The Moving Finger Writes

United States

Accidental overuser of commas, parentheses, and bold typeface
Lover, not a fighter
I'll talk about Queen for hours if you let me
In love with Joe Mazzello and not afraid to be it

I am old, but still a child
- Queen

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.

NO REVIEWS WITHOUT REAL, HELPFUL FEEDBACK, PLEASE

Published Work

Writing Streak Week 9, Day 2

When she sleeps she dreams of the boy she loves, and in the darkness she whispers, “how long?

Writing Streak Challenge Week 9

Writing Streak Week 9, Day 1

"This is no time for tears," the woman said, and around her, the world collapsed.

The Moving Finger Does a Q&A #askthewriter

I was going to wait until I hit 60 followers for this, but I decided against it, so here I am. Send me your questions (no overly personal or political, please) and I’ll answer them. 

Spare Rain, Sir?

“Spare rain, sir?”

My childish voice shouted the words across the sidewalk as I held out a small jar to all who passed. But no one stopped, and my little jar stayed empty until the clouds filled up.

When I was five, the rain was my life. I’d sit at the window for hours, watching the drops fall and distort my window, turning the grass outside into a dark green ocean and my eyes brighter than the sun could’ve ever been. After my mother told me to ask for rain, I started going outside on sunny days with a jar to flag down passersby and request rain from each of them. I couldn’t understand why no one donated, and why it didn’t rain when I asked.

When I started school, I found out that rain was something that happened up in the clouds when molecules rubbed together. It made the rain seem less magical.

But to this day I can...

Chaos Song

run, they say,
quarantine and isolate, hide yourself away
for while the cats are gone, the mice come out to play

right outside our windows
there is fire in the sky
and the sound of our world’s lifeblood
becomes a wretched cry

as waves crash on the sands of time
a starry sky, a tortured light, shines its final rays
on a world that only ever spoke its lines 

anything you want, they say, you can be,
but time’s tales said otherwise
and now
what do we see?

our fathers before us had fallen
our sisters with them too
but now, we swear, we rise
and hear the Phoenix calling

truth hurts, we sing,
as our Einsteins and Ellisons step forward
raise their hands,
and ask them why did you say anything?

the powers that be
can yell and scream and cry,
but however hard they try
they cannot escape their own lie

A Bit of The World (Revised) || That One 2018 Trend

Perhaps home is a place, perhaps it is a person; in any case, one must always have a bit of the world inside of them.

Dear Reader #apoemaday2

Look into my thoughts, dear reader,
and tell me what you see.

Listen to my mind, dear reader,
what is it that you hear?

You're inside my head, dear reader,
and my secrets are no more.

You're astonished, dear reader,
so I ask you a simple question.

Why the surprise, dear reader,
when you said you knew me all along?

Spark/smoke/fire #apoemaday1

Spark

Neat typing on printer paper
"abused and anxious"

Slanted handwriting on a detention slip
"acting out in class"

Messy scibbling on a note
"I'm sorry"

Smoke

Announcement from the loudspeakers
"took his own life"

Whispers in the hallway
"was her best friend"

Conversation on the playground
"gotta do something about it"

Fire

Letters painted on signs
"his name was Marcus"

Words typed online
"#RememberMarcusMellot"

Stories spoken aloud
"we'll always miss him"

He'd certainly lived a life #ArtofCompression

The two prisoners sat in their cell. The morning light shone through the barred window, illuminating the dirt on their pillows and clothing, and Samuel sighed. “Sun’s up, Dmitri.”

“So it is,” Dmitri said. “You ready?”

“Who’s ever ready for death?” Samuel said.

Dmitri laughed bitterly, glancing at the cocoon of bandages around his hand. “Fair point, mate.”

Suddenly a knock sounded on the door. “Prisoners 1243 and 9383, come with me. Two guards entered the room. “It’s time.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Dmitri said. He made no move to get up. “Just give me a second.” The prisoner closed his eyes, remembered all he had done, the good and the bad. He’d certainly lived a life. Then he opened his eyes and held his hands out.

“Alright, boys,” he said, “take us away.” 

Open Prompt

._../_ _ _/.../_

He remembers the day he came home.

There were throngs of people at the train station, but none there for him. His friends were gone, buried in the trenches. His family was not his family, and those he had known as such had faded, hardly human anymore. 

His life is different now. 

Before, his home had been a place of laughter, of life, of simple pleasures, nothing taken for granted.

Now it is silent. He lives alone, a life of black and white feelings, flavorless meals, tears shed on bed covers. 

Now he paints portraits of war with his own blood, so detailed it seems as though he fought just yesterday. 

Now he only survives. 

Young girl mysteriously found under streetlight, investigation pending

CAMBRIDGE, ENGLAND

On Saturday February 16th at approximately 3:42 am, 3-year old Avis Maloney was found outdoors beneath a streetlight. 

“She scared me half to death!” Cynthia Halbeck, the toddler’s rescuer and neighbor informed press. Halbeck had been returning home from her night shift at Providence Hospital when she saw the girl. “Out there all alone in the dark, and clearly nobody knew she was there.”

The first thing Halbeck had done was call the police, then Avis’s parents, terrified that something had happened. “When I called, nobody picked up,” Halbeck said. “So I brought her to her house and prayed they were alright. Luckily they were and Mrs. Maloney came to the door right quick. She was real happy to know Avis was safe.”

Upon questioning, Mr. and Mrs. Maloney were unaware that their daughter had escaped the house. “I can’t believe this happened to her,” Mr. Maloney stated. “All our windows were locked. The doors were closed. Just...

Sepia Sunsets and Simpler Times

We left that day
bags full and hearts empty 
away from one beginning
and toward the next

Why? I always asked
But I never learned
not to ask questions 
that I didn’t want an answer to

Finally I let the sun shed its last rays 
on the universe
as I closed my eyes
and wept

The House on The Hill

At the top of the hill about 2 miles from your street, there is a house. It’s the one all the neighborhood kids warn new people about, the one they say is haunted. 

It’s huge and ringed thickly with trees, largely obscuring it from view. The house itself has boarded windows and a strange-looking knocker reminiscent of a face, as well as an attic visible from the ground. 

Haunted? No. Just hidden— hidden from the ones who don’t truly need it. 

If you’re desperately in need, the house will show its true form: simply a house owned by a lovely older couple who takes in any and all children in trouble.

If you’re desperately in need, you can enter safely, and you can stay as long as you need.

If you’re desperately in need, the house will help. 

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,...

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. 

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