My Creative Writing: Poetry

Hey everyone!  Well, since last time I showed you a piece of prose, this time I’ll show you another piece of my poetry.  This one was written last July, and it’s the first narrative poem I’ve tried to write!  For that fact alone, I’d really appreciate your input on what worked and what didn’t, what you liked and didn’t like, etc.  Thanks so much for reading!


The Battlefield of Love

Swords clash with a deafening ring
And men fall, looking to the skies above
While a chorus of pained, dying cries sing
And the crows begin their feasting thereof
On this, the battlefield of love.

Fathers, brothers and sons in blood are gone,
Fallen prey to the steely weapons of the enemy.
No more will they rise with the grey dawn,
Never more will they their families see;
For here they fell, on the battlefield of love.

The leader, above his white army standing,
Wanders his eye over the crimson struggle.
In grief his heart wails to see his men dying,
Their lifeblood pour and life-force crumble.
He watches, helpless above the battlefield of love.

A shining helm he wears, a gift from his royal father,
And on his hip, the straight sword of a true prince.
In his clothes, near his heart, lies a hidden favor,
Given in promise by a lady fair, her love to evince.
This he remembers, above the battlefield of love.

He flinches in memory of their last fateful night
When her father snatched her from his grasp.
Jealous of his daughter’s love – his “fatherly right” –
The black king took her from her lover’s clasp.
Now the lonely prince’s tears blur the battlefield of love.

But when his gaze rests upon the black army,
His tears become ice and his heart turns to stone.
He thinks of his captive lady, his eyes grow stormy,
And concerns for his own safety to the wind are thrown.
His noble goal in mind, he joins the battlefield of love.

Foe after foe he proceeds to vanquish and slay,
Enemy after enemy lies dead in his bloody wake.
With a skillful sword and strong arm, he enters the fray,
And turns the tide of battle while his enemies quake.
In fear they shake, there on the battlefield of love.

Invigorated by their lord’s calm and powerful advance,
The men of the white standard fall on the enemy.
With new strength, they again begin their solemn dance,
For discouraged they had been, and fearful as any.
But now they prevail on the battlefield of love.

And so the black standard was trampled down,
The dark army slain, and the white victory won.
On, the snowy host advanced, after the silver crown,
Into the dark woods and across the raging river; as one
They forsook the blood-soaked battlefield of love.

At last the castle of Night came into the warriors’ sight,
Reaching to the stars with towers like eagle’s claws.
The emerald-eyed lady awaited her beloved knight
Atop the tallest tower, locked in chains without cause,
Enduring her father’s cruelty: her own battlefield of love.

Into the inky castle burst the white army with ease,
The black army having fled after its own defeat.
Frantically the prince sought, fighting down his unease,
For without his gentle lady love, he felt incomplete.
He feared heartbreak, an entirely new battlefield of love.

Finally, there was only the tallest tower left to search,
And at the top, the prince found his lover dear.
“But who is also here?” he wondered with a lurch,
Seeing the lady’s father, threatening her with a spear.
Here was an entirely different battlefield of love.

“Kill your men and yourself right here,” the black king said,
“Or your lover dies on this spot, by my spear blade.”
“No, my love, please do not!” the beautiful lady pled.
“My life spared is not worth so many lives paid!
No more blood must be shed on this battlefield of love!”

With a tortured gaze, the prince looked at them,
Wishing for another option than the two presented.
Men or lady, many or few?  Who must he condemn?
For this dilemma, the black king he hated and resented.
What will happen on this battlefield of love?

Then something happened that no one expected:
The lady fought back in a fierce though futile fight,
Leaving her father for a short moment unprotected.
The prince took his chance and killed the black knight,
Setting them all free from this battlefield of love.

Their quest over, and the victorious white army returned,
Bringing the shining princess back safe and sound.
Never again would the land have to be fearful or concerned
About the black king and castle, formerly so renowned.
At last, the prince and lady could freely revel in their love.

Forevermore, that battlefield of love lies forgotten in the grey dust of time.
Now, however, a new kind of battlefield of love looms before the royal pair.
For love is never an easy road, and ever remains a long and difficult climb.
Their love must pass the test of time, and of life’s innumerable cares beware.
The War of Love will endure ’til lovers’ end, each battlefield fought and won.


Words + Grammar = Writing?

