Pinwheel

There's a pinwheel in my head. 

Spin spin spinning. 

Its plastic panes a constant bane, slip-slapping upon the insides walls that compose the cavern that is my skull. 

No brain.

Just spin spin spinning. 

A wooden rod shoved down my throat, sprouting leaves and leaves of societal norms and from it came the wheel. 

Its logical home my head, of course. 

Cheery, colorful crushing.

And I can't get it out.

It's staying.

No, the wind's on.

It keeps me awake.

No rest to be had.

I think it hates me.

My spin spin spinning head.

It's shiny, strict hands, all over the walls.

Stress stress stressing.

Never going to sleep again.

-Suzanne

(For some reason, I had Ed Sheeran's "Don't" stuck in my head while writing this. Words are very different, but the rhythm is similar in some parts.)

Afire

She heard the story

Of the girl who wrote poems

Under the desperate watch of the moon

And, when found

The girl locked herself in a closet

And set herself alight

She knows better

Of course.

She knows when to nod

And smile

When to cover her face and

Hold her tongue.

But she cannot help

The wanton words

the lustful lines

that escape her

in broken bits of song

a forbidden courtship in ink

scribbled hastily onto the back of

the veiled hand

rubbed away at a

moment’s notice.

She can’t let them see.

She wonders if she has the disease

The blood sin

The wax-wicked words

That set a poet afire.

-Christina

Note: this is a poem based on a true story, from this article: http://www.nytimes.com/2012/04/29/magazine/why-afghan-women-risk-death-to-write-poetry.html?pagewanted=all 

And then, as you were always meant to, you tell her the story of your life.

The streets are dark and damp and uneven, as they are apt to be this time of year. The cobblestones were once paved straight, but those days are over and we are resigned to the grumbling of the squeaky unoiled horse carts through the town.

Do come in. It's going to rain again soon, I think. You can feel it in the air. Mind the step.

Have you been traveling long? Of course you have. Sit down, won't you? I'll get tea.

Fires burn in the fireplaces, lovely and simmering. Smoke claws out of the chimneys, only to be devoured by the saturated air.

Grey or chamomile? Do you have a preference? Oh dear, I've lost the teapot. It'll only be a second, you just rest there.

The chair is so warm and the day is so long. The fabric is so worn and the night is so muted.

There we go. The kettle's only, it'll only be a mo. Say, what's your name? I don't think I caught it. Oh here, take the blanket, love. Right on the arm of your chair---there you go. That's better, isn't it? Sorry, I was asking your name. What was it?

Her voice is gentle yet with substance. She is the kind of woman that does not get wrinkled nor weathered, but is instead halfheartedly creased before the world decides that it liked her better without all the folds and consents to leave her as she is. Her cheeks are still full and dimpled, the kind of cheeks where you can still almost see the youth, if you work hard enough to see it.

Oh that's a gorgeous name, that is. You're from the north, with a name like that. What brings you out so far?

The rain taps tentatively on the roof, seeing if it is welcome.

That's a right far journey ahead of you, then. Oop, I think that's the kettle, let me just check on that. One second, is all.

And then it comes down, faster and faster, gaining confidence and speed.

Looks just about there. Chamomile, you said? Dear Lord, listen to that roof. I told you it would rain.

And then it barrels without abandon onto that little thatched roof, and for a moment it is surprising that it does not collapse inward with the pressure, but it holds strong. 
How old is that woman, that woman standing over the kettle? No one knows. There is no way to know, and somehow it is clear that she is not about to reveal that bit of information to anyone. There is no reason to care about that kind of information, anyway. She is not a creature that ages, only one that matures.

There we go. Here's a cup for you, is that warm enough? Breathe in the steam, it's good for you. Now, dear, tell me about everything. From the day you were born until this very moment. On nights like these, it's good to have a talk, don't you think?

The day so long, the night so muted. The rain so sharp, the tea so soft.

These are the nights where nostalgia lurks.
These are the nights where stories reign.

