Grace Renae

United States

I am a firm believer that some things have no meaning, but I over-analyze them anyway.

Message from Writer

I love writing and always have, but I know that there are plenty of people superior in this field. Therefore, I welcome any and all constructive criticism.

Published Work

Watermelon Lollipops

Julian likes watermelon lollipops more than he loves you, and really, you cannot pretend to be surprised. He has always been one for sugar over substance. You wake up early on Saturday morning to follow him to the candy shop, where he buys a big bag of them and tries to sneak a few before he gets back to your house. He knows that you leave for work at nine and he’ll have free reign of the place.
            You trail from a distance as he crosses backroads that you didn’t even know existed. He passes through alleyways behind old Chinese restaurants with fading neon signs, through darkened bodegas with peeling posters advertising discount flowers. The workers wave hello. They know him here, it seems, like he comes by every Saturday when he knows you’re still asleep. Mornings are sweeter when you are not there to contaminate them. He buys a newspaper at the corner stand. Last time you said...

Miscarriage

    The whole situation is as horrifying as it is enigmatic. 
Here in this moment, there are things that exist and don’t at the same time, things that are breathing and not in one prolonged second of agony. My world has opened up, and yet God stands on the other side of the door waiting to slam it in my face. He does not want me to step across the doorframe. Just as well. I am not ready to live in heaven. I stare back at him with my eyes wide open, and He points downward to the ground beneath me; I know what he allowed to happen. My retribution. He will not let me across the doorframe.
    The bathroom tiles pixelate and change colors below my feet. I do not leave a footprint and I do not know if I touch the ground. I do not know how pain suddenly consumes my lower back and dances black spots across my...

Sonnet 1

Love me he could not, despite his protest
When met eye to eye, he feels not a thing
His charm is a game, his profes’n a jest
He wears me on hand, prisoner to ring
While men flutter hearts with their kisses sweet
He gives me naught like but blood pulled through skin
And dark shadowed eyes, no ground for my feet
He summons a fight that I cannot win
Perhaps before dark, I once saw the dawn
In eyes crystal blue and frozen like glass
Prequel to anger, before hitched breath drawn
and peace turned to flee, disposed shards in grass
The life I treasure I wouldst soon discard
For love’s sake, happiness I disregard

People Are Nice

When will you understand, people are nice
They’re nice to you, they always are
even when they fly their flags
to degrade someone’s murdered ancestors
and panic when a man kneels
We can all have opinions
 
We’re all so nice these days
why do kids have to complain
about when silver flashes in their schools
and the fire alarm warns them
to stay inside, safe with the flames
Not like a little heat hurt anyone
 
People are good these days
you have to trust the people on the train
have to say no to the guy to your right
more firmly, more firmly, he’ll be nice
if you weren’t drunk we’d all be nicer
Everyone’s nice these days.
 
And that shout from a drive by?
Could be a bullet, could be a compliment
let’s distinguish between the two
before it hits between your eyes
They didn’t mean to hurt you
so stop talking like it hurt you ...

Speech Writing Competition 2018

Keep Your Opinions Off the Internet

I’m sure every one of you has something that you believe in strongly enough to post a rant about on one of your online accounts. Whether it be something as current as abortion, or as historical as the founding fathers’ skewed view of slavery, you most likely think this topic through in the shower, phrase an eloquent way to say it, and formulate defenses for it. Or even if you don’t, you at least think enough to form a solid opinion. When another person on a website comments something against it, your heart may seize up inside and your fingers might rush across the keyboard to prove this person wrong. It’s okay, we all have something like that. 
            But it needs to stop. My proposal is to stop posting our opinions on the internet.
            A drastic assertion, I am aware. When I say internet, I am referring to all social media (which, according to Statista, is a...

Speech Writing Competition 2018

Keep Your Opinions Off the Internet

I’m sure every one of you has something that you believe in strongly enough to post a rant about on one of your online accounts. Whether it be something as current as abortion, or as historical as the founding fathers’ skewed view of slavery, you most likely think this topic through in the shower, phrase an eloquent way to say it, and formulate defenses for it. Or even if you don’t, you at least think enough to form a solid opinion. When another on a website comments something against it, your heart may seize up inside and your fingers might rush across the keyboard to prove this person wrong. It’s okay, we all have something like that. For me, it’s victim-blaming.
            But it needs to stop. My proposal is to remove opinions from the internet.
            A drastic assertion, I am aware. When I say internet, I am referring to all social media (which, let’s be real, is...

The Dance #darkness

If it were up to him, he would let her remember this moment.
            She spins across the dance floor, his hand in hers, a soft hum on her lips. He does not think he will ever hear music again without picturing her here, in this white silken gown, with her hair in ringlets down her back. That is, if he hears music at all. How could any other form of sound hold a candle to this, the purest variation? The spirals she wears weave their way into his head in mandalas, galaxies, and seashells on a warm summer day. He is dizzy, but he does not care. She is here beside him.
            He does not care.
            The more that they dance, the more of the world goes dark in his mind. One minute, he can see the fairy lights draped above them in artful slopes and curves, and the next she is the only thing in the...

Mad Libs

Character Study - Declan Eversley

Declan Eversley is a twenty-one-year-old man, who lives mostly in a spaceship with his husband, Sullivan, and daughter. He has an apartment on Earth, not that he ever gets to visit there. The base that he works for values his skills above all their other recruits, so they send him away to explore more often than anyone else.

Known for being optimistic and a 10/10 pilot, he wants nothing more than to live a peaceful life with his family (and maybe write a book or two, the usual stuff). It would be a dream for him to go on a honeymoon with Sullivan, too, considering as they never got the chance and he knows they both need the break more than anything. Babies are hard to care for.