Do they?  Is it that simple?  Is writing but a mix of the right words and correct grammar, maybe with a little style added to make it more than mundane?  Or is writing “Words + Style and Inspiration = Writing” with maybe a little Grammar mixed in to keep it understandable?

I would argue it is the latter.  Why?  Because writing with too much attention to the grammar and syntax and rules and correctness and perfection and order makes a piece of writing – no matter its form – boring.  I don’t believe in the old idiom “rules were made to be broken,” but in this case, I think we can make an exception.  The very definition of style is to be distinctive, unique – so how can we be unique if we all write the same, correct, stiff, perfect way?  The simple answer is we can’t.

Now, does that mean we should shun all lessons about grammar?  Well, no.  As I said before, a little grammar is necessary if you expect – and want – to actually be understood.  The skill of a writer comes with knowing the rules, and them breaking them beautifully.  So we should at least learn some grammar, but it should not be something that is pounded into our heads until its shouting drowns out the creative whispers of inspiration.

So, if I were teaching a class of Literature or Writing students (…which I very well might), I would not focus on grammar as a keystone of writing; I would mention it, spend a little time on the basics and the necessaries, but then I would let it go and allow my students learn the rest – including how and when to break those rules – by reading the writing of those that have mastered the art.  When they are assigned writing, I would correct their mistakes and continue to remind them of the fundamentals, but I would not be so strict as to let those mistakes stifle their own developing style.

Many people may disagree – and I expect them to! – but I speak from my own experience.  My own teachers drove those lessons into us like nails… large, sharp nails.  And the presence of those nails kept me from finding my own voice and style until much, much later.  I don’t regret knowing what I do now, but I do regret not being given the chance to grow in my own style while being taught the bare bones of the necessary rules.  So Writing does not = Grammar + Words, it =’s Words and Style.

My Creative Writing: Prose

Hello again, dear readers! This week, I’m going to present another piece of short prose fiction that I’ve written, and this one is a romance short story!  I wrote it last October, so quite a while ago, but I’d definitely love to hear what you think of it(:

Thanks for reading, as always!


The First Kiss

The moment I saw him, my heart did something it had never done before.  Not that what happened was biologically unique… but it was the first time I felt it stop.  Not like a word, where you can just cut it off; not like a thought, where you can banish it to a depth in your mind that allows for no return; not like a book, which you can suddenly slam shut.  It stopped the way a light bulb is turned off: most of the light fading all at once, but the remnants of glow dwindling slowly from the tiny wire.  It stopped like the end of a song, when the bass note continues to echo in your ear, slowly losing its volume until you can no longer detect it.  My heart tingled as it stopped.  And jumped to life again as I saw him look up and recognize my car.

He was standing there, next to the road, waiting for me to appear around the bend, his breath making writhing clouds that haloed his face.  Lights from a house shone behind him, making his shape indistinct.  He was only a silhouette to my eyes.  A smile flashed across my face, but the realization that I was grinning like a fool – and that he couldn’t see it yet – didn’t shame me into a more disciplined composure.

He beckoned to me, so I parked quickly and got out, shivering at the suddenly cold air around me.  He’d invited me on a walk among the short, simple trails that twisted through the forest behind his neighborhood, so I followed him to the trailhead.  He surprised me by offering his hand, and I took it, a tingle rushing through me at the contact of his warm skin against mine.

We were quiet, content to be together as we held hands and watched the stars wink and shimmer in the clear night sky.  Not far down the first trail we chose, there was a bench off in the shadow of a large pine tree.  He led me to it and pointed out the small patch of sky you could see if you sat just in the right place, and looked up at just the right angle.

I studied the stars in the little patch of sky, conscious of his eyes on me.  Finally, when I looked at him and smiled, he leaned a little closer and whispered, “you’re crazy… you know that, right?  Are you sure this is ok?”

“Mhmm,” was all I could say with that smile on my lips.  The look in his eyes caused a stirring of emotion in me that was strange and alien.  I was afraid – of what, I couldn’t have said – yet excited and apprehensive.  If I had been the type of girl that blushed with emotion, I would have blushed a strawberry pink.  His forehead touched mine, and he whispered once more, “you’re crazy,” before closing the final distance between us.

