The Bird

The bird fell.

It fell beautifully.

Speckled wings, petite beak, black eyes. Spreading those feathers that were the length of my pinky, hobbling up with those stick legs to the edge of the nest. His noire pupils glinted softly in the summer’s light. He released his baby talons from the straw and dried grass, extended those delicate bones made for gliding, and left.

Plummeting.

As I watched, popsicle dripping down my hand in dyed red rivulets, the bird who was supposed to lift off and soar, instead crashed. There was no wind. The hot air felt stale. The oxygen left my mouth.

It twirled as it fell, making a diamond of its wings, swept through the nitrogen compound as it failed to defy gravity. Slow pirouet. Soft battu. No allegro. Feathered tutu deflated as the ballerina’s performance came to an end.

Legs outstretched in contrasted angles.

Refracted light made orange hues in the atmosphere.

Kissed the ground.

Touched the morning’s dew.

The bird ran out of time.

And it was over.

Finished.

The fall ended with a soft crunch, similar to crushing leaves.

My summer had begun with a conclusion that left me awake for nights, recalling those dark eyes…

Coffee in little Sweet Mug

The cream swirls in the coffee, a soft milky color spreading in twists across the light brown. Her knee is quaking a little, and it sends soft ripples through the table and cup. A wave crashes through, hitting the rim. Then, another. And, another. Each mixes the cream into the coffee, the two intermingling into a lighter brown that tiptoes the line to chocolate.

Melting chocolate… The woman allows her mind to wander to the idea briefly, the feeling of it on her tongue as it liquefies. The taste as it warms, matching her body temperature, sliding down her esophagus and into the heated center of her stomach.

For a moment, she smiles. Happy. The reason she’s at the family cafe with its dinky mugs that has touched hundreds of lips in seven years, the time the cafe, called Sweet Mug, has been in business.

Then, she breaths in the scent of people as they move, the gasp of coffee beans as they’re burnt, the sweet aftertaste of whipped cream.

Her smile falls from her face.

Unconsciously, she rubs her lips, feeling the place where the corners turned up, checking for smudges and wrinkles and worry. But she feels nothing, just skin pressed into expressionlessness. Her unnatural guard.

Young Traveler

Who am I, young traveler?

Old and weary and weak.

Who am I, you ask,

like an equal,

an acquaintance,

a fellow man.

 

Well, young traveler,

boy who walks my path,

I am a magician

whose words flow out of myself like a faucet.

My pen, young traveler,

lets loose stories of thrill and love,

words and letters tumbling onto emptiness and

filling it with color.

 

So who am I, young traveler?

Weary and old and weak.

Who am I, you asked,

simple as can be.

 

So, young traveler,

there’s your answer,

honest, straight and true.

And here, young traveler,

I turn around and walk again.

For now, young traveler,

it’s time to go and

walk this road alone.

Stupid Shakespeare

I’m standin’ there,

alone on the curb,

a loser with his mama’s bad cut

and his bro’s stained jeans.

 

Then this girl appears,

swingin’ her hips

as natural as rain

f

a

l

l

s.

 

I step up,

kickin’ offa that dirty curb,

jerkin’ round my hands,

tryin’ to look good.

 

She turns,

and I know I gotta say somethin’

anythin’ or

she’s gonna leave

and it ain’t nothin’ to

just see a girl.

 

Then, it comes to me,

BOOM!

like a bolt o’ lightnin’

cause I just know

this guy’s popular.

So I says:

 

“You’re hot like summer.”

 

She opens her mouth,

like a flower blossomin’ and-

She laughs,

then leaves.
Stupid Shakespeare.

Once Upon A Time

Once upon a time, there was a princess.

She lived in a castle, as princesses do. As they truly must.

She learned politics and the waltz, her country’s history and social etiquette, and all things inbetween.

Once upon a time, the princess gazed into a mirror… And was disappointed. Fairy tales promise perfect princesses with perfect features. At ten, she had run down some stairs, tripped and broken her nose. The little bump from the break remained five, six, seven years later. At twelve, she played in the sun too long, and her skin freckled and burned. The freckles drew constellations across her imperfect skin, a milky way spanning the distance from one cheekbone to another, a little dipper spreading across her arm and a big dipper crossing over her palm. At fourteen, she climbed a tree, missed a branch, and cut her knee. The gash, small and starlike in shape, was covered by white scar tissue that faded and faded, yet still remained.

Once upon a time, the princess had a crush. He was her age and had floppy hair and a crown too large for his head. They danced in the woods, and considered a courtship- but politics were messy and the crush disappeared as the kingdoms interfered. She considered it a shame, but not a lifelong misery.

Once upon a time, the princess considered marriage. But it was not for her. So, the considerations ended.

Once upon a time, the princess grew up. She grew and grew, until she grew to be queen. As all princesses must.

Intro to My Blog

This is the post excerpt.

Hey, blogging world!

As I’m about to enter my senior year and deal with scary future things, I decided to also start this blog. This was really based on a friend’s recommendation to kinda “get out there” and what not.

But I’m gonna do it. For as long as I remember, at least. So thanks in advance to anyone who checks this out. You’re basically the bomb diddly in my book. 😉