2012 » The Porch Goblin

I Will Not Be That Girl Again

May 012012

Today, I indulged in hours-long foray into the blogosphere of writers, feminists, and overall amazing bloggers. Bliss. Somehow, I went from this to this. That last one there? I laughed, brooded, and laughed again. But what I would typically be afraid to admit before, I will do it here and now. It struck a nerve in me.

Mostly because all of these guys with their contrived (and very weak) efforts to attract a girl skeeve me out. They confirm for me over and over again why I hated to date and rarely ever did. They’re the epitome of everything I could not stand about most of them. I can already imagine the word “man-hater” getting ready to be slung at me.

Guess what? I was that girl who felt pity and would excuse the crudeness of their attitude in order to uncover the gem they could potentially be. I was that girl who allowed guys to speak to me in ways they never should have been allowed to. I had let them tell me how I should look (and believed my Viking secretly loved long-haired women best). How nerve-wracking was my recent step into just cutting all my hair off into a very short pixie cut that I adore now. Because I will not be that girl again.

Then, it goes further than that and the reality is that it’s not about them. They’re components of a part — regardless of their gender — of humankind that I would just like to never have anything to do with, ever again. I say that because I was that girl who was afraid to speak up when I was being emotionally attacked by not just men, but everyone else. When I was experiencing rude encounters. When I had an idea but was dismissed. I let myself be dismissed. I will not be that girl again.

I didn’t believe others had to suffer the unnecessary, yet I would make myself do so. I made allowances for others’ behaviors, accepting their weak excuses (in the logic that perhaps they did not know how to verbalize a better explanation). I was then forbidden by those same types of people to have the same courtesy extended to me. I will not be that girl again.

I have insulted my Viking’s honesty, sincerity, and intelligence. He rightly would get upset when other men spoke to me inappropriately, but I would tell him he was being too harsh. Their motives would become clear and I just didn’t have the heart to tell them that they were insulting the relationship the Viking and I have. Instead, I would quietly and eventually block them, not wanting to give voice to what they were doing to me without feeling like I was pulling too much attention to myself. I will not be that girl again.

And so it goes. My Viking healed me, respected me, revered me, and lifted me up. He was like no man I knew. Yet I had such a difficulty accepting it. Believing it. It was too good to be true. It took time, oh, his gradual patience, but I’ve learned not to insult his sincerity. I’ve learned that our love just keeps growing between us. I was shattered when a friend I thought was close to me told me that my Viking would eventually hate me. I believed it and accepted his hateful words towards me. I was so accepting of the imagined worst to come with my Viking. I will not be that girl again.

I cared too much about the pains of others at my own expense. I cared whether or not people will approve or be offended. I forced myself to watch big screen movies with no closed captioning, no comprehension of what’s going on, because I allowed people to tell me that I would regret it if I didn’t. Or I made myself believe that I would be a party pooper, allowing my disability to get in the way, if I didn’t go to the movies with them. I told myself I had to enjoy the preaching of a preacher in a church with no interpreter because I shouldn’t play the deaf card. Damn it, I will not be that girl again.

I was a wall flower. I wanted to play no cards (deaf, woman, shy, abused) but simply to fade away from a scene of possible humiliation or confrontation. I knew in those scenes, I would allow myself to be swayed by the opponent who would play him/herself out to be the victim. No. No, I will not be that girl again.

I’m a work in progress. I will simply crumble if I don’t strive to make that progress happen. Otherwise, there would be nothing left of me. No, I’m not going to let that happen. I will not be that girl again, never again.

Liars and Dreamers Microfiction Part 1

Liars and Dreamers Microfiction Part 1 Microfiction No Responses »

Apr 262012

#LADMF / Page

one. How does a wall flower die?

two. I think that fading to obscurity is a kind of death. No chains, just glue and paper. No martyrdom, just apathy.

The Reaper’s Sow – Chapter 2: Down the Rabbit Hole

The Reaper's Sow 2 Responses »

Apr 242012

If you just got here, you may want to start at the beginning!

Prologue Part 1: Flick’s Point of View

Prologue Part 2: Pleasant’s Point of View

Chapter 1: Flick’s Awakening

• Pleasant •

I turn 18 today. Do I feel like an adult? I tugged at my dress and whirled to encounter myself in the mirror. The girl reflected didn’t look bad. Her eyes were a little to wide, a little too blue, rimmed by blonde eyelashes that I swear made her look like a lidless monster.

