Cars and the idiots that drive them

I knew his car was going to hit mine about two seconds too late. Two seconds did squat. Perfect right?

Reflexes are for contemplation, not for use in the actual moment of need. Or at least that's what I found out last night.

Had just gotten off work, good shift, the boss man made me laugh. Had Wendy's sea salt fries, was helpful to customers. Found Twilight's third book for a lady that was going to give it to her son, not sure if I'm overly proud of that fact. But I was useful, see. I was adult, right? I did things on my own!
Left turn, signaled, two cars behind me went right around me, no trouble.

Rear view mirrors are the same as reflexes, too little too late. He hit me, going about 40mph, and it felt pitiful weak in comparison to the damage both of our cars sustained. Like bumper cars except I felt like crying and screaming less than complementary stuff and flexing my fingers till glass shards popped out the knuckles. And then beating his careless self.

It hurt. I got out of the car, rubber legs, breath coming in short gasps rather than ones that would actually keep the oxygen in my lungs. I wish I hadn't skipped lunch....and dinner, I wish I hadn't had pop for breakfast.

Was it raining? Of course. Was it bitter cold, you know it. Are there tiny violins prancing around my head as I type? A plethora of them.

"This blows." He grunted, hands on head. He squatted down by his mangled car. It dripped clear fluid like a fresh wound bleeds red. It died a quick and hopefully painless death. I am guilt free because I didn't try to drive it under another person's car, mainly mine. He them proceeded to try to pull the hood of his car off his steaming engine.

I know nothing about cars but I should've said, "Hey bud! Quick questions for ya! If you managed to knock out all the dents in your car would that fix your problems? Lemme answer that for you, NO. YOU TRASHED YOUR CAR! IT IS DEADER THEN MY HOPES OF EVER OWNING A PONY ARE!"

But I agreed with his "This blows." comment.

"Yes," I murmured cleverly, "Yes it does."

He apologized, then apologized again. And I agreed with him once more, "Yes. Yes you are."
WHAT AN AGREEABLE PAIR WE ARE!

Fortunatly an emergency vehicle flashed up and parked in back of us, I walked unsteadily over to him and weakly smiled.

"Hi there." GAH SO CLEVER AND WITTY JANELLE. so witty.

"You want me to call the police?" He asked, his eyes were kindly brown. But I acted tough, sniffled a tad and then nodded in thanks, "That would be great."

He smiled slightly and started to dial.

I walked back over to my car.

"You ok?" The guy asked me tentatively.

I did my best to keep my laughter 'crazy' free. Did my darnedest. "Yeah. Great. You?"

Keepin it pleasent till the bobbies show up. Nice.

They finally did, I was grateful, I don't know of anyone who enjoys making small talk to the guy who just trashed you parent's car, myself included.


So I sat in my car, and gave the police my sorry tale of woe, and swallowed back tears as Hannah distracted me with amusing antidotes.

Click, click, click. Went the emergency lights.

"The only 'B' I ever got at Harper was from that guy!" Hannah chirped, she was leaning close to me, not touching, but reassuring none the less. "He went on strike!" She laughed.


Hannah has greeny blue eyes and they are quite comforting. Hannah is my panther sister. Hannah is my 'every thing will be ok sister' kind of sister. Hannah was a good person to have called.


Drive the car home, burning rubber.

I can still remember the sight, I should probably try to forget. But it was one of those searing moments. the ones that your like 'Oh, never going to forget this!'
Remembering what a egg I am. Fragile, prone to crack. Easily strewn out on blacktop.

If I had my wheels turned I would've been pushed right onto Northwest Highway. 5:00.

God is good. The ending to all stories. God is always good.

So close...

49,239


Great leaping fish. Just over 10,000 to go.

Like a green leaf turns brown and drops to the floor

Like an ocean tide, I won’t be no more

Like the end of breath, the new one begins

The new color comes, the old one rescinds 

So close indeed. But my brain recently slammed its door in my face and I heard it laughing behind the wood work. The little troll....

I'll get him. My brain is a him, most of the time. And if you think that's odd then you should come visit sometime. 

It struck me to day that I have happiness bursts. Strange, yes? They're like heart attacks only...not painful and...not at all like a heart attack actually. But when they strike no amount of my scolding an thinking 'grim' will stifle them. Usually I just grin like a abnormally tall Gremlin, lips twisting like I just ate the sugar out of the bottom of a sour skittle bag. Quite embarrassing. 

