Poetry: The Spoken Senses

I know it’s short, but it was something I wrote over lunch 🙂

 

One who walks through fire can feel a kindred spirit,

Someone who is broken can feel another broken soul.

An experience, indescribable with words, unyielding with emotions,

Yearning for solace in the chaos and the pain.

 

But everything shifts in a mere embrace,

Chaos dissolves and pain subsides.

An unspoken understanding that love will win

In the space between the scars.

 

Invisible chains restrain us into our pasts,

Pulling, tightening with each new breath.

But soon the bonds release us,

It breaks, we fall.

 

That is when the chains are caught by one another,

Fusing together in an unbreakable weld,

They serpentine and embed into the skin

Painlessly, almost pleasantly.

 

Lingering in the wonderment and bliss

Of something as simple as an embrace.

Between two battered people, injured souls.

Perhaps one could live in this forever?

 

A Glimpse of What’s to Come

After The Wanderer Trilogy, I plan on writing a compilation of short stories. I will be working on it from time to time, but I plan on being meticulous in how I write these stories. Here is just a taste of the very beginning. Do you plan on reading this? 🙂

 

shadow people

A WARNING

 

Contained in the bending of this book are the extensive and detailed notes of Edward L. Sutton, Independent Journalist and Author. Obsession – the reality of ‘mythical’ beings, particularly ones he dubbed Omens of Change. Current state of Mr. Sutton – deceased. I am just an interviewee.

When he finally spoke to me, I warned him not to publish this. The Others. They told me that they would kill him if he did anything more than speak to the Chosen. And they did just that. To be clear, I wish to remain anonymous for fear of what the world will think after they read this. That is, if they choose to believe it.

You see, the world is crumbling. Humanity is weak and afraid. They commit unspeakable crimes against one another. Hate speech, assault, rape, and murder run rampant. And yet, we live in our subdivisions and follow our own monotonous routine, caring little of the suffering of others. Still, we occasionally find ourselves pulled from the mundane and out of our comfort zone. Usually, it is within the unconscious mind. We remember these experiences. And you may believe these are nothing more than a coincidence. I am here to tell you that the concept of chance is more of a myth than these creatures.

My warning is this, dear reader, be vigilant. Once you dive into the contents of this book, there is no turning back. You will know more about the universe than you may want to. And sometimes, the truth is terrifying. I guarantee you that these stories are nothing short of that. Many of you will not be able to stomach what you find within these pages. Clarity is a risk. But it is what you do with this information that will determine your fate. The Others, they will be watching. And if you displease them, they will come for you.

Pray to whatever deity that they NEVER come for you.

Although, you could have already met these creatures before. Perhaps you were already deemed one of the Chosen, but do not yet understand what that means. That, my brothers and sisters, is why I am allowing this book out into the public. To finish Edward L. Sutton’s work. His single goal was to unite all of those who have sensed the Omens. Nonetheless, he did make it relatively convenient for us to find one another through his writings. Tales that will outline different events that you may have witnessed. If so, follow the trail, allow the Other to contact to you however they wish, and find the rest of us.

They are waiting. So am I.

-Anonymous

Writing in the Rain 8/7/2018

writing prompt

Wouldn’t you like to be known for something? Evelynn Turner always wanted to be famous and what kid wouldn’t? But she never thought that she would be famous for something as simple as baking bread.

The unusual thing was, no one taught her how to bake. Her parents, who were very wealthy, hired a professional chef to make everything from scratch. Even he could not be bothered to teach Evelynn. But every night, right after the maid left for the evening, the young girl would sneak down into the kitchen where the chef would leave the dough to rise overnight. After poking it to be sure it had risen enough, she would carefully slice a piece off of the ball and get to work.

Perhaps it was her meticulous care in making sure the bread was risen perfectly, or buttered properly. Whatever the case, she mastered baking rather quickly. The chef, up until that point, had made the dough. Each morning, Evelynn would sit her perfectly baked loaf next to the ball of dough, waiting for her parents to see it in the morning. It wasn’t until she started making her own dough that they began to notice her talent.

When the whole house was asleep, she would run downstairs and scoot a stool over where she could work on the marble counter top. Natural talent grew as Evelynn grew more confident. She started with simple loaves like whole wheat and white bread. Then she moved onto Challah and Naan, exotic breads. When her parents finally figured out that it was not their paid chef who was making these delicious, warm treats, they were shocked. Her mother, a businesswoman, decided to invest in her daughter’s skill.

