my writing corner

Moon

2019-10-17T15:39:00.000-04:00

Full, orange, hanging low in the sky -
The moon glows against thin, dark clouds in the night sky.
The man on the moon staring, glowing, calmly over the earth,
Watching the ever-changing course of earthly life,
Lighting up the sky iridescently, bright.
The moon pales as it rises in the sky, pearly white,
The thin clouds unable to contain the moon's shimmering light -
They stretch across the sky like crooked fingers.
Trees stand like dark beings, almost possessed in an occasional wind -
Sometimes illuminated by lamps or moonlight, dimly lit
Branches stretch out crookedly toward the sky, trying to touch the stars.
A night alive with spirits of the dark.

A Tribute to Friendship

2019-06-05T11:33:00.000-04:00

A cup of coffee in front of each of us

Steaming, sitting on the two-top table,

The hazy summer afternoon drifting towards twilight.

We’re talking about nothing and everything,

But not really needing to fill the silence.

Looking out the window,

Watching the world pass us by,

We laugh at something, a joke now long forgotten.

Another night, in front of a bonfire,

We’re burning marshmallows for s’mores,

Warming our feet near the fire.

We reminisce about high school and prom night,

One foot firmly in the present, the other lingering in the past,

The smell of burning wood and cigarettes and weed intoxicating.

An afternoon in the sun,

We are walking down the trail,

Winding down offshoots next to the river,

Pausing at a bend to take in the view.

Continuing on, our feet crunching on the gravel path,

We talk nonsense, or let nature fill the silence.

Under the tunnel formed by trees and leaves,

The light filtering down colored a golden emerald by the leaves,

We lose ourselves in nature.

Within minutes, we take another offshoot path,

Leaving park property to more uneven ground.

We trip up over exposed tree roots,

Weaving through tall grass and weeds,

And then we’re spit out onto a beach,

Carved out by the river,

The forest kept at bay by the rocky sand.

We have fun memories together.

With our whole lives ahead of us,

We have promise of so much more yet to come.

UnRequited

2019-05-09T09:42:00.001-04:00

We found each other in the midst of summer,

Under the Mediterranean sun and the azure sky,

Among the subtle smells of lavender, thyme, and rosemary,

All mingling with the comforting scent of brine from the ocean.

On the beach, surrounded by soft, warm sand,

The sun warm and darkening our skin, mellowing us,

We tried to tame the ocean waves, huge and angry before an oncoming storm,

Bonding over nothings, small, shy smiles, and feeling free.

With one foot in the sea and one firmly on the sand,

We felt invincible, free, forever young, and eternally happy,

For this moment was endless.

With the sun on our backs and the wind in our hair,

Our skin darkening, our hair absorbing the sea salt,

We connected in our own unique way.

You, silent and brooding, lean and tan, dark eyes and hair,

And me, loud and boisterous, a little thick and pale, light eyes and hair,

We were as opposite as black and white, the positive and negative ends of a magnet;

We were drawn to each other.

Alone for just a moment in our bonding silence,

We look at each other, seeing each other,

Our breath mingling, sharing the same air,

My heart is racing, I am sure you can hear it.

You ask me a question, one I am surprised to hear;

You ask me if you can kiss me, as if I could have felt the tension.

But I honestly didn’t know you liked me like that, even though I liked you.

I liked you only after spending an afternoon with you.

I tried too hard, I overcompensated for my faults, trying to hide my shyness,

Yet you wanted to kiss me.

I looked at you for just a second before I said, “No.”

And there it was, I had broken the spell, all wrapped up in a beautiful bow.

You leaned back, away from me, creating a little space between us,

Creating physical space in the aftermath of my demand of emotional space.

I was shaken, but upset with myself.

After all, I wanted you, wanted to be yours.

But you would have been my first kiss, first one ever.

You were my first person whom I associated romantic love to.

You were my first “love” in a way.

In the past several years, my mind was full of “What If?”s;

I’ve wondered what would have happened if we had kissed that day,

If we had actually had a summer fling that summer.

Ben then, that’s what it was.

It was the summer and the ocean air that affected us,

The beauty surrounding us, the lingering scent of lavender, thyme, and rosemary.

We were wrapped up in the moment of freedom and happiness,

Desire hanging in the air.

But maybe it was meant to be this way,

What with us living on two different continents, separated by an ocean.

I let my uncertainty seep through in the moment, too.

Was this actually written in the stars to have us end this way?

Were we actually meant to be together?

We may not know.

Our day is left only in our memories, lingering on the ocean air,

Our hopes like the subtle scents of brine, thyme, rosemary, and lavender.

Those scents send me back to that summer, one full of hope and momentary love,

Something cherished, but left on the beach to be washed away by the sea.

Lavender and rosemary are two of my favorite smells,

But they remind me of you, they remind me of a day, a time, of love lost.

Brine filled are gives me peace,

But I’m pulled back to that day, full of happiness and joy,

Lost in thought, trying to remember how it felt.

Were we supposed to have been like this,

Or were we supposed to have had our time?

The Journal

2018-08-13T10:51:00.002-04:00

The book is clutched in her hands, her fingers wrapped around it, the leather tong holding it closed between her second and third fingers. How she found it, hidden away, is beyond me, but there it is. In the pale darkness, she’s giving me a curious, almost amusing, look, as though she knows what is written on the pages. Lifting an eyebrow, her lips curve into a small smile.

“What is this?” she asks me, her low, lilting voice soft.

I remain silent, still surprised that she found the book, hoping she will find the answer in my silence. Moonlight filters in through the single window of our bedroom, silhouetting her from behind. I sigh, still staring at the book in her hands, as I sit down in the rocking chair next to the armoire.

Leaning forward, her fingers fiddling with the leather thong wrapped around the book, she rests her elbows on her knees. Her eyes never leave my face, searching for an answer that isn’t there. With her face hidden in shadow, I can’t read her expression well; it gives her an advantage I am not so fortunate to have.

“What kind of secrets does this hold, I wonder?” she presses.

“Elliot…” I say quietly. I don’t want to say the words, but I don’t think she’ll stop if I remain silent. “Ell, you know you don’t want to read that garbage.”

“Mac, I don’t even know what’s in here. Do you?” she questions as her fingers trace the Celtic knot at the bottom corner of the book.

“I don’t even want to know. As far as I know, Elliot, it was here when we came,” I respond.

Shrugging, she gets up and tosses the book to me. It lands heavy on my lap. I give a sigh of relief as she walks to the other side of the room, my fingers tracing the cover. The leather thong, wrapped around the book twice, has turquois beads tied at the end. It’s something Elliot will never know about, something I never want to tell her. This is more than just a book; it’s a keepsake, a journal full of all my travels. But she doesn’t need to know all the details of what happened. That’s between me and my past. It has nothing to do with her.

Kindred Soul

2018-08-09T11:26:00.003-04:00

Nothing is permanent. People leave their mark by making art, creating buildings that are made to last, leaving imprints of themselves. Everything gets washed from the memories of man, anyways, left only for the history books. The only thing that holds on to the remains of memories are the walls of ancient buildings on the brink of disappearing, and the ground they stand on.

The basement of the hospital is hauntingly beautiful in its eerie emptiness; of course, there are people coming and going, but at night, hardly anyone is down here. Just a few lingering nurses and pharmacy workers, an occasional wandering someone or other who’s late in leaving from their 9-5, a random doctor or surgeon. Transient shift workers who come and go like the days of the week. In the safety of their work place, in the comfort given to them by badges and scrubs, they don’t think anything of what lurks in the shadows.

The history of this hospital is old; it has just as many horror stories as it does success stories. But it’s not the good things that are remembered about this hospital. It’s the bad ones, the ones that left this hospital in a place where it’s in the process of being abandoned, left to be overtaken by the elements. There’s nothing left for these walls to hear or see, no more stories for them to record. The employees have found other jobs; what they’re doing now is finishing the process of emptying the hospital, helping the transition of patients to other hospitals, and taking everything needed to follow them in their own transition.

The only way to get to the basement is by staff elevators. The staff elevators and one staircase. The staircase is old and decrepit, almost hidden away in a corner of the hospital. The only people who know about the staircase are the employees; patients and their families were always directed to the public elevators, the ones that don’t have access to the basement. It was very rare that a patient’s family member got lost and used a staff elevator, making their way to the basement; they always were redirected to where they needed to go.

It’s curious, though. Sometimes there will be someone who finds a way to get to the basement and will never find the way back up to the main floor. Getting lost exploring, then getting sucked in by the graffiti that had suddenly popped up in recent months – dark graffiti on corners made to distract from where people are. Before realizing the shadows move across the walls.

This is the story about Kindred Soul Hospital. Pretty ironic, isn’t it? Kindred Soul, the haunted hospital, on the way to be abandoned, full of spirits and demons, the benevolent and malevolent. There are many, many horrors that have happened here. Countless lives have been lost. Some from negligent care, some from suicide, medical malpractices, natural causes. The list goes on. Some of those lost souls have turned dark, thriving on haunting. A few don’t know they have passed, caught here for some unknown reason. One or two are stuck here in hopes to find a way into the afterlife. But what’s most haunting are the darkest ones who trap the living and the dead.

»»

Wandering these hallowed halls alone is frowned upon, now more than ever. In the past few months, stories have made their way throughout the hospital, from unit to unit, about people who have … disappeared. Just enough to create fear amongst the employees. Even though there’s nowhere to technically disappear in the basement, somehow it’s happened. But nobody knows how.

The police have come through to search and ask questions. Quietly, of course, as nobody wanted to spread fear and panic to the patients. Just one or two officers on each floor, going from unit to unit, conducting their investigation. All the employees whose jobs were in the basement were questioned; they were immediate suspects, due to their proximity to the disappearances. But the police came up with absolutely nothing.

What’s strange are the reports that have come from the questioning. Reports of seeing shadows move out of the corner of the eye, more active at night. Just a flit across the wall or almost like someone walking down the hall. Nobody is there, except the person experiencing it. Enough stories were reported, though, that this theory cannot be discredited.

Video cameras have been set up. Security has set up patrols. Guards go to entrances of every room in use in the basement; they check the empty rooms once per shift. They’ve also instated a rule that all employees must use the buddy system. The hospital board has even tried to get maintenance to fix the lights that have gone out, the ones that have started to flicker, and ones that started to fade. But every time a light gets fixed, it gets broken or goes out, flickers and fades again. There are even stretches where several lights are completely out.

Walking down these hallowed halls, where darkness reigns free, feeling as though someone is watching; that tingly sensation that raises the hairs on arms. Nobody is down here. A light flickers down the hall, the zapping of the flow surge the only noise in the hall. Everything seems normal, after all.

The basement is a labyrinth of tunnels underneath the building, a dank, confusing mess of a maze where new employees have a tendency of losing their way. But with time, everyone knows where they are in the basement in relative to what wing is above them. Of course, there are placards with directional information at the end of each tunnel, as well as every 200 feet or so.

»»

Those who have wandered here without knowledge of where they were going, people who were not staff, have almost always gotten lost. Some tunnels do look the same and often get people turned about. That’s a given. But people who have wandered down here more recently, they never knew about the buddy system that’s in place. They’re the ones who have been more at risk.

A couple of months ago, an intern came down to the basement. She was new, and she had no clue about the basement, how the shadows like to taunt and tease until they swallow you whole. The girl wandered around alone, seeing shadows move in the corner of her eye, feeling as though someone was watching her. It felt as though someone was down there with her, following her, breathing down her neck. But nobody was there.

She almost felt like she was wandering in circles, getting confused, almost sure she had seen that graffiti at the corner, the one of a skeleton – fitting, considering the morgue was right down the hall. At least, that’s what the sign said. Hoping she would find a medical examiner, she slowly made her way down to the morgue. The lights were out; the medical examiner was gone for the night. Just her luck that he was gone when she was lost. She was hoping that he would help her to where she needed to go.

But something in the morgue caught her eye. An almost human shape, like a shadow, darted across the wall at super human speed, darker than the lightless nothing in the room that swallowed the pale square of light from the window in the door. It must have been her imagination, though; that’s what she told herself after she jumped and let out a small cry.

Her story ended when she disappeared into the darkness at the end of the hall, just past the door to the ancient staircase. Almost like it was planned that way. Some sort of supernatural power. Something along those lines, anyways.

Her body showed up days later in the morgue. The medical examiner talked to the people upstairs; it turned out that she hadn’t shown up for her shifts the last few days, and the family reported her missing. But the medical examiner couldn’t tell anyone how the poor girl died. There was nothing peculiar or out of the ordinary. She was just dead. Just a body. The only peculiar thing about it was that her body just turned up and that there was no evidence of foul play.

