Writing has been my heartbeat, pulling me from the brink and giving me a reason to live authentically, my words spilling onto the page without shame or fear. Each sentence I craft is a lifeline, offering healing for others while suturing together the raw, tender pieces of my own soul.
Here is a prose poem I wrote called: breath for the black kernel
Death is the silent seed from which life blooms, a black kernel lodged in my chest, splitting open to push green through my bones—every heartbeat a sprout, every sigh a leaf trembling in its shade. It lies still, voiceless, leeching deeper as I rise—my flesh a thin soil, my blood a rain it drinks without sound.
Yet every petal of existence falls to feed its quiet roots—my dreams droop, my hands wither, my voice frays into dust, all sinking to fatten the dark below. I’m a garden it tends, a tuft it reaps—each step I take scatters pollen for its hunger, each breath a gift to its grip.
Death waits, the mute farmer, harvesting me petal by petal ‘til I’m naked, my tendrils its own, swallowed back to the seed that never asked.
It’s beautiful. Your reframing of death not simply as a reaper but as a the farmer is a very interesting perspective. It’s not a simply a taker— it’s a giver, it’s nurturer, it’s the reaper
“Death waits, the mute farmer, harvesting me petal by petal ‘til I’m naked, my tendrils its own, swallowed back to the seed that never asked.” This is just fabulous prose!
I love this so much! I won one of these last year and it gave me so much confidence to keep going here on Substack - I hope you know how meaningful it was to me. ❤️❤️❤️
Writing for me, is to help a reader Awaken to the Magic in their lives & feel joy & wonder & adventure. Metabolize their sorrow and see with hope again.
My writing sample, from my poem The Whispers in the Wallpaper,
There once was a woman who lived all alone
In a cottage of gingerbread, candy, and stone.
With teacups that danced when she wasn't looking,
And a stove that sang lullabies while she was cooking.
This piece is a luminous study in tonal shift, opening with lyrical grace and imagery that charms the senses, only to slip—seamlessly, chillingly—into dread. The transition from whimsy to unease is handled with such control that the reader drifts, lulled by the rhythm until it fractures. The voice remains steady, musical, even as the shadows rise. Absolutely beautifully written Maryellen!
Thank you for the opportunity to share something, Evelyn!
Writing means the opportunity to explore things I'm curious about or that might scare or puzzle me. Or things that fascinate me. I get to imagine what something might look like in the world like in this excerpt from a story about prison farms in Mississippi at the turn of the 20th century (241 words):
"The families of the old men would gather at the prison’s Front Camp to see whether their people would be let go. If those who might object to their release had long ago made the journey to the churchyard, and words and earth had been poured over them, then the men’s families were permitted to carry them home. For as the dead rested, the young men had grown old, and their hearts had cooled and most of the fiery passions drained from them as the years passed. Their sons became men and their daughters women without them; their mothers and fathers died and were buried; and the men they once were—armed with pistols and knives and hearts set ablaze—died and were buried beneath the weight of years, purging them of their most volatile passions, leaving only a hint of the men they once were and the aching desire for home.
So the ancient men of Parchman sat with the king of the known world, but the governor had already read their files and decided their fates. The face-to-face was merely an opportunity to confirm his decisions. Each interview eventually ended with the governor saying, “Why don’t you let your people carry you home?” In response, some men wept. Some uttered a hosanna of thanks. Most, recognizing the ritualistic nature of the proceedings, simply said, 'I believe I will, sir. I believe I will let my people carry me home.'”
Hi! Writing is a way for me to connect with others and feel less alone. It’s how I breathe underwater. 💗 This is a poem I wrote that still makes me cry when I read it!
To me, writing means two things: seeing myself and helping others feel seen. It’s making a little bit of sense out of this wild world and connecting with others so they don’t feel alone in all of it.
Here’s an excerpt from a poem included in a recent post I wrote in response to a US politician saying “autism destroys families.” -
What Autism Destroys
Autism destroys the idea that only certain kinds of lives are valuable.
Autism destroys the misperception that only one kind of life is worth fighting for.