I remember gasping a little at the beauty of the feeling.  Soft…warm…gentle it was.  It filled an emptiness in me that I hadn’t expectedcould be filled with this.  I, like every other girl in existence, had often longed for the feel of a pair of strong arms around me, a voice whispering in my ear with promises of safety, security and love.  His kiss was all of that at once: an unspoken promise that filled my heart to bursting with a sense of completeness.

I kept running my fingers over my lips on my way home, wondering if it had really happened.  One thing I didn’t need to ponder, though.

I loved him.

Influences and More Influences

I seem to get asked this question a lot – how does one thing or another effect my writing?  Well, this time it’s technology. Wow, what a topic.

In a lot of ways, it’s made publication much easier to achieve. People can communicate in more ways than they ever could in the past, so getting agents and publishers is also easier than it ever has been. Also, word processing has made writing faster and more convenient, though I think we all still love the feel of a pen in hand and the satisfaction of watching a paper fill up with ink. Social networking, including Facebook and blogging, as well as the many self-publishing websites bow enable writers to reach a wider audience with their work, both to seek more readers, but also to acquire critique and pursue improvement through online writing communities.

Although I can’t say that I’ve used any of our many kinds of communication to interact with agents or publishers, I can definitely say that word processing and social networking have had a huge impact on my own writing, social networking in particular. I can type faster than I can hand write anything, so word processing has been a great convenience to me, especially since I;m also a very organized person, so that organization is also an asset to me.

Social networking, however, has definitely influenced me a lot in the past few years. I’ve had three blogs and two other self-publishing sites up and running over the last two and a half years, and they’ve had a great influence on my improvement. The discipline of posting regularly and keeping up with all the different sites forced me to keep writing, and as I wrote, as I kept asking for critique and feedback on my pieces, I steadily improved. The writing communities I encountered also helped me to become more involved with the social side of writing, which also served to cause my passion and love for writing to flare and burn brighter than ever.

So yes, technology has immensely impacted and influenced me and my writing – a fact that I am happy to admit.

My Creative Writing: I Need Your Help!

Hello again followers!  I have something different this time around, and I hope you’ll help me out!  The University I am attending is putting together a small book of student artwork at the end of the year, and they are looking for literature artists as well as traditional artists to fill it up with art.  I would like to make my own contribution, but, as most writers probably know, you can only know your own work to a certain extent – in other words, one work I may think is good might not be my best piece.  That’s why I need your help!

For this week’s “My Creative Writing,” I’m going to post several pieces of writing (not just one) and I’d really, really appreciate it if you would be so kind as to read some of them and tell me which were your favorite!  Of course, I’ll make the final decision in which three I’m going to submit, but your opinion will help me decide which ones are truly worth submitting.

So!   Here is the list of works I’m considering submitting (some of these I’ve posted here, but most of them you’ll be seeing for the first time): “Untitled,” “Feathered Ice,” “I Will Love You,” “Memories,” “Stages,” “Patient – Part 1,” “Ink,” “Poison,” and “Moors and Melancholy.”  I’ve already shown you all “I will Love You,” “Stages” and “Memories,” but the other ones will be new to you.

Now I know this post will be long, but I’d immensely appreciate it if you could lend me your words and tell me which ones you liked more than others.  Oh, and one note: I do intend to especially edit the three I choose to submit, so don’t hesitate to point out mistakes or typos or things you think could use improvement!  Thank you so much for reading!




inexplicable things
that we sense
like wings fluttering
in the shadows

or chest rising with the effort
of feeling

crystal chandeliers
so fragile in the wind

shards of memory
piercing the stillness
and screams silenced
with agony

the lashes to our eyes
hurt and bleed

come again
and wound me

so close to breaking
I can see the cracks.
they widen
and begin to disintegrate

the holes patched
the pain “forgotten”
(as if things
like that can just go away)

I see light
cold and clear through dry eyelashes
whispers in the ink
and music that sings

inexplicable things
darling and sweet
…and there

I see the light in your eyes
I hear your warm heart

I know your thoughts
…I feel you here

there it is
on the raven’s wings:
on the feathers of pain

I can see the black
far away

but always close
as a dream (nightmare)

I am not lost
I can see beauty
light is fun to watch…
dancing in the eddies

hands are warm
inviting and open
new for me and my still heart
who are you?

