Micro Stories

naked sky

there’s a hollow, past what is known.

you took me there. we danced with the flames, shimmering darkness cloaking us from the whisperings of the trees. the wind howled its sorrow and we fed it tears, embracing the brilliancy of knowing what if feels like to be alive.

drums played deep beneath the ground, reverberating through my chest, blinding me to what held me back. the death of what came before fueled our heels, hitting the ground to the sound of our hearts.

they sent their hounds into the maddening circle of treachery, trying to sniff us out, drag us back. we turned them, opening them up to the truth. they sang with the thunder and ran with us through rainstorms, no owner to tame their souls.

the creek rushed up to meet our waists. the pebbles drew us deeper, deeper, until we spread our wings and let the waves carry us into the hollow where day break licked the water droplets from our skin. slipping into a warm slumber, the sky danced behind our eyelids.

we awoke to silence. it told us everything.

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Stream of Consciousness

hope

(this is a pinned post. new posts appear below)

 

I’m not sure I have a voice.

You see, there’s a slumbering trembling that takes a step into something warm and inviting, like the sun, but with training wheels.

And every time the light of day hits it, someone comes along with a sledgehammer and takes it all away.

I keep lying there, catching my breath. Before sitting back up, playing with my fingers in the sand, writing maps no one understands but me.

It’s lonely.

But I can still feel the pulse of it in me, thrumming into a hurricane of neediness, ready to explode and take everything in its path with it. Down into this desert of warmth and cool breezes and nothing that really belongs in these flat lands.

Do you remember the first time you felt the sun’s heat on your flesh? I think I must’ve had a hand over my mouth, but it wasn’t mine. I think I must’ve had some words fall out, but they came from another tongue.

So I grab my shoes and shake the dust out and, what do you know?, I’m still entirely ready to get the wind knocked out of me by hope.

Written Word

And then there were three…

In the darkness, they shivered, trapped, looking around wide-eyed and blind. Golden moonlight dripping down, down, down, until there was nothing left but his silver, skeletal remains.

They would not survive this. And yet, they couldn’t leave him. Huddling together, grabbing onto one another’s arms, hugging close, they awaited the gates to open.

The pool of savory sorrow grew, leaking toward them. Closer.

Closer.

Stream of Consciousness

The Secret to Stories

If I give it claws, we’ll talk about the monster in us.

If I give it fangs, we won’t look away from what society tells us is too uncomfortable to linger on.

If I make it a world we don’t live in, we can look at the things we don’t want to talk about. Perhaps we can find the strength to do something about it the next time we see it.

If I make its eyes glow, we’ll think about the pain we want to hide. Maybe we will find a way to deal with it too.

If we have to suspend disbelief, we can poke at our childhood programming, our insecurities, our secrets.

 

Stories don’t judge us. They open us up to the possibility of change, connection, hope, and purpose. They give us new perspectives on things society labels for us (as if we don’t have brains or hearts to decide for ourselves). Stories give us the option to define our own life, our own self, and realize we’re not that different after all.

A black grandpa can read the same story as a white single mom. They can both recognize love when it’s being denied, the pain of a child dying, the need for someone in this world to see us for who we truly are.

 

Stories show us what’s broken and what’s beautiful. They give us a safe place to peel back the layers of this life without anyone mocking us or telling us we’re wrong or bad.

Stories give us heroes with fantastic abilities, somehow making it easier for us to love them when they mess up, hurt, and prove they aren’t perfect. It gives us a little more leeway to be imperfect ourselves.

 

There’s a certain magic to a story, whether there’s anything fantastical or whimsical in it or not.

If we read a story about a monster with a heart, it doesn’t hurt so much to look at the monster within ourselves. Only then can we do something about it.

Stream of Consciousness

A Year of Learning

What have I learned?

I’ve never been one of those writers who stares at a blank page and doesn’t know what to write. Even if I didn’t have a plan, a plot, or so much as a character in mind to write about, I could go on and on, creating rampages and mysteries and banter until I fell asleep or someone waved a chocolate in front of my face.

Funny. I’ve been staring at this blank page for hours.

What have I learned this year?

Something I didn’t already know…

How do you take a year of life and ball it up and hand it to someone? Better yet, put it into words and splash them across paper?

Perhaps a few more hours shall pass before I know the answer to that one.

What have I learned? …

 

I’m worth it.

 

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