Malaphor

“We’ll burn that bridge when we come to it!” he yelled, arm thrust into the air. His outfit
was a mix of colors that assaulted the eyes; a deep purple cape that billowed in the air behind him, clinging periwinkle tights, neon orange shorts, blazing pink ‘M’ off-center on his chest. The crowd surged around him, screaming as he marched forward. “We can no longer ride the fence! We cannot sit around here any longer, pretending all is fine while we secretly cry over lost time!”
I watched from the roof of a building overlooking the street they had started to march on
and rolled my eyes. Out of all the villains I had faced, Malaphor was the worst. Annoying,
idiotic, and harmless, the worst crime he ever committed was insulting the English language. But this, this was different. Not only was he convincing the town to follow his crazy ideas, but he was creating public panic.
I dropped from the roof, landing in perfect superhero pose, one hand pressed into the
ground, one knee down with the other near my chin. No one noticed me; I stood and waited untilthe crowd had passed far enough so that I had to yell to be heard. “Malaphor!”
Though they were loud and angry, my voice carried, the one superpower I had. Everyone
turned, staring at me. In my ripped t-shirt and red flannel tied around my waist, torn tights underneath jean shorts, black hair dyed with blue streaks, I didn’t look the hero. He laughed. “Have I caught your attention? Are you going to join us?”
“Are we really going to listen to a man who mixes idioms without issue? Are we going to
follow the anger of a man whose only goal is to confuse and incite issue? Do we not have
enough common sense to follow our own ideas and our own minds? Or is this what we choose to follow? An idiot?”
“Just fly the nest already. You’re clearly off your deck.”
“Are you… are you serious?” I watched as the crowd started to look confused, glancing
between the two of us. “This is a man who clearly has no grasp of even the most common of phrases. I mean… come on!”
“Don’t listen to her. All she’s saying is straight from the grapevine, not true in any sense.
Everything I say is as clear as a bird.”
And the crowd came towards me, shaking their heads, hands dropping to their sides as
the anger melts into disappointment. They walk past, ignoring me as they always do once my job is done. Once they return to their homes, their jobs, their lives, I step towards him. “You’re done, Malaphor. And I’m done dealing with you.”
“Oh, so you’re finally using your own superpower for yourself? Just because you call
yourself Common Sense doesn’t make you the cream of the castle.”
“Do you do this on purpose? What is the point of all this? I honestly want to know.”
“It’s irritating, isn’t it?”
“Uh, yeah. Completely. You’re the worst villain I’ve ever come across.”
“Good.” He jumped back, the widest smile on his face. “Well, we’ll see each other soon.
You keep feeling like you’re on top of the moon. But I’ll be there to bring you back down, until you’re cowarding in the bathroom.”
I step towards him, fists clenched. “Tread lightly.”
“Why? Am I on dangerous waters?”
I rarely fight my villains, usually resorting to words and, of course, common sense. But I
punched him right in his wide mouth. It felt satisfying, it really did.
He wiped the blood from his chin. “Did your power fail you? Did I find your
kryptonite?”
“Get out of here before I stop being nice.”
“This is nice?”
I punched him again, blackening his eye. “We’re done here.”
I watch from the shadows, the invisible man in the crowd, listening for those who need
help the most. I wait for the moment to be the voice of wisdom, the devil’s advocate for idiotic situations. The world lacks common sense, and I will provide it. When the world remembers I exist, I will be no longer needed. Until then, I will be there.

To Those I Knew Before

To Those I Knew Before

 

I learned from you.
To be kind, to be smart,
to be generous,
like you.
Always giving,
sharing, spending,
offering what I have;
I know they’re broke,
so I sit and share,
a snack, a smoke
(but I learned from you,
the shadows of cancer,
the stench of cigarettes in the air,
so I stay away).

 

I learned from you.
They called you the favorite,
the nice one, the good one.
And I want that.
To be remembered as the good one,
the kind one,
the one offering,
packing extra,
giving all that I have
and more.
All my time,
all my effort,
all to be
Like You
(because I watched you,
slipping dollars to the cart takers,
an extra twenty pressed in my hand,
no one else could pay but you).

 

Because I learned from you.
And that
was a blessing.

Moo

Whispers of wind against grass,
subtle shift of petals, leaves,
cloying stillness in a quiet field.
He is alone.
Afraid, he stares into clear skies,
waiting for footsteps to echo,
closer, slower, a click.
“Moo,” he whispers,
but he really means why.

Running

Running.
Heart beats, breath chokes,
legs numb,
Running.
Faster, faster, drown it out,
no more thoughts, fears, dreams,
Running.
Footfalls pounding, digging, gripping,
wind buffeting, howling, screaming,
Running.
Mind is racing, pulse is racing,
time and space is racing, frozen,
Running.
Death, loss, fear, pain,
It’s all your fault they’re Gone.

Running.