For example, went to Hobby Lobby for some art supplies and one jumped me. I ended up wriggling with unexplainable joy for a good three seconds, made a few small children cry...just joking. Not really. 

But it's physical, like a shot of adrenalin. And there is usually no logical reason for them!! I was buying art supplies for Harper Homework. And no, that does not usually send me into thralls of joy. I suppose it could be worse. Unless I start cackling, that would only further the whole Gremlin image I'm NOT going for.
:)P GOTCHA BRAIN. HAHA! FOOT IN THE DOOR. I'M OFF TO FINISH THE BOOK!

ll/ll/ll 11:11 PM.

It feels strange. Strange that I will never write that series of numbers again. Unless there are pens in heaven.

Howl night.

Wave night.
Nerves crackling like Saint Elmo's fire.
Twas splendid. Surrounded by people I love to be with.
We were crazy- wake the neighbors- wolf howl- 11:11- kinda people last night.

Oh the costumes, they made me glad. Prance about and scream that everyone looked as goofy as I. And no one minded. It's good for insanity to have company.

My house was covered in people I love. Surrounding. Constant waves of smiles, touches, jokes.

Perform a Shakespeare kinda skit. Grabbed the laughs and stuffed them in my pockets to crunch and munch on later. My sister Alison is a rocky star.

Epic night.
Thanks one and all.

And now I'm insane....

Well, crazier than usual.

Dear nanorimo, you are a horribly efficient slave driver. Thanks for munching and crunching up all my free time.

BUT 26,000 WORDS! I MAKE PROGRESS. Yes I do...

I'm not technically doing nanorimo right, I started my novel in late Octoberish and will have the first draft of Turpintown done on the 20th of November! Whoowhoo. (me as an excited train) Red and tree jumpers and humming! OH AND POETRY! Much excitement. Muchly.
But no, I didn't really complete a novel in a month, just about. :)

Small excerpt:

There’s an island in the sea

With a cherry red tide

Lots of trees, lots of brush

But no safe place to hide

On those forest covered hills

Rooted in the blood hue soil

There are vicious, joint less monsters

That don’t like you at all

Faces blank as slates

You wish you never saw

Keep your eyes out of their gaze

Or they’ll snap your gaping jaw

The island is their life blood

Their voices, high pitched vowels

Abandon thoughts of mercy

Beware the humming Howls

SNIPPETY SNIPPET! 
84 pages. Longest I've ever written.


Also I am now administrator of Top Shelf Books open mic! Whoot! Come to the next one! Dec 8th! Thurs night! It will grand and splendid!

Where art the Female Villains?

Listening to 'Jail House Rock' And speaking of which; female villains. We really weren't on that topic but crime ladies and incareration tend to go hand in hand.
Question being posed; why aren't there more female villains in our books/movie/ everyday life (joking...hehe....ehehe.)  I mean REAL villains! None of this spandex-bathing-suit-catwomen crud. I feel like there is a gap in our fictional baddies. Where is the intelligent, slightly crazed, weapon trained, hard core villainess? This needs to be addressed. I think women have the same potential to be as imposing as men, granted in a different way. If only Hollywood would quit ruining them with skimpy outfits and put them into something they could move in practically. Also when they hit things aka flying objects, chunks of metal, other people, PLEASE DON'T MAKE THEM SQUEAL. Erg...


That's my beef. And it's a random one to be sure.

Signed up for NANORIMO. No one will see my face in the month of November. I suppose that's were my frustration stemmed from. Been reading current YA fiction that's on the market. Not encouraging. We need villainess'...preferably with brains.  Or any female character that doesn't whine that she isn't pretty or special...and then two chapters later discover that WHAT? I AM SPECIAL?  Also every boy within a 78 mile radius is smitten with her. Am I talking about Bella Swan. No. Well yes. THAT AUTHOR IS STINKING RICH?!
Ps. I was going to write a snarky spoof entitled Zombie Journal : My extra ordinary life in a small town where nothing interesting ever happens and also no boy will ever look twice at me because of my extreme awkwardness. Oh and I journal. So that means I'm artsy. (this may be several current books/ movies combined)
It would go something to the tune of:

In the small town of Ridldwithzombis there lived a moody, hair absorbed, slightly old fashioned tween age boy named Deadward. And an equally hair absorbed, more than moody, slightly awkward girl named Estelle. The met, were awkward times two and fell hopefully, irrationally, stupidly in love. They went on many adventures in which their love almost got them slaughtered on many occasions. The end.

Cash. Money in my bank. Oh, but wait...RING RING. Already been wrote. Dang it all.

