Some Things in Life

Some Things in Life

Lost in a maze of puzzles and thoughts
Where something was but now is not
Faiths, beliefs are tested often
Love is lost and ideals soften

Colors blend and mix and change
but somehow views have stayed the same
We should see blue, and white, and red
but we just see black and white instead

Friendships always are evolving
just as the world keeps revolving
Happiness and love make up a life
just as much as turmoil and strife

Hearts can open and they can close
Melt like candy when offered a rose
Freeze like ice when they're ignored
and shatter like glass when love is no more

But we know that children will cry
it is inevitable that the elders will die
We can't predict when we'll feel pain
but at least some things in life will always remain

Returned

 I'm back! After months of nothingness I have finally come back I didn't mean to desert the blog (dessert the blog? yum!) but I've been admittedly busy.
That's not to say that this poem is about me. I mean, it's not. Obviously... well, anyway, I've definitely missed blogland and now forgive me if I post poem after poem because that's what I've had time for. Short stories will come later... The second part of Lessons with Angels perhaps...
And now without further ado...

Your Ruby Queen Returned

Your queen,
your ruby rose,
the very pinnacle of your existence
returned now
to you.
She comes back
from lands of woe
with new secrets you'll never know.
Inside the center of this rose
a tiny diamond grows and grows.

A Star

For all the stars out there, so they never go out.

            She looks at each one of us in turn, smiling her beautiful, crooked smile. “I love you guys,” she says sincerely. “I love you all.”

            A murmured chorus of “I love you too”s answers her. Her smile widens and she slips her hand into mine. “Thank you,” she says, maybe to me, but probably to everyone. And then it hurts too much for the rest of them, and they all take their turn to say their goodbyes, their final goodbyes, hug her one last time, kiss her on the forehead. After they all have left, I lean forward and kiss her, and it is so familiar that a tear starts falling from my eye. Nothing seemed familiar around her these days – the hospital walls, the hospital bed, the beeping machinery that never ceased. Yet she remained the same.

            I do not get up. I don’t want to leave.

            We hold hands for a long time, and it’s nice, to have her hand in mine for the last time. Finally, she takes it back, and it hits me that she is actually leaving. I watch her pale, drawn but still beautiful face.

            “I guess it’s time,” she says with a little shrug, and I wonder how she knows. But Catherine knows a lot of things other people don’t.

            “I love you,” I say, and those words that we have said so many times seem so much more important now. They are the last ones. I guess the last words are always more important. But it was true. I love her I love her I love her. I love all her smiles and her laughs and her tears and everything that she’s ever said. I love her. It is not the idea of her that I love, not her name, not her face, not the fact that she’s dying. I love her and have for a long time. I have seen into her cracks and she into mine. We both know it, but somehow it is still absolutely wonderful to say, to hear.

            “I love you too,” she says, and her smile is so full, so genuine. I want to kiss her again, but in these last minutes I have to talk. I need to hear her. “I always have, and I’ll never stop.”

            I smile, the tears coming fast down my face. She folds her hands in her lap and looks at me, her face so peaceful and calm and… happy. “Aren’t you scared?” I choke out.

            She nods her head. “Yes. But I’m ready.”

            I have asked her that so many times in the past months, and she has always shaken her head and said, “Not yet.” But now it’s finally come. Somehow she is totally calm. She is scared but ready.

            “You’re a hero,” I tell her, and she laughs. It’s amazing to hear her laugh. I just want to keep hearing it.

            “Aren’t we all?” she asks, grinning. “I just happen to be dying.”

            And she laughs, laughs in the face of death. I laugh with her, but the love has started to hurt. I just want her to live. But she can’t. So I am trying to love her so much before she dies. I am trying to fit years worth of love and laughter and words into a few minutes.

            She looks up at me from her pillows. “Keep being heroic, Alex.”

            “I’ll try,” I say, chuckling still through my tears.

            Her smile is brighter than I have ever seen it. But she asks me, “Can you please leave?”

            I look at her, in her eyes. And her eyes are knowing.

            Somehow she knows.

            “Of course,” I say, and take her hand one last time. “I’ll never forget you, Catherine.” And that is all I say, because everything has been said.

            As I walk out of the room, I turn to see her - the last time I ever will. She is smiling up at the ceiling. She says very clearly and with so much feeling, “This star will never go out.”

            And she closes her eyes and goes to sleep, still smiling.

            Minutes later, a doctor walks into her room and comes out.

            She died.

            I would cry, but I have finished crying. Catherine died with the people she loved. As she said once, she was one of the lucky ones. She could tell everyone she loved them. Some people had no time.

