He knows, just by the way she lets them touch her which one she likes the most. It's a game she likes to play. He waits in the shadows, in the dark, watching the blood red lips, parted as she smiles.

She gets up, maybe to leave, maybe to use the restroom, put more blood red lipstick on. He watches her. He can't look away. She is all he has ever wanted. He has looked for her his whole life. And now, now she is here. But tonight is not the night. She must want him. He must lure her in. She must come to him.

He settles himself in her path as she returns to her seat. They stumble over each other. "I'm so sorry," he tells her, holding her on her bare skin, his hand just under the sleeve of her jacket. Her skin is warm, silky soft. Breathless, she replies, "No, it was my fault. I'm sorry." Hooked, he thinks. She looks into his blue eyes and she won't forget them. He holds onto her, maybe a minute longer than necessary, then lets her go with a smile that lets her know, he's seen her. She stumbles back, and turns back. She won't forget him nor their encounter. For tonight, his work is done. If he stays, he will only lose control. Bad things happen when he does.

Two nights later....

Blood red lips. It's the first thing he sees when he sits down at the bar. She is alone. She has made sure the space beside her on either side is empty. She is waiting for him. He can't help a small smile of satisfaction. She is trapped. One touch and a smile. Women, so predictable. He sits back at the end of the bar watching as she fends off one man after another. She glances at her watch and then picks up her phone. When she looks as if she's going to leave, he makes his move.
"Are you here alone? Or is your herd with you?" Blood red smile? No, frown.
"They were admirers." Blood red pout. Much better. Too taste those lips. He doesn't even look at her as he speaks. "Tomato, tomahto. Are they on their way? Running behind?"
"No, I'm quite alone, tonight. For now."
"Not anymore." And without even asking, he grabs her phone and her and sweeps her out the door.
"Wait...where.." her protests are drowned out as her back comes up against the brick wall of the bar and his lips are finally against the blood red lips. She doesn't resist. He roughly presses her into the uneven mortar, but she is caught up in the anonymity of this passionate and the hunger behind it. His hands hold her arms beside her head, her hands working to get free so she can run her fingers in his hair. He is strong, but gentle.

He pulls back and she gasps for breath, her hands still pinned by her head. He looks in her eyes, then to her blood red lips. Where there should be a smeary mess, lipstick on both of them, her lips are perfect. He is puzzled, startled. Thrown off his game. He's not sure what to do next. His script...doesn't allow for variances.

"Your lipstick. Doesn't it smear?" The knife rubs against his calf. It burns waiting to plunge into it's next victim.
"What lipstick? My lips don't need it."
"But they are Blood Red." He would have painted them with her blood had they faded. Wiped them clean then pulled the knife out and dabbed the red blood across them. Painted them blood red. His previous four victims had been beautiful in their final moments with their own blood stained red lips.

Undone, he let her go. But she wasn't finished with him. She pushed him back against her blood red convertible and climbed on top of him. "You know there was this crazy killer going around killing girls that wore blood red lipstick. He kissed them and then painted their lips with their blood." She mashed her lips against his, dragging her arm up his legs, between his legs, up his stomach. He could hardly breathe. She was the one. She was the girl that could make him stop his desperate search. She knew about him and yet she was kissing him, touching him. And then, he felt the knife plunge deep, so deep he could hear it scrape the blood red hood of the car. "You're my Blood Red," he whispered as his life slipped away. "And you're soon to be my Snow White," she grinned wickedly as she pulled the knife free and wiped it on his pants. She shoved the body away, hopped in her car, the knife under the seat and drove away in her Blood Red convertible, with the Snow White seats.