Autism destroys the lie that human differences are something to eradicate, fix, and erase.
Autism destroys the notion that life ends where diagnoses begin.
Autism destroys the golden pedestal upon which efficiency and productivity reside.
Autism destroys the myth that conventionality and typicality are the ultimate values to strive for.
Autism destroys the boxes that attempt to confine and restrict creativity, love, and inclusion.
So, Mr. Politician, we’ve clarified what autism destroys.
Now, I have one question for you:
Don’t we all sometimes reach out to God,
or the universe,
or literally anything at all -
and write a message,
or curl a note into a bottle,
and hurl it into the tumultuous sea,
and hope to find something bigger,
something better, than all of this?
Don’t we all hope we can give what we have
and get love
acceptance
inclusion
and
respect
in return?
Don’t we all just walk through the world
and do the best we can -
And hope it’s enough?
I bet, Mr. Politician, once in a while
you even feel like this, too.
Someone unlike you is not a problem
to be solved.
There are problems aplenty for you to solve, yes -
but who my son is,
now, Mr. Politician, that’s not one over which to stress.
Writing is a way for me to metabolize pain and notice beauty. It also enables me to share what comfort and hope I receive with others; as stroke survivor Kathryn Wolf said, my nightmare might be someone else’s survival guide.
Sonnet from the Shadowlands
The sun declines in western sky. Withdrawn
Are clarity of light and hue; brought on,
Long shadows, foggy veils, the sacred hush
Of darkling valley, far from pastures lush.
The golden hour rays play hide and seek,
Illuminate her face with glorious peek
Of unveiled radiance. Then it flies away;
The light of smiling eyes fades, vesperal gray.
Sundowning steals her stories; details dim,
Degrade and recombine in moment’s whim.
The twilight of unknowing steals the one
Who knew me knit together, blood and bone.
In Shadowlands, I clasp my hands round hers,
Here, side by side, as gathering dusk sight blurs.
I write because the words on the page reveal what I cannot express aloud. For me, writing feels like reconnecting with an old friend, getting to know a new one, enjoying the comfort of a best friend, or simply savouring time alone.
Excerpt:
Poppy stood on the sidewalk, holding a cardboard box in one arm and Hank’s leash in the other. The rescue pup watched her every move, his eyes full of trust she wasn’t sure she deserved.
"Just you and me now, boy," Poppy said.
She set the box down, careful not to break the crystal glasses from her grandmother’s antique hutch and slid the key into the lock.
"Ready for our new home, Hank?"
Together, they stepped inside the five-hundred-square-foot space of possibility and peeling laminate for which she had paid first and last month's rent.
“Home sweet home?” she said.
Poppy let go of the leash, and Hank bolted and wasted no time exploring the new space. His tail wagged with excitement as he sniffed every corner like he’d found buried treasure.
Poppy dropped to her knees and opened the box. A folded quilt sat on top, worn soft by time. She pressed it to her face. It still smelled like sun-dried cotton and lavender—the farm, her grandmother.
She blinked hard. “Okay. No crying on day one.”
She surveyed the apartment, which had cracked paint, a crooked light fixture, and one window facing a brick wall. It was a far cry from the rolling fields and screened porch of the only home where she spent every summer.
But it was hers.
Kind of.
The lease was in her name. The debt was hers, too. And so was the silence.
“Look at this flooring. It’s a metaphor for my old and new life.” Poppy said.
This is an incredible opportunity for so many writers, so I'm delighted to be a part of this.
I write because it’s where I get to be too much, maximalist, colourful, feral, alive in all my excess. It’s where the expletives of my body become expletives of voice, delicately thumbing through the pages between implicit and explicit. Writing is where I exist as holy and becoming, and the act of becoming is where I meet myself: making, forming, conjuring sound into glorious neon-spell across the page.