            But it still hurts. It hurts like having half of your heart ripped out. It is something you can’t ever forget.

            The doctors tell us she died smiling.

            We will never see her body again. She asked for that. She wanted to be remembered as a person, not a corpse. And that is what she is to me. She is a person, a fireball of love and laughter and dreams. She is a star, and she will never, ever go out.

Too Late

 A very short story! Wow, I haven't written one in ages. (It's kind of a rough draft, and I would appreciate any helpful criticisms.) This story is set in a Skulduggery Pleasant-esque way.

Too Late

    The glass shattered under the impact of the heavy rock, and she began to kick at it to break it even more. Once the hole was large enough, Mirend dived through the window. She fell, dropping into a roll and jumping up. The house was dark as she walked through it, keeping her steps so soft that she couldn't hear them over her pounding heart. As she neared the closest door, she pulled a sword out of her coat, and it glinted fiercely in the sliver of moonshine that cut through the dim room.

    The door, old and battered, was open slightly. She pushed it inward and braced herself for an attack.

    Instead, a sob reached her ears. She ventured forward, holding the sword with both hands. As she stepped farther away from the door, it became clear that she was in a bedroom. A dresser, with two drawers half-open and spewing clothes, stood in the corner. Posters of little-known bands and fantasy movies were covering up most of the torn, flowered wallpaper. A bed, still imprinted with the shape of a body, was nestled against the far wall. The sheets were thrown back hastily. Next to it was an old, full-length mirror with a chip in the top right corner. Her gaze traveled down the mirror, and in the reflection she saw the very sight she had feared.

    A limp body was sprawled across the soft blue carpet, which had turned purple under him. His strawberry-blonde hair was matted with fresh, dark crimson blood that still glistened sickeningly.

    A pale, slender hand was laid on the dead boy's chest. The hand's owner was crying quietly, though she herself was covered in his blood. An empty syringe lay next to her leg. 

    Shivering as she cried, the girl looked up at Mirend with her black, soulless eyes. "I'm sorry."

    And the boy's own killer put her head down, and her sobs racked the dark night, while the moon watched with cool and calm certainty over the dead body, the vampire, and the rescuer whose rescue came just a little too late.

The Rainbow Masking a Storm

The Rainbow Masking a Storm

Her smiles and charm

and her eyes always shining

are hiding the tears

that hover beneath

The toss of her hair

and the sound of her laugh

are hiding the pain

that constantly aches

The endless bright glow

from her brilliant smile

is a rainbow masking a storm

The skip in her step

and the wink of her eye

are hiding the gloom

that darkens her soul

Her teases and jokes

and agreeable moods

are hiding the anger

that smolders inside

The endless bright glow

from her brilliant smile

is a rainbow masking a storm 

Poetry (thank God, finally)

OK. Well, I've had some trouble with poetry this past two weeks or so. That sounds lame, I know. "Oh, two weeks of writer's block? Whatever, you're overreacting." I don't know if I'm overreacting but I've never gone this long without writing a poem. I mean, I've gone this long without attempting to write a poem, but this time I have attempted and failed.

A few friends, on blogs and off blogs, have given me encouragement and advice and I have to thank all of them: Thank you!!

I know a few posts down that there are poems. None of them are new. They are all poems that I wrote a while ago. Recently I've been lacking in inspiration. But I've found some - lacking inspiration has become my inspiration.

But enough of my rambling. Here's what I wrote.
Oh, um, don't be confused by the blue giraffe reference. When I started to write this, I had just given up on a poem about a blue giraffe. It - it wasn't my idea...

The name is rather odd, but that's the first thing I wrote for the poem and I didn't want to change it.

Alright, now enough of my rambling.

A Poem that I can’t write

I can’t write this poem

I just know it won’t work

I wanted to write an abcb

Except nothing rhymes but ‘clerk’

This is the second verse

of a poem that doesn’t exist

and to find a rhyme with the word above

I had to look at a list

There’s a dictionary on the web

for people who can’t rhyme

It’s like a digital clock

for those who can’t tell time

Three verses already

yet I haven’t written a thing

If poetry brings happiness

what will these words bring?

Confusion, I daresay

for the people who came to read

a poem about a blue giraffe

but instead they found this creed

An ode, of a sort,

to all those poets out there

who have put down their pen

and simply ceased to care

When the ‘Grey Months’ creep along

some give up their words

yet to leave behind your poetry

is to speak but not be heard

So pick up your pen,

all you people like me,

who suffer from writer’s block

Let your words be free!

Well, it seems I wrote a poem.

I’ve been trying to all week.

All I needed was a little help –

a reminder, so to speak.