I'll try again later with another mythical creature.

bloom

You know those moments, the ones that don't happen very often, when God literally hands you a gift. Plop.
I feel that an extraordinary something has been laid in my hands. Its like holding a child and with that all the possibilities of what it will be, could be, someday will be, someday....
Like a late birthday present or free stuff at stores, unexpected.
This is a strange feeling. Being given a chance.
Bloom.
Blooming. Seeing something you've wanted for forever and ever and it's finally, maybe, could be sliding with in reach.
I feel like crying and screaming and dying my hair white and jumping off a roof and eating a whole jar of nutella and kissing all of my friends, repeatedly. But then I over exaggerate.
And all this came of a tension day. A nerves day. Just goes to show you that God works when HE wills and what he wills.

Mad I Am

Mad I Am

I’m mad as a hatter

Mad I am

Mercury breath and shaky hands

Eyes as wild as a brawling man

I’m mad as a hatter

Sad I am

Joker grin and pumpkin hair

Nothing but a young’in that I dare scare

I’m mad as a hatter

Sam I am

Coat of green and spider legs

Dormouse poem, tea drunk to the dregs

I’m mad as a hatter

Damn I am

Lead colored eyes, absolutely no plan

Try to find an Alice, let’s see if I can

I’m mad as a hatter

Mad I am

Mercury, hats, unbirthday plans

This crazy world spins at a flick from my hands

Also poem. To complete this mad morning.

Roofers should be done away with....

Well, hello there!

And what's that sound reaching my newly waken ears? A dozen grubby boots? A thousand tinkling hammer

strikes? Hark! Loud brutish, trampers, prancing and dancing upon my roof like so many Christmas Reindeer.
VOOM!

ALL ROOFERS SHOULD BE QUIETER.

it's not like there tearing up our roof or anything. Not that hard guys....anyhoo. That's been my morning. I'm

positive that my brain will duplicate the sound once these bounders have left. Also I was asleep when they

started so once I woke up I rolled out of bed, absolutely stunning, as anyone who has just woken up from the

crappiest sleep of the century is bound to do! RUN ON SENTENCE! Long and short my window was

open, like wide open, no blinds open, in my PJs open. Thank God I didn't have my contacts in or I would

have seen their horrified, eyes burning faces. I should have just snarled MEDUSA IS HERE! and slammed

the curtains. But one or more of them might have fallen off the roof and lawsuits are nasty little beasts.

I'm off to get some coffee...also my snake wig, because opportunities should never be wasted....but that's just me.

Prowl

it's a moon night
full night
teeth and fur and fangs night
different set of limbs night

it's a run night
rush night
sneak and break a lock night
different view of blood night

it's a frenzy night
feeling night
senses, smells reeling night
chew on something different night


it's a headache morn
early morn
jaw and hands aching morn
different sleeping place morn

it's a shrieking morn
village torn
neighbors find a body morn
find out what you've done morn

it's a touching day
hell day
hold your friends and family day
keep your secret hidden day

it's a mourning day
bell day
walking in wailing line day
another laid to rest day

it's a long day
skulk day
hide your rust shade fingers day
don't talk ill of dead day

it's a dark night
finally night
shake and stretch and growl night
predator eyes and prowl night

it's a red night
moon night
what big eyes and ears night
do it all again night

Ergle Gergle

Hannah left today.
Am I less than pleased with this? You could say that....
Was I mature adult and did I say goodbye politely. Of course....
It's just that...SHE'S OVER THE POND NOW! Far, much to far away for me to physically harm anyone who messes with her. Yep, me and my big biceps.
IF ANYONE IN IRELAND IS READING THIS TAKE CARE OF HER FOR ME! I'm shouting cause it's so far away.
 grrr.

Wrote today. Yes indeedee...it was lovely.

And now I'm in AUTOCAD class. My teacher looks like C.S. Lewis. Kinda uncanny...


I'm in class so I should stop blogging...kbye.

And the House That Killed Me.

This is an introduction to a (hopefully) novel length book! Let me know what you think! It's a tad dark...but it ends well. I think so..... I have yet to write the ending! :)




AND THE HOUSE THAT KILLED ME

       I loved them from first moment their shoes touched my floorboards. I loved their strides and the way they ran their hands over my walls as if they owned me. Humans are beautifully stupid creatures.

They were lovely to watch, all full skirts and petty squabbles. Quaint.

There is a cook, a plump, bustling woman. She doesn’t suspect a thing.

Two small females, maids I think. Their thoughts are on little else but the house gossip.

