Hunt through an old journal, and you will find some interesting stories barely started and way too much introspection

Once upon a time, there was a girl locked in a tower. Everywhere she went, whether it was to work, to school, or even to a local bar; she carried the tower with her.

She had been imprisoned in the tower by something that could be as dark as she could be light. She had been put there by someone who could be as bold as she could be meek, as boisterous as she was quiet. She had put herself in the tower several years ago. She had selected the tower for it's heavy stone walls, which were perfect protection. They easily kept her separated from those moving around her. She thought the climbing ivy added a nice aesthetic to her carefully selected segregation.

The tower protected her, just as she had hoped it would. She always had layers of concrete encasing her at all times. Even her dreams were kept secret and safe from the prying eyes of strangers. But the walls also kept her in, as such protective means tend to do.

She never had to feel the discomfort of cold, leering stares from men that so many women living in a city have to endure daily. Whistles and cat calls were simply not a part of the symphony of her life. But she also never felt the warmth of a smile or wink from a friend, people generally do not spare a smile for a young woman who chooses concrete to human company.

She had, of course, heard the occasional request to "Let down your hair" or at least a rope of some sort. But she knew better than to take time to seriously contemplate these words. She knew it was possible that some of these men were genuine and true in their intention, but how was she to separate the real from the fake? She had become accustomed to her little tower built for one and could not imagine the intrusion of another person in her space. All that human feeling and personality, pumping blood and noise. She had forgotten what it was like to feel the closeness of skin that belonged to someone else. The only way to discover the truth about a person would be to expose herself to them, and that was just too risky. She knew that many men felt compelled to obtain the elusive and unattainable, she couldn't imagine that her sparse, confined home would keep anyone entertained for long.

She reminded herself that it was in everyone's best interest for everyone to just stay put. She in her tower, and them on the outside of it. The tower was not perfect, it came with it's own list of problems. She always had to find two seats together at a bar and crowded subway cars were out of the question. But when she became agitated, she looked to her happy unbroken heart and smiled. She had never loved, but more importantly; she had never lost. She could not think of a single musical artist who sang love songs and did not have at least one sad song in their repertoire. Who needed happy memories when they would almost certainly be followed by sad ones?

Her tower was just like her. It was smart, careful, and strong. Her tower was just like her, it was cold, impossible to break into, and alone.

The ending needs work. Really the whole thing does, I just like the visual...

poetry break?

Is it too juvenile for me to write a little poem about my morning cup of coffee?

What if I insist that it is actually a metaphor?

What if it just looks like a silly poem about a cup of coffee?

But in reality

I'm writing about warmth

about comfort and familiarity

What if it's really about having forty minutes to myself

time to

sit still.

sip.

sigh.

and just enjoy

It's about the joy of heavy ceramic between my hands

instead of disposable paper or Styrofoam

So is it okay?

Can I smile and write my silly little poem?

Even though

It's not quite as strong as I like my coffee

and just a little bit more sweet

I should thank the girl sitting at the table next to me last week for this one

The 12-year-old girl looks up briefly from the intoxicating blue light of her cell phone to glance at her father. She had quickly taken in the sight of his bald patch at her last glance, his head was bent down closely to the screen of his own phone because he didn't want to put on his glasses. But now his phone is down, he is looking up at their waitress with a smirk on his face as he makes a joke about the beer list. She isn't sure exactly why, but something about that smirk makes her want to smack him in the mouth, preferably in view of the pretty blond waitress. She does't make eye contact with the woman as she orders her orange soda and mac&cheese.

The restaurant is fairly busy and it makes it hard for her to concentrate on her phone as she scrolls down to answer a text from one of her friends. She and her father are content with their own devises. She was happy to read his text earlier that they would be going out for dinner after he picked her up from school.

Minutes later, while still waiting for their food, her world comes crashing down around her. Her father has calmly put down his phone, she noticed with resentment when he bought it that it had more applications than hers, and informed her that there are errands to be run and she will be missing the next episode of American Idol. Tears sting her eyes as she takes in his calm face and relaxed posture. How could he expect her to miss the show? Doesn't he understand that all anyone will be talking about at school the next day is the horrible auditions? Does he think there is immediate free streaming on her phone? She can feel the eyes of other diners on her as her as her voice gets louder and begins to shake. But the more her father cautions her to calm down, the angrier she becomes. It is not until her father promises to do whatever he has to to insure that TiVo captures the episode and that she will be able to watch it as soon as possible that she is able to breath again.