Some helpful hints from different people,

yet they all reached the same end

and now I know that when in need,

simply look to a friend.

Lessons With Angels: Part 1

Lessons with Angels

The town where I live is full of mystery. People claim that amazing things happen in it. Me? Well, I was never a believer. Of course, I never believed a lot of things that I do now.

Last summer, my life took a sharp turn. In a lot of ways it was for the worse. In others, it may have been good - I'm not sure yet. But I do know that I will never be the same.

Some of you reading this may recognize what I’ve been through. I don’t really know. Am I the only person that this has ever happened to? Maybe. Is it likely? No.

I’m betting that quite a few people have had experiences like mine. They just aren’t willing to admit it.

If you have no clue what I’m talking about, have fun reading. Read it like it’s a great fiction story. To you, it is.

But if you’re one of those people who know what I’m talking about, well, I’d advise you to do what you’ve probably been doing for a while – keeping quiet about it. Because if there’s one thing I know, it’s that telling the truth can be dangerous.

A gentle tug on my sleeve pulled me out of my trance. I looked down to see my little sister, Gabrielle, her pale blue eyes wide. Her blonde hair fell in cascading ringlets down her back. One curl in back was tucked under the collar of her black velvet dress. I reached down and tugged it out. “Yes, Gabby?” I asked quietly.

“When are we going to get to leave?”

I looked at her, stricken by the way she barely even knew what we were here for. “Not until we bury Mommy.”

Her round face stared up at mine. “Why are we burying Mommy?” she asked, looking confused. “Mommy wouldn’t like to be buried. She doesn’t like dirt.”

I laughed, but it came out as half a sob. “Mommy doesn’t care anymore,” I said.

“But Mommy doesn’t like dirt, Lexi.”

The tears were back, hot in my eyes. I squeezed my eyelids down, trying to hold them in. “Gabby, none of that matters anymore.”

“Why?”

I knelt down, so my face was equal with my sister’s. “Mommy’s gone, Gabrielle.”

Gabby shook her head. “Mommy isn’t gone.”

I sighed. “Mommy died, honey. She crashed in the car. She’s dead, Gabby. She’s dead and she’s not coming back.” The tears started to roll down my face, burning wet tracks across my cheeks. Gabby put her arms around my shoulder and hugged me.

“Mommy is dead, Lexi,” she said quietly in my ear. “But she isn’t gone.”

I pulled back from her, stunned out of my tears. “What do you mean, Gabby?”

She looked away, and pointed to the priest. “I think he’s starting.” But I didn’t look at him. All I could do was stare at my sister… Mommy is dead, Lexi. But she isn’t gone.

After the funeral, the ride home was as silent as death – appropriate, considering our circumstances.

Uncle Benjamin drove us home. He’s our dad’s brother. Our dad stayed at the graveyard. He hadn’t cried yet, but he looked pale and shaky like he was about to bowl over any second.

Gabby still wouldn’t explain to me what she had meant. Maybe she was just being a weird little kid. But she had sounded so sure of herself when she’d said that… I glanced over at her, where she sat with a cheek resting on her fist, staring out at the cloudy sky. Her blue eyes looked like orbs, huge and shiny – like they could see everything. She had not cried during the funeral. She just stared off into the distance, looking fixated on a nearby tree. I don’t know why – maybe she didn’t want to believe Mom was actually dead.

Ben pulled up at our house – it loomed cold and unfriendly above us. We got out, and Gabby hurried over to my side. She took my hand and put the thumb of her other in her mouth. I sighed and we walked up the steps. Ben followed. As I took my key out of my pocket, my uncle put a hand on my shoulder. He looked worried. “Are you going to be okay, Lex?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I lied. “We’ll be fine.”

I walked in the door, letting Gabby go in before me, and closed it, leaving my anxious uncle on the doorstep. Gabby climbed into the window seat near the door to watch him go. A little figurine was on the sill in front of her.

“Watch out for the statue, Gabby,” I warned.

She looked down and saw it. She picked it up, turning it around in her chubby little fingers. Then she held it up for me to see. “Look, Lexi,” she said.

I looked at it. “Yeah, I know, we’ve had that forever.”

“No, look closer. It looks like Mommy.”

"Gabby, it's just a statue. It's not of Mommy."

"But it changed, Lexi. Mommy changed it to look like her so we would never forget."

That was it. I snatched the figurine from her fingers and slammed it back onto the sill. Then I took Gabby and lifted her from the seat. “Gabby, I don’t know what you’re trying to do. Are you trying to creep me out? Or are you just really confused? Mommy is dead, Gabby. She is never coming back.”