“Today’s the day.” Lili straddled Kevin, pinning his arms down. “Seven years tonight.”
“I’m sorry, okay?! I can’t bring her back!”
“You can.” With the blood from his wound, Lili drew the circle around them both, chanting quietly.
Kevin started to cry.
Mika giggles. The curtain drifts outward.
“Where are you?” I singsong, pointing. The man nods.
“Can’t find me!” Laughter.
The man grabs Mika, curtain and all.
“Hey!” I yell.
He drops a billfold, drags my little brother away.
Tonight I’ll eat.
“Hit the sand, duck, crawl fast. Guns are mounted at three feet.”
I tie the message into my rotting pointe ribbons. “Ready.”
When I step onto Lily’s interlocked fingers, she lifts me high.
As I jeté over the wall, I hear screams.
“What brings you here?”
Marcy blinked. “I was on a flight to Boise with bad visibility. You?”
“Bus to Seattle,” Tara replied. “Mudslide.”
Both shifted in their chairs.
“Think they have Doritos here?”
Marcy eyed the landscape of flames outside.
Mom stands. “Clear the glasses.”
I rise, knocking my spoon to the floor. “Sorry.”
I kneel, reach, find something under the shadowy drapes.
I draw it out.
It is not a spoon.
“Mom, what –“
Her hand has me before I finish.
“Stop that,” I roared. I heard another door slam.
“You’re acting like a child,” I yelled down the hallway. Plates rattled.
I finished my makeup and headed for the noises. “Get it togeth-“
The kitchen was empty.
The room went dark.
Emily held the clear marble, closing her eyes. She ran it over her left eyelid until it hummed, indicating its waythread had accessed her soul.
Emily placed the now turquoise marble beside Liliane's pale red, revealing her alignment. Someone gasped.
The Umbrella Conundrum
Audra secured her bootstraps around her waist and opened the door. Outside, the Sprite hummed eagerly. Water poured from the black shelf of cloud above the city ruins to the sea below. Fastening the shedcape around her, she took to the sky.
From March 19th-26th, I had the wonderful experience of taking a master class in poetry at Hedgebrook. If you're not familiar with the organization, they run classes, salons and a residency program for women who write at a gorgeous farm on Whidbey Island. I spent the week staying in a cottage perfectly appointed for one, with all the time and space to write I could ask for and cozy accomodations. I drank a fair amount of tea, probably ate more than my share of chocolate chip cookies, and wrote more poetry in a single seven-day stretch than I ever have. I had a great time with the six other participants, and our instructor, Carolyn Forche, was beyond phenomenal. I plan to apply for their residency program next year and go back as soon as I can. Check out their website (linked above) for some details on their amazing programs.
I recently received the news that my poem "Shadowmath" has been accepted for publication in the June issue of Imaginaire magazine. It's a unique publication with a focus on mathematics-based fiction and poetry. Their new issue will be out April 5th -- take a look!
For those of you in the Seattle area, I'll be reading at the Ballard library on August 8th as part of the It's About Time Writers Reading Series. You can find all their events on their Facebook page. Come out and say hello!
The two things an author spills most often: blood and ink - hence, the name of my blog. When you write, one of the key skills you need to develop is the ability to clean up a mess. In most instances, the mess is a personal one. The mass of your emotions on a page. The train wreck of trying to craft them into clean lines that still carry the echo of a nightmare. It's neither neat nor pretty in process.
As a child, I was always the one who would run home for Band-Aids and a wet washcloth when someone else was injured. At first, I thought maybe I should become a doctor. In later years, I realized that behavior was more reflective of my editorial skills - when I see bleeding, I try to stop it. I'm not a doctor, but I am a fixer.
But in addition to fixing others, I build my own work as well. And it often happens that tinkering with the work of others allows me to go back to my own creations and see where they are weak, where they need work. Writing is a never-ending self-education.
So, I'm a fledgling writer and editor ("emerging writer" in the professional terminology), as well as a gamer and fashionista. I realize those things sound like polar opposites, but I can assure you I get equally excited when discussing Margaret Atwood, Wil Wheaton and Olivier Theyskens. And shades of all three cultures pop up in my writing, so you may see some rather unusual elements combining to create very unique wholes.