Little Free Library – Which Book Would You Share?


I am currently obsessed with this little free library in my new neighborhood. The idea is to take a book and share a book. I’ve already taken a book – Water For Elephants, by Sara Gruen and left one of my own in its place – Ember in the Ashes, by Sabaa Tahir.

I think it’s so neat and people definitely use it, because every time I walk by there is something new in there.

Lately, I’ve been plagued with the thought that there are so many great books out there in the world and not enough time in the world to read them! Does anyone else have this anxiety?

I guess what I’ve been thinking about the past few days: Which book would you share? And why?

Happy reading everyone! (And writing!)

Poem: Rainy Sunday Afternoon


I like the sound of rain on a Sunday afternoon

I like the way it falls, the way it sounds

the look of green, the slick streets

The pattering sound when it hits the ground

Me in my pjs, cartoons in the background

Like someone stroking my hair

after a long bath in suds and warm water

Today, the darkness won’t bother me

today, I will conquer the dark and the sadness

with comforting thoughts of trees filled with raindrops

heavy with water, drooped so low over the ground

This should be their attitude of sadness

this should be proof that the universe is low

but instead, I think of it as trees bowing

to the universe in reverence

the earth is crying

and this is their moment of silence

Writing Prompt # 147: ‘Sorrow croons for love…”

Looking for a little inspiration tonight. Liking the new location, but still struggling to become comfortable with new surroundings and this is very important for us writer-types. We need to be able to find our writing voice anywhere, and I want to make sure mine is still there alive and kicking.

Got this prompt off because the book I usually use is packed away somewhere and I haven’t opened all of my office boxes yet…whoops. Not sure if its supposed to be a short story? A poem? Where it goes, nobody knows…

(Oh, and it totally isn’t # 147 on the website, I lost the number when I clicked away from the page. Oh well, it’s somewhere!)

Sorrow croons for love lost

tomorrow is another day

today is an opportunity

The young woman closed the book in her lap with a snap. “What a bunch of hooey,” she muttered.

Love wasn’t an opportunity for her…far from it. She grabbed her black shoulder bag where it was squashed against her legs on the concrete. She stood up and brushed the dirt off her clothes. Like it would matter. Her skin crawled and her head ached. Her dirty-colored blond hair fell in tangled waves around her pale face.

She walked on. The streetlights cast the street in a strange green type of glow. The road looked like it was full of molten lava, all cracked and glowing as cars rumbled over the potholes.

The librarian she’d met while she was rummaging through the library’s trash bins didn’t know what she was talking about.

“Here, honey,” she’d said. “I was going to take this home and shelve it…but you have it. You look like you could use a little love in this life.”

She’d taken it with numb fingers. She’d never been one of those people to remember gloves. And the old woman had looked so clean and smelled of lotion. The kind that her mother used to wear before she’d had thrown herself out of the window after Daddy shot himself.

She wasn’t sure if she had even said, ‘thank you.’

The woman had given her a weak smile and then had shuffled off. Like she knew already that Sarah didn’t have the words to say what she should have.

Sarah found a more comfortable place amongst the moss and the concrete, and the trickles of water underneath the red bridge which cut across the only dirty water-way in her not-so-small town.

She opened the crinkly pages, ran her fingers over words that were clean and very old but brand new to her. She pondered that for a brief moment, how words were never the proper age to anyone. They were always becoming something new, meaning something different to anyone. Somewhat…timeless.

A frog jumped and she with it, and the croak he left with a splash gurgled across the empty spaces, the cool night, the sound of concrete rumbling, cars and artificial light.

“Words are timeless,” she read.

age is but a number

crawls across space

and time, and I with it

“Don’t be just another number,” she continued, eyes glued to the page.

be the delicate words

you are reading so much about.



Saying Goodbye to My Office

So, Mike, the other half, and I will be moving to a new location this coming weekend. While, the change is a much-needed one and nerve-wracking and hopefully the start of new adventures and story inspiration, I can’t help but be sad by it all.

img_20160806_143819072_hdr.jpgOur new location is smaller, but in a better location, but I will no longer have an office. At least…for now.

So, this is me packing up my books in boxes, lovingly stroking their covers, feeling sad like I’m packing away old friends. Thinking in my head: I’ll come back for you…this is only for a short while.

Already missing my collection of Knickknacks, my odes to Star Wars, and squeeze stress cow.

img_20160806_143902592_hdr.jpgAlready missing all of the more memories and story planning and writing I could have done here…but.


It took me a long time to feel like I even had the words to say to even justify me having an office. It’s no joke that this gal here has struggled with a terrible writer’s fear after college.

Back then, I had the words to say in my head and my writers voice would just go and go and sometimes went even when I was supposed to be doing other things.

img_20160806_143830415.jpgAfter graduation, it felt like that voice was buried under a thick sludge of self-conscious. I went to the page with fear in my heart and self-doubt. I started a blog, I wrote, I stopped, I wrote again.

