By the River at Night

Glimpses of last night slide through my mind. Down by the river with people I hardly know, sitting on the edge of a rock apart from the others, listening to their murmurs, staring at the patterns of empty trees against the sky, wishing for a moon to howl at.

Once again, I don’t mind being separate. I listen to them talk and I know there’s nothing there for me at the moment. I, with all my narcissism, do not mind being the lone wolf. One of them has a flashlight. He clamps his hand over it and marvels at the sight of his bones dimly outlined by red light. They pass it around, each trying it. I watch them, dark hands grasping at a glowing ember in the gloom.

The only other girl there decides to go swimming. It’s November and the air is cool enough for a coat. Everyone laughs as she wades in, but I only wish I had thought to bring a towel too.

They’re dancing to some song I don’t know. One of them turns to me apologetically. “Yeah, I know we’re crazy,” he says as if I’m the only sane one here. I laugh and think to myself Oh boy, you’ve got no idea.

Later that night I walk down to the pond alone, accompanied by shadows that once frightened me. I sit on the dock, watch clouds tinted pink by nearby city lights move behind barren branches, watch leaves on black water. It’s almost midnight and I imagine meeting a devil, or a witch, or a ghost. And then I realize this is useless speculation, for I am a little of all three.

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Good Times, Bad Times, I Know I’ve Had My Share

Good Tidings” title=”Good Times, Bad Times, I Know I’ve Had My Share”>So, adorable little girl. For a good chunk of your life, you will be bored. Like, for nearly another decade. But there will be moments of adventure. You’ll sit in canoe, surrounded by mountains, golden light slanting down them to reach the pages of the book you’ll read. You’ll hike up a mountain with a broken backpack and asthma. But you’ll make it. You’ll go on northern adventures, walk across frozen lakes, lie in the snow and watch the stars. You’ll paddle across lakes of amber and gold. You’ll play guitar by firelight and tell stories that enrapture your audience. That’s the thing, girl, you’re a story teller. When properly motivated, your voice will paint stories, stories your dad told you, late nights around campfires, s’mores still sticky on your hands. And some nights, when a spirit moves in you, oh baby you will write and the next morning read it and realize just how beautiful your soul is. Your writing will be acknowledged, you will briefly astound those around you. But its not all praise and sunlit adventures. You’ll struggle, with society, with life in general. You’ll have a long road coming to terms with how alone you are. But don’t worry, cuz you’ve always had that talent, that wonderful talent of finding beauty in anything. You know how to open windows and listen to music, how to take walks and close your eyes and dream. You’ll have your family to help you as well, your parents and your sister as well as some family that isn’t blood and a couple members that aren’t even human. You’ll be accepted by your dream school, and during that time grow exponentially. I’ll stop there, cuz that is where my adventure has just begun. I’d wish you good luck, but I know you’ve never had it.

Just a few words

I just want to take a moment to thank my handful of followers. I can’t begin to describe how much it means to have a little writing community were I can read the work of fellow authors and know they have an opportunity to read mine. So thank you for following and for publishing.

Portrait of the Artist

A pool of black water. Ripples of wind steal across it, occasionally gusting toward me in a regiment. Tattered ships of half sunk leaves drift past, some skating on top of the water, others slide past just beneath. The bright blue of the sky mixes with the dark blue-gray of storm clouds. The trees across the water form a synergistic patchwork; the iron gray and mottled white of bare branches, the pale gold of beech leaves, reds and yellows of oaks, the varying shades of green firs, pines, and rhododendrons. The forest bed is the brown of dead needles and decaying leaves. The wind gusts, throwing leaves and whirling seeds high into the air. Several come down on the pages of this notebook. The seeds make a dull tinkling against the dock. The wind pushes the leaves in the water to the bank and more fall to take their place.

The weather- grayed dock juts out into the black water. At its edge sits a woman in a gray leather jacket, several sizes too large for her; her father’s. The reflection of her scuffed black boots ripples in the water. The wind blows stronger and she pulls the old gray coat tighter about her shoulders and watches a leaf meet its own reflection as it falls in the water. She looks up at the world, then down at the little red notebook on her knee. The author slowly creates herself.