Never Again -Weekend Creation Blog Hop

Never Again

by Heather Rosdol

He was gone in the night like a dream you want to hold onto or a nightmare you wanted to forget.  Her world was forever changed.  Silent, colorless, still.  She walked....the very same steps they'd walked all those nights. She walked from Trinket to Diamond and every jewel between. The waves crashed on the shore building with the approaching storm. She heard nothing.  The birds screamed their night sounds before the wind blew their calls against them.  Nothing.  She heard nothing. The world was silent.  The sawgrass cut tattoos of betrayal and pain on her virgin skin.  The blood trickled black, the moon sat fat and white.  The rest of her world was black or white. White sand, black water, black clouds, black lashing grasses.  Nothing moved despite her journey, the waves, the birds, the storm.  Which was bigger-the one brewing inside her or without? Something flashed white in the ocean. Yes, yes she thought as she watched the jagged lines of lightning punish the water. That is how it feels a thousand times over.  And the storm was upon her.  She cried, she raged, screamed, tore at her clothes and hair and threw anything she could find.  When she had no more voice, when the storm inside had ceased, she endured the chilling needle like rain, the loud thunder, the blinding lightning of the outside storm. When both were expended she found Never Again and made a home there. She felt, she heard, there was color, but all of it was muted as if experienced through a veil.  She still walked from Trinket to Diamond but traveled just a little farther to Never Again each night, never intending to live elsewhere again. But she did love again, and left Never Again, but the veil remained and a piece of her heart always remained in Never Again-reminding herself of her dream, her nightmare, her days from Trinket to Diamond and to always leave a piece of herself behind, so she never gave her whole self to anyone-Never Again.

Bagpiper

Bagpiper

The lone bag piper walked down the hill, his mournful dirge haunting the open spaces around him.  She watched him, as if he'd come for her alone, staring into his eyes.  The rest of the party fell away as the music ached inside her. Not much touched her, she'd numbed herself to feelings so she didn't get hurt. Only death touched her.  But the bag pipes called her soul, pulled at the roots of a past she didn't know but longed to and wrung from her heart tears of sorrow that she couldn't stop.  By the time he played Amazing Grace, she was a statue, hoping that no one could see her molded to the column, tears dripping from her chin.  She wished he would go, yet longed for him to play on. She wished she could follow him.  No matter what they looked like or how old they were or even if they were married, she was always in love with the bag piper. But only when he played.

On Writing

Writing is hard. The words, the scenes the characters, they are there, swirling in my mind. I'm talking to them, plotting, scheming developing the worlds and talents. I know so many things about my story I've had such trouble with before. The problem? Getting it on paper. I don't ever have the time to write it down. Oh yes, see I'm one of those strange people that likes to actually put pen to paper or pencil and feel the words come out. I do write like this without writing it first on paper. I don't write my reviews on paper either. They actually suck when I write them on paper. I'm wordy and say way more than you could possibly want to know about how the book made me feel and what I did and didn't like about the book. 

But these things work in my favor when I'm writing a novel. These all add to the depth of a novel. So all those conversations my characters have had between each other that are swirling in my brain, everything they've seen and done, I'm afraid I'm going to lose the best of it if I don't get it down on paper. Yet, I'm constantly reading and reviewing because I have a book blog and I can't say no, especially to authors that are just starting out. So, my story is just up there, swirling with all the other information lost in a sea of thoughts that may or may not be remembered.

Oh and when I do have snatches of time to write it down, it's on a scrap of paper which always gets lost. I've got countless notebooks roaming around with various bits of my stories in it. Who knows they may be going to school with my kids and their teachers are reading them. God only knows what they are thinking. What I write down, what I remember is the bare bones of a scene. The stems of a plant in a garden. The leaves, the design, the flowers, the fruit, none of that has been added. Really they are just little sprouts poking out of the dirt. But they are there. And I think they are good. And I'll do it this time. Because I'm not getting any younger and no one is going to do it for me and it's my garden to grow. And I'd never want anyone else to touch it.  And I'm tired of one day. It starts, one day is now.  I may have to give up my book blog, but if that is what it takes, then I'll do it. It's time to do the work. It's my time. So I'll take one notebook and gather all my writing together and write. Then I'll take the next scary step. Find a critique partner/group. First though, I'll write. Every day. I owe it to that girl in fifth grade who said she wanted to be a writer. To the girl who earned a degree in English and said I want to be a writer and was told she couldn't do it so she didn't try. It's time to let go of that. Time to prove them wrong. Time is running out. 

WRITE!

Story Teller Prompt Saltwater Tears

I ran away from home. Or maybe it was to my home. I just knew that the saltwater, the sand, the wind and the waves, drenched me in a perfume that felt like a drug. My inner hurricane calmed to a gentle spring rain and my inner demons were lulled to sleep by the sounds of water gently lapping against the rocks. Breathe, breathe deep. Oh God, why does the ocean do what no pill, no drug, no therapy, no word can. And why do we always have to move away from it? My saltwater mixes with the pools that eddy around my toes and I'm part of the world that calms me. I dream of being a mermaid. To live in the watery world that calms me, to always be able to live there. Would I cry for land?  Would I wish for legs? I don't think so. I long for the sand, the water, the sounds, the waves, everything the sea can give me. Nothing I can give myself.

