Moonsinger

United States

hi! let's be friends :)
*she/her*
*aspiring novelist*
*ambivert*
*annoyingly chatty*
*vegan*
*hardcore anime fan*
*professional yarn hoarder*
*extreme bookworm*
*optimist*

Published Work

wishing methods

wobbly
airplanes
masquerading as
shooting
stars

ladybugs
speckles of red
six dots
seven dots
eight dots
nine dots
sprinkled in
the dewy grass

singular
pennies
tossed onto
the sidewalk
tails side
up
crushed
underneath
passing feet
running
walking
dancing
sneakers
sandals
high heels

eyelashes
sticking to
the bathroom
sink
coated in
mascara
pinched
between
fingers and
lost down
the
drain

a glaring time
on an
electronic clock
four perfect
ones
11:11
paired with
crossed fingers
nail polish
chipped

melting candles
stabbed into
cake
crumbs scattering
with
breaths
in
and
out

all dedicated to one wish.

i wish she would come visit again, sometime

pines on the horizon

pine trees, needles are
shuffled by the soft wind, in 
a washed out grey sky

the needle flutter, like the feathers of birds. always green, always living, ignoring the passing of time.

loose ends

it's almost complete
but that doesn't mean it
will end perfectly

the typist

hands are poised on the
keyboard ready to let the
painted words spill out

honesty

if i could change it
all, i don't think i would. life
doesn't work that way.

Novel Writing Competition 2020

come back to you

   
    Grandmother’s funeral was last week.
***
    It happened so inconveniently. Dave lost his job, Katherine had just gotten a citation for her third speeding ticket. When the call came, waterlogged news from a second or third cousin, Katherine and Dave sat on the couch together, syncopated by sobs and wet cheeks, side by side, but never touching. 
    I couldn’t bring myself to shed a single tear. I’m like that, I feel the urge to cry, but never do. People die, and my body just doesn’t care.
    They make me wear a maroon velvet dress to the will-reading, sweaty and sticky and a few sizes too small. Its collar feels like ants crawling along my neckline.
    We sit in the basement of a church in the next town over, in broken folding chairs with linty seat covers. I'm surrounded by family I had never gotten to know, curvy women in cabled sweaters, toothpick men in...

That Sort of Person

internalized

she's the sort of girl that hugs you when you cry
but never cries herself

Novel Writing Competition 2020

come back to you

I was ten years old when my grandmother first told me about The Red Death.
She was the sort of woman who believed that avoiding the truth was lying in another form, so she gave me snatches of the story, little by little.
    Young girls, between sixteen and nineteen. Driving alone. Pulled over, gagged, whisked away, never to be seen alive again. 
    And, the connecting factor, the reason why she even told me, why it even mattered.
    He had killed one of them in the woods behind her house. 
    I found out more over the years, by pestering her and from my own research, digging myself in deeper and deeper. 
    Never caught. No suspects. His name was his modus operandi. Strangle, then take the fresh bodies and carve into them with a knife, blossoming flowers and twining vines, tear-laden eyes and pursed lips, formed by incisions. Blood, forming in pools, slipping into the loamy dirt. ...

the desk's ambience

sheer glass
reflections 
clumps of
dark grey
wool
knotted
burned out
lightbulb
fading pencils
cracked
in half
dull
frosted
snow globe 
the particles
have gone
to sleep
inkless pens
scattered
on the surface  
papers
inside
secrets


... and lies

Speechwriting Competition 2020

A Tale of Anxiety


`  The cut-and-paste definition for anxiety is: ‘a feeling of worry, nervousness, or unease, typically about an imminent event or something with an uncertain outcome’. 
    But to me, it’s so much more than that.
    I often imagine anxiety as a sleeping monster. Unable to detect its presence, you live in oblivion. That is, until, “The Moment that changes everything”. Sometimes this moment is broken up, and comes in stages. But for me, I can blame the beginning of my torment on a single incident.
    The summer between first and second grade. I went to the beach with a friend and her grandparents. For most of the day, it was one of the best days of my life. But then I went in the water alone. There must have been a tide, an invisible current, that pushed me sideways. When I walked back onto the shore, it was foreign, unrecognizable.
    I was lost.
    As you probably...