Taking deep breaths, they put their phones aside to eat their food. Once the waitress has left again, the smirk reappeared and she bends her head to her food to ignore it, she smiles and tells her father about her friends. She feels like a walking Facebook feed as she explains who is dating whom.

Years from now, she will text her parents pictures of her new baby girl. Her father will email her back a string of sentimental memories that he has stored up in his hard-drive; the text she sent from her seat during graduation, the forward of the text that her husband sent her when he proposed, the pictures she tweeted during her wedding reception, the ultrasound picture she sent to inform him that she was pregnant. She wont remember that meal that they shared at the small restaurant, it was just one of many nights where she listened to her father flirt with a young waitress in between the clicks of the small computer in her hand.

She will look up from her computer screen where she is e-mailing her children to remind them to come home right from school for dinner and think of how happy she is and how much she loves them. She will smile as she shoots off a quick "ily" to her father to thank him for everything he has done for her.

a story about growing up

As a little boy, Johnnie loved sitting in his mother’s grand bathroom with his sister watching her get ready to go out with their father. Sitting on the cold marble floor, his back pressed against the corner of her vanity, he felt that her cloud of perfume protected him from everything dark and dangerous in the world. As she smiled down at him and his sister, he knew that her face was the most beautiful one in the world. The three of them laughed as she draped herself in feminine scents and fabrics, then turned to do the same to his sister. He could sit still for hours as he watched the two of them parade around in heels and pearls, his sister’s feet barely big enough to keep the shoes in place as she shuffled from corner to corner, he felt his heart pump pure love through his body.
As Johnnie and his sister grew, the ritual became less frequent. His sister lost interest in their mother’s routine, preferring to go out with friends. The loud music thumping out from under her closed door narrated the fast pace with which she was insisting on becoming her own adult; her own woman. Johnnie still wanted to sit in awe, looking up at his mother who was still beautiful, still the epitome of femininity. But now that he was older, she closed the door to him, no longer comfortable walking around in front of a 12-year-old boy in her slip. When he asked her to watch, to feel the weight of the pearls around his neck, the shadow that passed in front of her eyes confused him. He wondered why the passing of a few years had changed an act that once brought closeness between a mother and son into something she saw as wrong and unsettling.
Watching his sister and her friends’ parade around at a sleep over, he felt a longing that confused him. His sister too now pulled away from him, closing doors that had previously remained just cracked enough for him to slip inside whenever he desired. The two remained close, but when her friends entered the house Johnnie was expected to disappear. He was expected to go be the young boy that his father bought baseball gloves and slingshots for. With each gift, his father would tell a story of the trouble he had gotten into as a young man, and Johnnie wondered how he could make himself become the man his father expected to see in him. He watched through the slightly open door as his sister and her friends danced and jumped around the room, watching their bodies starting to develop into young women, he held his own chest. He felt the absence of the soft curves that came so naturally to the young women around him. Seeing him lurking outside, his sister’s friend pulled him into the warmth and light of the room. The music pounded in his ears and the girls giggled, dressing him in their silky pajamas and making him join them. For any boy it would be punishment, mortifying to be brought in and surrounded by girls. But Johnnie, and the flash in her eyes told him that his sister noticed as well, was struck by how unembarrassed he was. Not since to sweet fragrance of his mother’s perfume all those years ago, had Johnnie felt so secure and serene.
The next day, Johnnie walked to the park with his friend. They threw around a ball and played in the mud. Johnnie listened as his friend explained what he had heard about sex as he eavesdropped on his brother. The story was meant to entice Johnnie, to make him notice the girls in school the way his friends were beginning to. But as his friend talked about sex, an act that seemed incredibly adult, Johnnie had never felt younger. The more his friend talked, the smaller and younger Johnnie felt. He had never felt the need to experiment with himself as his friend had, in fact he rarely touched himself at all. He thought of the part of his body that he was told was the difference between him and his sister. He felt that it was barely part of him. He thought it was ugly, something separate from himself. Then he thought of his sister and her friends again. Even in their awkwardness at moving around in bodies that seemed to move themselves as they grew, they had a comfort in their bodies that Johnnie had never felt.
He remembered walking in on his sister in the bathroom one night. The shape of her body was only just beginning to resemble her mother’s, but as she stared at herself in the mirror, Johnnie thought the expression on her face looked like their mother was peering out from it. The confidence in knowing that it was her body, the confidence in knowing that she belonged to it and it to her, it was an expression that Johnnie knew he had never made. As she grew into her body, Johnnie felt that he was growing apart from his own. He shared his space with it, but could not recognize it at night when he lay in bed with his eyes closed.
In his dreams, he always found himself back in his mother’s bathroom. But the position changed. Rather than pressing against the cold tile, feeling it against his back as it contrasted with the warmth emanating from her on his front, he was above. No, not above but within. He was now the one creating the soft cloud feminine haze, draped in fabrics and cold precious gems. He ran his hands down his side and felt the skin give way to soft curves rather than boney angles. His hands trailed across the counter tops in soft long patterns. The dream haunted him, not because he felt embarrassed by the feminine image of himself drawn up in his subconscious; but because he didn’t.

