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Creative Writing Stories Thoughts and Entries

I tried flying away but dissolved into static

Wandering the streets, I paused to ask a bystander a question. It must have been a stupid one, because I was turned away feeling ridiculed.

I don’t belong here, I realized – I don’t belong here, because it’s a dream.

If I am the dreamer, why am I out of place?

Somehow, the world that I’ve fashioned for myself does not welcome me.

Categories
Poetry Stories

The redemption of Ungit

Blood flows over me, filling and spilling over the pits and lumps in my face.

Appeased, I relish the offering – life gives itself to me, and I drink thirstily;

This is beauty to me – I cannot have enough of it –

Red and coagulating, it clings to and covers the ugliness of myself.

I have never wept for any creature that is sacrificed on me –

Perhaps because each one feared me and my unending lust for the price of innocence.

Yet, you came untrembling, gentle, and lay your life over me.

I could not move in that moment, and was as a stone – fear me, fear me!

I am afraid; fear me!

Water runs down my face – it is your tears, and mine – why do I cry?

No sooner than when that life washed over me was I no longer a ball of blackened blood –

My visage has returned to one grey and undulating, like any of earth’s stones, and I am purified.

I don’t sit in a temple filled with cloying blackness or the smell of perfumed death –

Instead, I am in a forest, and it is morning;

Dew kisses my face, the birds are singing, and light shines through the new leaves.

I am soft for the moss that grows on me, and a bird plays in the places where water pools –

Life has grown on me, and I do not need more.

Categories
Stories

Foundling

You must have been lost in these woods for so long –

I am full of joy to have found you.

Take my hand, and I’ll lead you from here – not out, but deeper

Through the brambles and thorns

And thickets of brush

Till we reach the very center of things.

There, we can live, and you’ll grow

Into a tree assured in its roots

And in the patterned grooves in its skin.

You will not fear the worms and maggots

Whose sure conquest you had dreaded so before.

They will not unsteady your balance –

Even the axe will not take away your standing

As a thing that did not shrink in the face of foreboding.

Categories
Stories

A Bird in the Park

I’m swimming in earth and can’t move. The trees and grass are overpoweringly green, the stones in the ground golden and blue, depending on where the sun is in the sky. In this noonday light, my skin looks more radiant than it really is, and my cheeks are warmer than in the average given moment.

I am confused, like some roots that unexpectedly exit the ground, assume they will become a tree, then become increasingly bewildered as they only form into what is known as a lump, as a sore thumb.

God, get me out of here.

A golden-crowned kinglet hops over, pecking the earth as it goes; every leaf or root with a meal, it kisses. I can move now, and step closer.

It does not run; it even comes closer, as if I have something to offer. Really, I have nothing but admiration and awe, to observe how this sphere of feathers and flight moves alongside me, and how easily it flies, yet not fleeing from me.

Do I? I do. I reach in order to tentatively touch, and with the back of my index finger, stroke the down between its wings. I have done nothing, yet everything, and I am happy.

I eventually leave, as is necessary, but I am still in the park in my mind.

It was not wrong to reach out, nor was it reproachable to touch a willing creature, but do others think the same? Do they know what I’ve seen? As far as I could tell, the bird was well, and could not have harmed me, nor I it.

Oh, how I long for things to be right and to be won.