Iceberg Lettuce

Listeria hysteria,
recall in the aisles.
Grass-fed cows and porcupines
are never worth your while.
It’s terror in the pasture,
the chicken lost its head,
and cabbages and collard greens,
they’re wilted and they’re dead.
Beware all the produce,
and while you’re at it, too,
don’t dare to touch the iceberg,
for that I know you’ll rue.


Yesterday’s prompt was Iceberg Lettuce, and I had no idea what to write. But sometimes, even the most difficult ideas can be the most fun to write, and the rhyming nature of this ridiculous little poem was fun to knock out. So, it’s not the best, but it’s cute, and I hope you enjoy it.

So Many Left

I’ve decided, to start off January, that I will write once a day, every day. I found some prompts, made a list, and I’m slowly checking them off. They might be terrible, they might be nothing but pure drabble, but they are something. So here’s January 4th’s, So Many Left. It might not be good, but I liked it.

Scattered across the ground, in small piles of forgotten letters, discarded objects, baubles that once shone; these mementos of a life long past, they glitter in the haze of remembering. She sat there, staring at the items strewn across the room, a lifetime of items.
So many left, she thought, picking through the nearest pile. So many dreams, memories, tokens of a life she remembered in flickering dreams.
Behind her, three boxes. Keep, Give, Toss. A life, boiled down to three boxes.
“How’s it going, kid?”
She turned around, still crouched on the ground, a letter clutched in her hand. “It’s going.”
“There’s a lot of things.”
“So many left.” She sighed, standing and stretching, staring. “How did you do it, dad? When you left.”
“Same way you’re doing, kid. Keep. Give. Toss.”
“Does it ever get easier?”
“Does life? Dinner’s in twenty. I’ll yell.”
She waited for the footsteps to leave before turning back to the room, staring at it for all its worth. The pale walls, the faded spots where pictures hung, nail holes and tape holding the room together.
“There’s so many left!” she cried, head falling on the table.
“So many left?”
She raised her head, eyes too haunted for an eight-year-old. “So. Many. Left.”
“I don’t think that’s correct English there, kid.”
“I don’t care. There’s just so many.”
“Of what?”
“Of Everything.” She dropped her head back to the table. “So many math problems, rules, people, cookies…”
“Cookies?”
“Too many cookies means I can’t eat them all.”
The chair slid out from across from her, and her father sat down. “Well, I guess we’ll just have to fix that.”
She wiped at her eyes, expecting tears, finding dry eyes. “There’s always so many left, isn’t there.” She turned back to the room and the piles, picking through the pieces and filling boxes. “I guess I’ll just have to fix that.”

2019

2018 was a year of being. That should be said about every year, but sometimes it isn’t. Though I understand more about life than I did a year ago, sometimes I still feel like the little lost teenager starting a new school for the first time, books clutched to my chest, eyes wide at the world. And is that really a bad way to be?
I forget my age, at times. Sometimes I feel seven, joyful and exuberant and enthusiastic about little things. Sometimes I feel fifty, keeping up with slang and talking about work ethic and being professional. Sometimes I feel my age, lost and ready to enjoy the world with all the emotions wrapped with a bow.
2018 allowed me many things. I explored more of the world than I thought I would ever. I visited parts of my home state I’ve never visited, I crossed three states in the span of a week. I met family I thought I would never meet or see again, due to distance or deaths or extenuating circumstances outside my control, and I visited a state that held no interest to me previously but in reality is pretty cool.
2018 brought me a job with people I would have never met or thought I would meet. It brought me friends I never dreamed I would have, and a happiness in being social that I never thought I wanted.
2018 brought a lot of things.
But it is 2019 now, and it’s a new beginning. A brand new start to this thing called life.
I wish I could predict where it will lead me. But what would be the point of the journey?
I will say one thing, though. I am going to continue in this little corner of my universe and write about everything and anything I want to. If it’s daily prompts I finish but don’t share, drabbles that are too long to be considered drabbles, reflections or rambles or anything in between, I will document it in some way. And if you want to join me, I’m okay with that, too.
Let’s make 2019 never forget a single one of us inhabiting this planet we call home.

Love,
Victoria

A Line

A line
Stretching from me to you
Taut,
Pulled,
Thrumming,
A song played across its width
It starts out sweet, slow,
Joy and mirth,
Dimming, changing, dropping key
Until it rings with grief,
Bittersweet on the ears,
A muffled note the ending
Vibrating into eternity
Until it rests, at last, quiet,
In the grave
With you.

Why I Write

I just wanted to say, off the bat, that even if no one reads this, even if only one person reads this, it doesn’t matter. I need to do this. For me. And I will keep posting. Even if it is sporadically and not on any schedule.

I write when I feel it, then that tug in my soul makes me want to pour out my thoughts into words. I write when the need pulls at my fingers and brain and very being until I type what I wanted to type.

And so, the poems and the pieces and the random thoughts that end up here don’t get much polish. They’re rough, what I wanted to say at the time. Maybe, later, I’ll go back and retype them on my end, but they will only be posted as first drafts, complete in their own ways. They will be posted as complete as I feel they are in the inception of their creation.

Except maybe some short stories. Those I might work on more.

So, be kind. They’re rough, just like emotions are, just like thoughts and hurts and happiness are. Just like dreams are. I’ve tried to catch what I could at the time and put it down. And I hope you like it.

This isn’t what I want to write. I want to write tales, tales of adventure, of love. Of loss. Soaring epic fantasies that span worlds.
Yet I can’t.
I can’t find a voice, one that fits the stories that I want to spin. A voice so full of magic and wonder that it makes you pause.
Yet I can’t.
I find myself writing half-baked stories, ideas that don’t feel right. Ideas that, in other hands, might be beautiful. Might sit on a shelf in a bookstore, someone else’s name emblazoned on the cover. But not my name, never my name.
I used to dream of my name on a book, one that people loved. Growing up, I was to write the next Great American Novel, so much so that it felt a part of who I was supposed to be, who I would become.
Now I don’t dream of that, because dreams are jinxes that haunt my waking moment. If I dream it, it won’t come true, because nothing I’ve dreamed has come true.
And the secret dreams, the ones hidden behind the curtain in my heart, those have.
Maybe I don’t want it enough. Maybe I’m not trying enough. I’m not skilled enough. I don’t read enough, write enough, think enough for this to even happen. Maybe I should stop trying.
Maybe I should stop trying.
If the thing that I was supposed to grow up to become hasn’t come true, and I am grown, does that mean I am living a lie, breaking every promise I ever made to everyone I looked up to in life? Does this mean I am the embodiment of failure? Does this mean I am lost?
Maybe I should stop trying.
But I don’t think I can.
Sure, I might have fallen far from what I thought I would do. Perhaps I will never find that voice. Maybe stories aren’t in the forecast of the future.
But I don’t think I can stop.
I like writing, and reading, and hearing what I write and hearing MY voice. If I can’t fit the stories I want to spin, then I’ll have to find the stories that do.
And maybe, just maybe,
My name will be on a book.

Dream of the Sky

In the summer nights,
when hopes run high,
when dreams appear
and fade and die.
When grasses rise
and sway and grow,
and monsters lurk
above and below.
When people fight,
drinks tossed aside,
and crime is created,
illusions a lie,
and safety becomes
a secondary side
to the fun and the life
of the son and the bride.
In summer nights,
when hopes run high,
when dreams appear
and fade and die,
when you sleep in the dark
and are forced to comply,
I look out at the city
and dream of the sky.