We are Like Wolves

There’s a feeling in the air. Something dense, full, and saturated with memory, sadness, and desire. A cutting wind whips around the wooden threshold and the cold assaults the flesh like thousands of pricking daggers. It’s tireless, unrelenting, and impossible to escape or ignore.

              Cast the runes on the white furs. Cast the runes till the spirit stirs.

Orange shimmering flames spark and pop in the middle of the small room — their heat colliding with the damp freeze that pours into the hut through aged cracks and carefully aligned seams and beams. The sensation of snow is all around, despite the fire, fresh straw, and pelts that pack the space.

His deep exhale emits feathery apparitions, and with each breath, it’s as though the pieces of time that comprise him are wrestling to break free and realize a place somewhere in the immortal plane.

              Cast the runes for the fighter lost. Cast the runes for the heart betossed.

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The Dark

Stranger, bring me to the dark. There are salty swells that lull the hull, and I am swirling, hurtling toward the abyss.

A cold ache spreads throughout — a voracious desire beyond the quell.

Those books bang, such a ponderous sound, the vibrations and expectations.

Bring me to the dark. The candlelight and the anxious warming breath, unrelenting, fast and impure.

Lieutenant, we feel the difference in the darkness, and honesty uncaged and wild. Leadership surrendered and our minds bear, forcing toward the blue-black of spattered stars.

Secretive voices are wispy rasps, and I lament my life’s beat; how far I’ve allowed his hands.

Pirate, please.

Golden knuckles and calloused touch — the skeptical brow and petrified gaze. That pounding, desirous pulse. Bring me to the dark again.

The Thieves Spell

He is heavy in the chest — his limbs like petrified bark. Sweat dapples his brow, and there is a cloudiness in his sight – a type that even enchantments cannot correct – a poison that courses through the tiny tubes of his existence, striking and thwarting all that makes his matter.

She is a summer storm as she works, her hands muddling and concocting. He eases as he hears her careful worrying, ad he minds the beating of his heart: fast, then slow, then fast again, and then slow. Sun behind clouds, then moon, then sun again, and then dark.

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It’s a new day, it’s a new site

Oh, my. It’s really been a minute since my last post, and by a minute, I mean 1,340,700 minutes. Geez, where does the time go? Right. Hello, crushing and life-altering worldwide pandemic. How could I forget thee? *widens eyes; smiles crazily*

The truth of it is, life is a constant pressure and if you’re an empath like me, our current climate can prove very challenging and even paralyzing when it comes to the flow of the creative juices. I appreciate people who can power through and create art while in a room on fire, but me? Not so much. Twenty-twenty saw a whole lot of me wasting away on the couch — too overwhelmed and terrified to complete some of the most basic tasks. I’m not kidding. Sometimes even mustering up the energy to take a shower last year was a monumental feat. So, never mind writing custom copy for a personal blog. Anyway, anything that I would have been likely to write satirically in the last 365 days would have probably been dark and bleak, and not exactly … right.

These things aside, I have found it within my ability to scrawl a few short lines of narrative copy in the past two years, as well as a smattering of romantic poetry and some haiku. Folks who follow me on social media aren’t strangers to my crowing about feeling as though I don’t have an appropriate outlet for my work. I consider myself a rather sensible realist, and yet, I will admit that I wasted more time complaining than exploring a solution to my problem, which was really under my nose the entire time.

This website started as a blog where I could post occasional rants about the challenges associated with the ongoing joys of adulthood, and although I think that effort was cathartic and amusing, the specific content I needed to create to keep it going was not reflective of me in my entirety. As are all humans, I am angled in many different ways and peppered with inspiration and feelings that are born of many sources, and therefore, it’s unfair for me to try to direct my creativity along one alley to a particular destination when it’s simply unnecessary.

This year felt like a good one to overhaul this site for it to function as my creative portfolio and personal website. So, instead of sticking purely with satire, I’m going to use this platform to share my poetry, vignettes, haiku, and romantic/historical fiction pieces (also, my resume – why not?). Everything will be tagged so that if you’re interested in poetry, you’ll be able to locate the posts easily; the same thing with vignettes, etc. I suspect I will conjure up a post or two that will feel on-brand for The Stumble is Real, but only time will tell.

Thanks a lot for visiting this site! I’d be grateful for some interaction, so if you’d like to leave a comment or two, please feel free.

Cheers. Stay jaunty.