A cotton blue summer dress was modest, the cut of it only highlighting subtle curves. I turned to the side and inspected the most obvious outward curves. Gave a consideration to cupping for measurement sake when my maid came bustling in, waving around a white ribbon with relief on her face.

“I found it!”

I scowled. There was a very good reason she wasn’t supposed to find the damned ribbon. I turned back to the mirror as she climbed a stool and started fussing with my hair. It wasn’t that I was very tall. She was just simply the shortest little woman I had ever seen. She wasn’t my usual daily maid who was off doing something else the head maid wanted her to do.

I watched us. My lips were pale pink, the corners turned downward in a petulant frown. Oh yes, very adult, indeed, I thought, as she started looping the white ribbon around my long blonde hair and working into a bow at the top.

Behind me, I saw in the reflection, a little face peered around the door. Her eyes lit up in the most devious way. At least, I was sure it was a very devious expression.

“I see she found the ribbon.” Then my sister was at my side.

“Oh yes, ma’am, she helped me to find it. Her name suits her well,” the maid said, beaming at me in the mirror. I rolled my eyes. I told my mother that naming my youngest sibling Blessed was a mistake. Cursed was more like it. The very first time I called her that when she was 6 years old, she burst into tears.

She got used to it, though. Now she calls me Unpleasant or Bitter. My father has taken up those nicknames out of sheer amusement. I looked into her freckled, heart-shaped face. “You might be the one person I’m not going to miss today.” She gave me a hug and beamed at me, “I know, I love you, too.”

I patted her head. Drawing in a deep breath, I turned to face the two. “I need a moment alone, please,” I said upon exhalation. Blessed knew what I was going to do. She backed away, gave me a wave, and darted out of the room, with the maid soon following after.

I walked to the window, looking out at the meadow behind the mansion. I looked behind me, then opened the window and climbed out onto the ledge where my ladder sat. It wasn’t the sturdiest thing, but it’s served me well. I tested it with half my weight, then clambered down.

I knew I had to be quick if I were to return in time for the escort to the Academy. The garden was just around the corner, so I took the pathway through that until I came to the edge of a little, abandoned road. It was a dusty road, lined with wildflowers and possibly snakes, which I walked on for a little while. There was a copse which I paused at.

I heard a mechanical clicking. It sounded familiar, but I couldn’t place it. Suddenly, a rather large rabbit jumped into view. I yelped, jumping backwards, and he, so startled, yelled and jumped backwards, too.

“Oh, dear me! Dear me, lass. Gave me a fright.” The mechanical clicking whirred faster as he brought his little brown paw up to his chest, standing upright to peer at me curiously. The sound slowed to a more regular, steady beat. “Aha. You’d be Pleasant!”

I stared at him, not meaning to be rude, but why! A talking rabbit. One ear was flopped down, the other was standing straight up. A well-dressed talking rabbit, too, I added, noting his brown vest with a flower embroidery upon a pocket and an eyeglass over his normal brown eye. The other eye seemed too glassy to be normal. Perhaps I didn’t see too well with his top hat shading his face somewhat.

I remembered him from a dream. “Pardon me for being so rude, but I’m sure I’ve met you before.” I inched closer and held out my hand to the rabbit who stood higher than my knees. “Jack Clocktail?”

I could swear his little eyes gleamed as he placed his paw into my hand. “Well, yes, that would be me.” He tilted his head at me. Something began ringing in low ding-dong tones deep in him which startled him out of his curiousity. He pulled back quickly. “Ah! Well, if I don’t get moving now… I’ll be late!” He darted off at such an alarming speed for a bigger rabbit.

“Wait!” Flabbergasted, I watched him go, then I chased after him. I followed him to a rather large tree yards and yards away from the little copse I so frequently stopped at. It was the farthest I’d strayed from my usual route.

He stopped to pull his hat off, gave me a friendly bow, and spun it a few feet away from him. It landed, spinning still, until a little dirt hole came up in the hat’s place. It widened, almost like a clay being formed as the hole spun before finally it went still. It had settled into a rather large hole. He leaped into it, face first and paws out. The hole began to diminish.

