Short story

I believe I have mentioned these characters to you before. In leiu of writing them an actual novel, I keep postponing by writing them in short snapshot stories to get their characters down. This features Arvin, a injured Violet, and a confused August.

                The first time Violet gets hurt real bad is a hurried, muddled puzzle of rushed breathing and the smell of blood and Arvin’s gasping scream of what has become Violet’s other name; “Willow!” Then there’s the scrabbling touch of hands across her skin and then gasp of “hospital,” to which Violet chokes “no” to which August swears. Creatively.

                Violet hadn’t known August could swear like that. She’s dizzy and half blind with blood loss by the time they get back to Arvin’s loft, and then she’s lying on the clinical white table while Arvin rips mask and gloves and suit off and washes while August preps her. Then Arvin’s hands are swiftly analyzing every injury and painkiller washes through Violet’s system, leaving her gasping with sensory deprivation.

                Then there’s a gasp of horror and white blinding pain and Violet’s gone.

                When she comes back (sorta, she’s really more delirious than there) she’s only aware of people vaguely, images befuddling her dizzy brain. Touch becomes the best way to separate reality from illusion. Arvin’s touches are very precise, but kind of gentle, aware of every injury. August’s touches are very careful and accurate, pinpointing Violet’s injuries so he won’t accidentally hurt her. Mom and Dad are the same as always; there whenever she calls for them.

                She wonders, absently, when they have time to sleep.

                When she’s really, truly awake, that’s when she starts to wonder if August has any idea of what she looks like. Arvin he probably knows by heart; her body is familiar to him as his own. It’s clear from the way he never has to focus to meet her eyes, how the way he can identify tension in her body and banish it with a single touch or a tender, intimate and yet somehow proper and noninvasive kiss. The two of them are so tangled together that Violet can’t believe they even think they’re only friends.

                Violet thinks that they are soulmates.

                No; she knows intellectually that they are. They are going to get married sooner than later. It is a certainty, like all the equations of chemistry and physics scrambled in her brain after her fever.

                But never mind them. August has no idea what she looks like. He’s her friend and he has no idea of her face. August doesn’t do any unnecessary touching any more than Arvin does. He certainly doesn’t the horribly cliché face touching they do in movies. But he should. Smart as he is, he could piece things together, make a geometric sketch in his head or something.

                (To be fair, she might not have really been all the way over the fever when she was doing this reasoning.)

                She grabs his hand mechanically the next time he’s checking her fever. August frowns. “Anything wrong, Vi?”

                “You don’t know what I look like.” Violet insists; her head hurts like mad and she’s not sure why she’s being ridiculous, but she is.

                August smiles a bit. “I’m sorry.”

                “Nah,” Violet says scratchily around whatever’s in her throat. “Don’ be sorry. C’n you maybe try and see if you can see my face?”

                “My powers?” August says, looking confused. “I’m not sure that’d help awfully much.”

                Violet gets annoyed, and looks at Arvin, helpless to describe what she wants.

                Arvin grins a bit, and the lines of concern relax. “She wants you to touch her face to figure it out.”

                August’s confusion clears a little. “Alright then,” he says hesitantly. “Close your eyes so I won’t poke them, okay?”

                Violet huffs, and obeys. The first place he touches is her eyelid. He probably wanted to make sure he knew where it was. His hands glide over her face like he’s making a map or playing the piano. His hands are softly scarred and his fingers are dexterous and long. His callouses are hard, but not rough.

                He brushes her eyelashes and she can tell he’s smiling like it tickles. “Nice cheekbones,” He tells her.

                Violet laughs, tired and then chokes as her stitches pull. “Ow.”

                “Stay still.” August instructs, and follows the line of her chin to her ears. “Very small. No wonder you never listen to Arvin.” He says.

                Violet sticks out her tongue, and then as August’s fingers retract she snuggles against the pillows and falls asleep.

                They don’t really ever talk about it again.

                It was horrendously embarrassing when Violet woke up and several of the others teased her about it, after all. Apparently, there were unfortunately witnesses. And her mom took photos.

                She wishes she’d been awake enough to check that Arvin and August were the only witnesses. They’re smart enough not to talk about that kind of thing.

