Chapter 29

Consistency in writing; making sure that you like what you write; taking constructive criticism; finding the motivation to keep going-to keep writing-even when you might not ‘feel’ like it; Book collection gone amok; Talking advice from the great and powerful David Hayes ; trying to find more humor in things; new job prospect; waiting for legal paperwork i.e. contract for new poetry collection; the sad state of affairs in finding “Jane Eyre” in the dollar bin at Target; nervous about live podcast at Comicon; reading from the final chapter of “The Ever.”

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Continuing.....

  He had only been seventeen when he had met his first victim, although he always thought that the word victim was such a harsh word for what they were perceived as being.  They were never his victims.  They were his muses.  His inspirations towards greatness.  These girls changed his life, just like he changed theirs and so to be called his victims made no sense to him when in the scheme of things, they were his unexplored passion revealed.  Susan had been older than he was and much more worldly and she never kept to herself.  It had been hard for him to make any contact with her or to establish a connection.  So many men wanted her and so many girls wanted to be friends with her.  But, even though she was popular she never had as close as a connection to anyone as she ended up having with him.  Him.  Knife in her back.  The small of the blade twisting while she squirmed in her restraints.  The ropes tightening as she pulled and tried to get farther and farther away from him, only ending up closer.  He let his hands run through her long black hair.  It was so straight and thick.  It streamed down her back in long shadows as if it was pursuing a lover.  Fear shone in her bright blue eyes and it wasn't long before she began to cry.  The muffled sounds of her sobbing crept up the walls and shone bright in his mind.  He took it all it-the smell of her sweat, her long legs kicking, the blood pulsating from deep inside of her back and it drove him towards ecstasy. 
  He hadn't been invited to Susan's party.  No one would have invited him.  He snuck in the back door and through the kitchen.  On the counter there were several bottles of alcohol.  He grabbed the first thing that he saw-the whiskey-and took a gulp.  He didn't know that he would be this nervous.  In his mind, he wasn't planning on killing her tonight.  He just wanted to see how close he could get to her.  How much she would let him in and how little those around her were paying attention.  He grabbed a few pretzels from a large white bowl on top of their microwave oven and closed his eyes as he chewed.  The sounds from the party reverberated in his ears through the munching, as if he was eating them alive and the music was playing and they were screaming over and over.  He kept himself small and walked out into the living room.  The music was loud and demanding.  Dancing and making out had taken over this room and there was little that he could do to make himself fit in being alone-always alone.  Spotting the back of her head sitting on the couch, he moved towards her and slunk into a darkened corner of the living room.  He watched her laugh.  She flicked her hair over her shoulders and the corners of her mouth went up into a smile, creating dimples and a large healthy smile.  She turned and looked at him.  He hadn't been expecting that, but it was nice-nice that she knew he was there with her.  She smiled.  This soft smile with a closed mouth, never showing her teeth, and looking at him as if she didn't want him there but was too drunk to care.  He stood up straight and into the light to let her take a good look at him.  An honest look.  He wanted her to see him.  Turning towards her friends, she said something and stood up walking towards him as her hips glided across the floor, her small waist rocking from point to point and her long legs lingering into each step as if it might be her last. 

The beginning of something-read it and see if it sounds good-let me know....