A man and a woman and a tiny little one, boy or girl I don’t know.

There is also a footman and a gardener. They don’t like me much. They flinch whenever I settle or creak. Both together might pose a problem. The gardener can wield an ax.

‘And they all lived together in a crooked little house’

And they are mine. Imperfect though they may be.  I watched them through my knotholes and cracks in my walls and floors. They are dolls and I’m their house.

              

          The cook falls right into rhythm.  As if they’d never even moved.  I love the smells that come from her dishes. Basil, lemon, leek. Sometimes I open my doors for her when she is carrying heavy trays. But she doesn’t like that much. Unnerves her.  Gravy leaks through the cranks in my planking. I wish I had lips to lick.

        The footman is stone, like the ones I’m built on.  Unflinching and stoic. He intrigues me. Even creaking floors and banging doors do not intimidate him.  One night I sent a splinter of wood through his little toe while he prepared for bed. He just looked down, pulled the shard out and tossed it out his window. No shrieks.  It annoyed me. But then I was distracted by his blood slipping through the boards. I wish I had lips to lick.

         The gardener is all vines and dirt and handfuls of grubs. He comes through my door as little as possible. I swear if he stayed too long indoors he’d graft into my wood since he must be mostly plant.

 He cares nothing for humans. He’s hardly spoken a handful of sentences to his employers since he moved into me. I see him, though not very well since he doesn’t come near me unless he has to.  He talks to the vines as though they were sisters and the roses his lover. I wish he would talk to me.

           The maids are funny, flighty creatures.  All engrossed in the new styles and their mistresses fashionable dresses. I can tell they know each other from long before they came to me. Childhood friends. What a pity they are not more interesting.

          The infant is loud. I can feel the moisture in my wood squeeze out with every shrill scream it lets out. I have decided that I don’t like it much.  I can’t see how the parents love it? It’s a mess of spit and cotton and useless tiny limbs. I’m almost tempted to release the parents of their burden but I don’t think the women would be best pleased. I will endure the infant for as long as I have to.

            The female mother is not at all unbearable. She is the most radiant human I have ever seen.  Much like the painted ladies that hang on my walls. Her face is chiseled and ghostly pale, with eyes like chips of jade. Small, dainty hands, quick with a needle. She has hung many of her embroideries on my walls. I spend hours looking at each tiny stitch, each individual color.  Blues, pearls and yellows. She puts effortless beauty into me. Something I’ve been with out for years.

              The man father intrigues me most of all. He is as nondescript a human as I have ever seen. Neither tall nor short, yet he commands a room as if he were a warlord and they his army. They follow his orders immediately, without fear, without hesitation.

He is incredibly intelligent. You can see it in the way he reads through books, in the way he counsels his friends and the way he approaches an obstacle. 

          He doesn’t take any notice of me. This, surprisingly so, doesn’t anger me as I thought it would. It only gives me a faint longing feeling, to make him notice me. Maybe someday he will.

Numbers, numbers. Thousands of them in rows. I stole a sheet from off his desk, blew it off with a gust from a door slam. It fell through me and I could see more of the writing. Numbers and then letters. He works at a bank. A building. One besides me. If I had teeth I would tear it apart.

          They are all fascinating in their own way. My favorite time is dinner. When they are all seated, when I can see them all. The gardener who doesn’t talk. The maids who talk too much. The cook that never stops moving and the footman who never hurries. And then the three. The man, the women and their squalling infant. It’s like a moving painting. Each character painted out in vivid color and detail for the enjoyment of their viewer. Me.

Weeks pass. I become fonder of them every day. I see each every flaw, the words that get their tempers stoked and the things that make them happy.  The mother’s joy is her infant although I can’t imagine why. I watch her talk to it. It never responds, only stares insolently at her. It has to be at least a year old, why doesn’t it speak? I was awake while they constructed me, and long before that.

         The gardener knows. I’m sure of it. I’m what gets his temper stoked. Each subtle creak, every whispering corner makes him more and more angry. He knows but won’t say, won’t admit to what he feels. He will be the first to snap.

I sent another splinter though the footman’s toe. This time he swore. Long, in one sharply inhaled breath.  His nails dug into me and I relished in the pain. This footman amuses me. I will continue to torment him until his feet can no longer do a footman’s job.

       The maids are easily played with. It takes only a slowly opening door or a dark shadow darting to make them afraid. They are convinced that I’m haunted. I was once. But even ghost can’t abide me for very long. They sleep together now, convinced that ghost won’t bother two together. Ghosts aren’t deterred with quantities. I know.

