Ba954c56 d8f8 4e2c b64f 470fc29ac171

Just A Dream

United Kingdom

I use entirely too many commas and parentheses.
The biggest fan of Queen and the Beatles you’ll ever meet.
I’m a lover, not a fighter.

Message from Writer

A dream is when when your brain spills a box of thoughts.

When you forget the dream, your brain’s cleaned the mess up.

Published Work

Q&A, Ask Away, Darlings

Ask me whatever your heart desires, strange or otherwise! As many as you wish. 

Please refrain from any personal or political questions, thanks. 

CONTEST, 1.5 WEEKS LEFT #songofmysoul

Hello, darlings! I’m hoping to get a good amount of entries for this one, so please read! I’ll be a bit more informal than my usual style because I feel like it. 

The deets -
— Prompt: write a piece inspired by a song. It can be any song, but please note which song in the footnotes!

- Limit of 501 words to avoid taking too long with results (a total of 2 exceptions will be made)

- Tag your piece with #songofmysoul in the title and leave a link in the comments of this piece 

- Little to no cursing, please, and nothing you wouldn’t let your mother read

- Deadline will be October 27th, midnight in whatever your time zone is. A total of 2 

The prizes - 
- First place: 3 reviews of your choice and one of mine (4 total), 3 comments, and a one-month shoutout
- Second place: 2 reviews of your choice and one...

Salt and The Sea

It was dark. Not pitch black, but a darkness that barely allowed shapes to form. The air was thick with the smell of seaweed, and I could hear the breaking of waves. The sand beneath my back was damp. 

When I sat up, a figure was sitting in front of me with an elegantly adorned green dress and sandy hair that reached past her waist. Though I was surprised, I felt no fear; rather an unusual sense of calm. 

“Where am I?” I asked her slowly. 

Her only response was a gentle smile and a wave of her hand, beckoning me forward. 

I felt I could trust her and stood up, and as I did so, the woman began to walk forward, descending into the water with a ghostly grace. 

Carefully I followed her. The water wasn’t icy, as I’d expected, but smooth and warm, and I glided through it effortlessly. My head went under last. 

I floated almost impossibly well,...

The Windswept Girl With The Flowered Backpack: Part 2

Read Part 1 here

———

2 YEARS AGO

It’s the first day of secondary school. I’ve got my outfit all picked out, my notebooks in order, locker combo memorized. 

I’m ready. 

“Who am I kidding?” I say.”I’m not ready! I’ll never be ready!”

“Don’t be so negative, hon!” Mum says.  “It’s the first day for everyone - you’ll do just fine.” She sets a plate of toast and eggs in front of me and brushes my hair out of my face. 

Seems that way to her, maybe. It’s been 20 years since her first day of secondary school. And she had it good, what with her looks. She was one of the popular kids. 

I eat a few bites of the toast to make her happy. Then I push the plate away, grab my backpack, and head to the door. 

-

The bell is ridiculously loud as I walk into my first class - Science. The tables are set up...

A Trillion Trees

Wonder Has Green Eyes

Wonder
has green eyes
and always wears a brown dress
even in the springtime

Wonder
looks toward the sky
and has thick roots 
that keep her grounded

Wonder
feels the whole world’s pain
and eases it
with gentle patience 

Wonder
takes many forms

I Am

I’m the girl in the back of your English class, writing stories instead of taking notes.

I’m the girl alone at lunch, reading a book and listening to the Lumineers and the Beatles until the bell rings. 

I’m the girl who has a crush on all the boys, but never admits it. I’m too shy. 

I’m the girl who smiles at the new kids, even if we never become friends. I never win yearbook awards, and I’m just fine with that. 

I’m the dreamer who never stops imagining what the future could look like, because there are endless possibilities, and any one of them could be mine. 

The Windswept Girl With The Flowered Backpack (Revised)

“Who is she? What is she doing here? Where did she come from?”