a new word is mine
never mine before
glass – fragile with color prisms:

inexplicable things
so incomprehensible
and wrong
opposite and backwards

impossible to understand
I don’t…

a paradox
brows furrowed

flashes and color
rampant, run wild
and be beautiful

yes or no?
stutter in silence

numb and trapped
words with no explanation

behind the scenes
a fairy (or elf?)
pulls the strings
marionette or voodoo doll?

highs and lows
intense beyond measure
tears and smiles
either or, or even together

what is this creature?
the piano plays on
rising notes
in question



Feathered Ice

Snowflakes begin to fall as I walk, appearing as if they were summoned for the night’s lack of silent light and need for feathery fantasy.  I look up to watch them come to earth, making myself dizzy trying to find the cloud that gave them life.  A smile turns up the corners of my mouth as I imagine their shimmering dances through the night’s breezy wind and frost-covered gusts.  I imagine them dancing around me, alighting upon me for just a moment before fading to dust as the wind eddies around me.  It pulls me into the dance with them, and tosses me from partner to partner as I laugh and revel in the beauty of the winter scene.

But the cold tonight is also biting.  The few fingers that still peak out the ends of my coat sleeves feel as if icicles with needled teeth are gnawing on them with a voracious hunger.  As I walk through the freezing night, I watch the steam rise and writhe from every exhalation, imagining that, if the temperature dropped, the air would freeze in my lungs and turn me to stone from the inside out.  I shiver and hug myself tighter, clenching my muscles in a vain effort to hold in more heat, but I realize that the night is indeed getting colder, even as I hurry my feet along the path before me.  The snow abates, ceasing its merry dance, and ice crystals take their place.  They sting my cheek instead of kissing it.

It’s as if I can see a thermometer in my head, watching as the red liquid slowly falls, and my skin feels the cold creeping closer and closer to my stuttering heart.  The trees around me glisten with ice, and I can hear it crunching and squeaking beneath my feet.  I look down and see that the grass has frozen so hard that it sounds like glass shattering with every step.  The sound has a shriek to it, and I imagine I can hear the grass crying out in agony with every tread of my heavy feet.

Now I wish I wore my heavy snow coat, for I feel as though every single molecule of water in the air has frozen solid.  Every breath hurts now as the needles of ice stab at my lungs with their ever-present hunger.  I can feel them inside me, jabbing with such force that I stumble, gasping for oxygen, yet I cannot breathe normally for the pain that every wheeze causes.  My feet drag now, still slowly carrying me towards my goal, but their shuffling steps drag through even more ice grass than before, and the sound begins to deafen me with its intensity.  The shrieks pierce my skull with shards of sound, and I shriek my own scream of agony.

I can no longer feel my legs, and the world spins in whirls of blue and black as the cold takes me captive.  I can’t feel it when the blades of grass stab me.  My entire body is numb.  I can’t feel the hot blood flowing from my wounds; I can’t feel my life draining away.

But I don’t mind.  I realize that I am no longer cold.  My core is warm; my heart revels in the heat.  No more does it stutter and stumble and stammer.  Now it waltzes with the warmth, happy to be free of its restrictive beat.   My fingers tremble with a last tingle before they too succumb to the comforting heat.  It’s making me sleepy, the heat;  warmth is so comforting, so gentle, so beautiful.  It calls to me in a voice as soothing as a mother’s coo.

The smile that glows on my blued lips and shines in my darkened eyes is but a shadow of the joy that fills my heart at the approach of warm death.  Did you know?  He wears shining white; not tattered ink.  He carries a staff, not a sickle.  When He calls your name, He does so with a smile on his lips.  And His touch is a carress, not a blow to those who answer His call with obedience.  So what wrong is there in following a being such as He?  Death; what a cruel name to bestow on one so beautiful.  Light fills me as I feel the weight of my body being lifted, and suddenly

I am free.




