the mockingbird sings,
a bright refrain for bright days.
did he sing for you, too,
while you lived and breathed?
did his trills and swoops
vibrate briefly through silver hair
alight along the curve
of a mischief-laced grin?
to think he led you to your pyre;
to think he heard your laughter,
brings my heart hope.
for the day may come when,
lost as I am in the haze,
I wander upon him
and knowing who I am,
he sings for me the song -
breaking across my face, accurate
and unique to your cold throat,
the sound of your joy.

breath flutters against my cheek,
eyes closed, the harmonious whisper
ignites the fires below my stomach.
into the room my consciousness jars

and I find I am alone.

HEY TUMBLR I WROTE THIS STORY FOR YOU JUST NOW:

It was impossible to resist. The necklace was on a thin gold chain, adorned with a single pendant. A bird, with an all-seeing eye in the center of its graceful curve. It felt good in her hand and would feel better around her neck.

The day was a humid Louisiana one. The sun beat down; she unwound the scarf that shaded her hair. It was too warm even for that, and any layer that could be removed would be. Her eyes cast up, seeking the woman who had put up the tent. Others like it lined the dusty street until it ended.

Finally, Mira’s gaze found her: grizzled with age, she reclined in the one bit of shade. She looked every inch the part of a gypsy saleswoman.

“How much?”

Holding the necklace up, it caught the sun in a way that dazzled her. The crone swiveled, beak-like nose bearing down.

“Read the tag, girl.”

Mira - already flushed in the warmth - felt herself blush as her fingertips brushed the paper tag on the chain.

The price written on it made her stomach drop. Too much, she said to herself, taking mental inventory of the fading paper bills in her purse. There weren’t many. Certainly they didn’t add up to that number. Disappointed, she reached to replace the necklace where she had found it.

At the same moment, she felt the gaze of her gypsy vendor slip elsewhere. Someone had come to her with a problem or a payment or an inquiry. Mira was no longer her priority; she had looked long enough to see the girl become disheartened and lost interest. It sent something akin to anger through her. Was she not important enough to even merit some sort of haggle? The necklace was still in her hand. Both hovered suspended above the table.

And then her fingers closed around it and she turned.

It only took a few seconds for her brain to decide for her. But she walked away, enraged by the inflated price and by the gypsy’s inattention. The piece of jewelry - now hers - was too lovely to give up.

Perhaps she would have turned back from that moment, if she could have known its repercussions. But no one had taught her that you don’t steal from the nomads.

———

She had been right: it felt beautiful around her neck, all the more so with the knowledge that she had saved it from a selfish old hag. Across from the mirror, she fingered it with a delicate touch she seldom used elsewhere.

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I wish there were some way for me to spew things onto a page with just my mind

because by the time my ideas reach my fingers, they’re a lot more jumbled than five seconds previous. Also there’s sooooo fucking many of them.

the symmetry of a shell
makes me believe in heaven.

a thing so smooth, so perfect
as i hold it in my hand i question its reality.

what god of nature made you?
i hold it to my ear, let my skin

brush the hollow pink opening. within,
the ocean whispers, sighs and tremors.

the moon made me. i am she
and she is me.

i think when i got this idea to write something based on japanese folklore

this weird creepfest was not what anyone pictured

but whatever yolo.

the sun is shining, my guitar is on its stand, the apartment is lovely, i’m calm, and i was granted enthusiastic permission to just stay in this amazingly lovely bed all day

i’m gonna write, bitchessss

i stole courtney and turned her into a character for lavender prelude, and it’s been working wonders. i was having some difficulty getting the plot completely outlined, but inserting this new role really brought it together. her place in the plot solidified things and got the ball rolling.

and i finally have an excuse to give a character dreads. YES.

feeling pretty creepypasta right now and not giving a single fuck

I am but a wind,
devoid of forest branches
through which to sing;
yet today I find
occasion to be a bard.

It is so soft,
gentle like grass
bending on a moor,
the way you bring
from within my lost voice.

It is morning,
and I miss you.
My eyes had grown
so used to seeing
upon first opening: you.

Now they close at night,
wink out with the sun
and they dread.
They know the moment
comes only too soon.

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Productive writing things I did today:

gave Courtney a dragon
…
and
gave Courtney a dragon.

Pretty much that is the only progress I’ve made all day AUGHSOLAZY.

i’m feeling good about the work i’ve been getting done on lucifer’s tavern. i buckled down and really made myself plan what i could. it went well. i got some actual writing done on lavender prelude.

it feels good to be productive. and i don’t feel guilty when i take a break.

Yes, I did in fact name my short story after a Phish song. I have no shame. NO SHAME

Anyway, it’s done. Completely edited for now. I usually come back in a few months and edit with a fresh perspective.

A Song I Heard the Raven Sing is a short story about Raven Quinn, who exists in a world I made up when I was 14. This entire project has come so far since then, and I’m finding new ways to spice it up all the time. When it’s done, it will be spread throughout a novella, a novel trilogy, this story, and a poem. Which sounds like a lot, but these days I’m not daunted by that.

I know there are parts that won’t make a lot of sense out of context (and it’s really not supposed to), but I feel like I did a good job of explaining things. Click “Read More” to see it.

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what’s it about?

It’s cool of you to ask!

It’s about a man named Raven, who is a minor character in the first of a trilogy I’ve been working on for years. I decided a short story would be the best way to explain his backstory, because he gets a larger role in the last book.