Without thinking, I quickly followed, but feet first and elbows tucked in tight as I squeezed my eyes shut. It was so different from my dream, yet so similar. I whooshed past walls of dirt as I opened my eyes. It smelled dank. I closed my eyes again, feeling my dress rush up against me, and fear begin to claw its way up my throat.

It felt like forever until I felt the walls give away and I landed with an “Oomph!” on soft grass on my belly. Jarred and sore, I rolled over onto my back to check my ribs and elbows. Then, I looked up for the hole. All I saw were clear, blue skies.

Clear blue skies? Yes, it had been a sunny day, but it was always tinged with smog or smoke of some sort. I breathed in deep and only smelled a crisp, clean air of Spring. I sat up quickly and looked around me. Nothing for miles and miles except for a single door that sat ajar in front of me.

Suddenly, something cracked across the sky. The pressure bore down on my ears and I clamped my hands over them. A ship, no, four of them, six now, were coming into the atmosphere. Here I was, sitting out in the open. I couldn’t tell what the ships’ company was.

I got up and ran through the door, shutting it fast behind me. I leaned back against it with my eyes closed, not sure I wanted to know what world I had stepped into this time.

“Well, now, this could be a problem,” said a cheery voice. My eyes flew open and I looked down into the odd brown eyes of Jack Clocktail.

Stats

Word count in this chapter: 1202
Word count so far: 3, 118

The Reaper’s Sow – Chapter 1: Flick’s Awakening

The Reaper's Sow 1 Response »

Apr 162012

If you just got here, you might want to start from the beginning.

Prologue Part 1 – Flick’s Point of View

Prologue Part 2 – Pleasant’s Point of View

• Flick •

Grip and I sat in our common room that accessed both our bunkrooms on either side of the room. We both had sat in relative, comfortable silence. Grief still locked itself deep inside of us, but the anticipation and mystery that was going on without us kept us in suspense.

I was bringing up the image of Daddy’s cheerful face before he’d sent us off to the common. Then, I recalled vividly the solitary figure of him carrying Pint’s body. Cousin Pint had gone out scouting. When she didn’t return at the specified time, Daddy went out after her. Daddy wouldn’t be dealing with other people without her. I sighed.

“This is taking some time. I wonder what that’s all about,” I asked.

My older brother is a quiet man, a slow brooding sort. He was my protector for a little while, until I decided I didn’t need protecting. He still did it, anyway.

He finally spoke up, “Looked to me like a mercenary ship.”

I mulled over that for a minute. I tapped the table when an idea hit me. ”Maybe a new contract.”

Grip opened his mouth to reply when a knock came on our door. It opened and Dad’s shaggy head poked in. ”Come to the meeting room, Flick. Just you. I’ll talk to you shortly, Grip.”

I looked at Grip’s puzzled expression as he stared at me thoughtfully. I tried to give him a reassuring look as I rose up and went to the door. Dad was waiting right outside the door, putting his hat on. He put his hand on my back and guided me down the corridors.

We walked into the big meeting room. No, I corrected myself, not quite a meeting room. Not very big, either. It was a room that overlooked the control room of the ship. Under us was the cargo harbor.

Two men and a woman stood waiting for us. One man leaned casually against a chair at the table, his eyes curious as he assessed me. The other two stood straight and proper, their faces blank. Those two were the first to give me a polite greeting comprising of a nod and a smile.

My dad cleared his throat. I looked at him as he removed his hat, smoothed down his gray hair, and gestured his hand towards the small group. He began with the tall woman. ”Flick, this is Nixie from the Academy. She is head of the Council there.” She nodded at me.

“This’ere is Professor Grim. He teaches, ah..” Dad trailed off, raising his eyebrow at the stiff man.

“History and Tales of Harvesters and Planters,” Professor Grim supplied, his wrinkled face breaking into a kind smile. I smiled politely back, unsure of how his name would fit him well.

“And this!” Dad boomed, making me jump. He brightened, turning to the quiet, relaxed man. “This’ere is Renegade Fosters. I knew him when he was a young boy. Fine man he seems to have grown to be! He is a bodyguard.”

“A mercenary,” Fosters corrected. “Just hired to be a bodyguard. Your bodyguard.” He came forward, taking his glove off and extending his hand towards me. “Nice to meet you, Flick.”

My bodyguard? I took his hand and gave it a shake. “You know, I do have a bodyguard already.” The three looked to my father.

“She’s talking about her older brother. That’s not the point here, Flick.”

