Micro Stories

Dark Blue Whispers

sometimes the handlebars are underground

and the only way to find the map is to go back to the liquor store and make a different decision

that’s where they found us

trading in an old life

for free will and laughter

the choice to make our own mistakes

instead of suffer the consequences of theirs

 

their boots shook the ceiling

the threat of return to where we used to be

sending blood through our veins in a fiery dance

because we knew

there was no going back

 

we found the back door beneath the closed sign and ran, never looking back

if we did

perhaps they’d convince us to stay, that we didn’t need our tongue anyway

and our eyes would only mislead us

we could use theirs

for a price

but no

we ran, eyes firmly on the blurry promises ahead of us

hand in hand, because getting lost is so easy

when all the signs forgot their arrows

 

it was only when we made it past the river

under the cover of the places they call forbidden

knowing full well

(they always knew the truth)

our cure resided here

it’s only then we realized

we can breathe fire

and hear the trees

whispering in darker hues of blue

 

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**this micro story was named by a patron 🖤

Micro Stories

bliss isn’t ignorant

they took his hand out of mine. with hired hands that slunk through the windows and carved their hooks into his flesh, dragging him out before he could wake. they left him in the emptiness, riding away in their ivory chariots and stolen boots. thinking he’d fall into the darkness they set as a trap, lynching his options and blinding his way.

their chosen ignorance is their death.

covering their ears and playing mute. they dance without their feet and sing without their lungs. playing pretend and asking for credit for all they’ve gathered off the backs of those they’ve enslaved.

decay is their speech and the dying are their young ones.

they don’t know that he is mine, a creature of the darkness, so very well acquainted with the lonely nights of life, stripped of the sunlight owed.

he finds his way back me to easily, as i sit on a throne of burnt ashes turned to stone.

 

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Micro Stories

look away

the lace drops down and somewhere in the night a wolf howls. blood drip, drip, drips down my arm, splatting onto the forest floor. i can’t see the tree i lean against. the only color, the glow of eyes they tell me not to trust. your claws, they’re meant for rending, but your touch keeps me safe.

darkness wraps me in memories of their screams. its softer than i remember.

they’ve got you all wrong.

they traded velvet for chains, singing along to their own funeral march, heads held high, noses buried deep in noisy words and pretty smiles. they don’t hear the clang of metal links at their wrists, the flaxen cord squeezing at their throats, tighter, tighter, tighter.

when i ran, they looked for me in the mass grave they’d hidden. they don’t think about it anymore. a ghost among their thoughts, a number on their screens. they forgot what it’s like. to bleed.

monster, they call you.

hand in hand, we run.

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Stream of Consciousness

How Genre Fiction Changes Lives For Real

Sometimes fantasy isn’t very far from the truth.

I’m a storyteller.
It’s what I do.
I’m a writer.

And, not get to get dramatic but stories change lives.
Because stories ARE lives.
Stories are how we as humans relate to other humans and human values, struggles, ideologies, victories, etc.

Anywho, this is a post I wrote a while ago but then forgot about. Nice to know it still 100% applies.

 


A blood prophet is a gal who is born with the ability to tell the future…. If her skin is cut and blood flows from the wound.
This brings great pain until she speaks the prophecy out loud, which she then cannot remember, as her brains switches off and she feels euphoria to compensate for the terrible things she sees.

But what really pinged for me is how she experienced life.
And how OVER STIMULATED she got, so easily.
And yet she still SAVED LIVES.
She matters, has purpose.
Even though she can’t handle more than a few more “images” a day.
When Meg, the main character who is a blood prophet that escaped slavery, began to live in the real world, (that is, outside of a white-walled room with nothing in it, literally), she became way too easily overstimulated by all the new stimuli and her brain sort of “turned off” and she was a zombie for a few minutes. Without even realizing it, she’d zone out, turn off, numb.
You see, Meg, like all blood prophets, was kept in a teeny little room and shown photos of things from the outside world. The only experience with the outside world she ever had.
When Meg has new images or places, situations, photos in a magazine, facial expressions, personal feelings, etc…. and she get’s too many new ones in one day… she’s done.

I realized, this is exactly what I do.
My brain turns off.
Without me realizing it.
I was abused as a child and as such, learned to “detach” or clinically put, “dissociate”.
Meaning, mentally, Daphne wasn’t home.
As I grew older I continued coping with unhealthy situations and relationships this way.
Without knowing it.
Once into therapy, we figured it out.

But I didn’t know it was so pervasive in my everyday life.
I thought it was one size fits all.
Instead, there’s versions of it. Levels.