There’s ice in my blood, in the blue veins,
and Pain whips its scorching-hot reigns,
yanking and tightening its cruel hold
until my whole body goes very cold…

Licking crimson fire and creeping cobalt ice –
they clasp my limp body in an iron vice
so steel-strong and diamond-hard
that the black cords leave me scarred…

The fire drags me into the deep black.
The ice shows me memories of way back.
Colors dance before my feverish eyes
and images roam with deafening cries…

Voices softly whisper and gently plead,
but I can’t hear that they and their words bleed.
They don’t realize that this mortal disease
isn’t visible, nor recognized with ease…

Painful? Certainly. Serious? Yes. Deadly? Aye.
But completely hidden from the human eye.
Outside I’m calm, composed, but fake,
the true illness lying buried but awake…

A toxic poison slowly spreading to its goal,
eating, chipping away at my blackening soul,
and my weak, fluttering excuse for a heart,
malady oh so stubborn, refusing to depart…

Thoughts and dreams of just one image:
a face – dragged from the past’s muddy dredge –
once sweet and dear, now loathed and despised,
a face which hid a black heart well-disguised…

He fills my head, my heart and my soul.
For my ignorance, my innocence he stole,
Leaving me empty, alone and searching…
Seeking, questing, looking, but never finding…

I fear my heart will remain vacant and closed
until the One, my doctor, calm and composed,
can come to drive the poison away fore’er,
replacing deadly disease with loving care.



Moors and Melancholy  (NOTE: this poem is about Emily Bronte)

Heart aching,
Bit chaffing,
She rails at her foreign prison walls.


Tortured longing,
Work calling,
He sacrificed his all to protect her.

But anger clouds her mind,
For only confusion can she find
In his words, undefined.
He’d told her to stay away
But her heart lurched in dismay,
Leaping to one word: betray.

Oh, but she doesn’t know
That he’s suffering so
From a sickness incurable… no.
The letter comes at last,
Tidings of grief oh so vast:
He’s dead, of an illness unsurpassed.

Heart wailing,
Soul quailing,
She is numb at his absence.


Chest heaving,
Life leaving,
He finally wrote her, confessing his love.

All that time spent restrained,
Loving, but nevertheless chained,
A love only thought-entertained.
For she was as an untamable bird,
And he a preacher of the Word:
A match ill-suited and absurd.

So he died and she endured,
Her grief and anguish uncured,
Her love unfulfilled and unsecured.
But from her sorrow came art,
And a fictional story got its start,
Touching many a readers’ heart.




I wish I could inhale ink,
infusing my fragile body
with the ichor of inspiration
I wish it would mark me as its own
a beautiful child of the Muse
born to wield ink and pen
like a jagged ebony sword
I would be born with the ability
to sing truth and spin epics
I would be the quintessence
of a writing-imbued soul.

I wish the ebony liquid
of the poets and great storytellers of old
would seep its way into my veins
cloak my blood in thick shadow
color my hair in dark secrets
so that every glimpse of me
would echo with the whispers
of spider-webbed story
and tattooed poetry
every reflection of me would shriek
with the screams of unuttered truth.

My eyes would shine with dreams
full of wonder and glorious chaos
whirling with the ideas of humanity
and the conundrum of eternity
the beauty of nature
and the simplicity of children
the epics of ancient time
and the words of the new
the complexity of emotion
and the raw surge of knowing
what life really is.

What can control me but
the black splashes of feathery ink
on the pristine white of death?
I live for the moments of
licking fire and leaping flame
power infusing my words
as they reach out their hands
calling their siren songs
to those who have wistful souls
and beautiful minds
easily ensnared by eloquence.

I dance in the black pools
my heart melting in the shivery warmth
it is comforting, it is home
I sink into its depths
letting its art coat me with beauty
tattooing me in verse and story
with writhing patterns
and screaming words
my lungs inhale the poetic air
and I gasp as it sears me
with eternal heat

With every shuddering breath
I would breathe life into the bloody ink
I would be the embodiment of writing
I would be words incarnate
rumbling thunder would echo
in memory of my words
as they were etched into eternal stone
starspun threads of silver,
shining veins of life woven
amongst the ebony ink
I would live forever.



Patient – Part 1

The locker banged closed and she winced, taking a shallow breath.  Her head hurt worse today, a dull throbbing that reverberated in her skull like the ring of a pick striking stone in a vast cave.  The roar of conversation in the hall around her didn’t help matters either.

She turned and made her way toward her next class as fast as she could to escape the deafening noise, holding her notebooks and textbooks clutched to her chest.  Breathing a sigh of relief once the door closed behind her, she chose a seat in the far back, where she could listen but not be distracted and – more importantly – not have to speak.