He pretends to be chill with everything the base and Sullivan throw at him, even when Sullivan risks his life for the fun of it, when in fact, inside, he really feels like...

“In January”

January

Embossèd silver, always fleeting
as for once your eyes meet mine
feet advancing, breath receding
as the fated dance designed
fingers laced if they are touching
only chilled when it is night
quick in contact, not in feeling
dressed in endless bounds of white
 

Friendship Tweet

Best Friends

Big things change, but it doesn't change a thing when you get to talking again.

the "best years" of my life

Here I am
cut me into pieces
shatter me like a wine glass
against your tiled floor
 
paint me in
with the assigned colors
1 = black
2 = white
3 = anything else
and sell me to
the highest bidder
sixteen, going once, going twice
never got a chance
to be there for seventeen

Love in 13 Words

Time Bomb

He always feels like the one, until you blink, and he doesn't anymore.

Overdramatic

I won’t say it was a mistake that we broke up. I never really loved you, nor did I have the chance. Even as the words fell from my lips for the first time, they were only to pair with your words. What kind of person would I be to sit in silence after such a confession? They were not from my brain. And they weren’t any of the other times I said them. Although infatuation enveloped my mind at that time, I can see it now. You told me you loved me, and I told you not to kiss me, and you did. That is our story. The girls at school praised me for dating you.
 
Although things worked for a month or two, they soured quickly. When I saw you every morning, my stomach clenched up. I hated your voice. I hated the way you made insensitive comments and took jokes too far, but I stayed with...

Ten Words to You

A Land of Many Churches

Darkness comes early.
Silver steeples scrape
at the lavender sky.
 

“In January”

January

Embossèd silver, always fleeting
as for once your eyes meet mine
yours advancing, mine receding
as the fated dance designed
fingers laced if they are touching
only chilled when it is night
quick in contact, not in feeling
dressed in endless bounds of white
 

I Only Date Homosexuals

When I was in third grade, I first laid eyes upon a person whom I found most attractive. For the purposes of this essay, we’ll call him Dawson. He played basketball on the Dover Youth Basketball team, their star player, in fact. I was on the cheerleading squad. Our assistant coach was a high-school girl, and she knew his older brother. This knowledge gave her a particular enjoyment of yelling at him by name every time a new play was called.
            “Dawson! Run, run, run!”
Thanks to her exclamations, I learned the name of my earliest crush.
            My DYB cheerleading years passed by far too quickly for me to properly enjoy this feeling. Dawson started for the team all the way until sixth grade, taking us to the championship game more than once. I cheered for the B team one year, encountering another attractive player, but when I cheered for the A team the following year, I put...

Flash Fiction Competition 2017

Enough with the Jesus Imagery

Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee (and not with me). Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb (whom I have never met)Can you be with me now?
    I gaze upward, but the void within my mind is just as empty as before.
    Suddenly, I understand why final efforts are called Hail-Marys-- they cannot guarantee a cure. Even through this mantra, I cannot connect to the being whom I am supposed to trust.
     The church tells me I am cured of informality, and offers up a stained glass window.

Talking to “You”

Ashes, Ashes

There are days when you wake up outside of your own body. You think it should surprise you, but doesn’t. You rise from the sleeping bag in the homeless shelter with little effort, only to look down and find that you left your skin behind. It’s an inconvenience, nothing more.
    A couple cots down, a man plays a violin. It’s his fault that this happened to you. You devote a small section of your consciousness to hating him.
    It takes you a half-hour to rouse your body. You sing a lot of Green Day. A bit of Nirvana, too.
    You tell yourself to write this development down in your journal, the one that Dr. Newman told you to keep, but your arms won’t obey. Oh well. Save it for later.
    The workers at the shelter don’t ask questions. You leave. 
    Your body is a lot less adventurous than you. After all, it needs to worry about mortality. You follow it...

Truths and Untruths

Gray Wishing

Five things I know to be true:

  1. I am sixteen years old now. It's supposed to feel different than being fifteen, but I cannot identify the difference. If anything, I feel less like an adult than before. The only perk of this new year is a license.
  2. I am sick. In fact, I am approaching my one-year sickness anniversary. After all those doctors, all the time and energy, my problems were deemed chronic and within the realms of "deal with it." I do not like dealing with it. 
  3. I have a boyfriend. His eyes are blue or green or brown sometimes, and others, they are a mix of all three. He's awkward but brilliant. When he shoots a genuine smile, I melt inside. And he loves me. I can tell that he does.
  4. I love to write things. I could sit and type for hours and hours at a time. Whenever a writing assignment comes up in class, I feel...

titles are as overrated as my talent

Grace does not write pretty. 
    When her pen hits the page, it is neither a display of elegance nor her namesake. Her strokes are short. Her mind cannot fathom much more. She thinks that her "a" would look more "aesthetic" if she drew it like her friend, so she tries to copy that kind of style. She is not her friend. Her hand is clunky and shaky. Should she attempt to add flair to a letter, she will end up with a garbled mess on her paper. It doesn't matter. She has enough empty journals to fill a bookshelf, but will not bring herself to ruin their purity by defiling them with words. She will never write with a pen. What if she makes a mistake? Erase everything and start over! And with all the focus on her handwriting, how can she think up a storyline? She contemplates making a draft. No, no, no, it needs to be...

Writing Small

Solitary.

A final flash of wood across cardboard, then into the leaves it falls. We pray. God answers our prayers. Although droplets overhead deter its progress, the canopy shields its cargo just enough. Golden tendrils creep their way across grass and bark. 
    Our final matchstick is gone. Lord have mercy.