An Ode to Vox Machina (2)

Critical Role allows me to imagine anything, to follow stories of fictional characters that mean just as much to their creators as they do to the fans. It’s a story to look forward to, whether I’m driving or waiting for the show to start live streaming. It’s a story I can feel free in, because anything can happen. Anything does happen. And their reactions are just as genuine as anyone’s.

So here’s a little nod to three characters I love just as much. Can you guess who they are?


Child of the goddess,
shining bullet through the sky,
stealthy plate mail a marching band.
Heal, protect, watch,
anger that you were not there,
building shrines, faith,
watchinf friends break,
voice of reason, optimism,
your light is never gone.


You left.
You claimed they never cared, so you left.
You watched from the sidelines,
the Meat Man, the Spice Fan,
and yet you came back once you left.

You inspire.
Words are too quick, you inspire.
You cut with your tongue,
with your wit and your lies,
you give of yourself and inspire.

You play on.
You mastered the music, play on.
You roll and you fight and inspire,
shit on the beds and spit fire,
you keep moving on, so play on.


Shapes, colors, and ale,
I would like to frenzy rage.
My strength is my friends.

An Ode to Vox Machina

I have become addicted to a simple show airing Thursday nights on a lovely channel called Geek and Sundry. I have been a fan since the show started, but only recently have I fully delved into the wonder that is Critical Role. And I have been entranced, obsessed, and in love with everything it is. The characters, the story, the world, the people, it is wonderful. So I decided to write an homage to the characters. Hers is long, so hers is first.

Stolen trinkets are the toughest to keep.

A heart, a soul, bow, brother, pet
each a stain of guilt on the conscious,
a tear in the fabric of your being.

Smoke and ash, gunpowder and lead,
there are worse things than death.
Take off the mask.

Life a gift, a curse, a need,
desired by others, not just you,
their wants tethering you to earth.

Darkness, bargaining, offerings,
traps released, tine frozen.
How do you feel? Cold.

Journey far, wide, alone but not,
hand in hand, side by side,
this is your path to trod.

Weaknesses found, exploited,
bow drawn in preparation.
Are you really different?

Dear, sister, mother, friend,
names that burn the ears,
memories of what was or could be.

Do not stray far from him,
you came into this world as one.
It’s like he’s taking a part of you with him.

Mercy, a balm to guilt,
the healing of a laden soul,
kill to live, kill to save.

Wrapped in furs, friendship, dependancy,
tucked neatly away for safety
against a heart that’s breaking.

Diplomacy and charisma, charm and a wink,
defenses against the dangers ahead,
bow ever ready, trinkets at hand.

Stolen trinkets are the toughest to keep.

Colors

It’s the color of rage. Clenched fists and tense muscles, deafening silence and a ringing in ears, a haze settling over vision. Being so angry that tears start to fall. Anger, hatred, biting words. Wrath. Red.

It’s the color of danger. Blinking lights, police sirens, the blare of an alarm ringing in your ears. Barricades lining the street keeping people away. Warning signs, stay away, do not proceed. Caution. Orange.

It’s the color of warmth. Sunshine on upturned cheeks, the tickling of grass underneath shoulder blades, soft breeze caressing bare skin. A hand in yours, pointing out shapes in clouds. Spring day, summer wind, sand under toes. Contentment. Yellow.

It’s the color of deceiving. Biting into an oatmeal cookie but expecting chocolate, the snap of a green bean before it is cooked, a sting of betrayal as he chooses another. A burning bitterness at the depths of your being. Envy, disgust, a tinge of freshness. Wrong. Green.

It’s the color of sorrow. Funeral clothes and oversized glasses, dark skies inside the soul, arms clutched tight against your chest. Standing alone in a hallway as people pass. Numbness, sharp pain, a feeling of dread. Sadness. Blue.

It’s the color of pep. The smile of a cheerleader encouraging the crowd, the ‘A’ marked on a test you struggled with, a compliment given in passing. A tickling at the base of you because of another’s kind words. Unexpected joy, perkiness, passing happiness. Excitement. Purple.

It’s the color of love. The heat of blush springing into cheeks, the scent of a Valentine’s carnation, chocolates hidden in a locker. The grasp of a hand slipping into yours. Nerves, butterflies, first kiss. Hope. Pink.

It’s the color of comfort. A blanket wrapped around shoulders, the soft patter of rain on glass, warm glass of hot chocolate clutched in your hands. A book resting open on curled up knees. Muted colors, no plans, lazy afternoon. Resting. Gray.

It’s the color of nothing. Loss of feeling and empathy, will to exist falling away, the aftermath of destruction. I’m not angry, just disappointed. A void, taste of licorice, waiting to move on. Continuing. Black.

It’s the color of creation. An unmarked page waiting to be drawn on, the clicking of a typewriter, the spark of inspiration. Clears skies after a hurricane. Brightness, fresh sheets, content. Living. White.