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The Return Of The Bunny - He's More Rabid Than Ever... [05 Oct 2009|04:58pm]

I know that probably no one is going to see this because it has literally been over a year since I posted anything, but it's worth the effort.

I am starting a literary blog on LJ, and it is only for invited friends.  It will contain the ongoing content of a large historical fiction project I've been working on for almost two years.

If anyone on my friends list, or from any community who has read anything of mine they liked in the past, just reply to this post and let me know if you'd like access to the Literary Journal.  It is untitled yet, but within the day, the page, and its title, will be up for all to start checking out.  So, if you're interested, let me know so I can add you to the allowed readers list.

I hope to see many of you old familiar friends, and plenty of new ones!
Dare to dream...

When the King of the Hill was a Pagan. [12 Mar 2009|12:34am]

The hill above was a steep one, covered in dead, brown brush. The gnarled, bare trees with trunks the color of a harsh gray crawled up the hill, growing denser in their efforts. We stood there, at the bottom, throwing sticks into a creek, hoping they would drown. Naturally they should float down with the weak current but these got stuck in bits of muck and debris, forming their own graves.

"Nah I wouldn't go up there." My brother said, throwing another to its demise. He brought to his lip a piece of paper rolled like a cigarette filled with the bits of tan and golden bush and grass we had collected. We were smokers now. I was too since yesterday when they broke my jumprope using it as climbing rope.

My cigarette hung limply along my gumline, the make-shift tobacco having fallen out since I hadn't rolled it tight enough. As the spit wet the paper a nasty taste formed in my mouth, like the taste of play money as mom said, whatever that meant. Didn't have the same effect I suppose but it looked alright and that's what I needed to be to be in the club, one of the boys. My jeans were rolled up to my knees so they wouldn't get wet and there was mud on them from where I had fallen earlier. I scratched one leg with a dirty foot and tried to wince as thoughtfully as possible up the hill, like a cowboy at the horizon.
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Dare to dream...

Et tu, Brute: a Death in Betrayal. [09 Mar 2009|07:12am]

Caesar didn't die because he was stabbed. He died because of who stabbed him. We're hurt most not just by what is done/said but by who does/says them. Take a lesson and keep your distance from everybody so that nobody can leave you bleeding to death on a marble Roman floor. But of course if you let nobody close enough to you, you die a death of loneliness. Look at it this way. Either way it's a gamble. Do you get the human friends, you know those flawed creatures likely to make a mistake and allow greed or power or ambition or insecurity to get in the way, or do you get the angelic, saintly friends who are a statistical rarity? All people fail us in one way or another. It's just about choosing who fails you out of malic and who fails you out of imperfection. But if you're sensibly afraid to get close to anyone or get lucky and decide to have your slumber parties and swap secrets with Brutus, you're dead ahead of schedule. The whole Ides of March thing. Some times the people we pick to protect us are the ones who have drawn the piercing blade, aimed at wounds they know we already have. What ironic lives we lead.
Dare to dream...

The Meaning of Cruel Words. [09 Mar 2009|06:17am]

This is relatively short, some freewriting. Warning it does have a few profane yet necessary words. Feel free to take a look.

We were in the newly moved house and my two brothers were sitting on the floor of my room, putting together my bed. I was sixteen, that haphazard age between womanhood and childhood. I was leaning up against the wall, trying to look as lean as possible- something which was difficult for me as I had recently become perfectly aware of the bodies of thin women and the imperfect body of my athletic build. One of the boys was my brother by birth, a terror of a person who tormented and made my entire childhood the least confident chapter of my life. The other was a brother by the adoption of our family practically, sleeping in our house,eating our food. He was my brother's best friend at one point and my closest relative at another. I admired him and wanted him to see of me what my brother didn't. Of course that was nothing too much considering my brother thought of me in the most terrible way possible, labeling me as "bitch," "cunt," and other words that I timidly carried with me every day, afraid to be assertive in any manner lest I evoke those words once again.

But no Kevin was different, mostly. He never came out and told my brother off but he would often subtly divert the discussion so I wasn't the target. He made up a joke and looked up at me and smiled. He was kind of cute, I thought. Maybe. And only two years older. While I sat there, my head pressed against the wall, shamefully trying to look sophisticated, I began to realize that I might kind of like Jordan. I was just forgetting a boy who had more or less jilted me a few weeks prior- a senior to my sophmore. I didn't quite understand what he didn't see in me but maybe Jordan would find it. I bit the corner of my lip and tried to look mysterious.