A car door slams. I have been found. I drag my sleeves across my wet face. I say goodbye to the lover's moon. My love, my salvation, my shelter in a storm has always been the beach. And now, I must leave it. Promises of visits to it are made, but I know they will be broken. This is it. I pull handfuls of sand into my pockets and breathe deep. Would that I could hold my breath forever. I would always have the peace I had moments ago.

I turn my back on my lover. It cannot come with me and I cannot stay. I know that. I cannot look back. I am in a fragile state. I think frantically of getting jobs here and splitting from my family so that I can stay here, beside my beloved beach. How many jobs would it take? Three? Four? I could do it. I'd live downtown close to the beach. The boys could come for the summer. We'd go to the beach. I am grasping at straws. I quell the frantic child in me. I grow up. I say goodbye. I wave. No looking back. Just gentle saltwater tears.

Story teller Prompt The Dragon

Raisa knew he was out there even though she'd asked him to stay away, afraid for his safety. She'd angered Mab and now she would pay with her life.  It was the time of Dragons in Feyland and the Dragon needed to be fed. If you angered Mab, you were more than likely to be the one to be fed to the Dragon next.  She'd only been jesting, but Mab wasn't known for a sense of humor and now Raisa was going to pay a high price.

The vines that held her to the bench, the Feeding Bench, had wrapped her tightly around the wrists, ankles and waist as soon as she'd sat down tightening with every pull of her arm or leg, with every breath.  She'd tried every spell she knew to break the vines, but nothing worked.  She turned slowly to look at him and realized he was eating through the vines.  That she hadn't tried.  "Puck, Puck! Mab is going to be so pissed at you. She'll feed you to the dragon next. It's over! I'll see you wherever faeries go in the afterlife. Go before he comes and eats us both!"  The rabbit kept chewing through the vine even as the ground shook.
When it had broken through the vine, it continued to eat up the vine instead of jumping on the bench to eat through the rest of the vines.  He followed the vine as it wrapped around her arms then jumped into her lap.  "Puck, if I escape this, I'm either going to kill you or kiss you, or both!" she said as he sat in her lap chewing her in very personal places where the vine was wrapped around her.

They both jumped as a roar and a breath of hot wind passed over them.  But Puck continued his eating, faster if even possible.  Raisa stopped complaining and swallowed hard. A large head towered above the rocks, red with blue scales and a gold sheen. It's large teeth were as big as Raisa's head.  Steam billowed out of it's nostrils. Raisa was frozen in fear, she couldn't even breathe. She couldn't warn Puck who was chewing on the other arm now. The dragon turned toward her, and Raisa knew she and Puck were done for. Then suddenly she was in the air and the dragon was behind them flying after them, but far behind and she was in her best friend's arms.  "Shit Raisa, next time piss off someone else!  That vine tastes like crap!"

Save You

Save You

You were so tiny and small when you were born

needy and hungry, my skin felt warm

when you lay against my skin and breathed.

But underneath that beautiful skin and those eyes

lay an evil so vile that took me by such surprise

I'd have spared you this evil to you I bequeathed

But I didn't know of my own disease before you came

I  would have saved you if I had known the game

The rollercoaster ride of life you'd have to ride.

But I was just starting my own scary ride and had

no idea that you would have your own bad

time that your up and down tide

Would be so forceful, that you wanted to die.

Now, I need to save you and I'm helpless, I cry

Knowing how you feel, I feel it too

But I stay because I have to save you.

I'm afraid for you.  Life will be hard, too, 

For you and I don't know how to make it easy for you.

I don't know how to save you from your sorrow.

I don't know how to save you from what you borrow

From my genes.  That ugly disease that makes you 

Wish you'd never been born. That makes you want to die

At such a young age, you feel such deep darkness and lie

In that black hole.  I can't save you, but I'll lie there with you,

Like I did when you were born, lying on my skin,

breathing your labored breaths warm, breathe in,

breathe out.  I'll always be there with you.  I need to save you.

You got this from me, I got this from them but I didn't know

I didn't know.  And I'm sorry because it didn't show

Until after you were born.  I have to save you.

I'm your mother, you're my baby, you always will be,

I'm sad for you. Life will be hard.  And all I see

Is that baby in my arms. I will save you.