Five years was all it took to become world famous for Evelynn Turner. Her mother simply provided the means and paperwork for a bakery. By that time, her daughter had moved into desserts. Cupcakes, cakes, pastries, she could make them with ease. No recipe, no formal training. She was barely a teenager when she made her first million.

On her eighteenth birthday, she decided to compete in baking competitions. Her shop, named “The Sweet Tooth”, was now fully staffed and her employees were trusted enough to be on their own for a few days. You name it, Evelynn signed up for it. Every time, she won. Her name was renown through the baking industry and she was completely self-made. Well, other than a little help from her mother.

Evelynn’s number 1 and 2 rule – Never write down a recipe, because it will change every time. And never teach the student more than what the teacher knows. She always made the dough and was adamant about that. Even into her seventies and eighties, she refused to let her workers even see how many eggs she put into her muffin dough. They were in charge of baking, she was in charge of creating.

Miss Turner passed away at the ripe age of ninety-three. Throughout her life, she did not take one day off of working. It was her passion, so it never felt like working. People that she only knew through “The Sweet Tooth” attended her funeral and people who her pastries had changed their lives made an appearance. All who watched her laid to rest were gifted one final pastry of their choice. Somehow, she had known that her end was approaching and spent three days making hundreds of pastries. It was her final note left on the tongues of the world.

She took her recipes to the grave along with her talent. No one could even come close to the taste that her baking provided. Countless times, her workers had begged her to share her knowledge with them, but she refused. For fear of someone stealing her recipes? No. She had said this, and only ever this:

“Flour is just flour and sugar is just sugar. It is the person, their personality, and their care that makes the bread.”

Be sure to check out Purpose. Check out the Bookstore for buying options! You won’t be disappointed!

Enjoy this writing prompt! Show me what you come up with! 🙂

Writing Prompt (1)

Writing in the Heat of Summer 8/1/18

writing prompt

I’ve always wanted to know what it was like to have a closet. The kids at my school make fun of me. It hurts my feelings. I cry almost every day.

My house isn’t just for me. There are kids like me there too. But they aren’t my brothers or sisters. They were brought there like me, by their parents. And just like me, their mommy and daddy never come to pick them up. Some of them are brought by the police or people in black coats. A little girl was dropped off here yesterday and won’t talk to anyone, even me.

I like Mama Ingrid, though. The other kids don’t, but I do. She does her best, but always says she doesn’t have much money. Every day she wears a blue or white shirt. White has holes, blue has a stain. Her jeans are always dirty. I think they used to be blue, but now they’re brown and gray. Down at the bottom of her pants, where she wears really old shoes, there are more stains. I think they’re from the dirt outside. Oh… her shoes are a nice color, dark blue. But I think they were brighter before.

Some of the kids have a closet. Their parents gave them a suitcase full of clothes, but they never share. My parents brought me here when I was three, Ingrid said. So I grew out of everything. Mama Ingrid never had enough to buy me more than one outfit every year. And sometimes, my clothes would get too tight before Christmas.

When I go to school in November and my shirt is too small, my friends make fun of me. They push me down and laugh. And one time, the bullies tore my shirt and I still had to wait until Christmas. Mama Ingrid said I wouldn’t be able to eat for a week if she got me a new outfit before then. But the teachers never say anything. I know they are sad for me, but they know that my mommy and daddy are gone. They know that I live in the big wooden house at the end of the road. That’s where they say all the poor kids live.

One day. I will get a closet and fill it with clothes. I wish for that every night when I see a shooting star. Mama Ingrid said that if I wish hard enough, it will happen. She asked me what I want to be when I grow up. I said a teacher who doesn’t let kids get pushed around for not having clothes. But I don’t know why, it made her cry with a smile.

When I get enough money for more clothes, I’m going to buy them. I already have pictures from the magazines taped to my wall in my room. So I know what I’m going to get when I have money. Mama Ingrid says I have to wait until I can get a job. Maybe I’ll ride the bike around town and give people their newspapers. I can do that when I’m fourteen.

But one day. I will have a closet.

 

Sorry this one is short. This was the next Writing Prompt in my board on Pinterest. But today, it did not strike any chords with my deepest inspirations. Hopefully, the one I created below will give you enough for a story!

Writing Prompt (1)