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Dare to dream...

Circus Peanuts, Chocolate Bars, and One Red Lollipop. [07 Mar 2009|04:52am]

I remember him. Vaguely. He smelled of oil covered up with soap. His camoflauge green jacket was always ironed but shabby, possessing a certain age that couldn't be worked out. His teeth were pearly white, as all teeth should be, and when he broke his warm face into a smile, crow's feet framed his blue eyes. I don't remember his voice or his opinion on Global Warming or whether or not he believed in God. But I do remember him.

He used to put his finger over the peep hole when mother tried to look through it. That was how we always knew it was him. And when she would open the door, we would act surprised and he would pretend to surprise us. It was a tradition every time he visited and a game I learned from watching my older brothers and sisters. At first he didn't notice me as much, swarmed by all those bigger than me. They would surround him and he would put his hands above his head and proclaim in a deep but kind voice, "Don't shoot!" And they never did. They would stick their hands in his coat pockets and find all kinds of rewards. Circus peanuts and chocolate bars and tiny boxes of Cracker Jack. Anything you could imagine. It was like he had a tiny circus in his pockets.

Amazed by the sight and overwhelmed by the older ones, I would sit in the shadow of the hallway and peep out of the corner, watching as they tickled him to get him to give up the candy and induced all kinds of torture. Finally, when they had each conquered him and claimed their prizes, they'd scurry off, back to their games and things would get quiet again. He would pat his pockets like nothing was there and then look at me and say "Oh boy. Whatever are we going to do about you? I'm fresh out!"

Disappointed but embarrassed at making him feel bad, I would just shake my head and urge him to go onto his business with mother with a feeble smile held between my cheeks. Then he would check as if nobody was looking, and let out a low whistle, signaling me. I'd race over and nearly bounce off his knees with my haste. He'd squat down to my level and smile, opening the inside of his quote and looking down at his chest pocket pointingly, a place none of them had been tall enough to check. I'd reach in with timid but nimble fingers and pull out a red lollipop. The only red lollipop he brought. Just for me.  He would smile and his eyes would twinkle and he would stand up, patting my head. As he walked away he would say "Our little secret."

Then every afternoon after he came, I would proudly hold my red lollipop and savor it, never biting into it but making it last because he'd brought it just for me. Special. Now sometimes I think back to those times and him- the first person who had ever made me feel special, the first one to ever pick me out of a crowd. Like I said, I didn't know him as long as the others and I didn't know his life story but I do know he wasn't the robber or pirate captain or indian he was in all of their games. He was the kind old man with a red lollipop in his jacket just for me.
Dare to dream...

If only. [06 Mar 2009|11:22pm]


If only is one of those wonderful terrible phrases, isn't it? It's one of those things that opens up the possibilities of what you could do if only. That's a wonderful thought. It allows boys to touch the moon if only they could become astronauts. It allows girls to be models if only they would grow into six foot tall, beautiful amazons. If only.

But the secret to if only, after you're done dreaming, is that it really is if only. It's a wonderfully expansive yet limiting phrase. Expansive in thoughts and dreams and clouds and all those things that you can't ever really grasp, just look at and marvel. You can look at an elephant shaped cloud and it doesn't make it any more of an elephant than it makes me the leader of a ringed circus.

If only. But if only gets you nowhere because you're saying it while sitting on a hill, fingers intertwined with blades of grass, neck craned painfully upward at the places you could only be if only you were a bird. Well, I'm no bird. I'm a girl and I'll only look eyelevel at a nest or the top of a tree from my bedroom window.

If only. Yes it's a terrible wonderful phrase. It will get me nowhere and leave me here, watching the clouds until cold but gentle drops of rain draw goosebumps on my bony arms and nudge me inside. I think I'll never say it again, such a vile thing for sending me inside. Maybe after I go in I won't say it. Yes just after. Because as much as it leaves me here in body, sometimes it lets me stretch for that blue and white elephant in spirit.

If only things could go on like that forever. If only the rain would never come and that cloud would stay with me, sharing an otherwise dull and calm afternoon. It gives me a false hope but a hope nonetheless. If only.
Dare to dream...

A Mother's Ways. [06 Mar 2009|03:19am]

This is a few paragraphs worth of some freewriting, arguably not enough to use the cut tool but I thought I'd be fair and courteous and all of that rot. If you have any thoughts, let me know what you think.