         The cook is uneasy. I’ve opened one too many doors for her. She can no longer blame it on the breeze. I saw her resignation notice lying on her counter.  Another opening door blew it down to me. How dare she think of leaving me? I wish I had teeth.

         The man needs neither me to scare him or his crying infant to distract him; he is already consumed with problems at work. His numbers are what drives him mad. I only settle back and watch. His desk is piled with letters. Notices and statements. These get burned soon after I get a glimpse of them. He is nervous now. Always jumping when I move.  He is hiding something. Something from me? I will not be pleased if he keeps it from me for much longer.

        A guest came into me. This is rare. I hardly ever get visitors. Not because I don’t want them but because the father man doesn’t let them come. This must have been an important one because I’ve never seen the house in such a state, so much food and of the finest quality too. After the dinner the father man and the guest went up into my study. It was there that I knew why not many guests came to me. I never like any of them. And this guest was no exception. He was loud and rude. Like the infant. He spoke of failure and of incompetence and something to do with the police. The father man turned as white as the female mother. But not scared white, angry white. The father man shakily poured himself a drink, and then poured his guest one as well. The guest was smiling in a way I did not like. Then he downed his glass in one gulp.  Humans are bizarre things. They take naps on my floors while their friends stand and watch. Then the blood and wine came trickling down to me. Blood. Blood mixed with something. Or was it wine mixed with something? Bitter. If I had a mouth I would spit. Then I came to me. The father man had murdered.

          That night the father man pulled the body out into the grounds. He pulled up the gardener’s sisters and lover and buried the body deep, deep. I watched, and was sickened. How dare he kill? How dare he murder my guest. My human visitor. Did the father man think I enjoyed his company any more than the guests?

I tucked myself deep into my foundation and thought. What to do? How to act? The father man had to tell the rest of them, that much I knew for certain. I would not have my dolls lying to each other. Yes. I would start with that.

              The next day I sent a mirror crashing down at the father man. He screamed, nerves already raw with stress. Then, making my voice appear to be coming from one of my many statues, I whispered. Tell them what you have done.

             The father stood, paralyzed with fear.  He reached out and touched the lips of the statue. Then he grabbed its white head and pulled it to the ground where it shattered into large, chalky chunks. I laughed.

Do you think that I’m a statue to be knocked about? I am the walls you touch and the floors you stand on.

The man began to shake in fear. It pleased me. Tell them.

“Tell who?” The man groaned, holding his hands in the air in supplication.

Tell her.

The female walked in, whiter than usual. She hesitantly walked into the room and the asked quietly, “Who were you talking to?”

I waited, already knowing his answer. He wouldn’t tell her. Wouldn’t risk being thought mad.

“Nothing.” He said, all in a rush, his gaze everywhere but on her.

I sighed, making the chunks of marble vibrate and roll on the floor.

             The next morning I removed the floorboards that were outside the maid’s room. I can’t tell them apart but the one that woke first broke both legs. Fell a great distance. Fell on the cooks counter.

My dolls seethed like an upset wasp nest. People falling over each other in order to fetch the doctor, the mistress, the master.  He knew it was me. Floor boards don’t usually move of their own accord.

I was really surprised that the girl lived. I had planned a death but what had happened would suit my purpose just as well. The doctor came and went.

I let the father wait. Let weeks pass while he stewed and his insides gnawed at him.  Sooner or later he would give in and tell them. And then we could go back to how things were. To when he was happy.

But not yet. Not until he confesses. If there are any secrets to be kept I, and I alone, will keep them. I’m the crooked house.

He is stronger than I suspected.  Three weeks passed and the father man has said nothing. Only writes and writes his numbers. Numbers. And sometimes, when he thinks I’m not looking, he opens a small leather book. The color of the female’s eyes. Another writing book. I think he is writing about me.

I grow impatient. The footman knows.  So I won’t kill him first.  I tipped the cook’s pot of soup on her while her back was turned.  That was not such a pleasant smell.

The uproar from the first ‘accident’ was nothing compared to this one.  The infant awoke to screams. Cook’s screams. There was a great deal of fuss in which the father did nothing but stand in his room, shocked and very white. Not angry white, terrified white.

Then an amusing thing happened. The human man tried to be sneaky. With me watching! He tried to get out of me. He grabbed his wife and his screaming child and ran for my door.

Does he not know that I can keep him in as easily as I can let him out?

So I locked my doors. All of them.