To spare any lengthy dissertation of my life and experiences in the past four years, I’ll stick with the most jarring and recent realization.
Which came about ONLY once I’d read this book and realized it was an actual thing that happens to human beings.

I started college.
One class.
First semester.
A subject I LOVE.
I approach class every day with enthusiasm, interest, excitement, ready to learn more about what I love and apply it to my life.
And I HATE college.
Let me repeat…
HATE!
LOATH WITH A PASSION!!!

I couldn’t figure out why.
When it finally hit me, I couldn’t believe it had taken me so long to figure it out. It was once I’d read three books in this series that I added the knowledge to my life and behaviors in the past months and the light bulb BURST into life above my head.
I am a slow learner.
No, really.
I need to soak in, absorb, directly apply information to my life, and repeatedly read stuff, take notes, dissect, etc. when it comes to learning.
When it comes to doing things in a job, I learn really fast.
When I have to read and learn something new in a book environment, I’m slower than molasses in midsummer.
And it threw me. I’d always considered myself a quick learner. When I had things to do – I excelled. Give me a pattern of activities to do and BOOM I have it down.
Not to mention I got through schooling with ‘A’s in every subject.
So HOW am I a slow learner?
I focused on getting good grades. Not on learning. School doesn’t reward learning; it rewards good grades, doing the work, being disciplined, etc.
I’m a hard worker, I’m disciplined.
I’m a slow learner.
I need to learn at a much slower pace than 3 chapters of twenty-five pages each and 3 assignments with their own set of research and information – in one week. Which is the definition of college.
NOT for me.
Lucky for a gal like me, life has options.

Reading Anne Bishop’s novels on Meg taught me something about life, about myself, about how I learn, and about how often I get overstimulated and zone out, without realizing it.
REAL LIFE wasn’t teaching me this.
NOTHING was teaching me this.
A work of fiction. A story. An urban fantasy. This is how I learned vital information about myself and how I operate within the world.
A work of fiction genre taught me truth no one else and nothing else ever had.
THAT is the power of genre fiction.
It is a lie with more truth in it than we can imagine.
Because no story, no matter how bizarre or unusual, is ever truly made up.


The series I am talking about in the post is Anne Bishop’s “The Others” Series. You can check her books out here. I have only read books #2, 3, and 4. I’m excited to read more.

What have works of fiction taught you?

Shadow Poetry

necRomance Me

All my secrets
Covered in lies
Half truths you know
The Departed rise

Hunted now – make their lies true
Never enough for any of you

Truth rages
Whispers haunt
Inside it screams
Thoughts taunt

Bleed bruises gone ‘til I can’t stand the sane
I’ll bleed them dry to destroy my pain

Shadows of sun
And crimson spires
More will come
Deleterious desires

Disregard their wailing, desperate screams
As their nails scrape and scratch the seams

If you’ll listen
The daemon know
Ignore their accusations
Don’t make me go

Here in the darkness they know me well
Quiet now; let the contusion swell

My lips deceive
The Wronged stalk
Stay tonight
Outline you in chalk

Close your eyes and pretend you don’t want this
It won’t’ burn for long; my only promise

Never mind the corpses
Kiss away the pain
Hold me tight
So the blood can drain

Murmers it for your soul in design
Whatever you do, they purr, don’t sign

Porcelain skin
Eyes keep forever
Putrid and still
Don’t want their never

But when the Gray lashes and cuts you quite deep
With needle and thread I’ll make sure you keep

Stitch me together
A monster they say
Watch me eat poison
Sit with crown on display

Let all else die, I beckon you to join me
Choose my embrace and I’ll erase your agony

On your knees now
Sink your teeth in
Breathless, take my hand
Let the inevitable begin

by Daphne Shadows

'necRomance Me' by Daphne Shadows

Stream of Consciousness

Know Thyself Writer Challenge (PART TWO)

Fifteen days ago, I posted my answers to questions 1 thru 15 for the Know Thyself Writer’s Relief Challenge. You can visit those here.

Even if you didn’t participate in the challenge, I advise you give the questions a good go – if they’re ones you haven’t attempted to answer yet.

As writers, we need to not aspire only for publication and success. I believe we need to aspire to understand ourselves better. If we do that, understanding our character’s motivations and sticking to them throughout each manuscript will be just a fraction simpler because we won’t be confused with our  selves. It doesn’t have to be something mind blowing or earth shaking; just that we solidify within ourselves an answer we weren’t 100% sure on yet. Or a question we had heard or wondered about but never really got around to giving anything more than a vague answer on.

I found something out that I hadn’t previously realized this go around.

Find yourself – maybe you won’t have to burn your manuscript.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

These are my last 15 answers.

Continue reading “Know Thyself Writer Challenge (PART TWO)”