Nothing ever changes. Today I met mom for lunch at some bistro in town. She'd not seen me for a little over a month since I've been away at school and all. We'd just ordered. She'd have a turkey sandwich. I'd have a salad. Lite everything since I was trying to stay on the lean side. We had our drinks and some free time. This would be the moment where the tempo would wind down and she would say, "You look wonderful sweetheart," or "God you're growing up." Nope, not my mother. It ran more along the lines of, "You need to have your eyebrows done, don't you?"

People were ordering fresh wheat subs filled with greasy meat, backwashing into crystal glasses of water, and secretly worrying about whether or not they had anything in their teeth, while my mother was critiquing my appearance. Typical. Amid the calls from the kitchen and the bussing of tables, my childhood was coming back to me in thundering echoes only I could hear. "Aren't you going to do your hair?" "That's not the dress we bought for you last spring, is it?" "My, my, I'm going to have to buy you some benzole peroxide."

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Dare to dream...

Grounded. [04 Mar 2009|04:00am]

Some days I sit on the edge of that cliff and think of what it would be like to fall, to slip, and to plunge into nonexistence- not because I want to die. Sometimes I just wonder what it would be like. Because you never really know until you know and by the time you know, it's over and doesn't matter anymore, does it?

I hug my legs and look down at my dirty feet and think of how they would look- my arms splayed about like a bird, my brown hair behind me, racing to keep up with my body, my clothes pulling, clinging to what's above me, revealing my girlish figure.

Yep, I'd really look like something. It'd be a vertical journey to somewhere nobody else had gone. I'd be a bird and I'd fall as fast as I flew. The problem is I'm not a bird and as gracefully as I might fall, my landing would be catastrophic. Because birds don't have newspapers do they? People won't talk about them for days, will they? They don't have gossip and whispers about how you were beaten or how you had missed everything you ever aimed for and maybe that's why. Birds don't have people to question why they fly away and why they plunge to the ground to get out of a storm-lit sky.

 And birds have wings not arms. And nests to land on. And thin sticklike feet that don't crush like bones when they land.

Yep, I'd really look like something- but not a bird because I'm not one. I'm a girl and we don't fly or plunge, we drop like rocks, dead weight. We'd look like something but we wouldn't land. Our bodies would hit and our spirits would drain out, shrinking into some shadow, crushed under broken bodyweight and shame. We'd look like something to talk about for days, weeks... remember that girl who...?

And then we'd be nothing and we would know what it was like.
Dare to dream...

Turning Loose. [03 Mar 2009|03:16am]

I'm going to shove you away and run because I feel like my world is exploding and my heart is blowing town. Sometimes I rein it in and tie a rope around its neck, a tamed mare who forgot her place in front of the company. But not today. Today it can't be tamed. It needs to bolt in one direction and rampage as far as its flanks will carry it. Today it's a passionate, grieving stallion and doesn't want to be ridden and can't be roped in for any circus or rodeo. Today I just have to let it go and try to fly as close behind it as possible. That way I don't completely lose it.
Dare to dream...

How Dorothy Didn't See It. [03 Mar 2009|02:07am]

I close my mouth and stair at my shoes, feebly clicking them together once. Nope. No Dorothy here; Auntie Em has five o'clock shadow and gives off odor of beer which ferments the air. Even I feel the coming hangover just standing there. The sun bakes the scent, churning its stale smell in my stomach and making me nauseous.

I bite the corner of my lip and avert my eyes. Fear of pain has come and gone. He asks me what I have done. My answer is nothing. He raises a hand with his fingers spread. I watch as his extended arm draws a shadow across half of my face and my left shoulder. He forms a fist, crushing the brilliant afternoon light once in his hand. I do not blink but shuffle around some spit in my mouth, setting my jaw. My hard, resolute stare is mirrored in his hazel eyes, my hazel eyes. He turns and spits to his left, just inches from my new sneakers, the ones he bought yesterday. He hammers his fist down, the air brushing the tip of my nose, and gives me a look of disgust. Then he straggles up the driveway and into the house, limping like a broken horse from a long day of backbreaking work.

My gaze reaches down both sides of the street, searching for a neighbor who has been watering his flowers too long or has gone out to the mail and has paused in front of the box, forgetting what she came for. Nothing. I relax my muscles and step into the shadow of the side of the house, allowing it to engulf me. These kind of days make me wish it would fall down on me, like in the story, because the house never really falls down on the witch, does it?