Fosters grinned. Head Nixie smiled a little and gestured at the table. “Why don’t we sit down and discuss this? I’m sure you’re wondering why we’re all here.”

We all pulled our chairs out, sat down, and scooched in. Nixie folded her hands on the table in front of her and looked between Daddy and me. Her attitude had become more business-like. “As you are aware, young women and men in these galaxies are sometimes selected to attend the Academy because they have been chosen to be either Harvesters or Planters.”

I nodded, my heart sinking into my stomach. She continued, “You have been chosen to attend. As your family is often on the move,” she glanced at Daddy who smiled benignly at her, “it was difficult tracking you down. Here is the difficulty, however. You have not been indicated in any way to be destined to be either Harvester or Planter.”

Professor Grim leaned forward, “This is a very rare precedent. Sometimes, the indications come later for some. That means you could be destined for both. That happens once or twice every decade, bringing us what we call Hybrids.”

Daddy touched my arm. “We’ve never had a Hybrid in our family. We’ve had a few Planters.”

Nixie tapped the table. “We are still at war. But the war is different now. Hybrids are at great risk, there being so few of them. People seek to kill the Hybrids. That is where Renegade Fosters come in.”

Up to this point, Fosters had been lounging quietly in his chair, his arm thrown over the back of another next to him. His eyes never quite left my face. He smiled a little when I finally, reluctantly, looked at him.

“Ta-da.” He spread his hands out.

“He may be an unlikely bodyguard,” Nixie glared at him, “But he is one of the best you can get in these galaxies. He knows the best about Hybrids. He has one of the fastest ships. He is rather .. innovative in his fighting techniques. His mercenary talents,” she paused, raising an eyebrow at him, “would mean that he has people and connections.”

Daddy cleared his throat. “And I trust him.” Fosters had been wearing his bemused expression as Nixie ticked off the reasons why he was chosen, but when Daddy spoke up, he looked shocked and oddly humble. He bowed his head to Daddy.

I gave him credit for that. I fiddled with my fingers as silence fell. “How would I afford going?”

Daddy said, “Well, we are not short of money, Flick. Your mother left you an inheritance when she passed away. Grip also has a sum. So, it’s settled. Do you understand?”

No, not really, I wanted to say. I looked him square in the eye, swallowed, and said, “Yes.”

Stats

Word count in this chapter: 1,087
Word count so far: 1,916

The Reaper’s Sow – Prologue [Cont'd]

The Reaper's Sow 2 Responses »

Apr 162012

If you just got here, I recommend starting at the beginning –

Prologue Part 1 – Flick’s Point of View

• Pleasant •

The smell of gardenias wafted towards where I sat in the corner of the library. The servants were making clattering sounds that distantly reached my ears. Someone is going to get a tongue-lashing, I thought idly.

I spread my arms to try to encompass the spread out mess of notebooks, textbooks, and loose paper on the table. Then, I gave my mother a sidelong glance. She was standing by the window, a storm gathering on her brows and a piece of her eyeglasses between gritted teeth. I think the steamy, foggy, and metallic atmosphere of our small Industrial town matched her mood perfectly.

“Mom?”

Vera Lea blinked away the storm temporarily. She could be stern and authoritative one minute, and the very next, switch emotions into softer, happier ones. She kept the Board Council in line that way. I was never able to accomplish that ability to switch for the sake of the moment. She smiled at me, possibly guessing at my thoughts.

“Yes, Pleasant?”

“I’m getting a headache,” I sighed, pushing away the mess. “Could we have tea and just talk a bit? It’s been awhile since we’ve just done that.”

“Of course!” She rang the bell, then held her slender hand out to me. I got up, took it, and we walked together to a couple of loungers that sat side by side. It was our favorite spot. “Did you ever notice that young boy often comes around asking after you?”

I blushed and settled in next to her. “Of course I noticed. Glint and I have been studying the history of the Harvester Civil War. He is going to the Academy, too.”

She nodded. The servant knocked on the door to announce her presence, then whisked in with a tray. The tray was settled on the table, then she brushed her hands and looked directly at Mother. She spoke in a strange accent I always delighted in hearing, “Madam Lea, there’re sirs awaiting in yer lobby. Hybrid’s Council.”

Mother bristled, then leaned back calmly. “Send for them. Pleasant, we’ll talk some other time. Take your tea.”