Fantastical Fridays (6) In Which Publishing Crawl Is A Thing

So this will probably be the last Friday post for a while...I'd like to have a lot of time to talk about this stuff that I care about, and I'm not getting that time right now, so I will wait until the crazy blows over and I'll see how things proceed.

So today will be pretty short. As has become the fashion of things, I suppose...

Here is a beautiful blog that y'all should check out:

http://www.publishingcrawl.com/

What is this strange and barely introduced link, you wonder?

Ah, grasshopper. It is a meetingplace of the brains of YA (just the brains, the authors and agents and editors stay at home). They drink tea and silently muse about the workings of writing and books and sometimes the publishing industry, and when their silent musing is over they exchange it into an uneven mixture of quarters and pennies and use the currency to purchase gorgeous words from the tiny word people that live in the clouds. And then these beautiful people on Publishing Crawl take their hard-earned gorgeousness and splurt it all into a series of blog posts for the general folk of the world.

So thank them for it, and head on over to take a look.

Wheeee!

-Kat

My Not-So-Super Superpower of Invisiblity

    There are definitely perks to being invisible, but I wouldn't say this is one of them. This aching dreariness seeping through me in this packed hallway. This desperate need for connection, contact with a fellow human.

    I know you! I know you! You know me! You were suppose to be my friend--why can't you look at me?

    They're supposed to look at me, I tell myself. Church brothers and sisters. Junior high friends.

    What have a done? What about me makes you twist your neck when I'm coming down the hall? 

    Aren't such sorts of people supposed to love me? This transparent body of mine is crushing me. Weights in my heart sinking me, pulling pulling pulling me.

    You're cool, I'm not. You're a boy, I'm a girl. I'm a freshman, you're a junior. Am I too weird? Am I too awkward?

    The guy in my class says hello with a  smile. The girl in my club hugs me. The player on my team gives me a high five. Me. Me! They are looking at me not through me!

    WHY CAN'T YOU LOOK AT ME?

    I guess the people that care about me might not be the ones I think ought to be caring about me, but they are relevant nonetheless. Because they don't make me feel quite as invisible as

    you.

-Suzanne

Beautiful Skinny

My mommy is the most beautiful person in the world. She smiles like an angel, and when she gives me hugs, her hair tickles my face. Sometimes I sneak into her room when she’s getting ready, and watch her put her paint on her face (Mommy calls it makeup) and spray her delicious par-fume. In the morning, she always smells like flowers and fruit, but by night, her hugs smell of almost burnt cookies and chicken soup. She hugs me with strong arms, squeezes me tight. She sings in the kitchen, loud and shaky, but I think it’s perfect.

My mommy doesn’t think she’s beautiful. When she’s putting that chalk dust on her cheeky-bones, she sighs, and talk about the imaginary lines on her face. They must be imaginary, because I can’t see them. She bakes the cookies, but leaves it all to me and Daddy. She stares at the melting chocolate bits, a little sad, while Daddy asks her about her die-et. She frowns while Daddy jokes about the tummy of hers. She reaches for an apple.

There’s a pretty dress in Mommy’s closet. It’s lacy and pink, and Mommy says she wore it when she was young and skinny.

I look at her. “When will I be ‘skinny’?”

Mommy frowns. “Darling, you already are. I wish I could be as beautiful as you.”

She worries. Every morning, when I peek into her and Daddy’s room, I see her stand on that scale, and sigh a little. She looks over pictures, and when Santa Claus gave me A Little Princess and The Wind in the Willows, he took our cookies and gave Mommy a weight-loss book to make her “skinny”.

One day, I see herself sitting in the closet, holding the dress in her lap and crying over the scale. That day, she only had carrots for breakfast.

 Later, I go into the closet and look at the dress. The next day, when I look closer, I begin to see Mommy’s lines. Maybe I can only have apples when I grow up. Maybe I don’t want the tummy.

Maybe I want to be skinny. 

It Feels So Long Ago

Do you remember when we walked in
to the future and you let
go of my hand?
I don't know who let go
first. But
I do
know I'll never see you again.
I can't. Every day I think
of that hand I know
you less and
      less
because, darling,
I have heard the tales.
I have heard all the tales.
And darling, I cannot forget those tales.