Speechwriting Competition 2020

A Tale of Anxiety


`  The cut-and-paste definition for anxiety is: ‘a feeling of worry, nervousness, or unease, typically about an imminent event or something with an uncertain outcome’. 
    But it’s so much more than that.
    I often imagine anxiety as a sleeping monster. Unable to detect its presence, you live in oblivion. That is, until, “The Moment that changes everything”. Sometimes this moment is broken up, and comes in stages. But for me, I can blame the beginning of my torment on a single incident.
    The summer between first and second grade. I went to the beach with a friend and her grandparents. For most of the day, it was one of the best days of my life. But then I went in the water alone. There must have been a tide, an invisible current, that pushed me sideways. When I walked back onto the shore, it was foreign, unrecognizable.
    I was lost.
    As you probably know, first...

behind the fence

red tiles on the roof
brushing against a
shock of blue
and wisps of smoke
murders
of crows
cutting
slices
into satin
ribbons
a crown
atop a fortress
of white stucco
walls
and ratty curtains
drawn
bundles
of branches
tilting in
the wind
masked
by a warped
wooden
fence
sprinkled
with holes
flashes
of another
world

framed

i wait
                               and wait

and wait
                           and wait





but
      the 
             reason
                        why
                               i'm 
                                    waiting
                                is
                    because
                i've
            done
nothing
            said
                  nothing
   ...

thin ice

these frigid waters


in them i shall



drown

steal the miniscule
beads of air
from my tired
lungs
each shift
of the tides
will drain
my life force
like loose
threads
being pulled
out of a
fraying skirt
minnows will
sprout sharp
fangs
tear me apart
my blood
will crystallize
shards of crimson
ice

but maybe
just maybe
i will
grow
scales
and
fins
and
gills instead
and learn
to love my
murderer
 

broken

this house is diseased
from the bricks
crawl slithering
demons
that feed of the
minds of its
inhabitants
every painting
every crack in the wall
is a reflection
of a twisted
mind
birds fly over
the broken 
dwelling
and die
clattering 
onto the 
chipped roof
it's always raining
here
whether it is
raindrops
or tears 
that fall it
will never be known
and in the dark
veil of the night
creatures from
the other side
walk the empty
halls 
screaming
tearing the
bloody carpet
to shreds
everyone who
lives
here
shall
one day die
and on that
day
the house
will die
with
them
 

disguise

externally, she is nothing

not a single expression-
a hint of a smile, a furrow of brows, a single tear
this is her armor
the way she protects herself
emotion is vulnerability
and she's already tearing at the seams
words betray you
even the tiniest whisper
can cause the end of the world
she has forgotten
how to live
and it disgusts her

internally, a different story

seeds were sown
and blossomed into
flowers and weeds
a secret garden
within her walls
she is allowed
to dream
there are colors
inside rainbows
of refracted
light and
she weaves them
into songs
melodies that pour
out sweetly
sung by the voices
inside her head
there is doubt
and fear
and pain
but here she is fearless
they cower in
her gaze
she knows
that this is who
she's meant
to be

so then why does she hide?

meteorite

i what i
saw in her
eyes were
shooting stars

but really
they were
crumbling
rocks
hurtling 
towards earth
bathed in
fleeting
luminosity

parting gift

black roses
in a vase
crawling toward
the ceiling
desperate
for light
stems curled
together
woven 
into a 
braid 
in the
murky water
crisp petals
and 
icy regret
she's gone
she's gone
she's gone

the
        vase
                        falls

                  and
        it

s            a            t          r
      h            t           e         s

mourning

the

                                                silent

tears
                                                                      they
                 fell
                                       thick



with          
                                                   salt
                                                                         ...

the first time

when this 
is over
what will
it be like

when this
churning ocean
turns to
serene blue
and fish
in jewel-like
colors flutter
across the
surface

when the
fire inside
disappears
in a 
puff of
vibrant smoke

when my eyes
flutter open
and take in
a symphony
of colors
and light

when my
ears learn
to listen
and the
echoes of
conversation
resonate

when the beauty
of this place
emerges from
canyons and crevices
soaring through
sunlight

when the
monsters of
shadow
shriek
and crumble
into dust

what


will


it


be


like?


