Monday, May 25, 2009

Another Odd Bit of Poetry


Welcome home, she said,
and I said nothing.
I’ve been here before,
standing in the family ties -
the family lies.

The spoils of war on your face
in the lines you wish I didn’t see,
but I’m not blind anymore,
or easily led.

Like a soldier home from war,
I am jaded,
and hard.

Maybe too hard.

Maybe not hard enough
for your poison.

Welcome home, she said,
and she said and she said.
My words mean nothing
and I’ve known it all along.

Saturday, May 23, 2009

Mad World

I do not watch American Idol, but my son sent this link to me. I've always loved this song, but this guy's voice gave me chills so I thought I would share:

Mad World

Sunday, May 17, 2009

On WIPs and Red-haired Stepchildren

The new WIP is unfolding fast. I feel like my fingers cannot keep up with my brain. It stands at 16.5k. Not bad, considering I started it on May 6th. It's nice and dark and very fun to write. Which leads me to this train of thought -

Why is darkness such a horrible thing? Why are scary tales the red-haired stepchild in the corner? No matter how well written, horror tales are considered pulp and rubbish by many and my god, why do you want to write that stuff?

I didn't wake up one day and say "I want to write scary, horrible things". They are simply what my muse pushes up to the surface. I’ve tried to write happy, shiny tales. I swear, I have. They were rubbish.

I like the things that go bump in the night. They hide sharp knives behind their backs and have daggerteeth and rottensweet skin, but they keep me company.

I want to lure someone into a story, scare the crap out of them, and maybe leave behind a nightmare or two. Or a nervous look over the shoulder at the sound of a strange noise.

That's all I want. Really.

Wednesday, May 13, 2009

Belinda Blue

It’s dark.

Mommy makes me stay here, by myself. Sometimes the spiders come out to play. I like them. They tickle my skin. Mommy says I’m bad and that is why I have to stay here. I’m only five and the dark is scary, but I have to stay quiet.

Mommy says so.

The walls are very close. If I stretch out my arms, I can almost touch them. They are cold, too. I hear water. It makes a funny sound as it drips. It makes me laugh, but I have to be quiet. I have to be good. I can be a good girl. I can smile and play with my doll.

Mommy is walking upstairs. Her shoes make funny clicks on the floor. They make six clicks, then stop. Then six more. Funny little clicks. They sound like rain drops on the roof. Last night, rain was falling. Big, fat raindrops. Like Mommy’s tears.

She is angry now. Her voice is like a cloud, going up and up and up. It’s not her phone voice, not her good voice. It’s scary.

It smells funny. Like stinky water. Maybe it’s spider poop.

Mommy says if I cry, I have to stay in here longer. I don’t cry. I want to play with my doll, but Mommy says I can’t have her with me. I was bad and I can’t have my doll when I’m bad.

Mommy’s feet aren’t clicking anymore, but she is still using her big, grown-up voice. Not the nice Mommy voice. She might forget and leave me here in the dark. I’m afraid of the dark. It is too big. I am too little.

I’m not afraid of the spiders. They keep me company. They make a squishy noise when I push them with my fingers.

I did a bad thing. Mommy says so.

My dress is dirty. Mommy will be mad. She’ll use the big voice again. I don’t want to hear the big voice. I want to hear the little voice. Mommy’s little voice is hugs and cookies. I like that voice.

Mommy says she will let me out if I’m a good girl and stay very quiet. I try to be a good girl, but it’s hard.

I only wanted to play doctor. Johnny was going to go first, but he was scared. He is a silly boy. We played operation. Johnny cried and I got in trouble.

Next time I will be more careful. I will be a good girl. I won’t use a knife.

I promise.

Tuesday, May 12, 2009

More Poetry

Tonight on Twitter, I composed a few bits of flash poetry. Just random words and phrases so I thought I would post them here. Work on the new tale is going well. I managed 1,700 words yesterday and about 1,600 today. I've got almost 8,000 words so far. Not bad considering I started last week.

With words like weapons, I strike.
Right into the soft, waiting flesh.
You wince, but do not turn away.
I am wicked and cruel, yet I smile.

There is peace in this silence.
It stands watch.
We watch for shadows.
We watch for rain and hope.


Darkness falls and I raise my hands to my face.
These are a stranger's hands.
I do not know myself.
I know this and I cry.

When whispers turn screams, I beg for respite.
For silence.
Nothing falls but your hands.
They are liars and my skin your bitter canvas.

Saturday, May 2, 2009

Something different

This was composed in my head while standing on the back porch, having a smoke. It was inspired by some things in my daughter's life. It needs more work, I think, but I thought I would post it here anyway.


Do you see this hole in my heart?
This is where you used to live.
The top curve, so small and neat,
is where you cut the first time.
A small little cut.
it did not bleed,
but my eyes gave away your poison
even when I lied in a smile.

The side, the right side
is where you spoke the words,
the beginning of the end.
I did not want to believe it,
but my smile slipped
at the corners.
I tried to pretend it was not there.

The left side is where my smile vanished
into a dark place.
You took it and crushed it into a tiny speck
in your fist.
I stared, disbelieving,
sure your words were lies,
but your eyes spoke truth
and emptiness.

This ragged gash at the bottom
is where you ripped it away -
the last tug.
You took my smile with it.
The hurt screamed
like a beast in the night.
I should hate you,
but I cannot.