I picked up my glass of tea, casually taking a sip while I studied Mother’s face a while longer, before following the servant out into the hall. Blessed came sprinting to me, almost colliding with me. I grabbed her hand, “Calm down!”

My younger sister entwined her fingers with mine, breathless as she leaned against me while we strolled down the hall. “Strange men coming!” We straightened and let go of each other’s hands when a group of men trailed after our butler towards us.

One of them paused, met my eyes in a queer way, then continued after his colleagues. I felt a cold chill spread across my back, gripped Blessed’s hand again, and, trying not to spill the tea, hurried away.

Next:
Chapter 1: Flick’s Awakening
Chapter 2: Down the Rabbit Hole

Stats

Word count in Prologue 2: 481
Word count so far: 829

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That Ol’ High School Memory

Poetry No Responses »

Mar 202012

This poem was written when I was in 11th grade. Honestly? That wasn’t so long ago. That’s 2004-2005. So, that’s definitely a big warning for you. Most high school poems are crap and most of mine were no exception. That year was the transition from one high school to another, one state to another, and one home to another.

This is just reminiscent for me. Indulge me.

Diamonds in the Day (11th Grade)

Just before 2nd block

She walks around the building,
Trudging through the grasses.
There she ignores all the motions
That easily passes her –
The sea of students all in an ocean,
Each calling out to the other.

The weight of books slung over her shoulders,
The subjects are mundane, growing older.
It’s all the same, with different names,
Escaping before you could remember –
All the tests and work, it’s too lame.
Here, around the building, the quiet is for her.

She’d glance upon the grasses near the sidewalk,
On her way to the building just across.
The drops of sky glints underneath desperate blades,
What’s left of the morning’s breath.
While the students dash along before it’s too late,
She watches the feet rush near the glinting fresh.

Finally her own feet reaching the concrete,
She pushes her way through the moving crowd.
She hears the obscene voices growing too loud.
The image of her in the door’s window falters,
Before it swings open and she slips inside.
And there she moves away from the faceless tides.

That was copied from my OLD myspace page that I’d not visited in years. It’s crazy to return to my old stuff on myspace and read the things I’d written there. Seriously, who read that stuff? I look at my rants then and laugh.

The Reaper’s Sow – Prologue

The Reaper's Sow 3 Responses »

Mar 202012

• Flick •

We buried her in the rain. It was a soft downpour meant for tender moments, where leaves bowed away from the pressure and grass twinkled in the occasional sight of the sun. I patted the earth and stood up. We needed to move.

We were light on our feet, Daddy and I, winding between trees. Daddy was leading the line. I looked up and watched the gray hair fan out from under his brown hat. Behind me came the sounds of snaps and crackle as my brother followed heavily. I breathed in the smell of Spring with the thoughts of loss. Funny feeling, that. Sadness, desolate loss of hope, with the smell of fresh beginnings.

The world opened up suddenly to a land lining the cliffs and the wide blue beyond. Daddy hesitated, holding us within the last line of trees. Then he stepped out and the wind snapped his leather coat around his legs. He grabbed his hat, glanced back at us with a stern face, then turned back ‘round. Shoulders hunched, he moved briskly towards our ship.

I looked at Grip’s red face and reached back to grab his hand. He looked at me for a moment, then we stepped away from the forest and followed Daddy’s path through the tall grasses. I almost bumped into Daddy when he stopped suddenly. I peered around him to see another ship had docked with ours. He seemed stiff for a moment, then relaxed.

“Daddy?”

He turned to look at me and smiled reassuringly. There had been an expression of recognition. I hoped it was a good recognition. He patted my shoulder and continued on. Grip coughed to get my attention and gave me an expression that said, “Don’t ask too many questions”.

I scowled at him, returning a look that basically said, “Don’t tell me what to do”. We continued through Daddy’s wide berth in the grasses. I could feel the anticipation and tension between the three of us as we weaved towards the docks.

This ought to be interesting, I thought. Very, very interesting.

Stats

Word count in Prologue Part 1: 348.

Word count so far: 348.

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Where you are today.