The rumors that followed about her death went from dying of fright to an overdose. Nobody knew anything about what happened. But the only rumor that was close to the truth was the one where she died of fear. After all, this basement is full of the creepies. It’s the closest they will ever get to the truth. They don’t want the actual truth, anyways.

»»»

The family of the intern who died claimed the body. Her mother didn’t know what to do with herself; she was too overwhelmed with grief to look her daughter in the face. As for her father, his stoic façade was just that – a façade. His emotions were clearly visible in his eyes, and his lips were white. It was harder for them to hear how their child died – from unknown causes. Although, the mother was so distraught, she wasn’t in the room when the medical examiner spoke to the father about their daughter. She fell apart when the father told her what happened; she could no longer hold herself together.

The family planned for a funeral later in the week. There was a memorial service the night her family claimed her body. Hundreds of people, many of whom her parents had no clue how much their daughter meant to them, came to light candles and mourn with them. They sang songs of sorrow, supported each other with kind words, and shared in their grief; but they also shared the stories of how wonderful and amazing she was, how touched they were by having her in their lives. The amount of love gave the family some comfort in their time of need. They wanted her to be remembered as she was in life, not as she was in death. This was how they knew that her memory lived on.

Here in the hospital, her memory will live on in an entirely different way. The positive memories will not flourish here. After all, this isn’t where the good comes to flourish. The spirits here are one with the darkness that resides in this basement. They are the ones who chased away the hospital staff. They are the ones who have taken over. And she has become one of them. How unfortunate for the parents, always thinking that their daughter is in a better place, when her soul is stuck here, in the dark bowels of an abandoned hospital, swallowed whole by something darker than she could have ever imagined; something darker than her family could have imagined, something they would have never thought she would ever be part, even in the afterlife.

»»

After the intern died, the buddy system rule became a mandate. Groups of threes and fours now come and go at irregular hours when shifts change. People still don’t know how the intern died, and that scared people almost more than being alone down here does. The last person who saw the intern, a nurse on the fifth floor, felt so guilty that she put in her resignation.

The police have combed the security footage, but found nothing in regards to how she died. They saw her walk down the hall to the morgue, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. But what was weird was that the camera down the hall had broken right before the intern disappeared. She had walked out of view from the first video camera, but the footage from the second camera was either erased or damaged when the camera broke.

Nobody comes down to the basement alone after dark. It’s rare that anyone does during the day, either. If someone is alone in the basement, a group will usually allow the person to join them.

Of course, it only takes a few days for someone to break the mandate. Not everyone likes being told what to do, do they? Mostly, people break mandate during the day, when it’s less creepy, when there’s less… activity, if you will. Because people think there is more “supernatural activity” at night. Only the rare courageous person walks alone in the dark labyrinthine network that is the basement. Using flashlights and phones, they find their way to their destinations, be it an exit, elevator, storeroom, pharmacy, or morgue, so that they can find their way with little or no fear of mysteriously disappearing.

But the courageous ones don’t know what I do. They don’t know that the light does nothing to banish the taunting shadows; it just makes them adapt. The human figures of the shadows play just outside the cone of light from phone flashlights or screens. Shadow people is what they are called, how they’re known. Almost like the shadow of whomever walks down the hallway, but with a mind of their own; and they dance. Oh, do they dance.

The shadow people dance to taunt, tease. They lure people into the darkest depths of the shadows and darkness of the basement of the hospital. Almost predatory in their hunt, the shadow people of the Kindred Soul Hospital are cunning, deviant. Seemingly more human than the staff of the hospital.

We all know how reckless courageous people can be. And the shadow people are just waiting for the next recklessly courageous person to make a mindless mistake; wander alone in the basement without light, cut off from the group. Sometimes curious, sometimes just stupid, other times reckless. But these people are the prey for the predatory shadows.

»»»

Another intern disappeared a few weeks ago. He came down to the basement from the second floor to pick up medications from the pharmacy for a patient. Not waiting for a buddy, he went downstairs, doing what he thought was right – time is of the essence when it comes to patients. He wasn’t doing anything wrong… except for breaking mandate. That’s fine. Except that people disappear and sometimes come back dead. What’s strange is that this intern knew about the intern before who was found in the morgue. Yet, he still decided to go into the basement alone.

Once again, the intern was reported missing. Staff tried to get in contact with him, but when nobody could get ahold of the intern, they knew immediately what happened. Again, the police were called in; the police and security set up patrols to find him. Security footage was scoured, every minute and second dissected. Just like with the last intern, this one was seen on one camera, but the next one had gone offline or broke, so nobody was certain how he disappeared.

Patrols were instructed to search empty rooms. But this time, they were told to check every corner, behind and around everything stashed away in these rooms. What they didn’t know the last time was that the girl was in a dark corner of the old pharmacy; but hopefully, this time, the intern would be found before he turned up dead, or worse – never to turn up again.

But there is little hope in a hospital alive with the supernatural. I have come to think the soul of Kindred Soul Hospital isn’t its staff, the people who run it, the volunteers, or the patients. It’s the spirits that reside in the basement, which is now so overrun with the deviancy of the malevolent that nobody is allowed to be down here alone anymore.

However, I digress. When the second intern disappeared, it was even more of a big deal – two interns disappearing in less than three months is unheard of. Except at Kindred Soul Hospital. However, nobody has really figured out the mystery in the basement. They just know the basement has a habit of making people disappear, however unrealistic it may be.

Like the first intern, the second was found within a few days’ time. But unlike her, he was found very much alive, walking up and down the hallway of the morgue – except he was stark raving mad. He was muttering about being followed and stalked, being hunted by things he had no words for. With a crazed look on his face, he could barely speak about what happened to him, let alone remember what really happened.

Within hours, he was transported to the nearest psychiatric hospital, for they feared psychosis. A very viable diagnosis; between the marks on his arms, the unsettled seeming mind, and the fact that he had no idea who he was anymore, it was in the best interest of everyone. In the end, his health was what mattered.

»»»

What do people want the most? If they had everything in life they wanted – a stable job, a family, a roof over their heads – what would they want? Between the steady people in their lives and the transient moments that will never be remembered, what they desire most is to be safe, protected by the unstable security they’ve cocooned themselves in.

That sense of security and safety vanishes the moment someone steps off an elevator into the labyrinthine maze of hallways in the basement of the hospital. Taunting, teasing, hunting shadows come to life and have the ability to wear down even the most mentally and physically strong person. Even though there is strength in numbers, oftentimes it’s hard to remember that when in the depths of the haunting hallways of the basement. In any case, it goes both ways; the shadow people and other malevolent spirits have more strength with larger numbers, just as normal people do.

The disappearance of people, then, isn’t such a mystery. The more people that disappear, the more shadow people appear. There is no coincidence. Strength in numbers. That is the constant struggle between the living and the supernatural. Both want the numbers to lend strength to their groups. The struggle is who will win.

Supernatural forces may work alone, but it doesn’t change the fact that numbers help feed into the fear in the minds of people. Fear is a powerful tool, just as it an emotion. The shadow people thrive on the fear induced on the people they taunt. Shadow people and the other supernatural forces that reside in the basement. It’s what they do.

»»»

The intern who was found alive, though in the throes of psychosis, was put on medical leave for the interim of his mental rehabilitation. Human resources of Kindred Soul sent his information to other hospitals in the area, for they wanted him to have the option to be able to start work at the hospital of his choice, or decide to start somewhere else: this way, he wouldn’t be out of work when he was ready to return. His parents became recluse, keeping mostly to themselves. In time, his mother was also put in a psychiatric hospital; she could no longer hold herself together. With his wife and son in the position they were in, the father ended up taking his own life. Son and mother would have nobody to come home to but each other. The son would forever feel guilty for thinking his father’s suicide was his fault, and the mother would never be the same ever again. And all of this was caused by the supernatural beings in the Kindred Soul Hospital.

»»

These dark spirits haunt me. They’ve stalked and taunted me to the brink of my sanity, right on the precipice. Pushed me to the point of nearly falling, then pulled me back. They own me because they’ve prevented me from going insane. Down the path to insanity, then saved… by the same hands. How can I turn my back on those who have saved me, even though they were the ones who pushed me to the brink of my sanity?

I know what people think. It’s wrong for me to align with darkness, with evil. But I can’t just turn on my back to the ones who saved me, even though they were the ones who nearly destroyed me. I don’t deny the evil darkness that I am surrounded by. But I can’t turn my back on those who pulled me back just as much as any normal person can’t fathom sticking around with a source of evil. Like I said, the shadows own me.

We are what people fear the most. Darkness come to life. Reincarnated evil. Our group, though few, have haunted Kindred Soul almost since the doors opened. Of course, hospitals are one of the most favored places for supernatural beings to haunt. Hospitals, psychiatric hospitals, homes where dark things happened in their pasts, sometimes churches. We are drawn to people’s fear, to evil, to any and all things that call to us. We are all the things that go bump in the night. And our story at Kindred Soul won’t end, even though its life has. I am Legion. We are many. We will forever spread fear and create chaos in here until the end of time.

We are many. We’ve scared the hospital staff and taunted enough patients and volunteers that it was decided to leave the building to us. The official statement, however, was the old building was now falling apart, too worn to be able to use properly anymore. Officially, they would never tell the populace about what had happened within these hallowed halls.

The living had their chance to finish their story within this building. Their stories linger here, but will be marred forever by the darkness that taint these walls. Our stories will be the ones to leave their mark here.

»»»

We have free reign. This is our home now. The darkness that is us has spread to every corner of the building. Kindred Soul Hospital is no more. What is left is an empty shell of something that is remembered by the community, but altogether left alone because of the stories told about it.

Groups of people have come in to ease their curiosity, to see if the rumors are true. They come to see us. We taunt them, give them an idea of what happened. We dance at the edge of their eyesight, telling them the story we want them to know. We dictate the narrative; this is our story. We tell people what we want them to know, not what they want to know from us. After all, this is our turf. Our mark on the hospital, the community, and the people is what we want to be remembered by.

One group came in one day. They made their way to the basement, saw what the last thing our victims saw. People broke off from this group in twos, spread out to be able to cover more ground. They wanted to see what they could find, to be able to record their findings. We gave them a show they would never forget. Their cameras caught us on tape, because we wanted them to. They saw us with their own eyes, because we wanted them to see us in all our haunted glory.

One of them went off by themselves. What a wonderful opportunity for us. He made it all the way to the morgue, just like everyone else who disappeared when this building was a hospital. But he was alone, and he didn’t know how strong we are, how we hunger for fresh souls to join our group.

We lured him into the room, taunted and haunted him to the brink of his sanity, just like what happened to me. We drove him to the point where he was begging us to either take him into our numbers or just let him go crazy. That was all we needed to take him. He became ours.

We stopped his heart to release his soul, watching the light in his eyes go out. Before it drifted away, we caught his soul and tainted it with our darkness. We waited until he became one of us. Cackling with delight, we went back to our hunt for the group of which he was part of before his unfortunate passing.

Before long, his group was ready to leave. Nobody could find him. That is, until we gently led them to the morgue. But they didn’t know what we were doing. We were just trying to get them to follow us.

Flashlights blazed on before they opened the door to the morgue. They didn’t get in very far before someone screamed. They found the body of their friend, laying in the middle of the room, right where we left him. Except, this time, he had bled from his eyes. There was no question that he was dead. However, just like every other person who died here, there was no reason for him to be dead. He died no natural death. His death was supernatural… given to him by my hand.

»»»

Almost nobody has come to visit us since. After the unexplained death of a paranormal investigator, stories spread like wildfire. We have been left alone. We watched as they put a fence around our building, marked with large “No Trespassing” signs every few hundred feet. Whatever the signs may say, we encourage trespassing… to the trespasser’s discretion. We warn the trespasser, though, that he may not making it out…alive.

2017-07-24T14:40:00.002-04:00

An empty shell of what once was –

Empty hallways, abandoned fairways,

Shells of buildings, car bodies littering the roads –

Leaving the abandoned town soulless and hollow,

Cold to the outside world,

As it is empty on the inside.

It’s a backwater ghost town

Forgotten by most

And remembered unwillingly by some,

Leaving their memories of what was

To fill the cracks and crannies here.

What happened is something nobody speaks of,

Dark and horrific,

Happening to the best of people.

The eeriness of this town,

Made more so by overgrown parking lots

And gutted buildings that look soulless,

Just a shell of a town,

Seeps into you and grabs hold.

Left to be taken over by the elements,

Left to be forgotten by those who once loved it,

This ghost town is no longer on any map,

Fallen off the radar long ago,

As though whoever once was here

Left without a second thought.

The dark energy hopes to tie you here.

Stumbling upon it by accident,

I have found in it something old,

Something with a hollowed spirit,

And shadows dancing

With the memories of yesterday,

Dark and yearning,

Chaotic and helpless.