                They never do give her those same painkillers, because they kind of make her weird. Apparently, that was not her weirdest demand. They don’t tell her what the others were.

                She’s actually kind of glad about that until she finds the blackmail footage her mom has.

                Suffice it to say that her reaction involves quite creative and rather inappropriate language.

Yes, Violet swears. No I will not tell you what she says.

Love y’all and hope you enjoyed. God bless!


Ocean Girl

poem. Ish.

Ah, well.

A quiet world of fragile images

Aware of me

As I am aware of them.

The sand is moonlit

A thousand pearls shining like a necklace

On the edge of this ocean-girl

Who dreams as I dream

As full of worlds as I am.

Soft under my toes

The sand moves

And the water rushes up to tickle my toes

I fit inside this ocean-girl’s world

And she fits into mine.

Her smile is glass

And sweet.

I miss her when I have to leave.

Thanks for reading! God bless.

The Leibster Blog Award

I was just nominated for this by Autumn over at Scribes & Archers (she’s absolutely amazing just so you know), so Thank you Autumn! It was so sweet of you to think of me!

The Leibster Award is an award passed from blogger to blogger. It is passed to bloggers with less than two hundred followers. Leibster comes from the German and means kindest, nicest, dearest, beloved. You can nominate from 5 to 11 bloggers. The rules for 2017 are here ( Jack Henry).

 My Nominees are Tashah Claymore over at Fantasy Writing Adventures (My poor neglected friend whose amazing stories I haven’t been reading properly because I’m busy and I’m sorry and I really shall read up soon!) She’s very dear to my heart and her writing can be very Tolkienesque. I’m very proud because it’s my fault she started writing again in the first place, so haha haha! Anyway, she’s very sweet and you should all read her stuff. 🙂

Then there’s Rosalie over at coruscantbookshelf  who is fantastic and incredible and amazing and writes mind blowing things like you wouldn’t believe. Short stories and poems which punch you in the gut so hard. She’s also chemistry-y and very smart. Her writing can be a little hard at first to get into, but you’ll love it very quick.

Also Julie over at writingiswonderful whose writing you can always find time for. She writes wonderful six word stories (incredible stuff really) and three line poems chock full of meaning. So amazing. Check her stuff out!

Also sarahtps who I know best because she reads Rosalie’s stuff too. (I don’t really follow enough blogs to easily nominate people because I’m always short on time. Sorry.)

Also Crazy Sprinkle Horse who writes funny cute poetry and stuff. So sweet.

Any of you that wants to can steal the Award from me as well. Feel free to go to town and just run with it.

11 Random Facts about me:
1. I live on tea. Sincerely. I have about four cups a day at least.

2. I should drink more water because that is apparently healthy.

3. I also I like coffee. A lot.

4. I have a ton of school to do right now. Sincerely. A ton.

5. I should be doing it.

6. I just guilt tripped myself into doing some of it.

7. I like petrichor and I love rain.

8. Autumn is my favorite season. I love everything about it. I love the crisp walks, the crunch of leaves, the scarves and sweaters, the opportunity to wear jeans (I love jeans), the pumpkin bread, the sweet cinnamon smells, the bonfires, snuggles in blankets on rainy days…

9. Spring, Summer and Winter pretty much tie for my second favorite season.

10. I’m learning to knit mittens.

11. I make a lot of my own clothes.

My favorite blogger:

Either courescantbookshelf (yes, again,) or writefury who is epic. 🙂 (I don’t read blogs enough. I’m just too busy. for life for anything)

Autumn’s questions: 

Who (other than God, of course) do you look up to?

I look up to my mom. She’s got a bad back injury which gives her horrible headaches which she can’t take painkiller for because that just gives her a worse headache. Also my ballet teachers.

How long would you survive the apocalypse? Justify your answer! (Credit to somebody else for this question (who credited someone else) ’cause it sounded cool)?

Oh wow. Okay. I’m a planner, and I find people to stick together with, so if the apocalypse happened, I would probably pack a bag, take my little sister (at least, probably my whole family) and find a nice defensible position, close to provisions and water, and get my older brother and Dad guns and have them teach me how to shoot? I don’t know. It’s just what I’d do. I don’t know how long I’d survive.

Would you rather have a book signed by your favorite author or an album signed by your favorite singer/band?

