Living Life #26 "Do it."

Today is yours. No one can take that from you.

If you want to sleep in because your head hurts, then do it. If you want to sit and stare at the rain, do it. If you want to take a walk then just go, don’t come back till you have had your fill. If you want to pull all the books down from the shelves and build a fort to hide in, do it. If you want to do laundry and put extra fabric softener in, do it. If you want to let the dishes sit, then let them sit. And you can sit too.

No one knows how you feel but yourself. If today you are not right then that’s okay. Really, it is. One day you will feel right again. I promise. You have to have some bad to appreciate when it’s good.

So just remember.

Today is yours. No one can take that from you and that is the most magical thing of all.

Photo by Tonny Tran on Unsplash

"Broken Bones"

Broken bones,
broken bones.
Straying from
the straight
and narrow.

Broken bones,
broken bones.
Sticking out
just like
splintered arrows.

Broken bones,
broken bones.
All of us
once made
of perfect form.

Broken bones,
broken bones.
Now all
crooked and bent
from the storm.

Don’t cross paths
with one of us.
We healed wrong,
left forgotten
for too long.

Fractured
and cracked
but still strong
despite the world
doing us wrong.

All us
broken bones,
broken bones.

Photo by Harlie Raethel on Unsplash

Flash Fiction – "Creation"

It was a game she liked to play.

The steam rose into the air. Jasmine, rose, the caffeine of the black tea all blended together into one. It made the room smell like flowers. From the right corner of her desk the tiny porcelain cup let the steam fly in a steady stream, the tulips painted onto the glass dancing in breeze that wasn’t there. The cup would never cool and in turn, let the room fill with everlasting spring.

The writer looked up from her keyboard to the cup at the corner of her desk. Dew on the grass, fresh air dancing in the sun, bright beautiful flowers all permeating into the essence of the room.

Across the room, a glimmer of steel caught the writer’s sight. Slowly, she watched the shape coalesce before her eyes. The tip appeared first, silver as stars and sharper than a corner, with the body following after. Long, but lean enough to be a comfortable weight when held, and built to move like the wind. It’s handle was wrought in sunlight itself, golden and as shining as the day.

She rose from her desk slowly, letting her fingers linger to tap on the surface. It was right there just waiting for her to take it. Some part of her though still believed she was dreaming. So… she reached for the tea first, because that was more likely to be real. Her hand reached out only to pause before the little porcelain handle. Then gingerly, like petting a strange animal, she let her fingers tap on the surface. Hot to the touch. Then, braver, she reached all the way and nearly burned her hand when the steaming cup was in her palms. When the tea went down, it was like drinking from a meadow. The writer put the cup back on the desk.

One step, then two she crossed the room. The way the sunlight was streaming through the window almost made the sword seem like a mirage. As if when she reached out to touch it all she would find would be the wall. The writer steeled herself, letting her fingers reach… then close… fingertip… by fingertip around the golden handle. Her body was very still. Even after having played this game a few times before, she still could not believe that this was real life. The weight in her hand was not imagination by the way her bicep braced. Cautiously, she pointed the blade at the window.

There were a few other sentences she had written.

Once the sword was in the girl’s hand a shadow appeared as the wind blew east….

Through the open window a gust rocked the hinges of the shutters and sent a chill down her spine.

The strange scent of sugar burned to a crisp pervaded the sweet smell of spring. Magic was afoot…

Her nose crinkled. It wouldn’t be long now.

The shadow moved closer, the shape shifting with the wind, until it wasn’t a shadow but a someone at the window.

A clang rang the air as steel met steel. The someone said “Are you ready?”

Standing sword to sword, the writer answered “Always.” Then she smiled, the girl on the opposite side of the window smiling too.

A grand adventure was waiting just for them to go and meet it.

Photo by Florian Klauer on Unsplash

"Shadow"

Don’t
turn around.
For I will be there.

Don’t
look up.
For I will be there.

Don’t
stare
to the light.
For I will still
be right beside you.

Don’t
hide
in the dark.
Even if I’m not
visible
I am still
right here.

I,
alone,
will never
leave you.

That is the thing
about us.
Shadows
never die.

We were never
alive
to begin with.

Photo by Isai Ramos on Unsplash

Living Life #25 “The Thaw”

I remember my window where I couldn’t see outside. Frost had touched from corner to corner as if ghosts had been peaking in through the night as they passed by.

I remember my breath as it became visible before my face. Sighing was all I could do to get through the daze my mind had fallen into from seeing too many gray days.

I remember my hands rubbed raw red and numb. No matter how I clenched them or how long I kept on the mittens they rarely thawed.

I remember the moment when that all changed.

I look out the window and the sky isn’t gray but bright, ocean blue. As if the sea had somehow floated into the air, and the fish turned to clouds of fluffy white cotton.

I look at the grass where for what seemed like years there had only been slush. I can see the concrete of the street with the sun glinting off and rushing away the memory of the black ice that was once underneath.

And I look at the tulips, just starting to peak up from their perches. Purple, red, orange, and yellow. Colors of a sunrise peaking over the world. I had forgotten in the long days of winter what color looked like. Until now.

Spring has finally come, and now I am awake.

Photo by Anton Darius on Unsplash

“Lucky”

I found a four leaf clover
twirled it hand my hand
put it in my pocket
and lost it in the sand

I cried the whole way home
and you found me on the stair
I blubbered what had happened
and you gave me yours to share

You found it on the way
and immediately thought of me
I realized then and there
you’re the only luck I need to see

Photo by Amy Reed on Unsplash

Happy St. Patrick’s Day!

Living Life #24 “Dame of Dust and Dirt”

It was a room with plenty pretty pink pens, bounties of billowing blue blankets, and a whopping of wrapping woozy wires webbed across the floor. The last time I saw the hardwood underneath was a long and distant time ago. In fact, it was around when last my sanity was also spotless and sanctimonious in space and time…. if I’m remembering correctly. A long and far time ago, indeed.

My fingers tap, tap, tapped against the table testing the threshold of tension and tears at my beck and call. It only made the dirt fly farther into the recesses of my small apartment space in lines of dust mites dancing in the mid morning light.

No. No. No.

I could do this no longer.

Vacuum and mop. A feather duster and cloth. Numbness of mind and too many worries bogging in kind. Pretty pink pens piling into the trash, billowing blue blankets stacked so tall they could crash, and the webbing wires, woozy and wrapped gathered in my hands and to the garbage they dash dash dashed.

Hours and hours, time needing to be lost to be found. The tiny apartment was at last bare and the stormy weather of my mind turned sunny and fair. Cinderella could hold no candle to see, cause I was my own prince and saving me.

When all was tidy and neat, this once princess of mess and disorder could finally sit write, and eat.

Photo by Volha Flaxeco on Unsplash

“Commuter Blues”

Photo by Jeremy Yap on Unsplash

The day starts early,
when the sun
first touches the sky.
While the clouds are still pink
you’re already saying goodbye.

Not for good reason
you think to yourself
as the bus comes late.
There’s traffic lining up
and down the interstate.

Through the streets
and down the alleys
coffee stains your lips.
Gulping it down,
when you should be taking sips.

Work is just
as every day before it.
Then suddenly it’s noon,
and you’re scarfing peanut butter
and bread to a headphone tune.

Going home is easier
knowing that sleep is close.
But you run out the door
and trip on the sidewalk
spilling things to the floor.

Standing for the ride home
is better than waiting at the corner,
even though your heels ache
and the two people near you
find more of your space to take.

In a haze of a pink sunset
the day is almost over.
But while that’s true,
you frown to yourself
because there’s tomorrow too.