Now the whole house was in a blind panic. All of them had been inside for the evening dinner meal.  The gardener, now cut off from his plants, settled into a state of mute shock. The footman switched feet. Afraid of splinters. The maids cried. But they always do this. The cook moaned and groaned, a good deal quieter than the infant.

And still, some didn’t suspect. Couldn’t, or perhaps wouldn’t see it. Maybe the door was jammed. Maybe some neighbor boy had wedged something underneath the door. All of them. 

Tell them. Was my ongoing refrain. But the man would only sob and shake his head and choke out. “You don’t understand. I’d be ruined.”

More ruined than you are now?

He wouldn’t. And it made me livid to think that, maybe he never would. He wouldn’t because of his pride. And the fact that I was hurting his family didn’t matter.

So maybe hurting wasn’t working.  I would try a different method.

The gardener saw me coming. My planks are not very quiet. I tried to lift them without creaking but he saw me and turned around. Saw the shard of wood looming over him like some otherworldly demon bent on destruction. His ax did him no good. I didn’t even feel it. 

Then the maids, but there were sleeping.

 I waited till morning. Not thinking about what I had done but only how to break my stubborn liar.

Morning dawned and three of the dolls were dead.

God, I’ve never heard such screams. And In the midst of all the emotion and all the terror, the father man stood, utterly blank. As if the bodies of his staff meant nothing to him. As if it wasn’t his fault. Then he did a horribly, unanticipated thing. He turned to my fireplace, grabbed a chunk of smoldering wood and shoved it up against up a wall. And then he grabbed another, and another. It was my turn to be shocked. He was trying to win. Like a rat attacking his cage. Or a murderer his noose.

I smelled burning me.  The wall hangings that I dropped snuffed out two logs but the rest began to blaze up in a wickedly, hungry way.

Put those out or your women cook dies.

They all heard me, and for a full minute they simply stood, dumbstruck by the realization.  Then the doorman limped over to each log and stamped on them till they were put out. 

“Stop!” The father man screamed at his servant. He rushed over to the first of the snuffed logs, hoping no doubt, to rekindle them.

I lifted one of my boards and the father man ran full force into it, then he slid to the ground, unconscious. In that position he looked even more helpless and doll like. My stupid, stubborn doll. And he was hurting himself.  If I had eyes I would cry.

He woke a half hour later. He woke to the prone body of footman, lying near one of the stifled logs. He could not see the cook’s.

The female with her infant and her lovely green eyes looked at me. But she had no idea where to look. Up, down, left. It made no difference. I could see her quite well from any wall or any board I chose.

The father got up and whipped crusted blood of his nose. With a dazed expression he pointed stupidly at the body of his footman.

“Dead?” He asked.

The footman’s legs were broken, clearly broken. And his neck was similarly position. It was a stupid question.

The jade eyes blinked once, filled with tears and then squeezed shut. One tear, not very big, slid down her white cheek and landed noiselessly on my boards.

I wish I had lips to lick.

She started to move towards him but a soft rumble from me stopped her mid-step.

Tell her I whispered, watching them both closely.

The man drew a shaky breath. And then another.  As if breathing would communicate the message he didn’t want to vocalize. He took a third breath.

“For God’s sake tell me!” His wife screamed.

He was taken aback and he stepped forward to ask her what was wrong.

“Don’t come closer.” She gasped, throwing her free hand out. As she did this the father man’s head shot down, distracted by some movement. My movement.

My floor boards have many states that they can assume. The ones immediately beneath the female had the consistency of wet paper. Weak and prone to tear.

Now the female was crying. Clutching her infant to her like a talisman. Many more of her tears hit me.

“God. No.” The man whispered.

Then sinking to his knees he told her the whole story. It spilled out of him like blood from a wound.

But then he ended the story with ‘I would’ve told you, I swear.”

He would have told her?

I wish I could scream. Scream at that little doll liar. Bellow, that no! He never would have told her! It took five peoples deaths to even get him to this point. It was a damnable, damnable lie.

And I would make him sorry.

Paper is weak, made weaker by any form of liquid. The female mother was a good deal heavier than paper.  They dropped. Almost slowing. The first falling leaves.  Almost no noise when they hit the bottom.

The man, still on his knees, watched. His face once again expressionless. Only this time I knew why.

He walked over the floorboards, which I quickly hardened. Then he walked up the stairs. I followed. He ran towards my bedroom. I hurried after him, not liking the look on his face.

What was he--?

No. I whispered.