Nothing is here,

Yet a pressing feeling suffocates me.

Between the crumbled ruins of once grand buildings

Littered along the cracked and cluttered streets

With burnt out street lights hanging dangerously low,

Surrounded by nothing,

Ghosts of yesteryears appear and fade in the fog

Whispering about the time that was,

Reminiscing about the dark days.

As the broken spirit pulls me in,

The memories of yesteryears fill the empty spaces

With the booming past of this town,

Of its richness and color.
Just for a moment,

The dead town comes to life,

Booming and vibrant,

As though memories of tomorrow are forgotten,

Shining and living for a moment.

Before tomorrow is remembered,

And yesterday is forgotten.

This is a ghost town once again,

Rotting and left in sacrifice to nature.

In its place is the draw of darkness,

Teasing and tormenting.

Fading ghosts whisper in the fog,

Begging to be heard.

There is a story to be told,

However dark it may be…

The grey rubble of broken down buildings

Are a stark contrast to the fog.

Overgrown crossroads and a railroad

Lead dark paths through the ruins.

Hoarse whispers call to me,

Taunting and cruel,

Punishing.

Yet, I resist the pull,

The call of the darkness,

Its yearning to come and play.

I just listen,

Allowing the memories and whispers to guide me,

Filling me with their stories and past.

I close my eyes

And open myself to the memories,

An open flow of communication,

With an equal amount of temptation…

Darkness has tainted these memories,

A darkness that pulses and comes to life,

One that inhales evil and exhales despair.

A memory of a face,

Alive and dead, side by side.

The face in a mask of horror alive

Is tranquil in death.

A hand wrapped around her heart,

Ripped a hole savagely through her chest,

Left alone in the cold to rot.

I am lost within myself,

Following down this path laid out

By the darker forces,

Dragging me down.

When I finally open my eyes,

Nothing’s changed,

But I am not the same.

An energy crackles through my veins,

An energy that wasn’t there before,

And it is more powerful

Than anything I have ever felt,

Pulling me deeper into the town,

Almost as though it wants to keep me here

Drawing me in…

… I am a shell of the person I was,

Drawing energy from the town,

Hollow and soulless,

Empty of all else,

But an energy that has entered me,

And a soul that has possessed me

Filling my veins and lungs with a new life,

Anchoring me here

In a down that has died
When its prisoners escaped,
And its past is no more…
… Except in my heart

And it has replaced my spirit.

2017-07-07T18:15:00.001-04:00

An empty shell of what once was –

Soulless and hollow,

Cold to the outside world,

Empty on the inside -

This town is long abandoned,

Forgotten by most.

Those who do remember

Like to pretend it doesn’t exist.

What happened here

Is something nobody speaks of.

Dark and horrific as they were,

The events happened to the best of people.

The eeriness of this town

Seeps into you and grabs hold.

The dark energy hopes to tie you here.

The shadows dance

With the memories of yesterday,

The crumbled ruins of once grand buildings

Whisper about the time that was;

Ghosts appear and disappear in the fog,

Reminiscing about the dark days,

As the broken spirit pulls me in.

Though tempting,

The draw of darkness is teasing.

But I listen;

This town, left abandoned,

Has a story to tell,

However dark it may be.

The grey rubble of broken down buildings

Are a stark contrast to the fog.

Overgrown crossroads and a railroad

Lead dark paths through the ruins.

Hoarse whispers call to me,

Taunting and cruel,

Punishing.

Yet, I resist the pull,

The call of the darkness,

It’s yearning to come and play.

I just listen,

Allowing the memories and whispers guide me,

Filling me with their stories and past.

I close my eyes

And open myself to the memories,

An open flow of communication,

With an equal amount of temptation.

I am lost within myself,

Following down a path laid out

By the darker forces,

Dragging me down.

When I finally open my eyes,

Nothing’s changed,

But I am not the same.

An energy crackles through my veins,

An energy that wasn’t there before,

And it is more powerful

Than anything I have ever felt before,

Pulling me deeper into the town,

Almost as though it wants to keep me here,

Drawing me in…

… I am a shell of the person I was,

Drawing energy from the town,

Hollow and soulless,

Empty of all else,

But an energy that has entered me

And has filled my veins,

Anchoring me here

In a town that has died

When its soul escaped,

And its past is now more…

…Except in my heart

And it has replaced my soul.

Immortality

2016-08-11T22:05:00.001-04:00

Immortality is but a dream.

Ideas and words live on,

As does a legacy left behind.

We are never truly mortal;

But immortality can never be achieved.

Immortality is just a dream.

We can never be unbound by the chains of humanity,

The cycles of the Universe.

Mortality suites us,

In the cyclical life of humanity.

We are stuck between mortality and immortality,

Overachieving one,

Never to achieve the other.

Reckless abandon to prolong life,

In hopes to savor it just a little longer.

But humanity binds us to mortality,

Just for a moment.

In a moment,

We are suspended in time, just past mortality.

And then, it’s gone.

Nothing left for us just past that edge.

We fall before we can reach it,

Sliding away to the infinite,

Realizing that it truly is the end.

Immortality is but a dream…

Dreamer

2016-03-12T10:56:00.001-05:00

Whole new worlds,
faded memories,
brilliant colors
in quickly changing scenes.
whether asleep or awake,
i can never escape a dream.
dreams about memories half-forgotten,
the pictures yellowed in the corners,
and the edges crumpled and bent,
or dreams about my desires and passions,
bright and vivid,
leaving me yearning for something more.
flashes of things in my mind,
snippets of things unknown,
forgotten, never seen, not understood;
sometimes random things,
beautiful, amazing, breathtaking,
or ugly, sad, disgusting, scary.
i am a dreamer.
my mind flows with creativity,
with crazy thoughts and unknown wants.
it shows me things
i never knew it could.
my dreams float upwards,
expand and fill the spaces between the stars,
so big i can't contain them.
i am a dreamer,
i allow myself to escape,
to want, desire, and run freely
as i dream.
i am a dreamer....

Colors of my dreams

2016-03-10T22:09:00.001-05:00

the colors of my dreams are bold, vibrant, alive.
the colors of my dreams are dark, dull, slow.
different every night,
awash in the quicksilver rays of the moon,
running on an empty blankness of a white canvas.
the colors of my dreams inspire, drive, and awaken me;
they show me something more,
something that I long for;
they give me something to live for.
the colors of my dreams seep into the colors of my life.
the colors of my dreams are the colors of my life.

I'm Gone

2016-03-10T21:32:00.000-05:00

silent suffering
internal disquiet
sadness, discouragement, anger, emptiness,
hopelessness, lost, questioning,
self-hate, pain, torment,
but I put on a smile,
outwardly showing everything is okay,
an untrue statement about being fine,
just to get by,
just to get through the day,
wishing I could just find peace
in the internal emotional and mental turmoil.
hoping it would just end.
instead, I'm drowning
in the darkness within my mind.
and in the relentless tidal waves,
I lose myself,
I forget who I am.
all my fight is gone.
the light at the end of the tunnel
has been put out.
and in the darkness,
I can't find myself,
cant find my way out.
and the tidal waves
pull me under.
I succumb,
I let myself go.
and I no longer feel a thing.
just a shell,
pretending everything is okay
just to get through the day.
and just like that,
my true self doesn't exist.
at least not for now.
when will this end?
I don't know.
and I let myself go,
give into the darkness.
I'm gone.

A Gypsy's Story

2016-01-26T18:46:00.001-05:00

(Editor's Note: This is a work in progress. I'm hoping that I can get some positive criticism on this story as I post more edits to it. Thanks.)

The river bubbles and skirts around the bend. The waterfall comes over a cliff, maybe a 20 foot fall. On either bank, trees fill the space, tall and full of green leaves. Foliage, plants, the previous autumn’s blanket of brown leaves cover the ground, small woodland animals darting in and out of their coverage. This is where the gypsies come to bathe and for fresh water, to fish, and occasionally for spiritual gatherings in the moonlight.

The sun is low in the sky as I finish rinsing my hair in the waterfall, the cool water caressing my skin. Few birds chirp in the trees, an occasional squirrel runs up the trees. Other than natural woodland noises, everything is silent. I smile as the rays of sun dance and play with the droplets of water on the wall of the cliff; I watch them gleam like gems.

Suddenly, a dead branch snaps loudly, breaking the peace. It’s not a normal sound. The gypsies – myself included – know where the paths are in the woods, small, narrow, and hard to find as they are. I look around as I slide behind the waterfall to the entrance of the cave behind it, where my clothes are lying.

Someone is down the river, someone I’ve never seen before. A man, by the looks of it, a tall, dark-haired intruder of the outside world. Looking lost, he takes a few steps, slow and curious, in my direction as he looks around, almost mesmerized by the world around him.

I slip into the cave to get dressed. I slide my undergarments on quick, uncaring that my skin is still damp. My white blouse gets pulled over my head, hanging loose over my thin frame, barely showing my small chest. My skirt, long and loose, rests on my hips, its hues of deep purples and blues almost mesmerizing. My sash, black and silky, gets wound around my waist once and tied. My hair, dreaded and long, gets tied back with string, beads gently hitting each other as I pull my hair back. As a last touch, a dark bandana gets tied loosely around my head.

Barefoot – as usual, I have an aversion to shoes – I silently creep out from the cave and quickly follow the path back to the riverbank, my eyes trained on the outsider. He’s curious, eyes wide open as he takes in his surroundings. This man is no gypsy. His clothes are all wrong – bright, crisp colors, hair too kept, boots shining in the subtle light filtering down from the green canopy above, even so late in the day.

“What can I help you with, sir?” I ask, lifting my skirt to just above my ankles as I take a step closer to him. Startled, the man focuses his eyes on me, light blue and almond shaped.

He doesn’t move for a moment as he looks at me, trying to figure out what to make of me. I can see that he is trying to decide how much to tell me. Patiently, I stand on the path, waiting for him to make up his mind as whether to speak.

Another moment of silence slides by before he says, “I am looking for Mother Aisha. She’s the gypsy fo-“

“I know Mother Aisha. I am a gypsy, Dorenia. Tell me what your business is with Mother Aisha,” I respond, naturally somewhat defensive.

“I heard she could help me,” the man says, his voice now soft. “People say Mother Aisha has ways.” His tall lanky form stands maybe twenty feet from me now, his pale skin – pale, compared to the gypsies, who are darkened by the sun – almost glowing in the disappearing sunlight, translucent blue eyes shining.

I give a small smile and shake my head, my dark dreads shaking as I motion for him to follow me along the narrow path to the gypsy camp. My steps are silent; the pale face man behind me seems to find every dry, dead branch and leaf to make as much noise as possible. I roll my eyes as I pick up the pace, wanting to get this walk over with.

After several long, loud minutes, we make it back to camp. Curious eyes drift our way as I lead the oaf to Mother Aisha’s tent. Quiet hellos come my way; I smile and wave in return to each hello as I walk by.

I enter Mother Aisha’s tent, pushing the flap back. The pale face man hovers just inside the tent. Incense smoke hangs heavy, making light from the lanterns dim. This tent is rather large, warm, and inviting. But the man hasn’t moved from the door.

“Mother Aisha, someone has come looking for you,” I say as I pass her at her table, distracting her from her Tarot cards, walking through the partition to the other half of the tent.

Muted voices float to me through the partition as I change. I always leave a change of clothes at Mother Aisha’s, in case I need her to fix something for me. My skirt got torn earlier; I leave it on the pile of folded, dark blankets. I pull on my black pants, tight to my skin and good for riding. My black boots, knee high, slide on. I take the bandana from my head, leaving my dreads pulled back.

I come back through the partition, tucking the front of my shirt into my pants. I sit down on the cushion in the corner, watching the conversation through the haze of incense. The man, whose name is Charles, has troubles with his marriage. Mother Aisha is patient, quietly listening to his problems. I watch his body language. His hands aren’t very mobile, he can’t really keep eye contact with Mother Aisha, and there is no ring on his finger, although he keeps fiddling with an imaginary one. Mother Aisha and I make eye contact. She nods to me after she looks away.

“So,” I start, getting off my cushion, beads clanking together as my dreads move, “you are telling Mother Aisha that you’ve been fighting with your wife about small things. But you aren’t wearing your ring, you keep looking away. You know what I think?” I ask, my hand slapping the table, my dreads flying, leaning over to look at Charles in the eye. “You’re lying. Either she is cheating – which seems unlikely – or you are – all the more likely, because I saw your behavior.” I shake my head, my dreads shifting. “You asked for Mother Aisha’s help. Clearly, you need it. But she can’t help you if you keep lying to her like this. Either you want her help, or you don’t. Choose. Now.”