As the years continued to pass and Johnnie’s body continued to grow and develop, he began to look more like his father. However, on the inside he still clung to the comfort and of his mother. Each new muscle or extra inch of height felt like a step backwards and away from what he truly wanted to see when he looked in the mirror, rather than a step closer to the manhood he was expected to crave. Seeing the grins of triumph on his friends’ faces as they studied their own bodies only made him feel more alone and insecure.
His father often reminded him that it was time to “grow up” and “be a man,” but Johnnie couldn’t find the words to express the deep longing within him. So isolated, he felt that he might as well be one of the princesses from his favorite book of fairy tales. His fingers danced over the images of the pale young women in delicate gowns, their beautiful hair flowing in waves down their back as they paused in time forever, having mastered the perfect expression of beautiful desperation. Always and forever waiting for the young prince to rescue them from their solitude and reintroduce them to the world as a bride. They were destined for their happily-ever-after, Johnnie could rarely bring himself to turn the page and look at the new painting of the happier brighter princess. A part of him knew that he was meant to identify with the prince, handsome and strong ready and willing to fight for his young bride. Instead, Johnnie spent hours with the sad young women who were trapped just like him. He looked down at his body; his own tower keeping him from feeling the joy expressed on those faces hovering just above the elegantly scripted words “The End.”

After high school, Johnnie left to attend college in New York City. He was walking home from class one day when he was stopped in his tracks by the sight of a beautiful Amazon of a woman. He was caught up in staring at her height and glamour, blue-black hair tumbling down her back like the Wonder Woman comics that he had spent hours reading as a boy. However, it was the Adam’s apple floating above the deep plunge of her top that made him stop walking altogether. The flash of recognition almost made him cry out, instead he instantly allowed his feet to fall into step behind hers.
She arrived the back entrance of a club, unaware that she had a shaky shadow entering right behind her as she headed to her mirror. As he let the door close behind him, Johnnie was instantly assaulted by the row of lit mirrors and a smell so familiar he could practically feel the corner of his mother’s vanity digging into his back. He finally allowed the tears to fill his eyes as he approached the woman who had unknowingly led him to the answer to the question he had been asking for over a decade.
She looked at him and felt as if she were looking at a mirror into her past when she had been a sad little boy full of questions that no one had the answer to. She took him under her wing; it felt to him like being wrapped up in gold, glitter, and warmth. Stepping out as a woman, Johnnie finally felt the pulls of puberty. It was as if it had just accidentally skipped past him the first time around.
As a boy, Johnnies’ friends had teasingly called him asexual, joking that he would never grow up. But a gossamer gown and a wig created an image very much like those princesses so elegantly displayed in picture books. Finally, Johnnie stepped out of the tower that he had carried around with him his entire life. Turning the last page in his story, he became the woman he had dreamed about becoming. Johnnie knew that it had never been her destiny to follow her father’s footsteps and be a man, but to finally welcome adulthood as a woman.

poetry?

Im in a mood and it's tempting to turn off my phone and literally hide under the covers when I'm like this
I cant handle actual communication because I hate how stupid I sound when Im acting like an emo sixteen-year-old
so instead Im sharing a poem that I wrote about a year ago.


The sun is coming out
But I've already made my peace with the rainy blues
I faced the rain
as it fell
I sighed
as it splashed
Sneered
as it dripped

I resigned myself to wearing rain boots
Big Plastic Heavy and Bright

Then sneaking out from behind the clouds
Came the sun
So the boots get put away
My feet saved from sweaty, non-conforming synthetics
Saved for another Rainy Day
When all I'll want is the sun

After pride and Prejudice and, Zombies...why not?