  Moving through the tall thick grass, the world beat down upon him like the blistering sun and all that was good and light fell apart like melting wax.  It had been days since he had spoken to her.  His mind flexed with the thought of her cold and icy stare; her cheekbones pale and skeletal to the touch like a hand reaching out from the grave.  The loneliness had driven him down to his gun close to his chest and repeatedly saying her name to the wind as if she might hear him and crawl back along the floorboards desperate to see him once again. She had been different. Not like the others. When her time came to scream, she only smiled at him as if she was saying "do what you have to do and I'll forgive you." Looking in her eyes, he knew that she accepted him just as he was-not like the others with their begging and pleading with that small glint of hope still left in their eyes for him to leave them alone and set them free. Her eyes had gone black. He kept her alive for a long time. Taking special care to feed her everyday and to give her fresh water from the stream, he hoped to gain her trust. She would be the first person-the only person-to trust him. One day, he split her lip with a backwards slap. Blood slid down her chin and he could see folds of red slipping into and out of her mouth like Kool Aid. She swallowed it down and turned to him calm and relaxed. It was right then that he knew that he loved her. She was different than the others. Yes, ten years ago he wouldn't have seen the nuances of her personality shine. He wouldn't have even wanted to understand her. Just another girl. Dead in a few years. Kill and dump. Somewhere they won't see. But, he wasn't that man anymore. She was more than an object. She was Elizabeth James, who taught Sunday school but never had any children. Who used to go on bicycle rides everyday and pick up flowers from the market to place in her open kitchen window. Elizabeth James. Who lived alone and who he had never seen with another man. The air around him grew cold. He nestled into his coat and walked back to his truck. Going back home. To the place that used to be theirs and all that reminded him of her, when she had been alive. He placed her picture in his pocket. A family photo where she looked especially unhappy, but he liked the way that her hair fell around her shoulders. It shrouded her. Things had always been like this-this madness-his madness. It would only be a short period of time before he struck down again, like a bolt of lightning in the Earth but for now he would go home and drink it out. He would remember her for who she was and for who he had wanted her to be and for the short sweet smile that she had given him right before the end.
Elizabeth.
the shore, holding

Chapter 28

Incorporating human emotion into your writing; variables that never change; Letting characters speak for themselves; Announcing new levels of the show-after short stories are finished; Developing a flow to your writing by reading it out loud and to yourself; Feeling anticipation in your writing; Taking your work to that classical level of being remembered as a great piece of writing.

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The church.

  There is not a word that I have searched for in the desperate breath of my mind.  Lingering in this land of forgotten promises and all things that make us holy.  I pass the empty ruins of a tall church.  Its beams have almost fallen into themselves and the path inside of the building is sketchy at best, but I craw inside.  Placing my eyes high above, I watch as columns of dust hover over and make their way in and out of small crevice's in the roof and I wonder if any faith is left inside.  I hold my hand together, as if to pray but I see that you have already entered the space.  It is not holy ground.  It has lost its power and now you are free to move upon its grounds.  I hold back and stay seated-seated in the pew closest to what once was the door-and hold tight my strength.  I am not afraid of you.  Not anymore.  You have lost your power over me and what once was can never be again.  The beams waver, as your shadow floats high above me and empties itself onto the walls.  Down they go.  The heavy thud of cement and brick turning towards me as I run out and lay upon the green grass.  I have escaped, but only for a short time.  Soon you will be following me again with the ramblings of a mad man, but for now I am safe and everything is silent. 

What you might have said...

  All around there is this swirling. Thoughts gone awry, I find myself apologizing for the strangest things.  Blaming myself, when everything has gone haywire and there is no place to turn to but the cold iron fist of reality.  Colors merge into suicidal thoughts without any control and the places where I thought that I was safe are bathed in blood.  I sit holding the handle of the door tight in my hand, when the tears start.  The scene becomes blurry with tears, but I know the cast and the basic outline of the story.  No one's fault.  All an accident.  Pure and simple.  Nothing that anyone planned.  I hold my face up against the window and feel the cold air rush in on my cheek.  I look up.  Surely, this is a night without stars.  Casting my thoughts on what once was only makes matters worse and I scream at the top of my lungs for peace.  Hiding my face from the crowd, I rise from the seat and walk into the narrow hallway adjacent to your room.  There I find the darkness that haunts me and into the shadows I walk.  Head held down.  Eyes closed.  I lay on the bed, resting and hoping that no one finds me.  Not even you.  I can feel the ceiling fan blow its cold air against my body.  Wave after wave.  Like an ocean, it pulls me in and I am surrounded by beacons of water.  Fresh against my skin.  I can taste the salt on my tongue and I am satisfied to know that I am alone.  Great bulging eyes appear before me.  I sift through the sand and the current, like a snow angel, knowing that soon my time with be over and you will return to haunt me.  I wish that I could take you off like an old coat, and store you away until the winter months returned and I again became too cold to care what covered me against the wind.  I can hear the flap of your gums beating the inside of your mouth with words that I do not understand.  I am not as strong as you think that I am-these feelings make me weaker than you and they conspire against my judgement.  Placed in a corner, I don't know what to say.  I watch as you carry on, letting the words flow out of your mouth like switchblades and remembering that there was a time when you never would have spoken to me like this-as if I was nothing and you were in pain by my mire existence.  I want to shovel myself into the snow and freeze.  I want to climb to the highest tree and never come down, no matter how much you or anyone else begs me to-but I know that you'll never beg.  The fan passes over me in the dark, as I hear you walk into your room.  I make my way to my feet and pass by your frame.  Closing my eyes, as if I were blind I feel my way into the hallway and bask in never knowing what you might have said. 