I turn my back to the table, walking back to my corner, scarves hanging from the ceiling close to my head as I move, cushions and pillows making settees on the floor. I can feel Charles’ eyes on my back until I sit down.

I don’t really pay attention to the rest of the conversation; just enough to know Charles is telling the truth now. I wait until he leaves, his pockets several coins lighter than before. I stay behind to talk to Mother Aisha for a few minutes.

“When are you going to rid yourself of these dreads?” she asks, jokingly pulling one of them. “They take away so much from your beauty,” she says in all seriousness, brushing a stray one off my face.

“Dorenia, I worry about you sometimes,” she sighs. “You spend so much time to yourself, wandering around, full of fight and pride.”

“Mother, it’s fine. Stop worrying about me, please,” I respond.

“When will you see?” Mother Aisha whispers, her thumb brushing my forehead just above my eyebrows, where my third eye is. She gives me a curious look. Another moment passes, then she smiles. “Someone is waiting for you outside. Go. Have fun.”

I smile back at Mother Aisha before I get up. I grab my spare black cloak from a pile of pillows on the floor be the front flap and throw it over my shoulders. I take down my hair as I throw open the flap, stepping into the cool evening. The last light of the sun is fading away and stars sparkle in the mostly dark sky. I sigh, watching small fires jump in front of other tents.

“What were you guys doing in there? Making babies or something?” a rich, deep voice asks me from the shadows next to Mother Aisha’s tent.

I turn towards the familiar voice, my hair flying over my shoulder, beads clanking. He materializes from the shadows, his beautiful, dark skin subtly glowing in the firelight. His eyes, dark and brown, shine under his black eyebrows, black curls spilling down to his shoulders, a stark contrast against his own white shirt. A faint shadow of stubble covers his jaw and cheeks. He wears a small smirk, making him look smug.

“Micah,” I say, a small smile dancing on my lips. “You know Mother Aisha wouldn’t appreciate your humor.”

I look down, winding the cord that ordinarily holds my hair back around my wrist. Feeling Micha’s eyes on me, I take my time tying the cord, a dread or three in my face. He is slightly unsettled, shifting from foot to foot. Which is making me unsettled as I finish knotting my cord.

“What?” I ask Micah in all seriousness, looking at him again, readjusting my sash, and my knife underneath it.

“Nothing,” he responds as his gaze floats over the campfires, shifting his weight again.

I push my hand through my hair, tugging dreads off my face, gazing over the camp, watching people cook dinner or warming themselves, getting ready for the night or drinking. Micah is uncomfortable. Something is on his mind, I can tell, but he won’t say it in public, even if it is around people we have been around essentially our whole lives.

“I want to go to the river tonight,” Micah whispers, barely audible over the gentle noise of camp. He finally really looks at me.

“Let’s go,” I say, unrolling my shirtsleeves as I turn around, heading for the path away from camp.

Micah hesitates a moment before following me. We walk in silence down the narrow path, moonlight filtering down through the trees, weakly illuminating our way. Micha’s tall frame is close behind me, dwarfing my own small one. I keep alert, despite it being rare an outsider wandering into our area at night; I can feel Micah being just as alert.

It doesn’t take us long to get to the river. Trees fall away as the path opens up to the beach, one that has enough space for a group of people and a small bonfire. But there is only two of us, and we won’t need a fire bigger than a campfire.

We quickly gather a few logs and small sticks, pilling them in the small dip in the sand. Micah pulls a book of matches from the folds of his cloak to light the fire. Within moments, flames are licking at the logs, warm and bright in the dark, cool night.

I sit down, facing the cliff and waterfall, the river to my left, and the trees to my right. Micah sits behind me, his back to mine. I feel so small sitting like this with him; but we have done this for years when we have come here together, whether to talk or just to get away. This is our place, even though everyone knows about it. But we need it tonight.

We haven’t spoken since we left camp. This is normal, though; we have come to appreciate just each other’s company. But Micah has something on his mind that he isn’t willing to share yet. I stay silent, knowing that he will speak when he is good and ready to say something.

I draw my knees to my chest, wrapping my arms around them, my head resting on my knees. I gaze over the fire to the opposite bank, staring at the trees. Micah settles down, his back against mine. We sit here silently. The fire crackles away. The waterfall drops water in the river, never changing, but never the same water.

I patiently wait for Micah to break the silence. I thought he would have by now, but he hasn’t yet. I don’t push him, though; I know him good enough to know he would clam up in seconds. But sometimes, his silence can be unsettling. Like right now. I can tell something is really bothering him, but he won’t speak.

Micah shifts behind me. Sighing gently, he settles again, but he is about to say something. He is ready to tell me what is wrong with him.
“Nia,” he whispers.

“Mhm,” is my mumbled response.

“Do you remember when I first started wandering here to the gypsy camp? The first few days?” he asks, his voice quiet. There is a little bit of pain hidden in there.

“I do. We were six. You were a fair skinned boy with curls halfway down your back from the outside world. Not one of ours,” I say in a quiet response, “else I would have known you.”

“But you still talked to me, the scared boy who had wandered through the forest.”

I smile to myself at how Micah and I first met. He had appeared out of nowhere, with fear-filled eyes. I was adventurous, even then, going out by myself – always within sight of camp, always within my mom’s sight – and I had almost fell over his sitting frame in one of my imaginative escapades. He didn’t even cry. He just looked at me, me in my dark colored outfit of the day, my hair down to my butt. And so it was, every day for several days. I always played with him, letting our imagination take us on adventures.

“Nobody wanted me to talk or play with you,” I say, half in my memories.

“You didn’t listen then. Sixteen years later, and you haven’t listened in a day that I’ve known you,” Micah says with fair judgment.

“And maybe I should have,” I laugh, turning to face the opposite riverbank. “Nobody wants a nosy, judgmental person around.”

Micah laughs and shakes his head, his dark curls swishing against his collar. He remains silent as he travels to a different time, to one when his life was more uncertain, full of fear, hunger, and confusion.

“Mother Aisha finally found out about me and took me in,” Micah says, whispering again. “And finally, I was accepted somewhere.”

“Only because I told her. I wanted you to be our secret. But she wouldn’t stand for a six year old boy fending for himself,” I respond. “I was jealous then. Mother Aisha, my grandmother, my blood, took you in and fretted over you, fed you, cared about you. She loved you.”

“You had to know that she loved you, too, all the same, though.”

“After a time, I did. I am her granddaughter. Even then, when she was minding you, she always made time for me. After my parents died, she raised us together,” I say, thoughtful. “I still don’t understand how she always confused our names.”
“We looked similar then,” Micah responds.

“We did not! My hair was straight, and it’s certainly lighter than yours…”

“Are you sure your hair is straight? Because, to me, it’s in knotted strands,” Micah jokes through a grin.

“I said was. Before the dread head look,” I retort. “Beside the point, though. What’s wrong with you?”

Micah shakes his head again, taking a deep sigh. He goes silent as he thinks, retreating to the past, to something painful. He shifts against my arm, tense. Again, I patiently wait for him to get his thoughts together. The only sounds we hear are the crackling of the fire, water falling off the cliff to the river below it, and the lazy swishing and bubbling of the river in the riverbed. I lean against Micah’s back, hoping to give him strength.

Micah runs a hand through his curls. He’s normally quiet, but tonight, he’s even more so. All it may mean is that he has way too much on his mind, especially tonight; we never talk about his prior life, the one before he became a gypsy. And for good reason.

We learned, as Micah grew up, that his life for the first six years was full of alcohol-induced rage from his father, careless parades of numerous men by his mom, a poor family with seven kids. It was not a good environment for a young child to grow up in.

“What makes a parent not care about their kid?” Micah asks. “What would go through their head?”

“Micah, whatever it was, it wasn’t your fault,” I whisper. “If they couldn’t care of you, they never really deserved children.”

It’s silent again as we both sit here and think. I remember, as we grew, watching Micah prosper as we learned how to ride horses and hitch the wagons, to hunt for animals, pick berries and other nature-given fruits. He loved the lifestyle of a gypsy.

Growing up, his favorite thing was learning how to use the bow and arrow, especially the longbow. We would stand side by side, aiming at makeshift targets for hours, competing to be the first to hit the bullseye, then how many arrows we could hit the bullseye. Micah learned quickly; he had an aptitude for it. He shot right handed, always drawing the bowstring back with his palm facing outward. He claims to this day that it helps with control; I tried a few times, but it never felt natural to me.

“I always thought it was my fault for the way my parents treated me,” Micah says, disrupting my onslaught of memories. “At least, until I came here. Then I saw how your parents treated you and how Mother Aisha raised me.” His voice sounds thick with emotion, almost as if he is longing to be a child again, under Mother Aisha’s care. “It was then that I realized that maybe there was something wrong with them, that they couldn’t, or wouldn’t, care about how we grew up.”

I sigh, thinking about what Micah just said. Everything he is saying is true. The people who gave him life couldn’t care less about how their children grew up, as if it was the children’s fault their lives were miserable. But it was the parents’ fault for never being there properly for their children. It makes me proud of Micah for having a glimmer of understanding at such a young age and leaving that live behind him.

“Micah, I am happy that you are here, happy and healthy,” I say gently.

“Me, too,” he whispers.

I feel him shift and move next to me so that he is sitting behind me, this time with his chest to my back, his legs on either side of me. He starts playing with my hair, twisting dreads between his fingers.

We sit in silence together. I stare blankly over the river as Micah twists the dreads on the side of my head into a braid, my thoughts drifting up to the stars and beyond. A log in the fire falls, sending sparks into the sky; the fire burns brighter for a moment, crackling and setting again. The water bubbles and slides down the riverbed, the water fall misting as water hits the river below.

“Give me your hair cord, would you?” Micah says, making me jump.

“Yeah,” I respond. I unwind it from my wrist and straighten it before giving it to Micah. He winds it around the braid and ties it off. My fingers trail over the thick braid on the left side of my head before turning around. “Thank you, Micah!” I say.

He gives me a small smile as his hand runs nervously through his curls. Looking down, he plays with my fingers as if he is trying to buy some time. It is almost as if he is fidgeting nervously because there is something on his mind he is shy to say.

“Micah, are you… shy?” I ask, a knowing smile creeping on my face.

“No,” he responds hastily. “Yes,” he quietly adds, not looking at me.

“Just tell me,” I tell him. “The sooner you get it-“

My words get cut off by his full lips, warm and tender on mine. His rough hand touches my cheek, his fingers in my hair. I am so shocked that I stop breathing as he kisses me again.

“I love you,” he says, his voice low, when he pulls away. His face is still close to mind, his eyes gazing into mine questioningly… pleadingly.

“Micah, I – I can’t…” I stutter. “I need to go back.”

Confused, Micah watches me as I stand up, looking around me to make sure I have everything that I came with. I look at him again, taking a few steps backward, before turning around to head back to camp.

All of a sudden, the bang of a gun claps, quickly succeeded by a second one. Something sears my side before I can turn around, setting it on fire with a blinding pain. I take a step to try and turn around, my hand on my side. I pull my hand away from my side, looking at it. My hand is covered in blood. I stagger another step, looking up, and making eye contact with Micah.

“Micah,” I whisper before falling into a heap on the ground.

I force my eyes to stay open. I can’t focus; so much pain is assaulting me right now, dark dots starting to cloud my vision. I tilt my head enough to see Micah’s frame, fuzzy and dark, move, but his movements don’t make sense to me at all.

After a couple of seconds, I hear a soft ffthunk. I hear another follow quickly. A heavy silence follows, save for my quick, pained breathing, almost sounding like quick gasps.

Eternity seems to pass as I am fighting to stay conscious, my hands on my side, blood oozing between my fingers. Micah falls next to me. I feel his hands tugging at mine, trying to see my side.

“Damn it, Nia, move your hands!” Micah shouts, sounding angry and afraid. Something in me falls away. Cool air brushes my injured side. “Damn,” Micah says again. “Stay with me, Nia!”

I feel as though I am spinning, the world around me falling away. Micah pulls away my shirt to see the full extent of the wound.

“Nnnn,” I mumble.

“What?!” Micah asks.

“No,” I rasp.

“I have to see your side, Nia! Just stay with me, will you?” he commands.

I try to focus on Micah’s hands working my shirt off my side, my breath coming in pants. I hear quiet thuds enter the clearing and a thrum of voices. The pressure of Micah’s gentle hands leave my side for a moment. He responds to a question before his hands are on my side again with cloth covering his hands.

Someone else appears next to Micah and gets on the ground with him. His hands are replaced by smaller ones. I focus my eyes and see a small, fuzzy frame, blotched by spots that invade my vision. My mind registers that it’s Mother Aisha. She presses firmly on my side as someone slides their arms under my shoulders and knees.

