Part 2: From the Dark #wattpad

Like a child with a frightening wound, I tried to shriek. It was an animal I heard back in my own distinct echo.

Slowly while gasping, I began to pry at the corner of an eye with my fingers. I found that each eyelid was only lightly attached to the other, but to part them meant to tear at my own skin.

Blood mingled with tears and I sobbed.

Read here: https://www.wattpad.com/382726993-mother-in-the-mist-from-the-dark

Yesterday, I spent two hours of my early day light savings time smoothing over the structural skeleton of PART TWO and published it on wattpad. It is still early within my time at wattpad, so I haven’t attained any personal accomplishments or meaningful social connects I crave (ones in relation to a writing community) BUT it is a wonderful exercise for my brain. It should give me the momentum I need to finish this story.

The skeleton is already laid out for me. I just need to put the meat on it’s bones and smooth out the skin.

–EXPLORING WATTPAD
I have found the book clubs! I have YET to join one.. I am slightly turned off by the structure of those that require you to follow, comment and vote on works by the admins for membership approval. Although I have to remind myself.. I’m sure most ladders to success are fixed as rigidly as that.

—MEANWHILE IN ALASKA the wind has been hell. Its been pushing snow up to my front door and hard packing it. For a few hours in the afternoon we get a little sunlight so things briefly melt. This turns my hard packed snow into a glacier setting. I have to open my door and step up with care to cross. I’m pregnant, but even I can’t begin to ask the elderly maintenance man with his shovel  to fix this..

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The Dying Cycles a collection of poetry

Living after trauma and seeking the universe through nature. A collection of poetry.

https://www.wattpad.com/story/102199619-the-dying-cycles

‘For those living after trauma and seeking the universe through nature. A collection of poetry.’

Poem excerpt: MINNOWS

An ache tears into a memory
of your child hand reaching for minnows

Dark blue and small fingers

All those tiny universal dots of fish
we never caught them
and the search felt so infinite

You will lay in bed tonight
thinking again of the tiny silver lights
shattering into darker, deeper places
being the images of life that will escape you

A calm death is in us
Yours has begun to speak a whisper

I’ve heard this noise before,
laying on the dock
when the waves shuddered against us
black trees lent forward
and you watched me drink the water
before I cried for less

You’re scared now
As I was then

Dark blue

but in your hand,
is mine

and small fingers.

Continue reading “The Dying Cycles a collection of poetry”