Chapter 27

A writers perception; Good medical news; Working on the new book and trying to finish; Images that scare us; Mixing non-fiction with fiction and creating a genre; People watching; The rest of “The Mistakes” and beginning the last chapter of “The Ever.”

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7 new poems

Date
Small pieces
shattered around
the floor
escaping with
what I neglected
there is nothing
to do now
but face
the fear
I stand over
your body
trembling
in the dirt
sand scuffling
up my shoes
the ruffles
of my dress
grow sour
smile
at the hole
in the ground
I dug all night
stars above me
so that it fits
perfectly
there is nothing else
to do now
accept
push
you
in

Break
Swimming
far away
in silence
reaching a state
where the water
makes more sense
than the land
I admit
that I am broken
that I am filled
with sadness
clusters of fish
beneath my feet
the colors
of dreams
passing before me
I think of you
always wire
rubber
and set
with chemicals
the smell of
burning fuel
that has set
into my skin
I draw away
into the dark
and deep waters
until there is
nothing left of me
but sand

Moles
There is
a plush
carpet
beneath my feet
burning into
the small
and coarse
lines
dents
of my soles
as I take another step
and I am delayed
in beginning
in finishing
once was a part of me
a long time ago
I am ready to end
ready to say goodbye
and good night
to all those
that used to
wish me well
my hand is on
the doorknob
I am almost free

Wedding
Silver folding in
pressing the ring into you
I give up and fall

Alone
I am gone
flying
caught
in the curves
of smoke
that billow
from your roof
it has been
a hard road
to travel
but
I understand
what I must do now

Little
Music
from far away
I hear
it pacing
in my ears
like an expectant father
handing out cigars
ignoring the pain
I swish
the iodine
around my mouth
and burst into flame
there is no peace now
no happy ending
I cuddle my book
against my chest
and pray
for death

Midnight
You far off  away
clutching your hand in the dark
You get up and leave

Chapter 26

The separation of your writing self and your in-person self; Where do writers get their ideas?; A shout out to Halo Piercing; The beginning of the short story “The Mistakes” and finishing a chapter of “The Ever”. Next time, the perception of writers... how do we perceive of the things around us?

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Brand new poems. :)

Seating arrangement
Particles
white fluffs
of sunshine
sunbursts
peddling off
and around
the early days
of March
your blond hair
full of brightness
carried in
on the wind
pressing against
sharp glass
without making
a mark
in the crinoline
fabric
of your skirt
I place a card
beside your seat
a reminder
of where
you are
to go
when you
fall behind
and forget
where you
once were

Attraction
Ruffled up
its neck
bares the beacon
of elegance
red
orange
and green
I see him follow her
along
and through
the trees
pursuing her
like a mad man
in love
his eyes
on her lips
his need
to kiss her
evident
in his smile
in their laughter
he brings
her another drink
with only
eyes for her
and all the world
is still
in their embrace

for
R
o
l l
i n
g
towards the floor
lamp
break ing in to
sev er al pi e ces
all clasped
together
in your hand
crushed
by the sound
of breathing

suicide
six pages in
black and white
print
coffee
hot from
the cup
she hands him
a cigarette
before they notice
the open window
and the note
from their daughter
held by magnets
on the fridge

The writer
hunched over
fingers typing
wildly
persecuting
the keyboard
for some
unknown offense
words running
fast
along
and brook
filled with fish
diving into
the clear
afternoon waters
before oxygen
takes them aback
and makes them realize
what little life
they have left

fire
His fist in paper
remnants of a man in ash
wind rips up my pores

hair
oh
odd
of view
pear shaped
singular
mindful
of it all
relentless
climbing
to fall
north bound
stuck
precious
night
there are
no more stars
the moon
cut in squares
dew
upon your wrist
open fields
streaming
with sparks
I lay down
by you
and sleep

Chapter 25

Superheroes; Being normal, nice, or ordinary; Pursuing the truth as a writer; Notification of publication for “Searching for Solace,” The final poems from “Searching for Solace,” Beginning a new chapter in “The Ever”.