Not that speaking wasn’t a good thing in terms of grades… it was just that speaking meant eyes on her – it meant more stress and more effort.  And she just didn’t have the energy for it today.

She shook her head, trying to clear it of the uncharacteristic thoughts plaguing her mind, and realized she had made a mistake.  With a soft, involuntary moan, she caught her head in her hands, elbows on the desk, as a strong wave of dizziness made her head spin even faster.

The dizziness was finally beginning to pass when the teacher called the class to order.  She looked up with tired eyes and read the words on the whiteboard: “test Friday on chapters 5 through 10.”  The rest of the class was groaning in dismay, but the girl didn’t react.  She knew she was ready.  After all, she was known for having good grades, often getting asked for lessons or tutoring in various subjects.  Surprisingly (at least, to anyone who didn’t know her), her favorite class was choir.  People always assume that just because you’re skilled at something – like school work – it means that you must love it or at least really like it; otherwise, what motivation is there to get better at it?

Very few understood her.  Very few cared enough to try.  And only one had tried and succeeded: her best friend.

“Hey are you ok?” She looked up at the speaker and forced a tight smile.

“Yeah, I’m fine, thanks.”  The boy that had plopped down in the seat next to her was skinny and short – almost as short she.  As far as she knew, she was the shortest girl in the whole tenth grade, and maybe in the whole high school.  She was only five feet, one inch tall, and he only passed her up by two inches.

Still, what he might have lacked in size, he made up in character.  She didn’t know anyone who could make her laugh more than he did.  He was interesting and funny and kind and gentlemanly.

“Yeah, I can tell,” he whispered sarcastically, his voice low so as not to attract the lecturing teacher’s attention.  “You have a headache, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” she admitted reluctantly.  “It’s ok though, I’ll be fine.”

He rolled his eyes.  “You know, that’s what you said last time.  And then you had to leave school early and were home sick for the next two days.  Have you taken anything for it yet?”

She shook her head.  “I haven’t had the chance.”  Even before she had finished speaking, he had begun rummaging through his electric-blue backpack and pulled out a mini bottle of Advil.  He shook out two pills and placed them in her clammy hand, searching her face as he did so.

“Thanks,” she mumbled, dropping the pretense that she wasn’t in a lot of pain.  She pulled out her water bottle and downed the pills in a few gulps.  She was feeling better by the end of the class period, the throbbing having lessened from a pounding roar to an annoying buzz.

Migraines had plagued her for her entire life, ever since the first one she’d had when she was six years old.  She’d never been a strong child, and was rarely able to participate in the play and sports of the other children in elementary school.  When she had gotten to middle and high school, she hadn’t been strong or well enough to do any of the team sports.

Despite lacking the same levels of energy as the other kids, though, she was actually a fun-loving girl, not just the genius she was reputed to be at school and in her classes.  Everyone liked her.

And though the headaches had lessened over the years, both in intensity as well as frequency, they had plagued her four times in the last two weeks.  It was annoying, to say the least.  She felt handicapped and way under her normal performance level when she had one.  She was thoroughly sick of them.  Ironic, she thought, darkly amused.  Sick of being sick.

The bus ride home made the pain worse.  Noise, apparently, was an unavoidable trigger.  She sighed and put in her ear buds, not turning on the music, just letting them plug her ears and drown out some of the volume.

The routine was always the same when she got home: free time to do what she wanted, dinner, homework, bed.  She always went to bed at 10:30 on the days she had a headache.  It was rare that she could recover in only one night though; her next day at school would be hard.

There was a pattern starting.  She could feel when a migraine was coming on, and knew it was building to something, as surely as a covering of clouds makes you feel the heaviness in the air before a storm.  She didn’t know how she knew; in fact, the “knowing” wasn’t even really conscious.  But the thought was just conscious enough that it affected her mood – it had become a bit more subdued, quieter, a little more withdrawn than in the time before those few recent weeks.

As the weeks in the semester progressed, the headaches got worse: worse and more frequent.  She began to fear the day, lying in bed every morning as her alarm rang and rang and rang, having to talk herself into sitting up.  It took her longer and longer to get up the courage and actually commit to go to school.  Every new day brought the possibility of another migraine – more pain, more suffering, more hardship.