Poetry No Responses »

Mar 192012

There is nothing like a memory

Of a time that you once hated

To grab you by the throat

By the mere smell of innocence

It sprung with all the green

of Spring, of the sun showing face

Sitting alone with the thoughts

Giving a fast and hard race

Up the hills and through the trees

I lived once for tomorrow, never today

Sat still only long enough to dream

Only to look for what I never chased

I hate the regrets that pour through

Of the time that I wasted

I love the hindsight that I live with

Of the love that I now taste

There is nothing like a memory

Of a time you felt truly embraced

It grabs you by the heart

And leads you where you are today.

Where you are today.

The Writer’s Job and a Lamentation on Literary Machine

On Writing No Responses »

Mar 122012

I found this in my inbox from Google+ today:

Tim Parks: ‘The Writer’s Job’ in The New York Review of Books A Hogwarts Professor Conversation About the Literary Machine

Reading between both this conversation and the columnist’s lamentations of the literary machine, I can only think to add one thing.

First, let me add, the educational aspect of both sides were great. I’m going to admit to an atrocity here: I’ve not really read very much of T.S. Eliot, Charles Dickens, Johnathan Swift, and Jane Austen. I can’t speak for any of them, nor do I have anything to add to that.

Second, I don’t believe that we are living in a literary Wasteland right now. If anything, the overwhelming number of books out there right now speaks for itself. That’s what Parks is lamenting. He seems to suggest that the true artists do not win because they’re avalanched by the millions of mediocre writers in the field, so to speak. Or that we’re too focused on what being a writer is not, such as turning our gaze on the Holy Grail of greatness (social marketing, putting ourselves out there publicly, etc) rather than giving one’s self to all of writing. Or that we follow the more currently traveled path of mechanical learning of writing, such as the school of arts.

I see that there are always influxes of changes for every world that is part of the literary machine. I think of the editors, writers, publishers, and marketers as I write this. We don’t always truly see the realities that triggered those changes. We see the myths that cropped up because of them.

Finally, more to the point of what I wanted to add here. Earlier in the year, I talked about exploring and being bold. To me, that is the job of being a writer. We may fail at it miserably, but we would say that we’ve done it. We may reach the heights of greatness, but our satisfaction would be that people enjoyed occupying the world we also lived in.

Authors are more connected to their readers than ever. I have to say, I think I appreciate that more than any other way. Emily Dickinson hid her poems away, not for the world to see. What was published in her era was tidied up by publishers. It was post-mortem before her poems came out and money was to be made. We saw more of her than her era ever did. I would rather that the authors of this time, in the midst of their writing, also socialize via twitter, facebook, as well as in person companionship.

Additionally, there are more and more readers taking up books to read. They are more diverse than you can imagine, all of them plugged into various genres and even loving the lesser known authors of their time. It is the readers, if you must achieve any greatness, that raise you up and talk about you. That’s gotta bruise some artistic temperament there for a few self-claimed writers who wish to achieve greatness merely by having the best book out of all the books out there.

So, for what it’s worth, the changes are intriguing. It’s up to writers of this era to define the next eras to come. I wouldn’t mourn or fret about the ability to put one’s self out there. I wouldn’t fuss over not being able to hold one’s self up as a great writer because there’s too many others. I’d just appreciate the readers that do enjoy my world, the world I create and share intimately.

Then again, maybe I missed the point. Those are just thoughts that came to mind when I read Parks’ lamentations, as well as the wonderful conversation from HogPro.

She’s a Shooting Star

On Dreaming No Responses »

Mar 082012

I stood on a large rock looking up at the sky. Brown robe hung loosely on my body, and the looseness felt freeing with the breeze pulling it around. My hand was up, shading my eyes, while I just kept on watching the blue sky.

In a space of an instant, the sky was dark. I was watching the world move — sun, to moon, to sun, to moon. My arm dropped and I stepped off the rock. Suddenly, I was falling into the dark space.

A comet caught me and took me through the universe. A little streaking ball of fire in the sky, that was me. I looked down and could see the people on the earth watching. I could see them so clearly, though I was way up in space. They pointed, made wishes, sighed, and grabbed their young ones to see the star that shot across the sky.

I was a shooting star.

I Dreamed of Heaven

On Dreaming No Responses »

Mar 062012

I thought I would walk to His throne. Not so. I stumbled, instead. I came to just shy of his feet and rested my forehead on the gleaming stones under me. Seeing him meant being ready for the radiating light. I was blinded by it.