 

Historical Fiction Competition 2020

Preparations

    Mother yells from somewhere in the house, her voice bouncing through the gaping halls. 
    "Evangeline! Help Lizzy get ready! We leave for the theatre in less than an hour!"
    Evangeline scurries into my room. Her frizzy brown hair is slipping out of its bun. She always tries to be proper, but her subconscious always seems to fail her. She wipes her hands on her stained white apron. 
    "Do we have to do this, Evangeline? You know how torturous this is."
    "I do, Lizzy. But you must listen to your mother, keep up your reputation as the most beautiful girl in Bradford."
    I sigh, sit on my stool, a gorgeous piece carved of shiny dark wood that I despise it because of its purpose. "Do what you must."
    Evangeline goes over to the vanity, plucks a squat canister off of the crowded surface. She twists her wrist,...

Historical Fiction Competition 2020

Preparations

    Mother yells from somewhere in the house, her voice bouncing through the gaping halls. 
    "Evangeline! Help Lizzy get ready! We leave for the theatre in less than an hour!"
    Evangeline scurries into my room. Her frizzy brown hair is slipping out of its bun. She always tries to be proper, but her subconscious always seems to fail her. She wipes her hands on her stained white apron, then straightens herself back up. 
    "Do we have to do this, Evangeline? You know how much I hate it."
    "I do, Lizzy. But you must listen to your mother, keep up your reputation as the most beautiful girl in Bradford."
    I sigh, sit on my stool, a gorgeous piece carved of shiny dark wood but I despise it because of its purpose. "Do what you must."
    Evangeline goes over to the vanity, plucks a squat canister off of the...

anxiety haiku #2

there are bubbles in
your shaky arms and legs they 
burst they consume you

anxiety haiku #1

heartbeat pounds wildly
nausea rising to your throat
can't even think straight

Writing Streak Challenge - Week 8

Challenge Complete

Day 1
    You walk down roads the color of an electrified ocean, crisscrossing, watching, looking, for something. A girl, in the middle of the road. Red trench coat past her knees, loose pigtails, a gap between her front teeth. She hold a small umbrella- the right word would be parasol- unicorn patterned with a thick lace trim.
    "All that is real is not beautiful." she whispers, her voice like the fluttering wings of a dove. Out of one of her pockets, she takes a pale orange rose, throws it against the grainy vibrant blue, twists her lemon yellow rain boot on top of it, creasing and making the petals exhale their sharp scent.
    She picks the rose back up, hands it to you. It feels warm and moist, like it's covered in blood.
    "Here", she says, turning her back to you. Butterfly wings protrude through rips in the rain coat. They are iridescent, making...

Writing Streak Week 8 Day 5

    You don't know how, but you feel, have this sense draped over you, that the end is near. 
    There are black rocks under your feet, slick with icy water and feathery green algae.  A shallow river flows through them, sneaks through the cracks, the spaces. 
    You stumble, fall forward. You expect for the rocks to slam into your face, cause your jaw to crumble.  But instead you fall through it, like it is air instead of stone. There is no barrier.
    The cave is dimly lit, whsipers of light bouncing off the walls. It is narrow but long, serpentine. Craggy stalagmites and stalagtites interrupt the flow of the ceiling. There are snatches of mold, bioluminescent. 
    There is no exit, only a way forward. 
    The cave snakes on for eternity. Water drips from the ceiling, sending occasional drops on chill onto the top of your head. You cross the...