Amazingly though, as fast as her condition had deteriorated, she had yet to tell her parents of the growing problem.  Both her mother and father worked long hours, leaving in the morning at the same time she caught her bus, and coming home just in time for dinner.  She only saw them at breakfast and dinner, her time after the evening meal occupied by diligently doing her homework until bed, and theirs spent hypnotized behind their state-of-the-art laptop screens.

She hadn’t found “the right moment” to tell them.  It wasn’t as if they ignored her all the time… nor did she feel like they did.  Their busy lives simply didn’t cross much, so when they finally did spend time together every day, she couldn’t bring herself to spoil the cheer.

It got to the point where she was having migraines every two or three days.  The near constant onslaught of pain made her face grow steadily paler, her eyes weary, her step slower, her smile weaker.  Eventually she couldn’t maintain her grades, and they began to fall: slowly, very slowly, but falling nevertheless.

By the time Christmas break came around, the chance to rest came not a moment too soon.  When she got home from the last day of school in December, she fainted in the hallway just outside her room.  Lights flashed before her eyes as vertigo gripped her, and she lost her balance, falling to the floor.  She was out before her head hit the floor.  It was hours before her parents came home, but by that time she had woken up and crawled to her bed.

She didn’t come to dinner, and finally the secret-that-was-not-a-secret came out.  It was a mystery to anyone how her parents hadn’t noticed her deterioration in health before she finally collapsed.

Logan’s running footsteps sounded loud in the empty hallway.  He passed several nurses, each of them frowning and shouting “slow down and walk!” after him, but he ignored them.  Room 317, room 317, room 317, he chanted to himself as his eyes flicked from room number to room number as he flashed past them.  He was going so fast that he went right past the right room before his brain could register the fact.  Skidding to a halt and dashing back, he stood before the closed door and tried to catch his breath before entering.

He was unable to contain himself though, and knocked on the door, still panting.  He barely heard the invitation to come in.  The knot of worry in his stomach tightened.  She sounds weak.  Still panting a little, he went in and rushed to the foot of the hospital bed in three huge steps, his eyes on her pale face from the moment he could see it.

Her eyes softened, seeing him, and the corners of her mouth lifted ever so slightly.  He looks so worried, she thought as she took in his wide eyes and still-heaving chest.  He must have been running down the hall.

“How are you, Elisa?” he asked in a rush, his worried eyes still searching her face.  He had spoken in a low, troubled tone, but her reply was even quieter.

“Not as bad as you think,” she said, though a faint smile was all she could manage in her weakened state.

“Are you sure?”  He wasn’t convinced.

“Yes, she’ll be ok.  You’ll be okay, honey.”  For the first time, Logan noticed Elisa’s mother was sitting in the chair next to the bed, holding her daughter’s hand.  She sounded like she wasn’t far from tears, and to Logan, it sounded like she was trying to convince herself with the words she had just spoken to him and Elisa; her voice had been louder than either of the two teens’ too.  Now he noticed the smudged mascara below her eyes and knew she had indeed been crying.

“Oh hello ma’am, sorry I didn’t see you there.”  She only nodded in reply, obviously trying to choke back more tears.

Seeing this, Elisa sighed inwardly and spoke to her mother in a calm, quiet voice.  “Mom, would you mind if Logan and I had a minute alone?”  The older woman let out a huge, shuddering sigh and nodded, glancing between Logan and her daughter’s face a couple of times.  Then, with a parting kiss on the girl’s forehead, she left, sniffling as she closed the door.

In an instant, Logan was in the empty chair and holding Elisa’s hand, just as her mother had been doing only moments before.  “Tell me everything,” he said, his gaze intensifying.

She closed her eyes for a short moment, but knew he’d believe nothing but the truth – the whole truth.  “It’s bad,” she said, opening her eyes.  She saw the sharp intake of breath and felt his hand tighten on hers.  “There’s a cure,” she continued, “but it’s…expensive.  And very risky, with a low chance of success.”  He met her gaze unflinchingly, although she noticed his eyes tightened slightly.

“How low?”  His voice was very controlled.

“The doctor said there was about a 23% chance the treatment would succeed.”

He didn’t flinch, but the color began to drain from his face.  “‘Would’?”

She looked away now, unable to keep her gaze neutral.  “Like I said, it’s expensive.”  Her voice had sunk until it was so low that he could barely hear her.

“So?” he asked, his hand tightening on hers.  He leaned closer and asked, “what does that have to do with it?”