Oh I could rather have books signed by my favorite authors (yes. Plural. Can’t pick one.)

Do you like writing prompts or would you rather not use them?

Rather not use them. I like them, but I have too many ideas already.

Who is your favorite superhero and why?

Probably Captain America, because he sees a need and fills it. He doesn’t think he’s going to change the world. He doesn’t do what he does to cope with guilt or to make himself a better person. He just fights to make things better and stands up for what he believes is right without caring what people will think about him because of it.

What is your favorite era? (Medieval, colonial, Civil War, WWI, WWII, ’50s, ’60s, ’70s, ’80s, etc.)

I have to choose? World War II if I had to, because there were so many people doing heroic and amazing things.

What is your favorite play?

I don’t actually… have one? I haven’t actually ever seen a play. I’ve read some of Shakespeare’s, but I don’t know enough to have an opinion.

Give a brief description of an old project you cringe at now.

Terrible cliche star wars fan fiction. All I’m gonna say.

What is your favorite character name? (An existing one, and not one of your own.)

Clara Oswin Oswald

that’s all

i’m really not crying

What would your reaction be if your favorite author read and reviewed your current novel?

Oh I’d be torn between shouting with delight and shuddering with horrified anticipation and fear.

What would your ideal playlist look like?

Lots of Owl City and Sleeping at Last, with some Nickelback, Imagine Dragons, Matchbox Twenty, Fallout Boy, Piano Guys, Coldplay, Of Monsters and Men, Hard Rock (a little) and some eighties and classic rock. A little of everything, please.

My Questions: 

  1. Which book could you read over and over again pretty much forever and never get bored of it?
  2. Which movie could you watch over and over again pretty much forever and never get bored of it?
  3. What is your favorite medium to write in? (poetry, playwriting, prose, freeform…)
  4. What is your favorite artistic medium? (photography, pencil, writing, dancing, sculpture)
  5. Which artistic medium are you best at?
  6. Which is your favorite character in any of the Star Wars Movies? (chuckles evilly)
  7. What do you look for in a friend?
  8. What is your best friend’s best characteristic? (oh goodness Tashah I’m not sure I want to hear the answer)
  9. What is your favorite color? Why?
  10. What is your opinion on perfume? (you can tell me it is evil, yes)
  11. Is modern art really art? (I’m gonna be starting wars with these questions and I don’t even care)

Anyway, thanks for reading, guys, thanks for nominating me, Autumn, and God bless y’all.

Short poems


Numero Uno:


Words which don’t mean anything to you

Mean a lot to me.


Numero Dos:

Free fall

Free fall


A series

Of emotions

And sometimes it hurts.


It’s also


And you know


That someone is going to catch you

At the bottom


Sort of

“I’m late,” The girl explains to the shop clerk. “I’m supposed to be meeting friends for lunch, but I think I’ve missed them.”

The Shop Clerk smiles at her a little, and says, “I hope they’re still there.”

“So do I,” The girl says with a grin. “I love brownies, but I can’t eat twenty four of them on my own. That doesn’t count as lunch.”

The Shop Clerk laughs. “Not unless you’re having a very bad day. In that case, I’d say you’re allowed brownies.” He rings up her purchases quickly. “Twenty eight thirty four.”

The girl blinks. “What?” He asks.

She grins. “Nothing. Thanks a ton.”

He’s confused, but he doesn’t ask the in-a-hurry-girl to clarify. He has too much to think about anyway. After all, once his shift is over, he’s got that date.

Once the Shop Clerk gets off shift, he gets ready in fairly casual clothes, wondering who his friends have set him up with. He dislikes blind dates as a matter of course, but his sister insisted.

His sister’s sitting at a table with a girl who’s wearing more makeup, but certainly the same girl who was getting brownies earlier, and then he remembers his sister mentioning a lunch date with friends to convince a girl to go on a date.

“Well,” He says as he comes up to the table, “This is quite a coincidence.”

The girl’s jaw drops. She shuts her mouth quickly, and gets up and gives him a hug. “You clean up nice.” She tells him. “I’m Coral.”


She grins at him. “Enchanted. Please sit down.”

Sean’s sister looks confused. “You two–know each other?”