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The want

  Driving down the path and pushing through the leaves.  Tumbling over curves and through the dark nest of night.  I haven't seen you in days; the pushing and pulling of you storming through my mind in wrinkles and short shift reapeated flickers of film.  There is an urgency in the wanting.  To be seduced by you and desired in way that no one else is or will be-to be loved-to be the exception to every rule.  I hear noises from far away, cuddling into my open window and passing out on the shoulder of the road.  Presenting themselves in tight clusters of empty and emotionless hearts becoking to be loved and admired.  Their cries push beyond me and towards the hard street which rolls under my wheels.  I want to comfort them and help them along, but I don't know how and with every mile that passes I find myself growing more fond of the idea of you.  Secure in the notion soon, that you will hold me and tell me that everything will be alright-even if you have to lie.  The roads are open and clear this late at night.  You called me urgently a few hours before with that sad sound in your voice-in your throat-deep down in your windpipes calling towards the pressure from grief.  I pushed past everyone to get to the phone and when I answered, you were there with sighs and long tearful sobs.  As if someone had killed you; as if there was a permanent space made between you and the rest of the world; as if no one would or could save you from yourself and hope was just an illusion.  Grabbing my coat, I ran from the room and got into the car.  I whispered to myself, "I hope that it's not too late," beating out through the moonlit streets-roving in between the other cars until the street became desolate and lonely.  Pulling into your driveway, I noticed the silence.  I rapidly walked to the front door and rang the bell.  No answer.  I pushed at the door and it opened, as if we had been waiting for me to arrive.  As if you knew my exact location and the sound of my voice through the wind.  No light.  I did not stop to flick them on or to check their location.  I walked in a rush to find you.  You were my only endeavor or concern.  Fallen in the corner of the kitchen, I find you.  An empty bottle by your side.  I wake you and you smile at me, small wrinkles lining up in the corner of your eyes like a wise old man let alone to endure the cold.  I help you to bed, rocking you back to sleep with the lull of a song.  I lay next to you and hold you hand as the restless sky above us wavers and all I see is my fading youth. 

Brand new poems.....:)

Promises
Yellow shirt
face painted on
slit
up the side
of her skirt
walking directly
into the sun
without flinching
without giving
it a second
thought
looking into
her silver
pocket mirror
and adjusting
her hair
as it slides
beyond her shoulders
and to her waist
below

Ring
He takes a drink
navigating his way
through the crowd
to see her
double vision
the alcohol
kicking into
place
there is
a sweet success
in making it
to her
pass the wavering room
and into the small space
between them
her eyes linger
hanging her head high
he smiles
yellowed teeth
from years
of smoking
trying to make
a good impression
the band begins
to play again
she walks
out onto the dance floor
leaving him
to wonder
what he would say
if she said yes

Motel Six
Red tint
iodine soaked
peeling back
pressed into
the radiator
tied and bound
searing flesh
crouched down
into a corner
the lights flashing
through the thin curtains
gasps of air
coming from between
the tape
an endless parade
of screams
unanswered
only to be
cut again
caught in the act
of trying to escape
kicking
crying
begging
pleading
there isn't anything
left
only a flash
of hot
silver light
and the wait
is over

Rice
Measuring yourself
walking towards the rumbling dirt
Hot crickets pop down

Collect
Uneven
one is brighter
than the other
one
stands w h o l e
separated
in the blossoming air
victory
a sport
upon their face
this unwrapped
piece of candy
melting down
through your hands
reaching for what
you think
that you don't
deserve

The Shore
Wavering
off towards
the coast
there is
a sad beacon
of what
we have become
fog
takes over
the cabin
and I
cannot see
the shore
there is
no hunt
no passage
way home
just the idea
that here lies
this great
and powerful
love
that once
made silver
now lives
underground
daisies
spring from its side
and grass
grows high
in the blue
country

A flirt
Tip my hat down low
Acknowledging your presence
Black hair blue eyes sing

Momentum.