Here is an excerpt from the poem which gives its name to my latest collection of poetry, Salt-Rimmed Breath on Jazz-Thigh Gospel.
salt-rimmed breath on jazz-thigh gospel; split
(blow // heat // crack // hush // again)
thighs unstuck as spilled gin in the backseat jigger / bite me before the sun makes marmalade of flesh / hiss through the zippers / gasps into elbow crook of the boy who said maybe once in 2011 / he’s here / you’re here / everyone’s slick / halfway out of their costume / it’s not a party it’s a meltdown with beatmatching / love me til the beat — delicate fingerings blown across sheer splinters
//
collarbones catch it first—specks of you in shards of sunlight rich & citrus oil / your mouth opens / not not to speak / just to steam out a vowel / no name / no need / just mmmm and salt behind teeth —
licked sweat from the lip-lusted dancepop hipthrust blowmachine deep of neon-drenched starry night / stranger says do you believe this and you say not tonight / laughter pulsing with bottle-fizz stretching / & snap of thighs against plastic / pop pop pop / no percussion, just consent
tequila pours down yr spine / catches it with tongues / you forget who, twisted / they remember, slurping / they leave a mark shaped like August and cusping tickles of fine hairs as velcro for salt on the back of wrists & lost wedges of time, well, wasted
//
touch me only where the air still moves / juddering where the fan halt-stutters its slow infinite striptease / where boots squeak praise be against the kitchen lino, where the ocean meets the threshold / there is a gospel in the fold of me if you listen closely enough / if you press in / if you breathe through me — yes, you mean it
I am very well acquainted with William Burroughs, the beats have always been a big inspiration in my writing! I'm honoured that my poem made you think to suggest him though. I may be well overdue a re-read actually. 💜
Thank you so much for offering this opportunity, Evelyn. 🙏🏻 Writing has always been my connection to the world. As a kid, I struggled to express myself—and honestly, I still often do as an adult—but writing is the medium where I’ve always felt completely free and most like myself. Writing feels like home.
Here’s a 249-word sci-fi/romance short story I wrote that's one of my favorite pieces:
“What Is Love?” by L.E. McQuinn
The sky is turning shades of pink and orange, causing a decrease in Nina’s blood pressure. Watching the sunset, especially on the beach like this, always settles her heartbeat into a steady pace. Her face and shoulders soften.
She’s said she “loves” sunsets. They’ve become something I look forward to, though I’m not sure that means the same thing.
“What does it feel like?” I ask. “To ‘love’ something.”
Her brow gently furrows, a soft breeze blowing through her hair. “Being alive is taxing, and love makes it feel a little less so. For a while, anyway.”
“So, love is the absence of life’s burdens?”
“It’s the thing that makes them bearable.” Nina turns to me. “And makes living about more than just survival.”
I was gifted to her a year ago. Usually, she can barely look at me. The most she’ll give is a passing glance. But for the first time, she looks deeper.
My synthetic heart seems to beat a little harder as she roams the face of a man made for her—one she won’t have to grieve. I’m designed to protect her. Comfort her. Give her companionship. Yet, I seem to be failing at all but the first.
Tears pool in her eyes. I reach out, but she stands. My failure cuts. Nina walks to the shoreline and wades into the water, stopping knee-deep. She tilts her face to the sky as if soaking in its warmth.
This is such a beautifully written piece. The imagery is vivid, the emotions feel real, and the quiet connection between Nina and the POV is both touching and bittersweet. That last line is really powerful—it lingers!
The emotion in this piece absolutely floors me. Your microfics are always so nuanced and have such a way of capturing us quickly and wanting to keep us in that world. This is one of my favourites ❤️
Thank you for doing this; it's an amazing opportunity for the community! 🖤🌙
Writing is how I digest and interpret the world around me; it lets me explain, rationalize, and/or process the unexplainable.
My entry is a blurb from chapter one of my series, "Olivia" :
Recency bias aside, I think that one of the worst things that has happened to this generation is awareness culture—calm down. Hear me out.
The thing about surveillance, in any form, is that it often devolves from being productive… to the opposite. For example: we stop protecting women and start teaching men how to hide, how to act, where to go, what to say, what not to do on a first date—you get the point. Awareness isn’t protection anymore. It’s curriculum. And, to the shock of absolutely everyone, men learn fast—when they want something.
