Where I am From

Where I am From

I was born to the lion and the fish
and when I learned to walk
it was to the sound of sea foam against the shore
I knew the baying of the gulls
and the scent of ocean carried me with them until I learned to soar
and when the fish forgot to reach for me
my lioness taught me how to walk on wounded knees

I learned laughter in eyes of that lioness
with the heart that knew the blade and sting of battle
yet wore her scars proudly, and never let the cruelty
of a concrete jungle drag her down
who never got distracted by the hunt
until the proudness of two cubs grew outside
of her roughed battle-worn hide with its golden glow

My jungle song came no longer from the birthing
Of the morning sun above the shoreline
but from the frost tipped misty morning air
and birdsong from the high defying mountains
Where my infinite spreading ocean became a semblance of home

And as I grew I learned to move along an ink stained line
Where the curving of letters and verbs became my trembling legs to walk again
Where velvet fingertips could dance along a needles thread
and stain the pages with the sanguine of my soul bared
Telling the stories of the siren singing muse with little mercy or patience
Or time for excuses for that matter

I learned the sweetened taste and consequently the horrid burn of love
and the proceeding blossoming sour that follows its break
learning to forgive the tendering black and blue
that eventually does heal again, and again, and again.
Within strong arms of the lioness whose voice not roughened by age
sang away the worst of it.

I learned real terror the time I heard the soft crackling gasp
of my children’s first breath
The indescribable impossibility that with all my fumbling
I’d been handed something so delicately precious
Softer than the thinnest spun glass
And far more tough than the woman I’d became
Or would become yet.

Where I am from
Are late night sleepovers, and greasy Spanish food
Snuck glasses of cheap wine
and crowing laughter from the family
who pretended not to see but always watched
From survivors and the iron strength of family
The gift and test of years of true friends
Of heartaches and pints of ben and jerry’s
and really bad black and white movies
From a gypsy family who wandered
With proud and honest hearts
Who never forgot the meaning of happiness.

Conversations With Myself (A creative writing assignment for class)

Disclaimer: This is meant to be a bit over the top, and silly. This is pertaining to the dialogue with self, as it said to write in a script like manner I did take a bit of creative license. It obviously is meant as a “reading” script, over an actual script (a bit more satirical). I hope this is okay.

Enter Scene.

Two Characters total: Our writer, and the voice (main one) in her head that takes the form of her “inner” child. The bratty demon one.

Curtain raises, and we find ourselves staring at the image of a desolate and broken woman. Or, as most call her: a writer. Sitting on the stage is blank, with nothing more than a plain white wall, and a white flooring. Minimal lighting, to indicate nothing more than the simple old desk that looks near collapsing, a chair well-worn down to almost the base plastic, and a lone laptop or PC. The only other prop needed in this scene is an empty chair on the other side of the desk, two glasses, and a glass bottle indicating some kind of liquor.

Our author is clearly, visibly, and irrevocably sloshed.

Perhaps a visible tremble to the hand, if not a bit dramatized.

Costumed in a lone pair of well-worn pants that contain the droppings from some long forgotten cold cup of coffee from the morning prior, the vague scent of desperation and determination holds a completely silent hush over the stage.

Sound Cue: the clink of the glass as it is refilled from the decanter.

A hand reaches out to click a button on the screen, and soft music plays in the background. Our writer taps her foot, idly, staring at the cursed blinking cursor in front of her, taunting.

 Enter “Demon” child.

Cherubic in curls and freckles and everything cute. Dressed in clothes that are obviously too big for her, as if she’d stolen her mother’s clothes. The music quiets long enough for the clip-clop of a good pair of business heels, tucked over tiny toes.

Child: Whatcha doooin?

Writer: (without glancing away from the script) I’m attempting to write, but nothing will come.

Child: (giggles) Well, it’s because you stink.

Writer: (now glances up) Come again?

Child: (clears throat, and pulls herself up, pulling the over-large clothing a bit as she flashes an award winning smile. Clearly evil.) I said. (pauses again, this is obviously no ordinary child) That you stink and no one is going to read your stuff. Because you know, of how much it sucks. Like more than my butt.

Writer: (takes a deep breath. Hand trembles, flexing idly as she reaches for the glass and drowns the contents) Well you’re just some snotty nosed brat, what the hell do you know?

Child: Pffffft. I’m not the stupid one, am I?

Writer: I’ll have you know I’m quite intelligent in many circles.

Child: Like compared to what, your kids?

Writer: (choking on liquor for a moment, glares at child) Can’t I banish you? I’ve got better things to do. Like, write this novel that’s going to make me rich and famous. I don’t remember taking LSD, where the hell did you come from?

Child: I’m you. (Child now climbs up on chair, kicking her heels off and getting comfortable) and you can’t banish me. You don’t do drugs, remember? Except for that one time when-

Writer: Hush! Everyone experiments (coughs nervously)

Child: (rolls eyes) ANYWAYS! BORED NOW! Oh, why don’t we watch youtube again?

Writer: Because I’ve got to write this damn novel. I mean, how fucking hard can it be just to start this?

Child: NOOOPE. Never going to do it. I mean, you only tried starting it like, what, five years ago?

Writer: (Getting more clearly agitated) I have started many stories, thank you very much. However (pause) I just haven’t… finished… them.

Child: BECAAAAAAAAUSE….

Writer: (deflated, sarcastic) I suck?

Child: YEP!

Writer: Well I started taking this creative writing class (pause) and I think that it’ll really help with where I keep getting stuck. I mean, if I can go through and edit in a bit more detail, change around some of the language…

Child: You can get right back to being stuck again!

Writer: Oh GODDAMNIT can’t you go away or something?

Child: Haven’t we covered this? I’m not going anywhere!

Writer: Can’t you at least be like, some kind of hunky guy at least?

Child: Nah, I like this. Everyone knows that in most fantasy stories children are like, over three hundred years old and harbingers of the apapolypse.

Writer: The… Apapolypse? Is that like where everyone’s forced to endure mammograms over and over again?

Child: No, apparently, if you keep drinkingsh. (pause) We’re drunk.

Writer: and still stuck.

Child: because

Writer: (sighing) I suck.

Child: Yep!

Writer: Only one thing to do then.

Child: Give up?

Writer starts to stand up, wobbles a bit. Then she smiles sweetly at the child.

Child: What… what are you doing?

Writer: Getting started the right way.

Fade to black, hear a child screaming fading into giggles.

Child: NO TICKLES!

Writer: THIS IS WHAT YOU GET UNTIL YOU GO AWAY!

[end]