The entire lunchroom is whispering it as she walks into the room. Choppy, self-cut brown hair. Raggedy shirt, jeans with the cuffs cut off. A grey backpack with pink and white flowers. She’s very windswept and very short, and when she looks around the room, her eyes widen in excitement. The paper sack in her hand quivers just as she does as she slowly heads toward a table. 

“I don’t know her,” I say quietly, more to myself than anyone in my group of friends. 

But it’s far from true. I do know her. Or I did, once upon a time. I helped her pick out the fabric for that misshapen, flowered backpack no one else would dream of wearing, then gave her the pattern for it. I helped her cut her hair just the way she wanted it. I showed her how to hem up her...

Flash Fiction Competition 2019

The Grave Digger

He digs by the light of the moon, his shovel old and rusty. When morning comes, he lies in the grave and sleeps with the ghosts. 

He’s been seen just once, by a little girl come to visit her father. He told her that her father misses her, that he longs for the day when they will be together again. 

And now, as he digs grave after grave and wipes his brow, he waits for the day when he will see his own daughter again, and waits for the day when he will dig a grave of his own. 

Chapter Two, "The Artist": The Princesses

February 20th, 1653

     “Matilda, where are you going?”

     “Out to the garden. I shall return in an hour.”

     “You’re sneaking off to visit that servant boy, aren’t you? Jacob, was it?”

     The conversation between Princesses Agnes and Matilda happened in lowered-yet-excited voices, one at the prospect of seeing her love and the other at the prospect of catching her sister in the act. It was one that happened far more often than you’d think, but never more than once a week.

     “It’s Thomas,” 15-year old Matilda corrected, but her face grew hot as she realized she’d given herself away.

     “So you are!” Agnes said joyfully. “I knew it!”

     “Oh, stop,” Matilda said, covering her cherry-red face with her hands. “Please don’t tell Mum! I’d never see the light of day again. Besides,” she uncovered her face and raised an eyebrow with an air of hidden knowledge,...

Chapter One, "The Artist": The Room Upstairs

England, February 19th, 1653

     The servant James walked up the stairs quickly, balancing the tray on his fingertips. After a moment he paused to adjust it and attempt to stop his knees knocking.

     He was rather apprehensive, you see, due to his status of being a newer servant to the castle as well as his destination. The highest room in the castle was forbidden to most, with only the King, Princesses, and select servants allowed in. Why, you ask? To this I tell you only that it was the residence of the Artist.

     Most artists, as you know, are not typically revered, and this was not quite the case with our Artist either. However, while he was not worshipped, he had never been seen in person and was a subject of great curiosity and wonder. A total of two pieces of his art had been released to the public: the oft-displayed portrait of the...

Flash Fiction Competition 2019

The Grave Digger

He digs by the light of the moon, his shovel old and rusty. When morning comes, he lies in the grave and sleeps with the ghosts. 

He has been seen just once, by a little girl come to visit her father. He told her that her father misses her, that he longs for the day when they will be together again. 

And now, as he digs grave after grave and wipes his brow, he waits for the day when he will see his own daughter again, and waits for the day when he will dig a grave of his own. 

Flash Fiction Competition 2019

The Grave Digger

He digs by the light of the moon, his shovel old and rusty. When morning comes, he lies in the grave and sleeps with the ghosts. 

He has been seen just once, by a little girl come to visit her father. He told her that her father misses her, that he longs for the day when they will see each other again. 

And now, as he digs grave after grave, he longs for the day when he will see his own daughter again, and waits for the day when he will dig a grave of his own. 

Perfection

Short for his age
but so am i

a blond
but he’s not an idiot

doesn’t live close 
but we’ll make it work 

“anger issues”
but i can handle it 

no such thing as a perfect person
but perfect for me

Two Boys

I spy
with my little eye
two boys 
who walk the streets at night
curly headed, starry eyed

They could be brothers
but their songs sound different
and when one note rises
the other falls