They read the posts. They watch the TikToks. They study the warning signs. You post a list of red flags, they write a script to avoid them. You explain what abuse looks like, they rebrand. I’d laugh if it weren’t so depressingly effective.
Think it isn’t? Look at all of the men who have made being a “feminist” their entire brand—aka “not like other guys”, aka worse than other guys. They built their entire platform on the mistreatment of women. If the mistreatment of women ends, their whole plan goes the way of the dodo bird. The math is mathing now, isn’t it? They’re quite literally betting their paycheck on it.
Writing is the breath beneath my thoughts, the thread that stitches dreams to memory. It carries the ache and awe of being alive and turns silence into song. Each word brings me closer to the truth I didn’t know I was holding.
I wipe the steam from the mirror and look myself in the eyes. Maybe if I stop believing, stop questioning. Maybe the disbelief will make it all stop. Then I see her, the little girl I used to be. She dances through a grassy meadow, her feet barely touching the ground. Sparkles of light pour from her essence like rain, nourishing the earth. Wildflowers bloom in full color. Butterflies, birds, bees, and dragonflies join her in a celebration of life everlasting.
I close my eyes and absorb the joy. The laughter. The carefree essence of this part of me - my fountain of youth.
Time, as we know it, has shown that all the forces that "be" cannot unravel the mystery. If we knew all the answers, we would never move forward in this world that often feels disjointed and in disarray. Too much for some to bear. Too burdensome for them to stay.
I often feel like I am living in a dream. And the best part of the dream just walked through the bathroom door, rubbing her eyes and yawning.
“Good morning, Miss Tallulah Beth.”
“Good morning, Mama,” she says, wrapping her arms around my waist. “Think Donny could make me some of his peachy French toast?”
I kiss the top of her head and hold her close. “If he won’t, I will.”
"Writing is the breath beneath my thoughts, the thread that stitches dreams to memory. It carries the ache and awe of being alive and turns silence into song. Each word brings me closer to the truth I didn’t know I was holding."
Writing isn't something that I do, it's a part of who I am. Words are the very air I breathe and for me, to write is to be. I couldn't imagine my life without it.
For my submission, I am including a sample from chapter 15 of my upcoming book, Jorden Castillo and the Age of Monsters: The Serpent's Rise.
Despite her talons, Mamá Valentina wasn’t a bad driver, though she did jerk the wheel now and then. When they arrived back at The Den, just the two of them, she cut the engine, but didn’t unbuckle her seatbelt, even as Jorden unclasped his own.
“Remember what you promised me, sobrino?” Though her voice was quiet, Jorden never had an issue hearing her. “You may wield great power, but you are not invincible.”
“I know that,” he murmured, dropping his hand from where it was perched on the handle of the door.
“Then know this too, braggards and heroes are not long for the world,” she let out a slow breath, her shoulders rounding in resignation. “I wanted to keep you, but you are not mine to keep, and now I am giving up the last shred of hope that I have for you. Pero por favor, do not forget your people, or your mythos. No matter where you go after tomorrow, or how those humans try to mold you, remember where you come from. Y no me olvides.” ‘Do not forget me.’
“Nunca,” he shook his head. ‘Never.’
And suddenly, the many divisions between them didn’t seem so important anymore. She reached out, pulling him into a hug, and he returned it, squeezing her tight.
“Ay,” she winced, pulling back with a laugh that was half-choked from emotion. “You are very strong.”
“Sorry,” he grimaced, but she shook her head.
“Do not apologize. You will need it for what is to come.”
Writing is therapy. Until I started my writing journey, I kept my feelings bottled up. But when the words flowed, so did joy.
Clowns
On the way to the carnival, my brother and I tell each other what foods we plan to devour. Our mother winces when we mention the three-foot cotton candy stick and deep fried twinkies.
We ask our father how many tickets he plans to buy. We think one hundred should last a few hours. We tell our mother we’re old enough to go on the Ferris wheel by ourselves.
