Angle

May not have represented hope…

A different angle can change everything.
It can provide a new perspective,
Help gain a fresh understanding.

The purple flowers, from any other side,
Would have just existed.
Would have just been there.

The leaves, if looked at from another direction,
Could have been trampled without a thought,
Could have been bit off by the hungry muzzle nearby.

The sunset, through any other lens,
Might have been missed.
Might not have been appreciated.

The light, if blocked by any thicker foe,
May not have interrupted the shadows.
May not have represented hope.

Sometimes

The moon shines through my window
I can see it without lifting my weary, sleepy head.
If only it was that easy to see you.

To check on you.
To know you.

There’s just a sliver tonight,
Most of it is blocked by earth.
Missing.
Like you. And me. Us.

The wind howls and rattles the leaves.
The window shakes in anger.
The grass bows in submission from the weight
Of my questions.

Do you hate me? Love me? Forgive me?
Or am I forgotten? Swept away like leftover crumbs.
To be taken out on cleaning day.

The clouds are misleading.
Sometimes dark and thundering,
Sometimes pure and soft.
I guess it depends on the day
Or on your perspective.

That’s kind of how it is with my questions
At times pressing, demanding, even haunting.
Other times light and gently passing,
Not in desperate need of answers.

But like the moon, they come and go
Sometimes a sliver, sometimes consuming.
Sometimes easy to see, sometimes missing.
And sometimes, simply,
gone.

 

 

Cracked

The lightning spat, the thunder growled. Dogs scurried every which way, searching for shelter under anything they could find. Most of the horses cowered into the darkest corners of their stalls, seeking safety, but not him. He was unswerving, storm tested, braver than all. He was his own security. His russet head hung over the stall door, his golden eyes quiet, considerate. The rain dripped down from the cracked gutter, soaking his floppy ears and face. But he didn’t seem to mind. I had to wonder why. Could he hear my thoughts? Was he done, was this the end? Would he ever be the same again? Was that what kept him still? I realized my own face was just as drenched-but not from rain. From the burning, salty tears staining my cheeks, sneaking freely from cracked tear ducts.

So Easy

It’s so easy to forget 

When I’m caught up in my loneliness

That You’ve planned out every step 

 

It’s so easy to forget

When I long for my own way

That You know what’s best for me 


It’s so easy to forget 

When the wind roars and drowns you out 

That Your voice can still the sea

 

It’s so easy to forget 

When darkness floods and I can’t find hope

That You make all things possible 


It’s so easy to forget

When I feel forgotten and left out 

That You make all my dreams attainable 

Chasm

Dr. Madison Johnson was exhausted. She had completed four surgeries in the past twenty-four hours, and the last one had been the most grueling: an emergency appendectomy on a seven-year-old. The girl, Tessa, had been at a sleepover when her pain had started. It had taken a few hours for her friend’s parents to realize how sick she was. Tessa’s appendix had already ruptured, but Madison was able to remove it and get her started on antibiotics to try to prevent any further complications.

“Great job in there, Johnson,” Dr. Gregg Rogers said as he passed her in the scrub room. “Not many fourth-year residents could handle that kind of situation as well as you just did. Inform the family, then go home. You deserve it.”

“Thank you, sir,” Madison replied. Dr. Rogers was the head of the Pediatric Surgery department, a position she hoped to hold herself one day. His compliment meant a lot to her and her future goals.

She fixed her blonde ponytail and headed to the nurses’ station to get Tessa’s chart. She needed to find out if the young girl’s own parents had made it to the hospital yet. She had had to take Tessa in to surgery before they could arrive.

Madison finished writing her notes in the chart. “Are her parents here?” she asked the night nurse, as she clicked her pen.

“Yes, Ethan Carter, her father, is in the waiting room.”

Madison felt her blood drain from her face. Ethan Carter, it couldn’t be. The name was a ghost from her past, a name that she never even let herself remember.

“Dr. Johnson, are you alright?” the nurse asked her. “Do you need to sit down?”

Madison forced herself to smile, and began to back away from the nurse’s station. “No, thank you. I’m fine. I’m going to go find Mr. Carter.”

As she walked, she focused on her breathing, trying to right her unsteady heartbeat. She worked to convince herself that it was just a coincidence, someone with the exact same name as…

Madison froze as she entered the waiting room. There he was. Ethan Carter. Even after ten years of time, distance, and heartache, she would always know him. Always know his deep auburn eyes and his wavy brown hair. The way he moved would always be engraved in her mind.