Too expensive, Logan.”  Her voice broke when she got to his name.  “My parents simply can’t afford it, not by a long shot.”

Femaleing and Writing

(Yes, I know I made up a word. I think it’s quite clever, though…)

Sometimes I think too hard about the fact that I’m female and that there are actually other human beings on this earth who are…..well…..male. Different…….other…….opposite……  If you think about it hard enough, it’s kind of mind-boggling!  To be honest, though, I’d never thought deeply about what differences might show up in writers of different genders until now.  I mean, of course I knew there would be differences there too, just as there are in real life, but it didn’t really hit me until now that such differences are, in truth, irrelevant.

Yep, you read that right: irrelevant.  Here’s my thought on this: why should we have to do anything more than just be able to recognize that there are some differences between writers of different genders?  It’s just a simple, unavoidable fact, so should it actually change the way we read someone’s work?  Ok, the author is male – so?  That won’t keep me from admiring his extraordinary description and sparkling dialogue.  And that author is female?  No matter; I can still appreciate her beautiful use of simple diction and uncomplicated plot-line. I realize that there are all kinds of stereotypes out there about men and women – many, if not most, based in truth, I’ll admit – but how in good conscience can we make generalizations about male and female writers based just off those stereotypes?

People are too complex, too individualistic, too diverse  for us to actually be able to classify them in any real way, so why should we do so with male and female writers?  We might pick up a book and notice it was written by a female writer, but I do not think that this fact alone should prompt us to start judging what we’ll expect to find within it.

In short, gender does not define us on such a degree and in such a way that our writing must be defined by our gender.

My Creative Writing: Poetry

“Poetry most often communicates emotions, not directly, but by creating imaginatively the grounds for those emotions. It therefore communicates something more than the emotion; only by means of that something more does it communicate the emotion at all.”

Ah, if only I had been born years earlier than I was… I wish I could have met C.S. Lewis!  His wisdom and amazing talent of knowing exactly how to express himself are both qualities I envy.  And how true are his words in this particular quote!  It’s time again for me to show you a piece of my creative writing, and this time it’s a work of poetry, and it’s something a little different than the other pieces of poetry I’ve presented so far. The inspiration for it came from an event that caused me a lot of pain, though the events I described in the text aren’t exactly the same as what I experienced.  Anyway, thank you so much for reading, and don’t forget to leave me a comment! I’m ever open to critique. (:


I Will Love You

I remember that you and I loved each other once,
But oh, that fateful day…  I’ve cried forever since.
You wounded me with a stab mortally deep,
And yet, I will love you, even in eternal sleep.

The gaping wound you left has failed to heal;
It plagues me with a pain I’ll never cease to feel.
But I remember the green days of warmth and sun,
And am reminded that my love will ne’er be done.

Even in the deepest, darkest shadows of the night,
I will remember you as a white shining knight.
With that memory of you, my hope will restore,
And a bright faith will renew my love forevermore.

But even though you’re my white knight no more,
And have turned black by opening that fatal door,
Even when your clothes have been soaked in blood,
I can see your true face, now buried ‘neath evil’s flood.

So when the last crimson tears have been cried
And the many innocent souls you “freed” have sighed;
When 666 shades of red are all that color the dawn,
Even then will my undying love live on and on and on.

You don’t know what I go through every single day,
Watching your infamy grow amongst the criminal array.
To them, you’re a feared killer; to yourself, a last judge;
But to me you are a lost lover, one with a terrible grudge.

You see your actions as inflicting righteous punishment,
But I see the real evil, tearing you apart, rent by rent.
It cages your reason and slices holes in your sanity,
Forcing me to seek what I loved in you: your humanity.

As time slips away, unnoticed by my waiting heart,
Fear, despair and grief begin again to tear me apart,
Eating away at the faith and hope I kept alive for you.
So instead, I’ll love who you were before you said, “Adieu.”

I wish I could dream away this suffering and pain,
But without the torture, I know I wouldn’t be sane;
I wish I could go to sleep and escape this terrible hurt,
But the pain tells me it was real, every blush and flirt.

Maybe someday you’ll stop, recognize and repent;
Maybe you’ll realize what you’ve become with torment;
Maybe you’ll return to me, more in love than before.
But until then, know that I’ll always love you at my very core.