The father man had grabbed one of his wife’s silk scarves that had been lying on the banister railing.  With a sick feeling I ran after him, now knowing what he was about to do.  I threw up my boards, but he dodged them. I twisted my railing trying to grab at his hands but he eluded me every time.

Wait, wait, wait. I cried.  

Then, faster than I would’ve thought possible, he slammed my bedroom door open and grabbed the nearest chair. The scarf was already knotted; all he had to do was step.

And he did.

No! I screamed, trying to grab at him, trying to make him stop swinging like a damned marionette….doll.

But no matter how I strained, his feet were just out of my reach, and no matter how I thrashed the beam he was hanging on was resolutely stable.

I wish I had eyes to cry with.

Where the Wild Things Are

Some etsy poems and some etsy links to go along with them!








http://www.etsy.com/listing/79494854/where-the-wild-things-are




i roam with the wild things
the things with wild hair
their wild eyes search you
and find what isn't there


their mouths are wild big
and their teeth are something scary
their big furry paws
are black as well as hairy


but the wild understand me
we are kith and we are kin
i know the wild way
they'll stay through thick and thin.






http://www.etsy.com/listing/79493960/harlequin 


now you see me
soon you won't
i sneak unseen
thick masked by smoke

i'm black and blue
like bruise on skin
i'll never be caught
i'm harlequin

Hey Faith write with me?

Story idea that a friend and I came up with.

I’m a watcher.  Always watching.

My pane of glass ever-changing, entertaining. Clear blue water speckled with diamond toned life.

Robin’s egg.

Ribbons of pale seaweed knot and unravel in front of my view. Fish, like jewels off a necklace, stud the 

Other Places iron, gray walls. 

The building shivers, haunting and unreachable just in sight but just out of my reach. Sunk just enough 

that we can’t connect. Atlantis split. Iron towers thrown into the sea. Separated by literally an ocean. 

And twelve feet. 

I see things, in the Other Place. Flashes of reds, blacks, and pale golds through a window identical to my 

own.  The same circle.

I wish I could visit. Or switch the fates that dragged me into the tower I now reside. 

They look happy. The grins passing their window make me ache for company and curse the pulling 

currents of the sea.  Why alone? All I have is the automated food bots that hover by me when meal time 

arrives. And they don’t make noise. Sometimes I scream and lash against the walls because the cold 

silence of my home is agony.  I revel in the din. Makes me feel alive. Like the Other Place’s smiles. 

After the echoes die I press myself back against my window hoping for a glimpse of color. 

Sometimes the Merfolk tease me. They slap their webby hands against the glass, startling me. Then they 

flutter away hands outstretched, inviting me to dance.  Their billowy hair, peach and mint colored, 

mixing with the passing fish and ship debris. Sometimes I see them attack a passing ship. Over in 

seconds. Their muscled tails whipping for the surface. My water colors red on those days.

But Merfolk bore quickly and I’m left alone with my silent view. A bot zips by and I absentmindedly 

eat, not hungry. Not hungry for this.   It floats away and I kick at it. Missing.

A muffled crack reaches my ears and I rush back to my view. There is a girl and a boy. Young, grinning, 

touching hands and lips. They smash against their window oblivious of anything but each other.  They 

are fire like I haven’t seen in years.  The girl tires, pushing away the laughing boy away.

An opportunity. I scream and pound on the glass, bruising palms and startling fish.  The girl turns. 

Slowly. I nearly sob with the shock of being noticed, eye contact. She is stunning, not beautiful but alive, 

happy. She waves at me like I’ve known her my whole life. She grabs her shirt collar and points at me 

then gives a thumbs up. She likes my shirt. I begin to cry. My shirt is gray, ugly. She is polite. I give her 

thumbs up back, awkwardly. Not sure of what else to mime. She turns her head, bobbing it to an 

unheard beat. Turning back to me she waves good bye.

No. I plaster my face against the glass. Desperate. What’s your name? Pound on glass. What’s your 

name?  Her eyes brighten with realization. She laughs, puts her hand on the window, mirroring mine. 

Ida.

She smiles at her over annunciated vowels. Then she simply turned and danced away. 

My exhaled breath echoes around the iron room expanding and growing with each reverberation as if 

there are many more crushed at her leaving. 

I don’t leave my window now. I just wait, nearly sick with the tension, knowing? hoping? uncertain? 

that she will come back. 

I note the passage of time by the whirring of the food bots, the hard clicks of machinery with in the walls 

and the water slowly dimming to a darker blue.  

