The hunted.

        She wants to run from him, she wants run to him. Running, racing, heart pounding, tat-tat, tat-tat. The drumming of her feet, like hoof beats upon the earth as she runs, clank-clank-clank. She can hardly breath, her lungs are burning for that one deep breath she cannot catch. Because she knows, oh she knows that she must keep running. She steals a glance back, she hears the beast is drawing nigh, he's advancing on her with rapid strides. She knows it is no gentle chase, she's running for her heart. Back to top

Melinda's.

        Memories of a good friend (sometime in 2008).

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Vacant am I.

        The girl is not quite deserted, said the ghost. A solitary heart, neglected by the world, is left there still screaming in secret places, bated breath pleads "Please don't go! Don't leave me here alone."

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All hope abandon ye who enter here.

        I wonder if it shows, the look of defeat all about me. Can they look into my eyes and tell I've abandoned hope? Does my face show my defeat? If they have noticed, would they care enough to ask? If they asked and I affirmed, would they then offer me their hand? I feel like a mannequin, anchored in this place, absolutely mesmerized by nothing in particular. My face is blank and featureless. Inside I'm both barren and ablaze. My blistered breath is devoured piece by peice, again and again by the flame that burns through-and-through. A burning that is profound and all consuming. This is not easy to write, to untangle the complex notion, a puzzle only making sense in my mind. The feeling of being, both devoid and blazing at one time.

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Dreamland.

        My eyes open, the morning light pouring in through the windows opposite of my bed. I'm aware of the warm bodies on either side of me, my children asleep surrounding me. Our bodies are close, our breathing synchronized, our minds could not be further apart. Each dreaming a different dream behind closed eyes. My dreams I don't recall upon waking, and I'm all the better because of that. Sadly, I know my dreams are not real. In their minds, a whimsical place in their minds, where cartoon characters sing silly tunes or adventures are had. I can merely speculate on what wonders are taking place, if I had to venture a guess, might be something like this: Acres and acres of bright colors, sing-a-long songs echo in the valley of Gumdrop Mountain, hand in hand with a beloved baby doll through the Lollipop Forest, a magical place where no one grows up, and everything is wonderful. Oh to know the dreams of sleeping children.

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