No, we dream about it falling on the witch. Wish for it. But how can a house fall on a witch who isn't crouched in the bushes hiding from something or pulling at a weed? Witches don't hide and they don't garden. Houses fall on the people who hammer them and mend them, trying to keep them together, not the ones who break them. Dorothy might have made up the shoes thing and embellished with the poppies but she was right about one thing. There's no place like home.
Dare to dream...

Turn your head: the pains of an intellectual independent. [22 Feb 2009|04:51am]

I say he is a good distraction but that distractions are bad so it would be better for me if  against my wishes things didn't work out. I hate how I say it would be better for me if he would turn his head away but when he fails to acknowledge me it disturbs the foundations of everything I am.

I love how though he is so beautiful, he fails to make me feel ugly like so many others before him. I love how easy it is for me to give in to his embrace, to confide in him, to argue with him but not get angry. I love how his words hang on the tip of my thoughts like solemnity to a cloudy day.

I love how he celebrates and admires my independence and all of our similarities in emotion even though those are the very parts of me that drive the breaks between us.
Dare to dream...

She says she hates the rain. [28 Jan 2009|01:21am]


She says she hates the rain. I say why. She says because that's when I'm scared. That's when he comes. He who? She says my dad. I just nod, assuming she will tell me. People always do. They always bring things up when they want to talk about them. Then they wait. If you ask, they reluctantly tell you and dress it up a bit, embellish because they were caught off guard. They had it planned as far as the bringing it up now they have no plan. But, if you listen, just listen, and let them say it when they are ready, that's when you get the truth and that was how I knew. She was telling the truth. She said whenever it stormed she thought her dad was going to come. Come where? Do what? I did not know. Did not ask. Just let her tell me.

What she said is probably irrelevant. Not because it was not important. It was to her and to my perception of her and my feelings about her, yes. But she was a kid. Nine or ten I'd say. And her dad wasn't going to come and take her. He wasn't going to come in the rain, in the snow, or in the sunshine. Which was just as well for her.

But then, even then it got me thinking. Maybe sometimes. Maybe a person's perception of danger, a person's level of fear, a person's memory of somebody is not as bad as the person thinks because our minds are naturally dramatic environments. I say environment not because it is one with animals, plants, growing inside of it but things DO grow. Ideas. Hatred. Fear. Love. These things grow in it and our memories of them and ourselves evolve. Natural environments where an entire world exists that is attached, related, and relevant to the society of reality but not the same. They are somehow kept apart by our own perceptions. Dramatic perceptions where every natural disaster, every feeling, every event, is ten times more destructive, impacting, vital, and beautiful.

1 Dreams| Dare to dream...

The caged bird sings because it must. [20 Jan 2009|04:00am]

Sometimes my heart plays its own vital tune. Sometimes it sings from my chest in a way that I cannot breathe, cannot look about, cannot think of anything but the notes surging through my skin to meet the music or words making their ways toward me. It is a true, untainted song left free from the burdens of my own self-image, self-conscience, and lies. It goes from being what I think, what I think I should think, what I say, and what I think I should say, to what I am.

It goes from my attempts of being who I am to my inability to be anything else. It is its moment of freedom, a bird soaring out of a locked cage; it sifts through the mist of clouds because its song has grown into such broad swells that its owner can no longer bear to listen. It dips down and spirals in its contentment and exhiliration.

It knows what it is to be alive, to fall toward the Earth, to be rushed by the winds, and to climb the sky, grappling for each inch. This bird which resides on a pedestal in my heart has been oppressed by the cage of my body but more than anything, more than me, it knows what it is to live, to taste freedom because it dreams of it when it has not and revels in it when it has.

My bird is my soul and my body is its hunter, allowing it out when it is inevitable, and bringing it down in merciful sport when it forgets that it is not an eagle but a parakeet.
Dare to dream...

Playing with Fire. [19 Jan 2009|07:58am]

As it turns out, old flames never die. They just fester until you hear that one song about a complicated situation you can't overcome, a parting of two paths; then they spark up and set you on fire so much you think any minute your skin will burst into flames, consuming you, and the one way to put out the flames is to heave a few tired, practiced, tearless sobs and take a deep breath.