I scream, fresh pain shooting through my body, as I get picked up off the ground. More tears course over my face. The world is shaking so hard, and moving by me at the same time, I think I am going to faint. Black spots make everything hard to see as I almost succumb to sweet unconsciousness, my vision tunneling and getting darker.

After a few moments, the pain subsides, and I almost feel as though I am floating. Everything is still spinning, though, and everything fades at the edges of my vision, though the black spots aren’t so bad anymore. Every time I blink, my eyes stay closed for a second longer, until they close or a few seconds too long.

“Nia! Stay awake! I am right here. Just stay awake and keep your eyes open!” Micah shouts, his voice sounding like he is yelling down a tunnel.

I force my eyes open and to stay that way. Micah is still here. Have I died and gone to heaven? I thought he would have stayed away after I walked away from him when he told me he loved me.

“Nia, please,” he says; then I figure out why he sounds tunnelly and close. He is the one who picked me up. Oh.

I am almost sure I am in the afterlife now. Because Micah would never have dared pick me up like this. I just never realized how much everything spun and how different everything sounded in the afterlife.

Everything gets hushed. There are no voices, faintly buzzing, no other footsteps, nothing. It’s darker here for a moment, and there are no trees spinning around. I’m confused as bright light blares from somewhere.

A moment later and I am lying flat on my back on something hard. I gasp in pain as someone rips away my shirt from my side. Nothing at all is making sense at this moment.

“Here, have her drink this,” a soft, female voice echoes, hollow and tinny.

My shoulders are lifted off the table or bed or whatever it is I’m on, and I hold back a scream of pain. I open my eyes to a bottle in front of me, dark liquid swishing around inside of it.

“Drink, Nia,” Micah says, coaxing me. “You’ll feel better. Just drink some.” I shake my head, my body shaking. “Just a little bit, Nia. Come on, please. For me,” Micah pleads.

I attempt to lean forward, and the arm behind my shoulders gently pushes me up. I exhale in pain before taking the bottle and throwing it back. I drink deeply. It’s spiced rum, warming my throat. I swallow down about half of what’s in the bottle before I push it away, grimacing. I know I just drank too much too quick, but I just want the pain gone.

My shoulders drop to the table again and my shirt gets gently pulled off. A gentle hand touches the wound on my side, feeling if there is anything else wrong below the skin. Someone grabs my hand; I turn my head and focus my eyes. Micah holds my gaze and I squeeze his hand weakly.

“Hand me that bottle, Micah,” the floating voice above me commands. It’s Mother Aisha. I won’t turn my head, I don’t have the energy; but I watch as Micah leans over and grabs something to hand to Mother Aisha.

“Focus on me, Nia,” he says quietly, his hand firm in mine. “Mother Aisha is going to clean that wound.”

Micah barely finishes talking when I realize Mother Aisha uses clear alcohol to clean wounds. The thought isn’t fully formed in my fuzzy, drunken mind when I scream, cool liquid running over my skin, alcohol burning torn flesh. I can’t bear the pain anymore, can’t fight to stay conscious. My eyes close and everything goes dark.

My eyes move from side to side for a moment as I wake up, my senses alighting. I take a deep breath, trying to wake up fully. My hand rubs my eyes before they open.

I gaze around at my surroundings, not understanding how I got here or why my body is so sore.

I roll my head over as everything slowly registers and comes back. I groan in frustration and pain. The only real comfort is that I am in Mother Aisha’s tent. Warm smells of calming incense waft through the tent, keeping me somewhat relaxed.

I focus on the person sitting in the corner, a mass of thick, curly, dark hair falling in his face.

My Life in Song Titles

2014-10-15T12:09:00.002-04:00

Life goes by and memorable moments are remembered. But my life has a beautiful rhythm. It has its upticks and downticks. Every good memory (and the bad ones), there’s always something there to remind me of it. When I need to give myself inspiration to keep doing what I’m doing, to stay positive and remind myself that I can do better, I keep telling myself that I’m a Rocket (The Wanted), reaching for the sky (or stars).

I’ve had good memories with friends, with family. My favorites are always when my friends and I have a great time, When We Own the Night (The Wanted) together, we’re Counting Stars (OneRebuplic). It’s always been a blast. All the god times will forever be remembered. They made us stronger. Each memory will be a Photograph (Nickelback) in my head. I’ll always look back on them with a smile. The reason we had a good time would always be Because We Can (Bon Jovi). We’re Radioactive (Imagine Dragons). I’m Never Gonna Be Alone (Nickelback) because of them.

But now that September (Daughtry) has passed, I’ve realized that it’s the first full summer I’ve made it through away from home. And that can be added to one of the many great memories I have. Because, if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have grown as a person.

Whenever I’d hit a rough patch, I always had someone to talk to, who’d get me through These Hard Times (Matchbox 20), whether it’s family or it’s a good friend. I look at my problems I thought were difficult and realize that I’m Alright (Jo Dee Messina) because I have a great support system, what with everything that’s going on. I’ve made friends for life. It’s always because someone said “I’ll Be Your Strength” (The Wanted) to me that I’ve gotten through it; my close friends always managed to give me strength to make it through whatever it was I thought I couldn’t do. Now, I fight, I’m The Fighter (Gym Class Heroes ft. Ryan Tedder), giving my problems a run for their money.

Every day, It’s Time (Imagine Dragons) to make new memories, to write another story in a book called life. I won’t be Waiting for Superman (Daughtry) to pick me up and have a great new day in life. It’s another chance to face my Demons (Imagine Dragons) and Carry On (Fun.). It’s getting into the Hall of Fame (The Script ft. will.i.am) of life or Viva la Vida (Coldplay) for me. I Glow In The Dark (The Wanted). No Cradlesong (Rob Thomas) for me; I’m not willing to run to Hollywood.

remember that first part of the scary story I wrote last year? yeah, well, I finished it yesterday. finally.... here it is, the finished product.

2014-09-23T10:03:00.001-04:00

It’s getting real dark, real fast. I know I can’t make it home before night falls completely. But, in the middle of nowhere, I really have nowhere to go.

The dark is making everything harder to see. It seems like there’s a fog; that’s slightly disturbing because, just moments ago, it wasn’t. It had been clear, and I could see more than ten feet in front of my face.

I shiver for a moment, the cold air easing frigid fingers down the collar of my jacket, before I start walking again. I walk for barely five minutes before I see the dark shadow of a house looming out in front of me. That’s strange, because I am literally in the middle of nowhere; I haven’t seen anything or anyone for a good two miles or so. Just a moment ago, there hadn’t been anything there. Now, this great shadow of a house is standing before me. I stand frozen in my spot.

It doesn’t take me very long to debate on what I should do. The air just seems to be getting colder. The fog thickens around me, making it harder to see. I jolt, moving towards the house.

As I get closer to the house, I see it clearer through the fog. It’s dark in color, has few windows and a large porch. Well, it’s really no wonder why I couldn’t see it until I was almost upon it. The house is hard to see in fog and darkness; which makes me slightly uneasy about going up to it.

I walk up the steps to the porch, almost tripping once or twice. Glancing over my shoulder, I pause at the last step. It feels like someone is watching me. But as far as I know, nobody is around. Plus, the fog makes it impossible to see past the front lawn. Like anyone would be able to see me standing here, anyways.

I knock on the front door, once… twice. Nobody answers, and I’ve been standing here for about ten minutes. I try the doorknob. It turns easily in my hands. Brows knitting together, I slowly enter the house. No lights are on inside. No noise, no footsteps, nobody talking… nothing at all.

My pocket knife sits heavy in my back pocket. I reach back and my cold fingers wrap around it as I reach for the light switch. I don’t know what’s going to happen; it’s better to be safe than sorry.

The light goes on as I flip the switch. There’s nothing in the front hall that I am in. I turn and close the door, locking it behind me, before I slowly make my way deeper into the house. My fingers tighten on my pocket knife as I flip the blade out. My ears strain to listen for any noise, my eyes wide, in hopes of seeing something. But there’s nothing to hear, nothing to see.

I shiver again, but it’s not from the cold; actually it’s fairly warm in the house. It’s because it’s eerie in here. Since when does a house randomly appear out of thin air? Why would it be unlocked, yet uninhabited? And why would anyone be so stupid as to go in said house?

My footfalls are nearly silent as I make it to the end of the front hall. My free hand feels the other side of the wall for another light switch. I find one and turn on the light. I’m at the kitchen. Again, there isn’t anyone in here. I drop my bag quietly on the floor and walk to the center of the kitchen.

Looking around, I notice that the kitchen has state of the art, very modern appliances. I let out a low humming sound in surprise. I’m actually kind of in awe. I really didn’t expect this from a home that’s uninhabited.

All of a sudden, footsteps sound from the second floor. They only last all of ten seconds, but I’m frozen to my spot. My pocket knife was on the table, but I picked it up the moment I heard the footsteps. I listen for two full minutes, but there is no other sound. Closing the blade of my knife, I shove it in my pocket. I’d rather have it at close reach that being unable to properly defend myself.

My stomach grumbles as I open the fridge. I expect it to be completely empty. Instead, it’s full of food; pizza, spaghetti, refrigerated bagels, milk, Coke, the works. Any and all foods and drinks that I thoroughly enjoy.

I’m slightly confused as I open a cabinet and find it full of plates, cups and glasses. The drawer below it is full of silverware. With nobody living here, I never expected the fridge full of food or the cupboards and drawers full of dishes, ready and waiting for someone to use it all. It’s not just confusing; it’s weird and not normal.

I slowly pull a plate from the cupboard and pick out a fork and knife from the drawer. Turning back to the fridge, I pull out the pizza and spaghetti. Two slices of pizza and a heaping pile of spaghetti are on my plate. My stomach grumbles again and I put my plate in the microwave. While I wait for my food, I open a can of Coke and enjoy the bubbly sensation of the drink.

The microwave beeps, making me jump. I pull my plate from it and sit down at the table. Eating my food slowly, I savor it all; after all, it’s been a good eight hours since I had my last meal. I want to be able to enjoy a good, hot meal.

With my food finished, a good twenty minutes later, I get up and wash my dishes, throwing away my Coke can. After I dry the dishes, I put them away. I leave the kitchen light on as I leave the kitchen, grabbing my back up off the floor as I go. I head back through the front hall again.

This time, I’m looking for a bedroom and bathroom. I flick on a light in the next hallway to find three doors, two doors on the right side and one door on the left. I walk deeper into the hall and open the first door on the right to find a bedroom.

I sigh as I walk into the room, flicking on the light as I go. The bed is against the right wall, smartly made up, a purple duvet on it. A lamp is between the bed and the large desk standing two feet away from the head of the bed. A dresser stands on the wall opposite the bed, in the corner. There’s a door leading to the next room.
I walk over to the door and open it, reaching for the light switch. It’s a bathroom. This is a master suite-type. I wonder how many of these are in the house. There’s a whole second floor that I don’t want to particularly go look at. I’m assuming there has to be another bedroom or two up there.

I kick off my shoes in the middle of the room and change into my pajamas before heading to the bathroom. I come back to the bedroom, flicking off the bathroom light and shutting the door, and lay down on the bed. I stretch and relax, my mind wandering.

I almost forgot about the footsteps I heard earlier in the kitchen when I hear footsteps again, right over the bedroom. Again, they didn’t last long, but they make me restless, and a little unnerved. I mean, the house is empty. At least, I think it’s empty. But these footsteps make me think otherwise. It’s weird, though; if the house is being habited, I’d think that whoever lives here would have come to greet me when they heard the door open, or the footsteps would last more than five-ten seconds whenever they sound.

I turn my light out, leaving the hallway light on just outside my door. I try to relax again, crawling under the bed covers. I close my eyes, my head sinking into the pillow.

Moments later, I hear footsteps again, this time outside my room. I open my eyes, but barely, and look out the door. I don’t see a shadow, as I would if there were someone out in the hall. But the footsteps come closer and closer, then pass my door. Nobody actually passed the bedroom door, but sure as I’m alive, there were footsteps that just passed my door.

I hear the door across the hall open and close. There are no more footsteps. I get out of bed, creep to the bedroom door, and look out into the hall. Not seeing anyone or anything, I shake it off. But something catches my eye before I turn back to the room. The door down the hall didn’t close all the way. It was closed fully when I came down the hall earlier.

I glare at the door, waiting to see if anything happens. I hope my mind is just playing tricks on me. As I watch, the door closes completely, the handle turning as it’s pulled closed. Honestly, that can’t be happening. There’s nothing and nobody in this house, except for me. Doors don’t open and close on their own accord; footsteps don’t just sound unless there’s someone to make them.

It has to be my mind playing games with me. There’s really no other explanation. Unless… I mean, the house did just appear out of nowhere. What gives it the reason to just be an abandoned house?

