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.

Things I Hate Pt. 1

I may hate certain things. I find the sound of metal on any surface grating. Vegetables are gross. The smell and taste of mint gives me a headache. Coconut is one of the worst textures in the world. And yet there is one thing that I hate more than anything. And it is raisins in food.
Don’t get me wrong, I don’t have anything against raisins. I mean, they’re gross, but I don’t hate the taste. I mean, every time I used to give them for a snack, I always thought they would be better than they were. They smell kind of good. And craisins aren’t bad either. But put raisins in food and I will hate you.
I mean, when you bite into a cookie, or something sweet, and you see those dark specks in the food that look almost melted, and you know it’s going to taste so good and chocolatey and it turns out to be a raisin? It’s the worst betrayal ever. It’s torture, cruel punishment, a complete just… ugh. You can’t put raisins in food and not think it isn’t chocolate or something else except shriveled grossness. It’s wrong. Raisins don’t belong in desert. Or in anything. At all. They can be on their own. If you really want them. Or maybe in trail mix cause you can pick them out. But don’t offer me a cookie and not say what’s in it and it looks like a normal cookie but it turns out to be a seriously gross raisin cookie. So yeah. I needed to get that off my chest. Raisins are gross guys. That’s all.

Dreams of Life

When I was a kid, I had grand dreams. Everyone did, I think. Some wanted to be firemen, or princesses, or even Sonic. Hell, I’ve listened to little kids tell me they want to be animals or fictional characters. It’s the greatness of imagination, and the greatness of a society that tells you that you can be anything that you want to be, if you just set your mind to it.

As far back as I can remember, I wanted to be a teacher. I wanted to go back to the little private school I went to and be a teacher there. I wanted to follow in the footsteps of some of my favorite adults and teach others. And besides the lofty idea of being a writer, I wanted nothing else.

It’s not the grandest dream, nor was it the most difficult dream. But somewhere between middle school ending and life beginning, I lost that dream. Now, granted, I have done a few teaching jobs. I worked for after-school care for elementary kids (not much teaching, but I was called a teacher and that’s what matters). And for a couple years, I was a preschool teacher, and worked with pretty much all the young ages. But I had the glorious opportunity to have my own class of the older one’s.

I’m not saying these jobs drew me away from my dreams of teaching. If anything, being a preschool teacher reminded me of why I wanted to be a teacher. And yet, in trying to figure out myself and my life, I don’t think I want to be a teacher anymore.

Some kids grow up to live their dreams. They become actors, or politicians, or writers, or construction workers, or any other type of career they wanted. I haven’t found that yet. I thought maybe I did. I thought maybe, in the grand scheme of things, I might have found my dream job.

But something I’ve realized as time’s worn on is that, well, dreams can change. I’ve sat and I’ve poured so much thought into the future that all I can think about is what is going to happen, what might happen, why am I not trying to hold onto my future, what will happen to me. But then I’ve stopped. Yes, I’m sitting here, wasting time, sleeping the days away and passing the nights. Yes, to some it may not look like I’m taking charge of my own life. But that’s just it. I have stopped trying to take charge, just a little.

Instead, I’m figuring out steps. Steps that will get me to a potential dream. And though it doesn’t look like I’m succeeding, maybe I am. I’m finding my way to a place that may make me the happiest person I can be, in the future. I’m finding my way to a place that, hopefully, won’t make me miserable. Does it make sense right now? No, and it’s terrifying. And it’s really difficult to explain, sometimes even to myself. And I just have to let it be difficult. I just have to let it be terrifying. Because I’m letting the control of my destiny go.

People say that when a door closes, a window opens. And that’s what I’m letting happen. I’m waiting for my window to open. Right now there’s a crack in the shutters, and all I want is for it to open wide enough for me to pass. But it’s a waiting game, all while there’s a hammer and a glass window in another room that I can force open. But if I break it myself, do I lose the window I’m waiting on? Should I risk that?