I'm no arsonist and I am no firefighter but somewhere in a deep hole in my heart you have left a hole and filled it with oil, just so you can come back when you want.

The worst thing is, knowing what it does to me and the agony and the pointless fulfillment of the pain, I still set you on fire every time I get; it's an instinct somewhere inside me that forces me to strike the match. It's like I'm hungry for feeling that wonderful malevolent force flow back and forth between us.

Turns out I'm always going to love you. I'm always going to be nursing these flames whether they're keeping my hands and feet warm or scorching my sorry skin.

I am always going to love you because I don't know if there is anything else I know to do about it.
1 Dreams| Dare to dream...

How the Cold Body Became an Ice Sculpture. [18 Jan 2009|08:16pm]

The wind whispers its vile words, pressing a painful tickling into my ear and the brutal stabbing of frost into my extremeties. It threatens, it promises, and it delivers. It is the harsh reality of nature ripping off the picturesque magic of a so-called "Winter Wonderland." Looking down at the poisonous mix of snow and salt on my boots, I begin to realized that I feel oddly placed in a Jack London novel; at any moment a gust of wind, the agitator of mother nature, will antagonize a tree, causing a fresh bundle of snow and death to swoop down and put out my fire.
Dare to dream...

Sketch [05 Jan 2009|07:30pm]


I lay on my back, sinking into the mattress. As I stared pensively into the bathroom, my right arm hung over my head manipulating a captive curl. The four o’ clock winter light survived weakly where it filtered in, barely touching some of the counter, glass, and mirror; nevertheless, the chosen pieces shined brightly in comparison to the vast grey. Half of the window remained uncovered and towards the bottom of the top rested a bit of condensation. Observing it in silence, I decided that I felt as if I was in a frosted martini glass looking onto a bleak neighborhood. It was silent and passive. Only I stirred, playing with my black pearl between my first two fingers and thumb, like I was some pirate captain coveting my own true beauty.

Dare to dream...

Inner Dragon. [05 Jan 2009|01:10am]


I want to inhale fire.
I want the flames to rush
through to my lungs
and to smoulder
through my flared nostrils.

I want to watch the world burn.
I want it to feel it annihilate.
I want to witness as hatred
anger and chaos
rightfully consume it.

I mean no ill.
I harbor no malice.
It's the only way
to appease the feeling of

It's a hopelessness
not of bodily or spiritual harm.
It's a hopelessness
a longing,
for vindication.

It's way of making sense,
a way of aiding divine retribution
where it is lost.
It is finding blood and breath
in a hallow heart.

Dare to dream...

Write. [01 Jan 2009|12:40am]

He says “write from the soul,
write from the heart.”
But where do I begin?
Where do I start?
Do I start from the surface,
or do I plunge into the depths?
Do I write of my life,
or do I write of my death?
Do I fill my page with woe,
of all my broken past,
or do I fill it with strength,
of all the moments I held fast?
He tells me to write
but then he tells me little else.
He gives me a demand,
not a muse but an elf.
An elf who is really a gnome,
taunting me with its façade;
whenever I ask it a question,
its response is a chuckle, then a nod.
Write what you know, it says,
write what you dream of knowing, it says.
Write of anything and everything,
write of nevers and nothings.
Write of a full page, if you wish,
write of an empty page, if you like.
But if your wish is to be a writer,
then write, you must write.
Dare to dream...

Caveat lector. [31 Dec 2008|05:20am]

Be careful with this
for great or little good can come from it.
You hold my heart in your hands,
turn the pages of my mind with your nimble fingers.
It belongs not on the shelf,
amid the dust and forgotten
but in the dirt,
out in the world it was sprung from.

I love and hate it more than anything I know
because it houses all my angels and inner demons,
my hopes and defeats.
Take care not to fall in love
with the muses you might find
or fall victim to
the beasts which find you.
Explore carefully but thoroughy.
If you must travel the marked roads,
take care to notice the chinks in the pavement.
If you must take to the woods,
be sure to keep to the light.

But most of all, let the reader beware,
for this is both the beginning and the end of fairytales,
the dusk and dawn of the reality
to which you cling so dearly.
To be submerged in this world,
you must step away from your former.
But caveat emptor,
let the buyer beware,
because the bargain you seek,
might be more than your share.
Dare to dream...

Ivy: the beginning of a novel [09 Dec 2008|09:30pm]

IvyCollapse )
Dare to dream...

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