He hadn’t noticed her yet, which was for the best. She needed a moment to stop the memories that were swirling around her. She tried to breathe, tried to focus on her job. But she couldn’t. She just couldn’t…
______________________________________________________________________________

The snow was falling as quiet and soft as a feather, creating the perfect Christmas. It wasn’t sticking, but no one cared. In Arizona, it was rare enough that it was snowing at all.

Maddie walked through the neighborhood, taking everything in. The streets were lined with white luminary bags, the houses decorated with twinkling lights. The atmosphere brought peace to her tired mind. She was home from college, and needed the break.

“Maddie!” she heard from behind her. She turned to see Ethan Carter, her boyfriend and best friend of six years, running towards her. He had forgotten something at his house, so he had sent her outside and told her he’d catch up. He loved Christmas more than anyone she knew, and he looked as excited as some of the five-year-olds that were around them. He reached her, gasping for air, cheeks red from the chill in the air. He took her hand.

“Isn’t it perfect?” He asked her, his whole face lit up by a smile.

Maddie smiled, loving the way his hand felt in hers, even after so much time. “It is,” she answered. “It’s beautiful.”

“Hmmm. Yeah, it is. But not nearly as beautiful as you,” he said as he squeezed her hand. Maddie felt herself blush. “Come on, I need to show you something.”

Maddie let Ethan lead her through their neighborhood, back towards his house. “Why are we going back?” she asked him.

Ethan looked at her, and she saw that he looked nervous. “You’ll see,” he said just loud enough for her to hear him. Maddie nodded, and they continued around the corner.

When they reached his front yard, Maddie stopped. Ethan had decorated the house for Christmas weeks ago, but somehow in the last half hour, he had changed everything. He had taken small white lights, and created a winding path through the gravel. Along the path were small tables, with several framed pictures of the two of them throughout the years.

“Ethan…what is all this?” Maddie asked, tears in her voice. Ethan turned to face her, and took both of her hands.

“This is our story,” he whispered as he leaned in and kissed her on the cheek.

They began walking down the path, stopping to look at each of the pictures he had chosen. The first one showed them sitting together on the bleachers at a football game their freshmen year of high school. She was wearing a cheerleading uniform, something her parents had forced her to do, even though she hated it. Ethan had helped her find the strength to quit. When quitting changed her relationship with her parents, he never left her side. His family became her family.

There were pictures from dinner and movie dates, roller blading, school dances, high school graduation, college orientation, and everything in between. They laughed at the silly moments, and smiled at the more serious memories. They reached the last table, where all the frames were empty.

“Why are they empty?” Maddie asked.

Ethan cleared his throat, and locked his eyes onto hers. “They’re empty because these pictures haven’t been taken yet. They’re our future.” He paused for a second and swallowed. “Maddie, I know we’re barely even twenty, but I know I love you. I’ve loved you since the ninth grade, and I know you love me. I know we still have school, and you’ll have medical school. But Maddie, I want to be there for all of it. We need to be together through all of it.”

Maddie had started crying long before Ethan dropped to one knee and pulled the ring out of his pocket. She wiped her cheeks, sniffed, and took a deep breath. Ethan did the same.

“Madison Joy Johnson, will you marry me?” he looked into her eyes, waiting for her answer.

Maddie didn’t have to think about her answer. She knew it better than she knew her own name. She tried to control her tears, but she couldn’t. She nodded, “Yes, Ethan, yes I will marry you.”

Ethan slid the ring onto her finger and stood up, taking Maddie into his arms. They stood like that, holding each other as the snow continued to fall around them.

______________________________________________________________________________

“Maddie…” The sound of his voice pulled her back into the present. Madison blinked, and attempted to pull herself back together.

“Ethan…” She paused, trying to figure out what to say. She looked into his eyes, almost losing herself, and knew she only had one option. She sighed. “Tessa’s appendix ruptured. I was able to remove it, and we checked her thoroughly. She’s on antibiotics, and we’ll need to watch her. If all goes well, there won’t be any complications.
Ethan hesitated, as if he, too, was caught up in the past. He looked down and nodded. When he looked back at her, there were tears in his eyes as well. “Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you, Maddie…” His hand reached for hers, and she had to quickly back away.

“I’ll get a nurse and she’ll take you to her,” Madison turned and moved out of the waiting room.

“Maddie, Maddie, wait!” Ethan called after her as she left.
But she didn’t stop, she couldn’t stop. The tears were coming fast and hard, and her heart was breaking faster than her steps. She reached an on-call room and slipped inside, locking the door behind her. She succumbed to her sobs, crying for the love she had lost, but also for the girl she had once been. No one had called her Maddie in ten years; hearing his voice say that name opened up the chasm in her heart that she had sewn shut a long time ago. As she sobbed into the worn hospital pillow, she wondered if she would ever be able to close it again.