Margaret March entered her home a after a long day and could hear her girls giggling and moving around upstairs. She knew that after school and chores were finished, they often retreated up to the attic to act out the adventurous stories that her Jo wrote for them. Taking off her boots and hanging up her coat, she heard them all chasing each other down the stairs to hug her and ask about her day.

“Marmee!” Joe cried, the first white face to emerge from around the corner, “We were so worried you wouldn’t make it home before the snow storm, we’ve made a warm broth for dinner.” My sweet girls, Marmee thought to herself. While enjoying dinner, Mrs. March tried unsuccessfully to orchestrate the girls into conducting a conversation while remembering to act like little women instead of a bunch of boisterous children, but she knew that society’s restrictions took a toll on her young ladies and she decided to allow them to feel at home in their own house.

The girls had all had very long days, but when the table was cleared and Marmee was settled by the fire with a pile of stockings and petty coats that needed mending, they climbed back up to the attic as if there had never been a break for dinner. Although Meg was the oldest, Jo had the responsibility of spending her day with Aunt March while Amy went to school, Beth was home schooled and Meg acted as governess for the King family. Therefore, it was up to Jo to pass on the training that she learned from the March matriarch.

Jo had always loved to write and the girls had always loved being able to entertain each other, this made the idea of the girls acting out Jo’s adventures to be the ideal cover story to tell their devoted and naïve mother. In fact, the young March women were involved in deep combat training. They were little women by day, and fierce soldiers by night. At the rate they were progressing, it would not be long before they could bring their beloved father home by wining his battles for him.

Meg was the sensible one; she kept her head clear and focused during battles. Jo was adventurous and creative; in her hands, anything was a deadly weapon. Beth was too shy, she was never comfortable talking in public, but you didn’t need to have a conversation with someone to kill them. Amy was the youngest, in another life she may have been a romantic artist, but her passion came out in her fighting.

The girls used to spend time playing with their neighbor Laurie, but as soon as Jo had begun to develop enough to fill out the bodice in her sister Meg’s hand-me-down dresses, he had begun to see her in a new light. When he proposed marriage as if Jo would be relieved to leaver her sisters and her stories behind in favor of being his wife; she had reacted the only way she knew how. Between blows to his head delivered with the broom she had been sweeping with, she ground out “I am nobody’s little woman! I am just as useful as a man and I don’t need you or society to hold me back and turn me into nothing but a breeder!”

Laurie had gone off to college and the girls had not heard from him since

a story I just made up tonight and told the boys to put them to sleep

There once was a photographer who lived alone. He was not lonely because he filled his walls with the many pictures that he had taken. One night, he was in his dark room going through the prices of developing his pictures. In the corner of several of the frames he saw a dog that he had never seen before. He was surprised that the animal had made it into his picture without his noticing but he shrugged and went about his work. After, he made himself dinner and went to bed.

The next day he was at the park taking pictures and he was surprised to see the dog that he noticed in his pictures the night before. He assumed that it must have followed him and went back to work. That night he was back in his dark room developing his photographs from the day. He was once again caught of guard when he saw a boy that he had not noticed before. He wondered if he was getting careless and needed a vacation. The next day he was surprised when the boy from the photographs was at the park. He began taking pictures of him and soon the two started talking. He was delighted by the boy’s imagination and happy spirit.

That night, in the dark room, he smiled as he developed the boy’s pictures. He gasped as he saw a woman in the bottom right corner of one of the frames, He was sure he would have remembered is he had seen her that day because she was the most beautiful woman that he had ever seen. He felt anticipation bubble up inside of him as he hoped that he would see her the next day at the park. He had planned to meet the boy there so they could continue entertaining each other with stories.

At the park, he looked around anxiously for the boy. When he arrived, he was not alone. He was with his mother, the woman from the pictures and his dog. They had all appeared to the photographer’s camera before they came to him. He fell into a conversation with the woman and could not believe how quickly time could pass. The three agreed to meet again the next day where he spent hours laughing with them and taking their pictures. Soon he asked the woman to have dinner with him and it seemed like no time had passed at all when the two decided to get married.

Every night the photographer examined his developing prints closely, but they held only the happy images of his world and his new family. Until one night, when he saw a small child lingering in the bottom of a frame. The next day, his wife told him that she was pregnant. When she wondered out loud if the baby would be a boy or a girl, he bet her 20 dollars that it would be a girl with dark hair like her mother and her father’s bright blue eyes.