I am an author from deep East Texas with a passion for horror and fantasy, often heavily mixed together. In my spare time, when I am not writing, I draw and paint landscape and fantasy pieces. I now reside in Alaska where adventures await.
Rapunzel, Rapunzel, I have Short Hair
I feel most feminine with short hair. I feel free, liberated, lightweight and energetic. Beautiful and enchanting. Yet, it has been something I have had to always justify to others. Current society still does not overall welcome shorter hairstyles on young women, even after many movements and fashion trends towards them. Even after the short hair of the 1920's and the many tomboyish trends in fashion. I cannot have short hair without someone eventually commenting on 'if it was long'.
The Red Thread
I follow a red string down my throat, hands pulling to tug it free. I follow it down to see where it goes. I need to know its hold on me. I fold over myself and vomit from the sting as I yank on that red thread. It's woven into my being, and I think to continue would unspool me.
Thuds on the Roof
There’s something on the roof. Clipping. Clopping. I hear it step and step. The sun has just set and the world is still the hazy blue before it turns black. The trees are blots of ink against the clouds, no stars out, and no eternal night quite in place. It walks across the way, over to the bay window to my left. It sounds large and heavy. It’s pipes I will to myself. But I know there are no pipes in the roof. They are all underneath, in the crawl space that I keep locked and latched. It’s thumps continue, then stop. I glance to the window. Will a man leep from my roof and run away into the approaching dark? Will some wild animal leap free? We have a number of them.
My therapist used to tell me I was retelling my abuse over and over in my writing. That I was analyzing the plight I faced with myself and with my father from a million different 'what ifs'. Perhaps I was. Perhaps I am. It's funny how trauma imprints so hard on you that you can trace its footsteps back to your childhood. When I was a kid, I invented reasons for it. I fancied that surely if he was a monster, it was because there was monster blood deep within him. Now, as an adult, I understand that abuse does run through families in a viscous cycle, not unlike the monster blood I envisioned. So here is the story a nine year old girl told herself for why men did evil things to people.
My grandfather had a sawmill. It was a large shop under a tin roof. The floor was always covered in piles of sawdust, which smelled of pine and work, and the tables adorned with stacks of wood and projects resting near the large blades. It was a magical place where his strong hands crafted doll houses, tables, chairs, and many other things. I spent my childhood sitting at a table made by him in that shop. It was of pine and cedar and lacquered over with a clear finish to protect if from the messes children make.
Death is so putrid and difficult. I cannot hold it nor soothe it, and I suppose I should find beauty in it. After all, with death the sufferings of this life end. They close and a new door opens. What you believe drastically impacts your perception of what's next, and I believe in an eternity free of the sufferings of this life. It gives me hope and something beautiful to dwell on in the face of loss. But, loss weighs heavy on me still.
My writing comes in spurts or spells. It's hardly ever planned or disciplined. I have quick ideas for challenges and prompts, but never find the urgency to put them to paper. No, they aren't what I want to write. Though they aren't confining, my restless hands turn to other stories like shiny objects caught in a crow's beak. I'll play in the poems sometimes. They're quick and easy for me, like fiddling notes out on a guitar. Like sketching lazy shapes with no shadows or details.