 

A Blanket

She lies there, draping the couch or the bed, just waiting.
Waiting for the next cold soul who will seek her warmth.
Until then, she is useless. A piece of fabric with no purpose.
Wasted material.

She has been thrown away, forgotten by the ones she loves most.
Like a thoroughbred who can’t gallop,
or a pen with dried up ink,
there is no point for her existence.

Unless the weather changes, the snow begins to blow,
or the trees begin to tremble from the force of life’s gusts,
no one will notice or remember her.

She is their storm shelter—a necessity. But only a few times a year.
That is when they’ll pick her up, hold her close,
and expect her to fulfill their deepest desires.

She’ll be torn, edges fraying down the front.
She’ll want to please them,
but she’ll want to scream,
and curse them, all the same.

Where were they when she needed a shelter?
Where were their arms when she needed to be held close?
Where were their hands when she was in the hurricane?

No explanation given, no reasons or excuses even attempted,
to vindicate their evaporation.
She’ll want to run, to leave them lonely, as they always leave her.
But she won’t. She has no one else.
Staying, though torture, is easier than leaving.

So she’ll stay put. She’ll stay still. She’ll stay silent.
Because she is simply a sheet of silk, a blanket—
she will only keep them warm.

 

Hole

To scream for air, to just be heard…

I heard the crack.
The impact of metal on wood—
The wood not withstanding his punch.

I begged the hose to trickle faster.
Or for the bucket to suddenly be smaller.
Just so I could get to him.

He had kicked, a hole in the wall.
I peered in. Looking for answers.
Looking for the future.

But all I saw were spiders.
All splintered by the shadows.
All screaming for air.

He gave me the once over.
Eyes glaring, daring me to speak.
To challenge his actions.

But I couldn’t. Rather, I wouldn’t.
Because all I wanted
Was to do the same.

To tear down the whole shed.
To punch a hole that deep.
To scream for air, to just be heard…
Even if I hated the spiders.

 

Sunflower

Unanswered questions, unexplained hurt.

Dark, humble beginning—
Buried beneath cold, damp soil.
Questioning the point, the purpose,
The meaning, behind the toil.
Finally, a breakthrough—
A small shoot of green.
Stretching, reaching, looking for sky,
A yellow burst erupts on the scene.
A flower, petals smooth as silk—
Growing to the height of a man.
But all too soon, seasons change,
The end, before it truly began.
Wilted by the weight of the seeds—
Drooping, tilting back to the dirt.
Drops of rain slide down like tears,
Unanswered questions, unexplained hurt.

 

Why I Write

One simple moment to shift everything back into perspective, to make you ready for the future, to fight for your dreams.

I realized I wasn’t like the other kids when I was eleven. I was quiet, shy, and stayed out of trouble. I had friends, but I didn’t really fit in. I preferred being by myself. I preferred quiet.
My fifth grade teacher assigned us to write a poem for a contest. She and a few other teachers would read them and select three to be submitted for publication. All the other kids in my class put together short pieces, the minimum length that had been assigned. It was simply homework to them. But not to me. Pages and pages of words and rhymes poured out of me. I had never felt so proud of something I created.
It was in writing my poem that I realized why I preferred the quiet. There were so many stories and characters running around in my brain that the noise and company of others could be deafening. I wanted to be in the world of my creation, where I was in control of everything. My characters said what I wanted them to say, and nothing happened without my permission. Writing helped me understand myself.
My imagination continued to grow as I got older, and writing was something I longed for. But there were some critics that caused me to doubt my passion. There were people who laughed and told me my stories were silly. As time went on, fear clouded my brain, and the stories stopped getting put down on paper. They stayed in my mind, where I could keep them safe and unharmed from the real world, protected from the opinions of others.
Fear kept the words from being written down, but the stories were still there, begging for a way to come out. Begging for a way to be told, to be expressed. I can’t fight them anymore, I have to let them out.
I’ve learned now that people don’t get to control how you see yourself. They don’t get a say in your passions, or in what you pursue. They shouldn’t be able to make you afraid to be yourself. But sometimes, it happens, even if it shouldn’t. Sometimes you’re afraid and you forget how to be yourself. And all it takes to bring you back is one simple moment. One simple moment to shift everything back into perspective, to make you ready for the future, to fight for your dreams.
I want to learn everything I can about how to be a good writer, so I can use the gift God has given me and let my stories see the light of day. I want to fight the fear and win. I want my true self to shine through my words. My characters deserve to have a voice and to be heard, and I want access to every tool I can get my hands on in order for that to happen. I don’t want to be afraid; I want to be a writer