The Merfolk come to visit me. They bare their wicked fangs and swim in slow taunting circles. They 

could get me if they wanted to.  They only needed to crack my glass window with a piece of sunken 

metal and reach through with their inhuman, pale hands. But they won’t. I know their cruelty. They 

know keeping me in my iron tower will prolong my suffering. On one occasion they pulled up an iron 

bar from one of their many ship victims, sand shifting off of it like an hour glass. Their ribbon tales 

propelled them over to the Other Place. The other window. I hadn’t been struck but my breath rushed 

out of me. My shrieks of horror echoed around the tower and I slapped the glass in a crazed panic. One 

of them swam up to me, milky eyes widening in a mocking question.  His weirdly jointed finger lazily 

pointed at the source of my panic. 

Please, please, please, please. Don’t.

He just stared, animal eyes. The rest swim with shattering force toward the window then at the last 

minute then let the bar fall, disappearing into the murky depths. 

I cry on those days. Both hands on the window, shaking more from self-pity than from fear. I try not to 

think about what I almost lost. I ignore the food bots on those days. 

After days? Weeks? of waiting, she appears. Suddenly. Banging on her window like the Merfolk bang 

on mine.  

I gasp with joy, all coherent thoughts escaping me. 

Ida laughs. Her dark eyes studying me, like she’s watching an animal at a zoo. Interested. Unemotional. 

No clue that seeing her is the only happy moment I’ve had since the sea swallowed my ship two years 

past.  

We talk. Haltingly. Simple question. Colors. Books. How old she is? Family? We ask everything that 

comes to mind like young children first meeting. Unabashedly nosey. It seemed like hours passed but 

really it had only been minutes, and my new friend bores quickly.  She leaves, onto the next enclosure. 

Exhibit. 

I can’t blame her. I’m about as interesting as a corpse. Metal coffin. Buried at sea. 

But she comes back, again and again. I know her middle name now. And the name of who used to 

captain her ship. And how many friends she’s made in her tower.  She was happy. Her coffin was fun, 

her coffin was populated.  I’ll bet she’d never rubbed her knuckles raw just to feel something. Anything? 

I didn’t hate her. Couldn’t. Only felt some vague sense of….loss. I relished her visits. Needed her visits. 

They added some sort of rhythm to my timeless life. I began to envy, in a calm, placid way, the life she 

led. The colors, the companionship, the interesting things she could do in her half of iron Atlantis. 

But what could I do? Even if I managed to pry open the air locked door to my prison it was impossible 

that I could swim to the Other Place. The pressure would kill me.

So I sat, and watched, grafted into my metal seat.

One day when the Merfolk turned the water scarlet Ida came to her window. Face framed by a metal 

ring. She was livid, almost spitting with the intensity of her words. I couldn’t understand her, tapped 

anxiously on the glass trying to get her to slow down. Annunciate.  She turned her head towards 

something to her right and spoke three words. Clear as day. She said them so that I could understand her. 

Don’t. You. Dare.

When he stabbed her I hardly noticed. The knife went in so easy. And she made no move to stop him. 

The thin trickled of blood sliding down her chin was the only indication that something was wrong.  She 

fell, almost in slow motion. Ida slammed against the window leaving harsh red streaks where she slid. 

She sat, huddled against the window, hands clawing the glass in agony. Her eyes slid shut for a moment 

then they opened, now horribly milky. Merfolk eyes. She tapped on the glass trying to get a sense of 

where she was facing. Then she mouthed.

I’m so sorry

Her back arched in pain and the red streaks were smeared. 

So…so sorry you saw that.

She pulled herself closer to the window, attempting a smile as she wiped some of the blood off the 

window. 

I found I was crying. No sound, silent, almost unnoticeable grief. It was if she knew how much it would 

hurt me, knew how lonely I’d been, and she was sorry for me. Sorry she was going to die in my view. 

My mouth felt sticky, salt filled. I wiped my eyes and mouth, not wanting her last sight to be of me 

sniveling. I tapped on the glass.

Hey.

Her face split into a lopsided smile.

Hey you.

Are you in much pain?

Another drip of blood joined the others that were trailing down her chin. 

Not much.

Liar.

She laughed, more drips. Then she died, laughing, eyes slid shut.

I threw up, physically sick by what I’d seen. But I didn’t move. Hoping that maybe she’d wake up. 

Maybe the wound wasn’t that deep. Maybe she could talk to me again? 

I couldn’t be alone again. Couldn’t go back to smashing the food bots against the walls just to feel 

something.   

So I stayed. And I will. Till Ida wakes up. Till the bots stop coming. Till the Merfolk bore enough  to 

break my window.