I don’t know if I can risk it. But I think I have to try. Because my dream has changed, I think. Or maybe it’s evolved. And behind the shuttered window is an avenue to my dream, one that’s a huge step in the right direction. If I turn away, I might still be able to work towards my dream, but I think it’d be harder, and I might lose myself again.

When you’re a kid, you dream of changing the world. Of a perfect life, with no struggle, with the power to fix anything. It’s an imperfect dream, but that’s not realized until later. I once dreamed of being a teacher. And now, I’m not so sure.

Creative Expressions

I found a prompt yesterday, and it read “You die. As you go up to paradise, you notice it seems to be in ruins. Then you find the corpse of God.” I found in on Pintrest, so I’m not sure who to credit it to, but the concept intrigued me. A lot. So I thought I’d post what came out of this prompt, in the hopes of some constructive criticism, or even your own answers to the prompt. I’d love to read them. Anyways. Here it is.


I thought death would be peaceful. Life had been a chore, a daily fight to live. It’s not as if I wanted to die. I just didn’t want to live any longer, not in that hell. Days upon days of pain, of drugs, of not knowing how things will be mere hours from now, it all creates a cycle of torture in which the only relief is death or life.

I could feel my body giving out. Breath started to get harder to find, minutes blended into hours, until I couldn’t be sure when I was. And they were all there, waiting, watching, mourning already, even though they tried their damndest to make sure I didn’t see. But I did. When you’re stuck in a bed, you can’t help but see.

They let my friends see me one last time. I’m glad they did, but I almost wish they didn’t. We were at the age of invincibility. To see me dying, well, it shattered the illusion of safety and promise they held around their lives. It broke them. I watched it break them.

One of the nurses helped me write my letters. She picked me out beautiful stationary, bought it with her own money, cream paper with a simple metallic navy border on the front. Every lucid moment was spent writing my goodbyes, to my parents, to my friends, to the nurses and teachers I had remembered. The hardest was the one to my brother. He’s only seven. He shouldn’t have to lose me yet.

So, yes, I thought death would be peaceful. That I would just drift away into nothingness. That there would be no pain. But there’s always pain. There’s the pain in blinking, knowing that this might be the last time your eyes open, that the last thing you saw would be your final vision. There’s pain in tears, in the too-tight grasp of a hand in yours. Pain in the way he fought to keep his eyes open, even though it was way past his bedtime, even though it was way past my time.

And then your eyes close one last time. Breathing starts to falter, hitch, fade into a final exhale. You would think that, once the eyes close, that’s it. But I hung on, blind yet feeling, struggling for each pitiful breath, hearing their sobs ripping out their lungs. I wanted to cry out, tell them I was still here, but even a single breath was difficult. And yet I lingered on.

A part of me hoped someone would beckon me into the beyond. That I would see my grandmother, holding out her hand, or my uncle that I barely knew. Maybe an angel, or a figure in white. Death himself, robe and all. A part of me hoped there was nothing, just blackness, a darkness that ate away consciousness, pain.

A final breath caught in my throat and faded, and I did as well. It is almost like floating, the experience, rising from your body as if on a wind. I hovered, watching my mother collapse onto me, my father face the wall, my brother stirring and crying out.

And then the world rushed past me, as if I was sucked through a tube, flashes of my life flickering past. My cat nuzzling my palm, my grandmother cutting off the edge of the cookie dough tube for me to eat, holding my brother for the first time, all pleasant images to whisk me away. And I felt myself crying, trying to reach out to the images, trying to look up and look away. The memories rushed by quicker, time convoluted and images scattered, no rhyme or reason to their organization, until they faded into a pleasant white that grew blinding, until ground was beneath me.

And here I am, standing before the gates of heaven. Though I’m not sure if I want to go in. They’re open, you see, and there’s no one around. They’re resting on a broken hinge. And the welcome desk is covered in blood. I didn’t know angels could bleed.