  These airs that we play against each other and for-nestled into the words that we speak and the actions that we portray-give us a false sense of hope and flashes of what could have been take over.  They are our vices.  Our limitations-stuck in dirt-and we find ourselves up late at night trying to understand what we have done, what we have preserved.  We find our dreams set in the cellar, holding our hunger during the winter.  Canned peaches.  There sweet nectar still reminding us of summer.  I venture out into the chill.  Snow covers my feet, but I go on searching for you although they have told me that there is no hope.  That you are dead to the community and that if I go on searching for you-I will be too.  Thinking that I hear your voice, I run down the bank of a frozen creek.  My foot collapses into the ice and as I am struggling, I think of you and what you cannot remember.  The cold water enters my lungs and stops my heart from beating.  My body rolls to the bottom of the creek and I am lost as well.  They looks for us.  Mainly because my mother is worried and wondering where I am and when I'll return.  But, they do not find me.  Or you.  We are both lost to one another and to everyone else.  My body has begun to rot-skin falling from my cheeks-food for the fish.  I do not rise.  Without you, I fall further and sink down into the muck.  I do not know that you have been buried by a stranger in an unknown and unmarked grave.  This stranger gave you more care then we ever did-then they ever did and for nothing in return.  I only hope that one day, we can remember together what we have lost.  I laid in bed and thought of nothing but you, endlessly wandering the corners of my mind for the person that had once loved me.  But, there is nothing there but sand and the chaos of not knowing. 

Love
It's all
about the word
I wait
to hear it
calling from
my room
in hopes
of you telling me
promises
that you can't keep
it's been locked up
for so long
I graduate down
sleeves of metal
on my body
and you
an empty palm

Fragile
Storing these
small amounts
of data
there is
an endless supply
of forget me nots
The driving
force
behind all kisses
remembering what
once was
and replaying it
over and over
on a continuous loop
crying out
when the past
doesn't meet
future expectations
there is only
the silence
to keep what
is illusive
free from harm

Sylvia
Sinking inward
I pass the time
trying to keep
the music
in my mind
the water runs
cold
and swollen
against my eyes
the seeds spark
soft
they need no light
to expand
these thoughts
these harbingers
of all things wrong
they progress
just fine on their own
piles of dirt
in my backyard
new bodies
killed and buried
without reason
or dissolution
the car waits
parked
by the side of the road
and all I can think of
is the knife by my side
how deep can I plunge it in
there are no words
no escape
just the sound
of the music
to set
me free

Orphan
Soak up
the red wine
and whiskey
spilled
on the counter
with tiny hands
there is no one there
to drink with
only the echoes
of the footsteps
of children

Visitor
Pressed
neatly
up against
the glass
his face
long and hollow
pulling teeth out
deep and sore
from the back
of his throat
no blood
not a drop
and you wonder
if he is what
you have been praying for

Photograph
I can smell
your hair
pine and Burgundy
all mixed
in sweet
syrupy
sap

Flirt
Gray
lights fire
like raw wood
pushing onto lips
newly formed
lip stick
stained teeth
and all that
keeps
its distance

Chapter 24

Finding your passion and happiness in life; trying to be a paid writer; More poems from “Searching for Solace” and finishing a chapter from “The Ever”.

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New poems....