Sean and Coral exchange a look. “Sort of,” they chorus.

via Daily Prompt: Coincidence


                The trees used to talk a lot more than they do now. You’re gonna think I’m crazy now I’ve said that. But they used to talk to me more, or maybe I understood them better. You put your fingers against the bark and the sap seems to seep up into your veins like blood—or maybe that’s just me. Maybe I just have the old blood in my veins.

                You lean your head against the tree and you can imagine the tree growing slowly, without a heartbeat or breathing, but its fingers are outstretched like mine are to catch the wind when no one is looking. I think the tree wants to fly nearly as much as I do.

                It’s so quiet in the forest and I can hear the trees talking again.

                Their branches stretch out above me, and their leaves tug me along with the wind. I’m gonna go with them.

                I hope you come sometime too.

                I love you.


Anniversary Post

So. It is time.

It has been exactly one year to date since I started this blog. I actually didn’t think I’d get this far. It’s been a lot, and my posting activity has sometimes been sporadic at best, but you guys have stuck with me.


I now have twenty followers, and several people who like and comment frequently. This blog has been viewed over six hundred times and visited by more than 200 hundred people.

I’ve written a ton of poetry, which is part of why I started this blog in the first place. To have an outlet for my poetry.

Plus, because I’ve reminded myself of the need to post, I have actually written, and written a lot. I’ve felt freer to share things on this blog. It’s nice to have some people who will just listen.

This year is my senior year in high school. I’m sixteen years old. I can’t wait to see what’s around the corner, and I hope to have you share this journey with me.


Let’s find our way home

To my friends.

The air is cooler than it was before.

The world is a bit darker, perhaps.

The days seem shorter, but that’s because of the days which have already passed us by.

Let’s walk down by the water, and find our way home.

The end is nearer than we thought it was going to be, but that hardly matters.

Let’s dare to take the road that wasn’t paved.

Let’s take the path back through the autumn trees, and

Let’s paint the stars a million colors.

There’s nothing to stop us.

I have lost my fears, do you know?

I’ve changed a bit.

There’s more darkness in my eyes, I think.

A little more light in my soul.

Water rolls on the shore, and time flows like the rivers.

Rain is falling around us and the smell is beautiful.

Don’t you ever wish we could catch those smells, faint and sweet

And keep them forever?

My hands are warm in the wool gloves, but I wouldn’t care if they were cold.

I want to keep going forever.

I know; we don’t have time.

But let’s find our way home and sit in the remnants of the fallen stars

And let’s find our way.

God bless you all, and have a fantastic day.


The sister poem to the other one I wrote called Remnants. This one was the first I wrote. The other one I published first, but you know. I thought I’d publish this one.

When they come for you

You feel more sorrow than fear.

You know what’s happening.

Panic has no more hold on you;

Except it does.

Because no matter how certain you are of death

Something inside you still wants to live.

And when death is staring at you in the face

You want to be remembered as a human being.

That’s all you ask of humanity.

The dignity of being remembered.

But they don’t remember you as people, in the end.

Do they?

They remember you as a number.

They remember you as a whisper of shame

They remember you as a failure

So they gloss you over.

They don’t remember you as a person who really lived, who really loved,

who died kicking and screaming.

They talk about the number a lot.

6 million.

Never will we let it happen again.

Would you be a Nazi?

Yes, kids, you would.

How does that stop anything from happening again!?

They don’t even remember your brethren, whom Stalin butchered.

They don’t remember how he starved 8 million to death

And left them to the tender mercies of insanity.

They’ve nearly forgotten how badly they sinned.



They forget how many they killed.

They realize they had to do some pretty horrific things.

They don’t realize how horrific.

And you and your baby sister lie in the river,

Just ashes.

Ashes can’t tell stories.

They can only recall how the flames felt.

And really, really wish that there was something to feel now

Other than abandoned.

But time has aged you, though life never did.

And you don’t resent it.

You understand that guilt eats people;

And you don’t want to be the guilt that eats people.

They want to take away the protection of the country your people found.

You watch from the outside,

And sigh.

Because you already know what happens.

So you wrap your invisible arms around the children.

So you pray.

So you wait.

Ow. Just right now–someone close to me said something that shouldn’t hurt this much but still–ow.

Anyway, all of you have a good day and God bless!