Writing

the soft glow from the candle

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the soft glow from the candle

casts an eerie sense about the room

flickering every few seconds

fading in and out

unsure

of whether it wants to remain lit

 

I long for it to grow brighter

to consume the walls

melt the ice that has slowly surrounded me

crept its way to my core

 

I try to move towards it

placing one foot in front of the other

but it is too late

ice spills out onto the floor

freezing me in this dreadful spot

in the shabby room

 

the soft ruffle of fluttering curtains

turns my head toward the cracked window

a chilly breeze rushes past me

chilling the tip of my nose

and sending shivers down my spine

 

there is nothing I can do

poof

gone is the glow of the candle

miniscule as it was

it was my salvation

my escape from this world

extinguished

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all I can see is the white of the wall

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all I can see is the white of the wall

but I don’t know why

 

in a rustic wood frame

just to my left

hangs a painting

the canvas filled with tree covered mountains

cascading into the bluest of lakes

high above

a bright yellow sun shines in a cloudless sky

creating a white reflection in the smooth water below

though I have seen this painting too many times to count

it no longer exists in my mind

instead I see only the white spot

the reflection

blending

swirling

into the white wall behind it

 

to the right

hangs a bright orange clock

its white hands move in a fluid

continuous

motion

but the orange is gone

disappeared

all that’s left are the white hands

their movements difficult to see

against the white wall

if it weren’t for the tick tock

tick

tock

it would be lost to me altogether

nonexistent

 

silently

I sit

watching as my world turns white

beyond the hills

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beyond the hills

is a collection of forgotten memories

coasting along as the hills roll

plummeting into the depth of a valley

some mingle on the horizon

just out of my grasp

 

I try to reach them

try to hold on to these parts of my life that have become so distant

they are mostly small moments

from my childhood

moments that helped shape me

helped define who I am

 

I do not know why this happens

just that no matter what horizon I face

they are always there

I move

some times quickly

other times slowly

but they move with me

we remain joined as one

 

each night when the sun sets

it takes with it these forgotten memories

and when the darkness over takes the sky

I have nothing left but the thought that they will be back in the morning

helping me to be the person they intended

Short Story 1-Part 12

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Haven’t posted any of my short story in a while… It is still a work in progress.

[12] (CIA)

It was time to begin.

 

“Ladies and Gentlemen, you have all been a part of or been read in on our current situation. A highly protected cluster of American islands located off the coast of Canada that we refer to as L’île Cache, which is French for ‘Hidden Island’. It was discovered by U.S. Naval Officers during World War II. Whatever mission they were on, is still unknown to us; it’s not what is important here. What is important is what they discovered when they landed on the island.

 

A group of indigenous people completely unaware of the world around them. Here we are some 50 years later, and we still don’t know much about them. We checked maps and journals kept by sailors and no one ever mentions an island off the coast of Canada. Because we don’t want to disrupt their way of life, it is very hard to learn about them. What we do know so far is that they seem to possess some sort of magical power. That’s why this has never been publicized. It is our number one priority to keep this top secret.”

 

The looks on their faces were blank. Astonished. I’m sure not all too different from when I found out. It was hard to grasp. That’s why each individual in the room had been hand selected. This could not get out.

 

“We also have reason to believe that they have somehow made contact with our subject, Amelia Garrett. We aren’t sure how this is possible, but her mysterious behavior as well as her recent internet searches seem to point that direction.”

 

As her image and information popped up on the screen behind me, hands began to raise. I was prepared. Prepared to not be able to answer their questions.

 

the black ink flows smoothly

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the black ink flows smoothly

in between the faded blue lines

running horizontally across the page

curving

stretching

stopping

creating a jumble of letters

a mass of words is formed

speckled all over the crisp paper

individually these words are small

disjointed

the only rosebud that has not yet started to bloom

its alabaster petals held tightly together

emotions without meaning

actions without a function

articles with no noun to attach to

but as my hand moves steadily across the page

the words string together

creating a surge of memories

emotions

and stories

inspiring

acting as catalysts

for when the last rose finally blooms

its beauty stands out among the rest

the dark green stems and thorns protecting it

they weave together

making you feel any emotion from pain to happiness

not much is more powerful

as the sun sets in the distance

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This picture of the Columbia River was my inspiration for this poem.

riversun

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

as the sun sets in the distance

the clouds above it lose their form

the purples and pinks absorbed from the sun

spread and seep into the pale blue sky

 

a river

calm and vast

stands between me and the hills

of which the sun is setting

creating a blurry

mirror like

reflection of the scene above

 

all is dark

save for the colors of the sun

I hold onto this moment

wishing it could stay forever

knowing that at any moment it could be gone

 

at last the sun is no longer visible

it has taken with it those colors

that had so held my attention

 

a moment

so precious and small

has been replaced by the night

 

 

red veins jut out of the tender, living flesh

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red veins jut out of the tender, living flesh

covering its pale surface

connecting it

creating a map

 

drops of water sit scarcely on the surface

but one acts as an outcast

it inches slowly along

following the curvature of the veins

soon it will roll off

creating a splash as it lands in the moist dirt

several feet below

 

as the just risen sun lands on its wet, pale surface

nothing is more natural

more beautifully simple