The house comes fully furnished. The fridge is fully stocked with food. There’s electricity and running water. All that and nobody lives here. That alone kind of gives the house a creepy factor. But that doesn’t mean that it’s haunted, does it? There has got to be a better explanation than that.

Whoever owns the house probably left the front door unlocked by accident. But they have some sort of alarm and that’s what has been triggering all these weird sounds. Like the footsteps and the random sound of a door opening and closing. As for the door shutting, that’s just moving air making it close.

But there hadn’t been moving air. And how could I explain the doorknob turning as the door closed? That was just my mind playing tricks on me. The door hadn’t actually been open, so the doorknob never actually was turned.

There; logical explanations for everything. It makes sense now. That being said, I’m trespassing. And if the owner’s alarm system or whatever is as sophisticated as it seems, they have cameras everywhere and have me entering their house when they’re not home. Which puts me in a lot of trouble.

But I can’t leave now. It’s already close to midnight. Plus, I would have to explain why I came into the house and left it, without taking anything but some food to eat. I shrug and tell myself that I might as well just get a night’s worth of rest before I face the consequences in the morning.

I go back to bed. But, despite calmly and logically explaining everything that’s happened in my head, I still can’t shake the creepiness of it all. Now I feel like there’s something watching me. Again, it has to be my mind playing tricks on me. I glance over my shoulder before I get back in bed, looking out in the hall again. There’s nothing there.

I lay in bed with my back to the wall, watching what I could of the hallway. I can’t sleep now; it’s too eerie and creepy in the house. Logically, I know I should just leave if I feel like this. But I can’t bring myself to get out of bed, get dressed, and finish my travels home this late at night.

As I think about what I’m going to do, I hear footsteps again. They’re coming back down the hall. I watch the carpet, hoping to see anything at all. The footsteps stop just before the bedroom door, almost like there is someone there, making the footsteps; almost like there’s another being in the house, and they know that I’m in the bedroom, watching for any sign of life.

But there’s no shadow, there’s nothing to indicate that there’s a person standing just outside my door. I lay there, my back pressed against the wall, my eyes wide open. I can’t breathe. I count to two minutes in my head. There are no more footsteps, not a single sound from whatever it was that made the footsteps.

I decide right then that it’s time to leave the house. I get up and get dressed again, shoving my pajamas back into my bag. Leaving the lights on, I hurry to leave. But before I actually get out of my room, something down the hall catches my eye. My heart is in my throat as I turn to look.

There’s a shadow moving on the wall, a shadow of a person that isn’t me, moving down the hall. But it’s gone within seconds. I can’t move. I’m frozen to the spot.

After a few seconds, I move again. I am thoroughly scared of this house. I need to get out of here.

In the front hall, the light is still blazing. Thank goodness. I don’t think I’d be able to have my wits otherwise. But before I get to the door, I notice something on the wall opposite it. My heart is thumping as I watch what happens.

It’s almost like whatever it is just appears on the wall. And by the looks of it, it’s writing. The message or whatever is being written on the wall as I watch, almost like there’s someone there, knowing I’m watching what’s being written. I’m frozen to the spot again as I watch each letter appear on the wall.

Beware of the House

Take care that you don’t get Lost

Beware of the House

There are Things here Untold

Get out before they Unfold

My eyes are open wide. My hand is resting on the doorknob as I read the message in full. I am confused. How this message appeared on the wall is well beyond me, let alone how whatever it is that made it appear made it visible to me. Plus, I don’t know why it’s telling me to leave; I am about to leave, anyways, just seconds from yanking the door open and bolting from the house. Possibly calling the police, as well, when I get somewhere with a phone. Obviously, whoever owns the place has a sick sense of humor.

I unlock the door and pull it open as fast as I can. I run out and down off the porch before it hits me – this isn’t the front yard, though I’m sure that I went out the front door.

I look over my shoulder for a moment. The house stands ominously behind me. But it’s not the front of the house, like I thought. I’m positive I went out the front door.

Slowly, I walk back up the steps and into the house. The eerie message is still on the wall. I look around. I am definitely in the front hall of the house; yet, when I ran out of the house, I was somehow in the back yard and the façade of the house showed the back.

What does that message mean, exactly? I stare at it, trying to figure it out. Beware of the House… like, what? The house is a living being or something? I don’t think so. A house is an inanimate object, so how can I heed warning in that? Take care that you don’t get lost… well, I already got lost, trying to leave the house. Apparently, I exited through the back door instead of the front door, even though I don’t know how that happened. There are things here Untold? Well, obviously. Those footsteps that I heard earlier without an obvious reason for them definitely don’t happen, let alone isn’t talked about. The last line, Get out before they Unfold, seems like a warning. I didn’t imagine those footsteps, even though I had convinced myself earlier that I did. And I tried to get out; but for some reason, I got jumble up. Or there’s some weird, funky business that I don’t know about that’s going on.

I glance at my watch. It’s past midnight. I don’t really have a choice but to stick it out here. I don’t want to go back to the bedroom; for all I know, that freaky thing that was “walking” earlier may still be outside the bedroom. I lean against the wall and slide down so that I’m sitting on the floor. I pull my bag up on my lap. I pull my pocket knife from my pocket and open the blade, placing it on the floor next to me.

The door is cracked from when I tried to leave. I want to be able to make a quick getaway in case something does happen. With what’s been going on, I don’t know how I can leave without issues. I just hope that I’ll be able to get away without a hitch next time.

My eyes start to close with exhaustion. I start to breathe slower and heavier. Head falling onto my shoulder, I doze off. I don’t remember really falling asleep or anything. But I wake up to a blood-curdling scream from down the hall. I jolt away, grabbing my knife.

The lights are still on; I look down the hall and see absolutely nothing. Leaving my bag by the door, my knife in my hand, I stand up slowly, my eyes still trained on the hall. Trying not to make a sound, I take a few steps over that way. All of a sudden, the air is frigid, icy cold. It’s really unnatural, given I’m in a house that’s got the heat on.

Still seeing nothing, I enter the hall where the bedroom is. I hear another scream, closer this time. The sound is coming from all around me now. I can’t tell where it’s coming from, or who (or what) is making it.

The door on the left suddenly slams open, banging against the wall, and more cold air flows into the hall. The icy air takes my breath away for a moment. I take a second to get my breath back before I move towards the door.

The screaming sounds louder now, like it’s coming from the door. I look through it; there are stairs leading down, like to a basement. Turning on a light, I try to see what’s down there. As soon as the light flicks on, the screaming stops. The cold air seems to disappear.

Something is up and I have no idea what it is. I start walking down the stairs, slowly and quietly. The stairs don’t creak under me. I hear a thud, like someone falling. But I don’t see anything when I get to the bottom of the stairs.

The room that I’ve entered is big and empty. The walls are brick and the floor is concrete. There isn’t anything down here but cobwebs and a drain, right in the middle of the room. On the floor, around the drain, are dark stains. They look brown, rusty. Almost like… dried blood.

What the hell? Why would there be dried blood on the floor? This is definitely some sort of crime scene. I need to call the police and tell them about this crime scene I walked into here. But my phone is upstairs, in my bag.

I back up towards the stairs and take them slowly backwards, one by one, until I’m at the top of the staircase. Turning around, I run back to the front door and fish my phone out from the front pocket of my bag. Conveniently, there is no service in the house. Almost like this is some sort of vortex.

Opening the front door wide, I step out onto the porch and down into the lawn. The front lawn, this time, weirdly enough. I check my phone again; seeing that it has full service now, I punch in 911.

“Good evening, Ellsworth Police Department, how may I help you?” a cool, woman’s voice answers after two rings.
“Hello… I’m at this house. I don’t know what happened here, but there’s been a lot of weird noises in the house, look footsteps without anyone in the house, walking around. And I went down into the basement, because I heard screaming and the basement door flew open, and I found a bunch of stains on the floor, by the drain. It looks like dried blood, but I can’t be sure,” I say quickly, my heart racing. I feel like something, or someone, is watching me again. I look over my shoulder and don’t see anything. Looking back at the house, I glance up at the second story windows, and still don’t see anything. There’s nothing here.

“Ma’am, do you know the address of the house you are at?” the police operator says.

“No, I don’t. I didn’t think to check. I was walking home from work and decided to knock on the door when I saw the house,” I say. “There wasn’t an answer, but the door was unlocked and I went inside.”
“So you’re saying you’re trespassing?” she says.
“It’s not what you think. I was getting out of work late and it was like 10:30. Originally, I just thought to knock on the door and call home for a ride. But, like I said, there wasn’t anyone home and the door was unlocked.”

“Okay. Do you mind if I use the tracking device so that I can get your location?” the lady says.

“Go ahead! I don’t want to be here anymore; I want to go home,” I respond, almost crying now. The creepy feeling I have that someone is watching me is stronger now and I can’t shake it.

“Okay, give me a moment, please. Stay on the line,” she says.

“Okay, please hurry, though!”

She takes a minute to track my location. “Are you still there, ma’am?” she asks.

“Yes!” I almost scream.

“Okay, I have your location. I’m sending an officer over that way. Stay where you are and I’ll have the officer call you when he gets there, okay?”

“Please tell him to hurry; I really don’t feel safe here,” I respond.
“He’s on his way now, okay?”

I hang up with the police operator and run into the house to grab my bag. The door slams shut behind me. I hear the bolt of the lock slide and lock me in. Screaming, I try the lock. It doesn’t budge under my hand. I bang the door with my fist. I’m shaking and crying. I still feel like someone is watching me. I feel really uncomfortable and scared now. I know I don’t have a reason to; there isn’t anyone or anything here.

I hear them again. The footsteps have started. By the sound of it, they’re right behind me. My knife still in hand, I turn around. What I see scares me so much, I scream again. I lose all sense of what’s happening.

The face itself is gruesome to look at. The eyes are gone, leaving empty sockets. Blood has dripped down the pale face, almost like tears. What looks like to be brain matter is hanging out of the nostrils. The lips, or what was left of them, are pulled back into the creepiest smile I’ve seen in my life. There are few teeth in the mouth; the empty gums are black. The lips are cracked, missing parts. And the body… it’s covered in blood and pieced of cloth. Its back is bent awkwardly, like it’s been broken.

“Welcome,” says a disembodied voice. “Welcome to my house.”

I’ve stopped screaming at this point. It takes a moment to realize that the voice is coming from the corpse in front of me as it slowly walks towards me. I’m shaking really bad.

“You’ve entered my house without being invited,” says the corpse. “Now, it’s time you shall get what you deserve.” It starts to laugh evilly.

“No! The police are on their way. They’re going to save me,” I say, my voice sounding braver than I felt.

“Oh, they won’t find anything here,” the corpse responds. “This house won’t be visible to them. I’ve made sure of that.”

It sounds impossible. I know for a fact that it’s impossible. Houses don’t just appear and disappear at will, let alone at the will of a reanimated corpse. Corpses don’t get reanimated. Only in Harry Potter does that happen, with Dark magic. And, as far as I know, I’m not a character of Harry Potter.

“I have a knife,” I say, wielding my knife in front of me.
“Oh, poor, pathetic child. You must know that won’t work on me,” the corpse responds. “I’ve already died once. I’ve come back the way they killed me. I stay in this place now, waiting for my revenge. And revenge I will get.” The corpse talks as if it’s a normal human being. Like it never died, like it is still alive. It talks like this is a normal conversation.

I bolt, running around the corpse, to the kitchen. I remember seeing a window there, just above the sink. Before I can get to the window, I feel something pulling me back. I fling myself towards the sink, in hopes of grabbing it and pulling myself towards the window, to no avail.

“That isn’t polite,” the corpse says, chuckling. “After all, I did let you eat my food and rest in the bed I provided. Why don’t you stay awhile? I have many things planned for us. And I hope you enjoy it all.”

I scream as the force pulls me back to the corpse. I stop moving when I’m a mere foot from it. I am on my back now and I look up into its face. I scream and crab-crawl back, hitting my head on the wall.