And then somewhere along the years of this, I discovered that I was being ridiculous. Oh, the fear is still there, of course. I feel it now wanting to creep it in, but I won’t let it.

I didn’t need an office to validate me as a writer, although having one is certainly a perk. Being a writer is something much more than that; and even though I’m sad I’ll no longer have this place to call home, I feel like, home is where the heart is.

My writing home can be the same way. It’s like a state of being. It’s where I most belong…I just have to make it so.

Happy Writing Everyone!

Flash Fiction: The Proposal

I write a lot of notes in my phone’s notebook. Grocery lists, dreams, story ideas, names, blog ideas…you get the picture.

Found this in my phone written about a year ago. I guess I was going to submit it somewhere, but had forgotten about.

Going back and reading my dreams, too, are a hoot, but I think that’s worthy of a post all on its own. Anyway, enjoy.🙂

The Proposal

A man leans against his black SUV in the early morning chill and stares down at his burning hands. His girlfriend left him, or maybe she died; it doesn’t matter now.

He thinks it might matter when he can get back inside and finally warm his hands, but he can’t decide what to do. His thoughts are jumbled, and panic ignites in his chest. He fumbles with the door handle behind him and climbs back in the SUV, rubbing and blowing at his hands.

He eyes the velvety box sitting in the glove box, which has spilled open, papers sliding down to the mat on the passenger side floor. He calls 911 and starts to sob into the receiver.

“Fiance,” he gasps. “Floor. Not breathing.”

He relives the scene etched forever into his vision as he begins to describe what happened. Her collapsed body on the sofa, her arm dancing towards the floor. The other one pinned awkwardly underneath her chest. She could have been passed out from drink, she could have been drooling into the sofa cushions, but she wasn’t.

Yesterday, she had told him yes, but today doesn’t feel like an affirmation.

Later, they will tell him that a complication with her medications was the cause; a misuse of sleeping aids. It haunts him to think that maybe she couldn’t sleep because she wasn’t happy, or that maybe she was too happy and sleep wouldn’t come.

Either way the cold continued, and he could never warm his hands.

Poem: Connection Lost

Why is it when you try so hard to reach someone
You fail
Signals off
Or wasn’t really there in the first place

Here I am
Or used to be
Clock ticking on the wall
Ready to fall
Off into oblivion

Everyone growing old
And growing up
they are strangers
You’ll say, “hello”
They’ll say, “goodbye”
And next thing you know
You’re thinking about the gap
Of where the conversations supposed to be

Maybe that’s why I stopped trying
Results never worth the effort
Awkward attempts
Are disastrous goodbyes
Maybe next you’ll be wondering why
Good friends are so hard to make

Its never like the movies
The rain falls like heartbreak
But usually it just gets the streets wet

Then you’re walking alone
And wiping away tears
that feel like lost chances

The ‘what ifs’
are the ones you can never take back

Mm. Feeling kind of melancholy tonight… If u couldn’t tell. Got caught up in a marathon of Shameless, and now I regret not getting things done. Like, writing for one. But that’s not all. Sometimes its so hard to connect with people…struggled with it all my life. Maybe some of you fellow writers/introverts will understand. But it makes me sad sometimes.

Otherwise, hope everyone is having a great night! Happy writing!

Poem: Deep Thoughts

Looking for inspiration
I turn to God
“Why did you build the stars?”
Mike hears and says, “Years, babe.
Years and years.”
I turn to science then,
“Let’s go to Mars!”
Mike hears
“It’s too far,”
he says. “Too far.”

I think about how round the sun is
How it burns with that blazing yellow
How there are patterns in a turtle’s shell
That weren’t there when it was born

How there is space junk swirling around earth
Like that ball and string on a pole
Waiting to smack you in the face

“Why is the earth round?”
Mike looks at the ground
At me, all around, and gestures
“To contain all of this.”

And I snuggle in close and smile.

Poem: Apocalypse

I don’t write as often as I should
Lies are told and morning comes
Some days, its not just ‘all right’

Get your coffee and corruption
Truth bleeds through your TV set
Big Brother knows and shows
What it can, when it can
And we believe, the f**ckheads

Soon, it’ll be WWIII
and gas and war without the Nazi’s
Soon we’ll die and succumb
Always under everyones thumb

Dark days are coming you know
Can’t you just feel the cold?
Big Brother tells us what to feel
And it’ll snow, and snow, and snow…

***Not sure where this one came from this morning. But certainly sick of the influence the media has on the world nowadays. They tell us who to vote for, who to believe in; because we aren’t shown everything… Only what the media thinks we should hear. When did we become so ‘generalized?’ When did we stop thinking for ourselves?