Writing Streak Week 8 Day 4

    Sighs, exhalations of ladybugs and grasshoppers. The walls of your lungs are filled with spikes of grass, underneath, a layer of loamy dirt. 
    A butterfly emerges from your throat, newly emerged from its chrysalis. Its wings droop and shine, it tumbles from your lips, skitters around on the ground, wings too heavy to take flight.
    There's some creature in your stomach. A scorpion, if you had to guess. Its stinger brushes the lining, sends out an electric tingle. There is no acid in your stomach, only sand, so you could not kill it even if you wanted to.
    Spiders are tangled in your sticks of hair, weaving net-like webs, adding white stripes. Your hair adopts the illusion of age. streaked with white.
    Ants trace up and down your soil lined trachea, constantly thudding against the tissue. They never stop, never end.
    You are the earth, yet a separate...

Writing Streak Week 8 Day 3

    Floating sheep, that's what you see. Like they're filled with helium. You feel as if you're at a fluffy, barnyard themed birthday party.
    They drift away, disintegrate into the air, morphing into heavy molecules of oxygen.
    The wind comes in wisps, it smells of cotton candy. The haze of spun sugar floats around, darts in circles and squares. 
    So this is what freedom feels like.
    It is quite strange, indeed.

Writing Streak Week 8 Day 2

    You're making a necklace out of paper clips, incomplete metal links latching onto each other, stabbing into your fingers. The chain is long now, rattles against the edge of the table, reaching toward the floor. 
    The final connection, and the necklace is complete. Around your neck it goes, it brushes your knees. It feels powerful, like there's magic curled inside it.
    The windows melt away. A canary flutters inside, its flight path bouncy, it skitters on the air. It pauses, plummeting a few feet. With another flap of its minuscule wings, covered in fluffy feathers, and it lands on your shoulder. 
    Its claws prickle your skin through your shirt sleeve, dig into the fabric. It begins to sing, its voice sharp and sugary, like poisoned hard candy. You recognize the tune, but distantly, some piece you learned to play on the piano that is long forgotten.
    Cutting through the birdsong, there...

Writing Streak Challenge - Week 8

Challenge Complete

    You walk down roads the color of an electrified ocean, crisscrossing, watching, looking, for something. A girl, in the middle of the road. Red trench coat past her knees, loose pigtails, a gap between her front teeth. She hold a small umbrella- the right word would be parasol- unicorn patterned with a thick lace trim.
    "All that is real is not beautiful." she whispers, her voice like the fluttering wings of a dove. Out of one of her pockets, she takes a pale orange rose, throws it against the grainy vibrant blue, twists her lemon yellow rain boot on top of it, creasing and making the petals exhale their sharp scent.
    She picks the rose back up, hands it to you. It feels warm and moist, like it's covered in blood.
    "Here", she says, turning her back to you. Butterfly wings protrude through rips in the rain coat. They are iridescent, making the area...

Inventory

Angela

Name: Angela
Age: 12 years, 3 months, 18 days
City: Reno, Nevada
Country: United States
In an over sized hot pink fanny pack, hidden in one of the dustiest corners of her closet, you will find:

  • A tiny, dull pair of nail scissors
  • A mug shot of a man, with graying hair and smirking eyes. Scrawled on the white border are the words grandpa,1963.
  • A pack of watermelon chewing gum, only one stick missing. It expired three years ago.
  • Four safety pins. Two large, two small. The large ones have a few chunky pony beads threaded on haphazardly, the small ones are empty.
  • A wrinkled boarding pass. The destination, Denver.
  • A near empty bottle of plum colored nail polish. The remaining drops cling to the glassy sides.
  • A lumpy and misshapen crocheted drawstring bag. A substitute for a wallet. It's stuffed with pennies and quarters.
  • A tube of fire engine red lipstick. It's slightly melted, but it's never been used.
  • A tortoiseshell hairbrush,...

Flash Fiction Competition 2020

bye

    Her name was Abigail. She was so many things at once.
    An extensive bumper sticker collection. French toast. 7-11 slurpees. 
    My entire life.
    She would tell me beautiful words. Her whispers wrapped around me, convincing me that maybe she’d get better. She gave me hope, tiny butterfly wings.
    It was embarrassingly obvious, that I loved her. I’d lie awake at night, dreaming of alternate universes where she didn’t have leukemia and I had the courage to confess.
    I was too late.
    Her heart stopped beating a year ago, but the void she left will last forever.