With no accord of its own, my hand that’s holding my pocket knife raises and points the knife at me. Slowly, it comes down to my stomach and pierces a hole there.

~~~

I wake up from my nightmare, screaming. It felt so real. The dead corpse talking to me, the cold air blowing through the hall before I went to the basement, the knife tearing into my stomach, dying at the hands of that creepy undead thing, all of it felt like it was happening again. I know better; it’s PTSD from when my friends and I went into that haunted house and almost didn’t make it out alive. It’s been a month. The nightmares still haunt me. Some nights, it’s like what I just woke up from – I’m in the house alone, a corpse stalking me through the house. Other nights, my friends are with me, and my nightmares are exactly like that night – being exposed to our truest and darkest fears, not knowing if we’ll ever see the light of day again, barely making it out of the house with our lives.

This time, it was a little different, though. The corpse was my mom. She had been tortured to death – her eyes had been taken out with a knife, her teeth pulled out, and several dozen lacerations covering her body.

My mom comes into the room. Tears are rushing down my face, my body is shaking. I almost scream again. My mind tricks me into seeing the body of the dead corpse – I refuse to think of it as mom, now that I’m awake. Mom wraps her arms around me.

“It’s okay, honey, it’s just a dream,” she says, comforting me. She starts singing some of my favorite songs until I fall asleep again. Hopefully, when I sleep again, it will be a dreamless sleep.

2014-09-17T09:29:00.001-04:00

As I sit here, watching the remnants of the evening light fade away beyond the horizon, my mind is wide open. Nothing but empty air above me. And as my thoughts escape my mind, I watch them linger before they float up to the stars that look like glitter of the thread that makes up the silky sky and beyond. Sweetly sing the tree frogs and cicadas, filling my ears with their lovely songs. Smooth evening air fills my lungs and gently wraps around me like the snug sweater that knows me well. What sweet peace rests in my now like the finest chocolate melting in my mouth. Oh, how I love a late summer evening.

Choices

2014-09-08T11:13:00.003-04:00

The soft sand is warm under my bare feet. The sun is on my shoulders, heating my already brown skin. A breeze, cool and teasing, rolls off the ocean, filling my nose with the smell of salt and brine. I make my way close to the water line, trying not to burn my feet. My hair is getting tousled in the breeze. I finally find a spot and shake out my towel, laying it down. I sigh as I get my feet off the sand. I relax, gazing over my shoulder towards the mountains. They’re purple against the azure blue sky, the tops hidden behind white, puffy, cotton candy clouds. Sighing again, I pull my knees up to my chest and gaze out over the ocean. It’s a darker version of the sky, clear and blue. Except for the waves. They crash against the beach in a steady rhythm, calming. Another breeze comes off the ocean, pulling at my hair and cooling my sweaty skin. The sun isn’t all that brutal today, but it’s still fairly warm.

Kids are running around, covered in sand or dripping with ocean water. Their laughs and giggles, shouts of excitement, all fill me with joy. Parents, teens and other adults lounge, talking and tanning. Some groups of people have coolers and bags full of lunch and are reaching for them, ready to feed their hungry families. Some pack up, putting shirts or shorts on, and head to the beachfront stores and restaurants.

I’m happy just staying where I am. The restaurants will be packed for the next hour or two, hungry locals and tourist who are enjoying themselves, eating and relaxing. The stores are full of tourists. I want to enjoy the beach while I wait for people to come back to the beach or move on.

I know, I’m kind of an outsider. But I’ve been here long enough to have a repartee with some of the hires of these places. They know me. All I do is walk up to the front of the ice cream shop next to my favorite restaurant and they look up, smile and say “Hey! It’s the American Parisian!” before starting my order, or go to the restaurant – I swear, they have the best mussels for several miles and because they’re always fresh – and the waiters and waitresses take the time to say hello and have a conversation.

Even my accent changed since I’ve come here. My dad noticed. He’s Parisian, through and through, with his Northern accent. I’ve picked up the accent here, throwing in more vowels and elongating words. He laughed when I talked to him for the first time in a few weeks.

It’s really starting to feel like home again. I’m happy. I smile as another breeze gently wraps around me and brings me back to now. I lay out now and feel the sand shift under me as I lay down. The warm, sunny day keeps me relaxed and mellow. I pull my book close and read. For hours. Until I realize the beach is packed again. I pack away my things and pull on my shorts again before heading to the stores and restaurants – flip flops on this time, although they don’t help keep my feet cool.

I don’t even bother with the over-touristy shops. I head for my favorite store. It’s owned by the aunt and uncle of a good friend of mine. Anne smiles when I walk in. She has a half liter of house sangria waiting for me. She kisses me on the cheeks – two on each – and she asks how I’m settling in. I live down the street from her and I go down to their house once a week for dinner. But these conversations are saved for when I come to the store on her shift. I am honest and say that I am good. Enjoying my Saturday, everything finally unpacked. I know what she’s really waiting to hear – if I’m settling with my long-term boyfriend, who is coming here to stay next month. I tell her that I’m hoping he’ll seal the deal as soon as he gets here, but who knows? I move around the store as she helps another customer. I hear them chatter away about family and work. That’s what I love about Anne – she gets to know her customers, even though half her profit comes from regulars in the summer. They usually bring most, if not all, the profit in the off-season.

Moments later, Anne comes up to me again and we talk about family and life as I pick out postcards to send home, another beach towel, and a new bag. She rings me up and I’ve easily spent 40 euros. I thank her, confirm our dinner plans tonight – I’m meeting her back here when the shop closes at nine and her husband is meeting us around here for dinner – and I leave. I find myself walking to my favorite restaurant and sit down at a small table. One of the regular waiters smiles at me from a table he’s taking an order at.

I put my stuff under my table and relax as I listen to the chatter around me as people eat. People watching is also a favorite pastime.

Moments later, the waiter comes up with a glass of my favorite rose – with a bottle in a chill bucket – and asks me how I am. I laugh and tell him I am alright and finally settled. I say that whenever he as the time that he can come over and hang out. He thanks me and leaves to put in my order for mussels and fries – the mussels in a white wine sauce.

Sipping the sweet, fruity rose, I relax and pull out my book again. It’s a twenty minute wait, at least, until my food comes and sometimes the tourists are boring. So I get lost in the world of Harry Potter and don’t pay attention to the time anymore.

Before I know it, my waiter coughs sarcastically and I jump. I look up and smile, setting my book aside as he puts my plates down.

Thanking him, I dive into my food. The mussels are divine. The white wine sauce flavors the meat deliciously and the mussels are cooked just the way I like them. I am in foody heaven and I melt. I finish my mussels slowly, enjoying them. After I finish, I shovel my fries down with no inhibitions. I enjoy another glass of wine before I ask for my check.

My waiter comes back and flirts while I pull out my card and hand it to him. He knows I’m taken but it’s nice to know he wants to flirt.

I leave after I drop a tip on the table and walk next door for my ice cream. Two scoops of coffee ice cream in a cone, my usual. The server behind the counter greets me in the usual way and hands me my cone within moments. I hand her cash and ask her to keep the change. I grin and walk down the street slowly, enjoying the delicious confection. The sun is about halfway between the middle of the sky and the western horizon. There are still a lot of people around; there always is until about two or three a.m.

My ice cream finished, I walk into a clothing store. I am looking for new shorts and these stores always have nice things. Finding a cute blue pair, I nab one in my size and purchase them, putting them in my beach bag.

Glancing at my watch, I see I still have four hours before I meet Anne and Michel for dinner. I decide to go home to change and drop my things off.

I quickly walk home. All my stuff lands on the floor just inside the door. I grab my new shorts and head to my room. I find a cute white tank that matches the shorts. Changing, I throw my old shorts and bathing suit into the dirty clothes bin.

I slide my silver gladiators on before grabbing my bag and leaving again. I head back to the strip of restaurants and stores I was at not half an hour before. The energy has changed slightly. There are more teens and young adults, more party people. It’s almost five thirty and nothing is going on yet. But it feels like they’re waiting; waiting for the night to start, for the freaks to come out. I feed off the energy and feel more vibrant and alive. It’s nice.

I don’t think, I move. The breeze rushes around me and I am enjoying it. I hear music closer to the beach and head that way. People are dancing. I join the fray. I’ve always enjoyed dancing; the live music just adds to the atmosphere.

Before I know it, there’s a small group of people dancing with me. I laugh and get my dance on for real. It’s so nice to let loose and be myself. This is exactly how I enjoy my Saturdays – great day at the beach, having plans with friends, awesome food and somewhere I can show off.

This is the lifestyle I wanted to show my boyfriend. A nice, easy-going one, one where we can enjoy ourselves as much as we want, even if we have to work hard to support ourselves.

The song changes and it’s another upbeat tune. I keep my groove on, happy to just show off for the people around me. Laughing, I trip over my own feet. A hand grips my waist before I have the chance to fall. The hand feels strong, yet gentle. I tense for a moment before I straighten and turn to thank the person attached to the hand. I pause, at a loss for words, when my eyes make contact with familiar chocolate brown eyes. Eyes that I haven’t seen in ten years. My heart skips a beat, then stutters, before it calms into a regular rhythm again. My chest flutters as I take short, quick breaths.

“Hi,” he says, in his beautiful, deep voice, his accent more pronounce as he smiles.

“Hey,” I manage, my own Parisian accent showing through.

He grins and I blush. I thought that my own accent was on its way out; I guess not. His hand releases my waist after a moment.

“I saw you walk down this way and I wanted to see how you’ve been doing,” he says sweetly. “It’s been awhile since I saw you.”

“I’ve been good, Adrien,” I say hesitantly.

“May I?” he asks. I nod.

He wraps an arm around my waist and grabs my hand, pulling me towards him. We start dancing. I can’t help but relax and start laughing again as we dance in quick circles. He grins down at me. I forgot how beautiful his smile is; my heart soars and I get butterflies in my stomach. I smile back at him. It’s so easy to be happy with him. Even if there has been ten years since we last saw each other.

“So, I hear you’re having dinner in town with Anne and Michel,” Adrien says as we quick step to the edge of the dancing area.

“Yeah; Anne decided she didn’t want to cook dinner tonight and we decided to stay out in the town instead,” I respond easily.

“I’d like to stay and have dinner with you.”

I pause a moment to think before I respond. “Are you sure?” I ask. “Don’t you have other plans?”

“I don’t,” he responds. His eyes lose the twinkle they had only a moment before. “My girlfriend broke up with me last week.”
Oh. Well, doesn’t that change things? My heart aches for him. Yes, we haven’t seen each other in years. But we have been keeping up with each other through social media and phone calls. We’ve gotten to know each other and become great friends. He knows my current situation with my boyfriend and my being here. But Adrien is … is that sadness in his eyes?

“Oh… Well, sure, you can join us tonight. I’m all settled in my house, so you can come by with me later, too,” I respond, hoping to cheer him up.

It works; he grins again, the light back in his eyes. My heart flutters again. I’m glad I can make him feel better, even if it is a dinner date with his aunt and uncle.

He lets me go and we wander down to the beach. All of a sudden, I long for being close to him physically, for his warmth and gentleness. I yearn to hold him, even if it is just for a moment. I wonder where it comes from before I let the thought go. I shouldn’t want him like that; I am taken, and I’m sure my boyfriend and I will be closer to tying the knot when he gets here.

But there’s something about Adrien. He’s always been patient with me, even when I’ve been a complete witch and on an emotional rampage. He was comforting when I called him after my grandmother died, sending me care packages for months on end until I felt better, and helping me through my problems.

I mentally shrug and enjoy our silence as we walk down the beach. We have these moments of quiet understanding, happy with just each other’s company. It happened a lot on the phone, too. We’d get through one conversation and have a few moments of pause before we started talking again. He glances down at me.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks me.

“Nothing,” I respond.

He laughs. “Come on, you keep looking at me.”
“I’ve just been thinking about when my grandmother died. And every month, for like six months, you sent me care packages. Each and every one of them filled with chocolate, cookies, cards, little trinkets... It was like you knew exactly what I liked and what would make me feel better. And the conversations we had about her. You always knew what to say,” I respond.

He gives me a sad smile and wraps an arm around my shoulders. A hand runs down my arm and he lets me go. As soon as he lets me go, I instantly ache for his touch again. I dismiss the need nearly as quickly as it comes.

“How’s your boyfriend?” he asks.

“He’s doing well,” I say. “He’s just finishing up some projects before he leaves his job to come here. He’s already got a job lined up here.”

“That’s good. What are you up to?”

“I have a job in Paris. I only go to Paris for two weeks a month; I actually just got home two days ago from a six week trip up there. I’m working from home for the next three,” I say, grinning.

“We have time to hang out then.”