I was keenly aware of strains of notes that didn’t just hang on the air. Rather, it streamed, alive in the air, as alive as the ethereal singers were. A glimpse of movement dimly captured the way he flowed from head to toe, even as he sat in his throne. Being so keenly aware brings me to realize how dim everything seemed in the previous world, though it had been full of chaotic and wonderful colors.

The world in which our souls were found and transported to was the ultimate home. Redemption, however, was to find one’s self before him. There was to be no anger, none of bringing worldly awareness here, for we would no longer be humans but little gods and goddesses that rejoiced in their majestic Lord. We are but children. Heaven was built on sounds of songs, laughter, and booming voice of God.

Love. He is that. Every moment is to be embraced by him. My heart trembled, not fearful, but feeling as though I was filled over the capacity that I could handle. The fibers of my being were his. I held no embodiment, and yet, found myself a vessel of his joy. His son stood by, and as a testament of me to his father, poured into that vessel full of glory, full of grace.

Immobile by it, yet moved. Then, I was commanded to speak. I spoke every wrong I had done, I suffered it, relived it. For every good I had done, I rejoiced in it as I relived it. And it was that I would relive the pain and sufferings of Christ, as he had felt the pain and sufferings of mine.

And heaven, heaven opened up. My eyes were not the eyes I’d dimly known, but eyes of a heavenly soul that I’d always, somehow, known. My deaf ears were no longer deaf but hearing every note that passed through the universe I lived in. To be his.

Home.

Explore & Surrender

Goblin Writing Project, Prose 1 Response »

Jan 182012

{Thoughts of 2012}

Beginning the new year for Porch Goblin.

Surrender is the kind of word that provokes two reactions: disgust and joy. It’s viewed as a submission, an act that makes you a doormat. To me? It’s a choice. It’s not about surrendering to authority, surrendering all of yourself to nothingness. It’s not about losing and making yourself a loser. It’s not just an acceptance of despair.

Instead, I think of the sign language. It’s a beautiful sign. You bring your hands — first closed, then palms out — into an act of letting go. Letting go of what holds you down. Letting go to make room for better. Giving yourself up into a beautiful offering of possibilities. Surrender; that voluntary act that gives way to wisdom, knowledge, and hope. Surrender not your beauty, but rather surrender blind despair.

Explore is a word that has nothing but possibilities. I see so many possibilities. Explore writing styles, explore meanings, explore your purpose, explore your abilities, explore pathways, explore nature, explore sexuality, explore your relationship with your spouse, explore Jesus and the infinite of God.

It’s a word that is navigational and developmental all at once! What you explore, you take the chance of developing. And the best part? It’s never-ending. I find that I look forward to always falling in love with my husband. I explore his personality, his quirks, his opinions that will at times change, and he explores me in ways I know no one else will. So, I fall in love again and again. I surrender to that certainty, to that joy.

Explore… and surrender. Two of the words that I chose to define and develop the year of 2012 for me. The words that will be put to use for the development of this blog.

I hope you will join me!

Porch Queen

I Will Not Be That Girl Again

Liars and Dreamers Microfiction Part 1

#LADMF / Page

The Reaper’s Sow – Chapter 2: Down the Rabbit Hole

Prologue Part 1: Flick’s Point of View

Prologue Part 2: Pleasant’s Point of View

Chapter 1: Flick’s Awakening

• Pleasant •

Chapter 3 coming soon!

Stats

The Reaper’s Sow – Chapter 1: Flick’s Awakening

Prologue Part 1 – Flick’s Point of View

Prologue Part 2 – Pleasant’s Point of View

• Flick •

Chapter 2: Down the Rabbit Hole

Stats

The Reaper’s Sow – Prologue [Cont'd]

Prologue Part 1 – Flick’s Point of View

• Pleasant •

Stats

That Ol’ High School Memory

Diamonds in the Day (11th Grade)

Just before 2nd block

The Reaper’s Sow – Prologue

• Flick •

Prologue Part 2 – Pleasant’s Point of View
Chapter 1 – Flick’s Awakening
Chapter 2 – Down the Rabbit Hole

Stats

Where you are today.

The Writer’s Job and a Lamentation on Literary Machine

Tim Parks: ‘The Writer’s Job’ in The New York Review of Books A Hogwarts Professor Conversation About the Literary Machine

She’s a Shooting Star

I Dreamed of Heaven

Explore & Surrender

{Thoughts of 2012}

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