Midnight
Surging through paper
wildly writing
your wrist
burning deep down
from its core
there is only
a second
when you stop
to deliberate
what comes next
and what has come
before
but you
are in the moment
hunched over
leaning into
the words
no time
for examination
no,
this is only
a time for action
ink moving wildly
and all you can conclude
is the passion
that has driven you here
molded your core
given you the courage
to make these thoughts
a constant reminder
of the anticipation
of creation
of memory

Argue
He touches her
softly
against her cheek
closing her eyes
she is reminded
of how gentle
he once was
rain surging
up
and against
the window panes
and it is all
she can do
not to cry


Antibiotics
The pain
flying
darting
like arrows
held with hot coals
there is nothing
to do
but hold
in the screams
buckle down
into the
soft bed
holding onto
the hope
that this
sickness
will end
and all
will become
distant
and foggy

Hunger
Slinking
bloody
and torn
legs cut
ravenous
munching
crunching
bone to teeth
slipping and sliding
out of reach
desperate to be
eaten
devoured
all the time
begging
to be held
close

Macaroni
Cloud
dusty
formed in glue
time battles against
his face
holding nothing
but the pale
light

Chapter 23

Interview with Beth Price of "The Haunted Writer"; Medical updates; Thank yous; New jobs and degrees; Readings from “Searching for Solace” and “The Ever”.

Find Beth Price at thehauntedwriter.com. 

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More poems......

Cool
Green grass
on a hot
summer day
the leaves
falling from trees
when they say it
is the end
I think
that they
are lying
it couldn't be
on a day
as beautiful
as this
white sky
no noise
I fall into
the pit
crying

Can
Gaping cut
across my thumb
I hold
a towel
close
to stop
the bleeding
dripping
on the floor
and into
the carpet
it leaves
a stain
the dogs
go to
investigate

Sweet
You walk
to the store
for yourself
grabbing
what you need
but every time
I am brought back
a present
from your travels
a think about
to let me know
that even after
so long
you still
love me

Sit, stay
It is the end dear
there is nothing left for us
I wipe away tears

Pain
Smile
envelope the room
with warmth
makes everyone
wonder why
you are so happy
even when
the world
is crashing down

A writers gift.

  There is a feeling in the air.  It passes deep down from the ground and hovers gently in the clouds.  This force, this reckoning, makes one realize how lucky they are in this life-this second-this minute-for all they have and for all they are about to inherit.  Calling them from deep across the field, they wander with an inner desire and make their way to the words in front of them.  It is difficult to speak, but if they write it out-the messages that they want to say-the words that they want to convey-the great and monumental discourses for all the world to debate-type it-allow it to flow from their minds freely and with great passion-then all will be right.  No matter what happens, everything will be as it should be and there will be great thoughts that lead the land.  It is the expression of these thoughts that will maintain our innocence and remind us of our creative endurance and our youth-no matter our age.  People will flock to read what we have written and to be taken aback from these words-these words that have reminded them of what could be and of what has to be-for all our sakes.  This reckless abandon makes us crave all that we need-all that we want and hold dear to us what we love. 
  As I sit here, surrounded by my furry children (my dogs, ) I remember the power that we as writers have in regards to our world-this world and the one that we envision.  Cool air waves over me from my open window and I relish in the fact that even though I am struggling to make ends meet-I have the best job in the world.  It is my therapy.  My hope.  My expression when I am at a loss for my own spoken word and do not know how to express what has endured within me-within my heart-my mind.  In the end, regardless of the outcome, I'll know that I was free on so many levels.  It is this freedom that makes me happy and gives me peace of mind. 

The world

  I find myself sleepy.  The antibiotics coursing through my veins makes me want to set my head down and drift off into a land where there is no pain.  I hate having to go backwards-two steps forwards and four steps back.  Like an endless game of Monopoly where you never collect two hundred dollars.  At least the nightmares have been settling down and I haven't woken up scared and confused as to where I am and what is going on-dreams of shadows cast down upon me, their arms clutching and holding onto my skin as my blood is drained by their long and sharply formed nails.  I slip.  My body surging on the sheets-grabbing onto nothing and everything.  They take me and throw me in the back of their truck-carry me away somewhere where I'll be forgotten.  Finally, I can rest.  It's the quiet dreams that scare me the most.  Eyes staring at me from across the room.  Black and uncomfortable.  Filled with rust.  I creep down and under the covers, but they follow me into the cotton.  Descent sleep-I hope that it finds me one day.  It's never too late.  To wrap your arms around the one that you love-to close your eyes and nestle into the soft bed and fall.   As I begin to sleep, I wonder what might happen tomorrow.  Such a big word: tomorrow.  Filled with such anticipation.  It hovers there in an empty space in our imagination.  We gulp it in, caress its virtues and rise again...cup of coffee....cigarette....shower....fresh new eyes that envelope the world with a sense of wonder, as if we were a child yet again and our dreams were meant to come true. 