I smile, happy that my friend wants to spend time with me; I am happy that we found each other again, even if it was a chance meeting tonight.

It’s quiet again. Adrien reaches for my hand, squeezing it, and lets it go. Just with that gesture, I know he feels the same way.

I glance down at my watch, only just realizing how late it is.

“Adrien, we’re almost late meeting Anne,” I say, turning around and almost running back up the beach. I hear him chuckle as he catches up to me.

“What are we doing for dinner?” he asks.

“I don’t know; Anne said she wanted pizza,” I respond.

We reach the store just as Anne is closing it down. She grins as we walk up. I smile back. She finishes locking up before turning back again.

“Adrien found you,” she says. “I’m glad.”
“Of course we found each other,” I respond with a giggle. “You can’t keep friends apart for long.” I throw a smile up to Adrien. He grins back down to me.

“Michel will be here in a few minutes. Let’s go to the restaurant,” Anne tells us.
We head down the street and grab a table at the restaurant I was at earlier. I grin at the same waiter who waited on me earlier. He smiles and greets us. I introduce him to Anne and Adrien before he grabs us menus and a bottle of rose. He knows me only too well.

Anne decides on a cheese pizza. Adrien and I are going to split a pizza with ham and cheese. We put in our order before relaxing and sipping on wine. Anne and Adrien take a moment to catch up. Adrien has MIA recently, I gather, and Anne wants to know what he’s been up to.

Michel meets us halfway through their conversation. I stand and cheek-kiss him. We sit down and start up a conversation. We talk about work and menial things – he’s just as up to date on my life as Anne is, but not about the more in depth as she is – as Anne and Adrien finish their conversation.

Our waiter comes back and takes Michel’s order. With that, Anne and Michel talk about the day as Adrien and I share jokes and laughs. I tell him what’s been going on with my family and friends, giving him a snapshot of my life. I hear my Parisian accent come back, thick and strong. I don’t try to stop it. I know it will come when I talk about home and things I miss. I can feel Adrien’s grin before he actually smiles at my accent. I shove at his shoulder before glaring at him and getting back to my story.

Adrien laughs at something my best friend did two weeks ago. I can’t help but laugh with him; I mean, she went out and got drunk, got into the wrong car and thought she was flying to the moon. It’s a bit unlike her to do that, but it was a funny story.

I’m so happy that I have my friend back. I feel calm and content, completely at peace, for the first time since I moved here. I didn’t realize it’s his presence I needed to feel this. I just thought I was anxious to have my boyfriend here. But there was an ache in my chest I didn’t realize was there until Adrien ran into me, and I don’t know if my boyfriend coming down would cure it.

Two hours later, we finish dinner. We split the bill three ways and paid. I leave another decent tip. It has been a lighthearted, happy evening spent with great friends. I am happy that it happened the way it did.

We all walk home together, happily chattering about nothing, enjoying the cool night air. I gaze up at the sky, amazed all over again at the amount of stars I can see. I smile.

I come back to reality when I feel Adrien’s arm around my waist. I blink. We’re in front of Anne and Michel’s house.

“I’ve got to get some stuff from inside. Come in with us while I get what I need,” Adrien whispers in my ear. I nod and follow them into the house.

“Would you like some wine? Coffee?” Anne asks.

I shake my head, sitting on the couch as I wait for Adrien. She gives me a questioning look. I shrug and shake my head – saving the conversation for another day when she’s at work.

Moments later, Adrien is back, a bag slung over his shoulder. He smiles at me before kissing his aunt goodbye, giving his uncle a hug. He follows me out the door and shuts it behind him.

We walk down the street to my house. I fumble with my keys until I find my house key. I let us in and Adrien stops just inside the door.

“It’s a nice place,” he says. I grin over my shoulder as I walk into the kitchen,

“Would you like some coffee or anything?” I ask.

“Sure,” he responds as he follows me into the kitchen.

I start brewing the coffee in my coffee maker. I lean against the kitchen counter as I patiently wait for the coffee to finish.

Adrien is sitting at the table, looking his hands. I know there’s something on his mind – it’s been a long time since I’ve seen him, but I know him. This hesitant quiet means that he’s got something that he wants to talk about. I don’t push it. I just wait.

Waiting patiently for him to talk, I check him out. His face looks more sculpted and grown up. His nose still is slightly large for his face, but it works for him. He let his dark brown hair grow out a little bit. I can see muscles under his t-shirt. He’s grown up to be a fairly handsome young man. I smile at his good looks before he looks up.

“What’s up?” I ask.

“I… um… Listen, it’s going to sound… I don’t know,” Adrien says as he gets up from the table. I wait. He walks up to me. “But, for some reason, I …” He can’t finish his sentence, for some reason. His hands land on my hips. I blush and look down at our feet. I look back up and his face is only a few inches from mine.

“Adrien…” I say.

“I think I’m in love with you,” he whispers. His words hurt. They hurt because he knows I’m in a relationship. They hurt because tonight showed me a different future; one with him in it, one in a different way that he would be otherwise. Because, in the interim of the evening, I realized the same thing.

The years of conversations, of being there for each other, even though we weren’t in the same country, let alone on the same continent, keeping up our friendship this long. It couldn’t have stayed like it was without some sort of longing, of mark. We’ve shared deep moments with each other, moments of pain, of happiness, of calm and contentment. Even though we lived so far away. I didn’t realize that it had such an impact on him, let alone me.

I gaze into his dark eyes. Instinctively, without giving myself time to think, I wrap my arms around his waist and stand on tiptoes and kiss him. My eyes close as he kisses me back. His hands cradle my face as we kiss tenderly, gently. My hands come up from his waist and rest on his chest. Adrien pulls away first, but only long enough to look into my eyes with contentment. He kisses me again with passion and joy. One of his hands comes down to my waist and pulls me to him. My eyes close again as I fit myself against his body, my arms going up to wrap around his shoulders.

We stand in my kitchen, fit against each other perfectly, kissing. The moment we separate, we look into each other’s eyes. It’s at that moment that I realize I’m stuck. I’m in love with the man standing in my kitchen, his arms around my waist. But I’m in a steady relationship with a man who’s dropping his life at his home to come life here with me.

Adrien watches my face, looking into my eyes, as all of this goes through my head. He looks puzzled as my mind races to make sense of what’s going on. One of his hands cups my cheek as I sort through it.

“Talk to me,” Adrien says.

“I’m stuck… I am in love …” I say.

“With your boyfriend,” he says sadly.

“No. I wouldn’t have kissed you if I were in love with him,” I respond. “But the problem is he’s dropping his life at home to come live here with me, Adrien.”

I look up at him as his face drops. It pains me to see him like this, it really does. I can almost see his own thoughts race through his head. He looks at me again, gives me a gentle, quick kiss and turns to walk out of the kitchen. I feel cold without him standing in front of me; my heart is breaking.

“Adrien!” I call. I run to keep him from leaving. “Adrien, please stay here tonight. Please.” I give him a pleading look before adding, “I don’t know if I’ll be able to sleep tonight knowing you’re upset and not here with me.”

He nods. Forgetting the coffee, I take his hand and lead him upstairs. I show him to the guest room and leave him to his peace. At least now I know he won’t do something stupid. Before I can leave the room, he grabs my hand and pulls me to him. He sits down on the bed as he pulls my hand. I sit down on his lap and he holds me.

“I love you,” he whispers in my ear.

“I know. And I love you,” I respond. “I don’t know what I’m going to do, though.”

“Follow your heart.” It’s all he says before he lets me go. I get up and start to walk out. At the door, I glance over my shoulder. He’s lying on the bed, facing the wall. My heart breaks.

I head to my room. Shutting the door, I sigh, leaning against it and sliding down to the ground, sitting on the floor. I rest my forehead against my knees, my arms around my chest. I think about the situation I’m in. I don’t know what I’m …

I stand up and head back to the guest room. Opening the door a crack, I see that Adrien is laying on the bed, just in a pair of shorts. He’s beautiful. I smile and open the door all the way, letting myself in. He looks at me and smiles. I lie down next to him and he wraps his arms around me, smiling. I smile, too, as I snuggle close to him.

Moments later, I fall asleep, content, lying in the arms of the man I love. I have a difficult phone call to make tomorrow. I have to call home and break it to the man I thought I was in love with that I can no longer be with him. But right now, I’m savoring the moment with Adrien. I breathe in his delicious, musky smell, sighing, just before I am out, dreaming happy dreams.

take me down a brighter road

2014-05-15T14:34:00.000-04:00

take me down a brighter road
take me somewhere the flowers grow
where the sun shines and the winds blow
the tree branches wave, the clouds dance
and the sky is as blue as the oceans
keep me off the darker path
keep me from the darker wrath
keep me from being that psychopath
let me see the golden sun
for a long time, I had none
take me down a brighter road
keep me off that battle-worn mode

Alphabet Poetry

2013-01-17T10:12:00.000-05:00

Arrow
Basketball
Crunch
Dog
Earwig
Finger
Ginger
Height
Igloo
Jerseys
Kangaroo
Laser
Midnight mirror
Nanosecond
Original
Pour
Queasy
Rainy
Snow
Toodles
Umbrella
Violins
Wax
Xylophone
Yak
Zebra

old and new

2013-01-03T15:01:00.002-05:00

Old dreams
New wishes
The New Year has been rung
As the old year finishes

There are hopes and dreams
It’s a new start
But sometimes I wonder
If I should follow my heart

Some things seem foolish
Others seem bold
But then I remember
If I don’t do it now, I will be too old

The New Year brings hope
It brings dreams
That the old year never realized
But these can ride on moonbeams

A door opens
When another closes
Don’t be afraid
There are hundreds of chances

All the hopes
All the dreams
Never hold them in
Let them ride moonbeams

Don’t let them be forgotten
Keep them in your hearts
Remember them with every heartbeat
Never let your dreams and hopes come apart

The New Year has since been rung
The old year washed away
Time to start the year
With a brand new day

A brand new day
With new hopes, new dreams
Never keep them away
Only when you send them to the moonbeams

A new year means a new start
Don’t hold back
It’s a clean slate
A new chance for a journey upon which to embark

The New Year has rung
The old has gone
Let this be the start
With a brand new dawn

Dreams

2013-01-03T14:58:00.001-05:00

I feel safe
While I dream
I am happy
While I dance on moonbeams

I am happy
Dancing in the stars
Nothing can go wrong
Here, I don’t have any scars

I am taken away
While I dream
I am blown away
By all the moonbeams

I have never felt so breathless
My heart hasn’t stopped this much
Nothing here is haunting me
Not even a negative touch

All day, I dream about your touch
But all night, I can have it
In my dreams
Nothing can stop it

I can have all the good
I want at night
Even though I can’t have it during the day
But here, nothing can bite

a crush

2013-01-03T14:55:00.002-05:00

I dream of you

I dream of us so much
I want to be with you
I want to feel your touch

You don’t know
What I feel
About you
But I want to tell you the deal

I love your eyes
Your dimples make me swoon
Your smile makes me happy
I want to go with you over the moon

When I look into your eyes
I am taken away
My heart stops
I could stare into them all day

Your smile makes my heart stop
I can’t help it
My heart melts
When I see it

I barely know you
But I am attracted
You take my breath away
When we work together, I am distracted

Your eyes make me melt
Your smile makes me swoon
I am happy to see you
Can we go over the moon?.

Sometimes I wonder why

2012-12-30T11:41:00.001-05:00

Sometimes I wonder why
What has a hold on me here?
And why can't it let me pass it by?
It's not like there is something here

I have long since been an outsider
With no inkling as to why
I don't know why I'm here anymore
So, sometimes I wonder why?

There is nothing here for me
Not a single tie
Nothing here to be
Just to sit here and die

Sometimes I wonder why?
That's not what I want
This isn't where I want to die
To die here, I can't

There is too much pain for me here
I can't take it much longer
I don't want the pain that is given to me here
I don't want it any longer.

Sometimes I wonder why
What keeps me?
There is so much hurt, really
I can't be me

This is where I go
To sleep, to eat
I don't want to be here, though.
I want to leave, to be the one who beats.

I don't want to hurt anymore
I don't want to be beaten down
I want so much more
Than to be looking down

I want to be on top
I want to win
I won't want to stop
If I ever get the chance to win

But sometimes I wonder why
Why am I still here?
It feels like I can't get by
At least when I am here.

I think it's soon time to say good-bye
To get out of here
So I don't have to wonder why
And no longer be here

.

The Wanted - Heart Vacancy

2012-10-17T10:13:00.001-04:00

2012-10-10T16:31:00.002-04:00

dance
a wild dance in the wind
a slow dance in the moonlight
a dance for the sun
dancing just to dance
dancing to be free
on hard ground
on soft carpet
outdoors
indoors
with music
with music of the soul
alone
with friends
with the one you love
dance for yourself
dance to be free
dance with no inhibitions
dance for the love in your heart

2012-10-10T16:29:00.002-04:00

a light shines in the dark. it's a beacon, a warning. it's a hope and a dream. it's a wishing star. it lends it's gleam to give us hope that our hears desires will be recognized, that they will come true.

a gleam, a flash. it leads to the place where dreams come true. this is the place where the heart's desires come true. this is the true paradise of the earth.

don't ask me. i know not where it is. but i shall give you the advice i have been given; follow you heart, because your heart will lead you to the light. you just have to folow it's lead. follow it.

when i've found my paradise, don't ask me to leave. everything at that point would be complete for me. when i've found my paradise, don't look for me. i'll be in parts of this earth that will be hard for me to leave.