The Cathedral

As soon as I enter, I feel the weight of a century being placed upon my shoulders. The air is different here, somehow. I inhale deeply, knowing that these molecules now inhabiting my lungs have been here a long time before I was born.

It is mid afternoon and all the city is at home, resting. I am the only one here.

I sit down on a wooden chair that creaks when I place my weight on it. The grain is raised against my fingertips. A wordless braille, language without meaning.

Closing my eyes, I try to imagine what this cathedral was like a hundred years ago. I can almost hear the rustle of footsteps, the echo of whispered prayers.

I open my eyes and the cathedral is silent once more. Waiting.

Shrouded in Fog

The left path was shrouded in fog, with moss hanging down from the treetops. The right path wasn’t much better – there was a deep ditch littered with beer bottles. But I figured the right path had probably seen human traffic more recently so I decided to head that way.

I was careful to avoid the ditch. As I turned the corner I could see a clearing up ahead. My cell was down to one bar out of five and the battery was running dangerously low. I hoped I would be able to call one of my so-called friends to let them know how I felt about their little joke.

For sure they would laugh at me. Like they always did. I didn’t care. I just wanted them to come back, the sooner the better.

When I reached the clearing and peered down at my cell phone again, relief saturated my every pore: the blessed electronic was now up to four bars. Success!

I quickly punched out my best friend’s number and pressed SEND . She answered on the second ring, laughing.

But I couldn’t speak. The scene before me had stolen all my words.

The Game

She ran, not knowing where her next step would lead her. Not knowing if this caged breath would be her last.

Her breath was getting labored, her feet began to lag. The fog wrapped its arms around her. She brushed them aside and kept running.

She refused to let fear conquer her. Her demise was waiting around the corner, perhaps behind that tree, but she refused to acknowledge it. She knew to do so would prove her downfall.

In the end it was an exposed root that proved her downfall, both literally and figuratively. The gnarled root snagged her foot and brought her down, her face sinking into the wet bracken.

“Oof!” She exhaled as a shower of leaves fell over her. A spasm of pain ran up her leg, pinning her to the grass.

Oh God, she thought. Not here, not now. She was so close…

Then she heard a footfall and knew she had lost. He stood there with a triumphant grin, black grease paint camouflaging his features, but she recognized him all the same. He ran forward and grasped her wrist -

“Tag! You’re it!”

Summer Cleaning

I got this disgusting cold and have been a sniffling, swollen-eyed mess for four days. Although the swollen eyes (at least the left one) might have been an unrelated eye infection, nothing at all to do with the cold, just adding to my misery.

My long-suffering boyfriend has visited and even brought me food, the dear. But I just want to get well already. My summer cleaning efforts were put on hold after I woke up fall-down sick on Monday. At least I got to clean out my closet, but I still need to clean out my shoe rack, not to mention my book stacks. These are books I've read, books I've yet to read, plus dozens of magazines I've barely paged through. I decided to cancel almost all of my magazine subscriptions this year because I barely had time to read any of them. Some of them I will definitely keep, like National Geographic and In Style. Those are musts. But I got rid of Lucky and Poetry because I realized so many issues would be added to the pile still in their wrappers, unopened.

I've been productive in other areas, too: I created another blog, Twilight-related this time, so that I have a place to help me feed my obsession. My boyfriend thinks I'm nuts to be so obsessed over Twilight, but I don't care. It's fun. And I'm just happy he's agreed to come see the film with me when it comes out in December.

Now, if only I could get him to read the books...

Forbidden Fruit [poem]

Black eyelashes that flutter against an ivory cheek.
Lips that stumble over words, parting gently
over a stolen breath that escapes from lungs
too full of hope to remember how to breathe.

This is what he does to her: he is the cause to her effect,
the rhythm that moves the cadence of her pulse,
the blood that even now blooms upon her face.
He seems unaware, somehow, of this strange power of his.

And when those wondering, deep brown eyes are raised,
as if in question, raised to meet the mystery of his gaze,
she finds he is already staring, already trying to unravel
just what it is that pulls him so to her.

Quickly, softly, those eyelashes come down again,
like the whisper of silk shades drawn against the light.
She brushes her hair over her face so that it falls,
clinging like ivy, to hide her timidity.

The scent of her hair wafting in the space between them.
Scent of freesia intertwined with strawberries.
Irresistibly sweet, like forbidden fruit you can’t ignore,
but must reach out to taste and touch.

[Originally published 4/15/08 on my Ficlets account.]

New Moon

Normally I'm not a big follower of fan-made trailers, but I came across this one video on HisGoldenEyes and absolutely loved it. It's a must-see if you're a fan of the Twilight Saga.

Nighttime Ruminations on Love Present and Past

1
You enter steeped in moonlight,
starshine in your eyes.
Dazzled by the weight of your smile,
I carry it in my hands like precious cargo.
How can I convey to you all the truths hidden
within my turbulent thoughts?
I wait in the silent spaces between conversations
for the moment when everything will become
crystalline, precise.

2
Pulled by the magnet-force of your eyes
I orbit your movements
like the faithful satellite that I am.
What strange magic do we possess as human beings,
that we can feel when someone is staring at us?
Though "feel" is surely too strong a word for the sensation
that burns through me when your eyes are turned
upon the virgin desert of my face.

3
When we sever the ties that connect us,
where do the broken threads go?
Are they borne upon wind?
Cast into the watery depths of the sea?
Or do they dissolve, as though
these once all-too quickening sensations
were just a figment of my imagination?
These are the dusty questions that your memory
coughs up when your heart least expects it.