More poetry.

Cinders
I crush
out
the heat
from the room
nothing but
your kiss
remains
it overpowers me
drives me
to want
to do
crazy things
like tell you
that I love you
all over again

Bleak
Holding onto
the metal pole
I steadied myself
against the
swaying bus
our fingers touched
for just a moment
and then
you pulled away
turned
and ignored me
all the day home

Red
Short steady paces
they crumble
in the wandering wind
crushed
like every grand dream
no one waits
at the end
of the line
fifteen minutes
to go
to cross
It is empty

Cocoon
Needle in
blood streams out
pale and light headed
there is a cold
wind
surfacing
against the steady
rush
of rain
I watch
as it drips
out of my hand
like red water
against the hospital
floor
there is no
stopping it
I do not fight
I accept my fate
lay back
and open
my mouth
against what flies
between the waves

Puppy
Broccoli feet
running
red
flickers of fur
brushing the ground
making little dreadlocks
we hold her close
and keep her warm
never will she fall
again

Chapter 22

Applying for writing jobs; Working on making your writing age well; Interviews coming up; Poems from “Searching for Solace” and finishing a chapter in “The Ever”.

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Bleeding.

  The bleeding started a few days ago.  I wasn't sure if it was normal, but everyone around me said that it was-probably nothing-nothing to worry about-nothing to cause concern.  But now, it is heavy and I am experiencing pain.  I called the emergency line at my doctors today.  I spoke with my OBGYN Dr. Beck.  I was so worried, but she assured me that I should not worry and to come into the office on Monday for a checkup.  I only hope that I did not go through all of this for nothing....only to be stuck in the same position all over again. 
  Kore Press has yet again dismissed me as a writer.  I am so sick of submitting my work to them and paying them to read it, only to be told that I am not good enough.  It's heartbreaking.  I try to learn from their rejection, but it still stings.  I only hope that good things are coming around the corner.  On a positive note, my diploma for my MA in English arrived today.  Now, I have all of my degrees that I wanted accept for my PhD-one day in the future it will be mine and I will study Gothic Literature and become published in journals and have a door that says Dr. Jay.  One day. 
  But, maybe there are other plans in my horizon.  Things that I do not know about or could ever dream of-things that I needed but didn't have....things that have alluded me but suddenly arise to the occasion.  That's the thing about life.  You never know.  You just have to keep on trying and being persistent, even when everyone tells you that you are wrong.  Not many people can do this....hold on to a sinking ship....when the water is rising and you can see the last gulp of air from your lungs...there is a desperation that occurs but then you realize everything is going to be alright.  You see that small pocket of air above your head and you take a gulp before everything turns black.  It's not much, but it gives you the will to live on borrowed time.  You swim to the top of the lake and crawl to the shore, mud in your hair and between your fingers and look up at the dark night just before Jason Voorhees knocks off your head with his machete. 

Chapter 21

Defining ourselves as people and writers... character development... Philip Roth’s “Everyman”... Readings from the new poetry book “Searching for Solace” and continuing onward with “The Ever”.

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More poems.

Red
Further up
it moves
blanketed
by the cold
I press my face
to the glass
and cringe

Wedding
Thin gold band
presses into my skin
leaving a mark
brittle nail
slit to the core
it bends backward
and breaks
and I smile

Sea shells
Soap
in small dishes
not meant
to be used
only to be
admired
it collects
dust and grime
from the air
its perfect little shapes
melting in the hot sun
I try
to keep the window
open
to let in the fresh air
but
we were wrong
to never use you

Jazz
Black cat
with wide red mouth
perched on the window
staring out at
nothing in particular
its tail moving
to the beat
of the piano
next store
I close my eyes
and find myself
humming along


Oscar
Deep brown eyes
set in gold
I find you looking
at me
and mine
small ears
set onto a pug body
I am happy
when you smile at me
and let me know
that I am yours