For the first time in a long time, we feel like we belong. We’re just another family. Laughing. Eating. Living our lives.
Then an hour into our outing, a small person dressed as a scary clown follows us. He calls us chinks, squinting his eyes, mocking the accents he thinks we have.
“Chop suey, come over here,” he yells at us.
“Why is he saying that?” my brother asks.
“He’s trying to be funny,” says my mother.
“He’s not,” I declare. I lunge at him, but my mother holds me back.
The clown takes a martial arts stance. “Come on Jap, I know karate.”
My mother tries to steer us away. My father swallows hard. But none of the other people notice what’s going on. It’s just background noise, like birds chirping.
“We’re going home now,” my mother whispers.
“I don’t want to go yet,” my brother screams.
We tiptoe to the exit. We’re taught early on not to fight back. Be the model minority. Financial success will be the best revenge. Someday, the clowns will work for us.
Writing gave my life a new meaning. My writing journey began as a wonderful surprise during the pandemic. It has unlocked an exciting world of vivid imaginary scenes swirling in my mind, ready to be brought to life on the page.
Below is an excerpt from my WIP titled Unbreakable:
GRIEF HAS NO ENDING. So does pain. I realized that when we lose someone, they not only leave us grieving and in pain, but they also leave a hole in our hearts—they take a piece of us.
The feeling is intensified in a mother's heart. Despite all the comfort Art, Avery, and our parents consistently shower me with, the hole can never be filled. It's like an invisible wound that is rubbed and salted every time the memory of my pregnancy is recalled.
Writing has been my heartbeat, pulling me from the brink and giving me a reason to live authentically, my words spilling onto the page without shame or fear. Each sentence I craft is a lifeline, offering healing for others while suturing together the raw, tender pieces of my own soul.
Here is a prose poem I wrote called: breath for the black kernel
Death is the silent seed from which life blooms, a black kernel lodged in my chest, splitting open to push green through my bones—every heartbeat a sprout, every sigh a leaf trembling in its shade. It lies still, voiceless, leeching deeper as I rise—my flesh a thin soil, my blood a rain it drinks without sound.
Yet every petal of existence falls to feed its quiet roots—my dreams droop, my hands wither, my voice frays into dust, all sinking to fatten the dark below. I’m a garden it tends, a tuft it reaps—each step I take scatters pollen for its hunger, each breath a gift to its grip.
Death waits, the mute farmer, harvesting me petal by petal ‘til I’m naked, my tendrils its own, swallowed back to the seed that never asked.
You write beautiful poems.
Regardless of the outcome, we are the winners for seeing it.
Thank you so much Emma 🥹
It’s beautiful. Your reframing of death not simply as a reaper but as a the farmer is a very interesting perspective. It’s not a simply a taker— it’s a giver, it’s nurturer, it’s the reaper
Thank you so much Elara 💗
wow!!! your prose is absolutely stunning and the description created such vivid visuals for me! awesome work! good luck!
Thank you so much!
You're such a talented and creative writer. Thank yoh for gracing my feed on TwitterX and thank you for entering this. You're awesome!!!!
Thank you so much 🥹🥰
Chills! I love the journey you take us on! And it loops right back to the beginning, life anew.
Yes 👏 thank you so much!
Keep up the good work. Enjoying the art I read.
Thank you so much
This speaks to my soul. Your words flow beautifully, Maddie. Best of luck to you ❤️
Thank you so much 🥹
I hope you win
Hope I’m not late , wishing you luck 😇
Thank you so much! ☺️
“Death waits, the mute farmer, harvesting me petal by petal ‘til I’m naked, my tendrils its own, swallowed back to the seed that never asked.” This is just fabulous prose!
Thank you so very much! 😍
To fatten the dark. Yep.
I love that line! Thank you! 😍
Thank you so much for the beautiful words of encouragement. This was lovely to wake up to.
I love this so much! I won one of these last year and it gave me so much confidence to keep going here on Substack - I hope you know how meaningful it was to me. ❤️❤️❤️
Writing for me, is to help a reader Awaken to the Magic in their lives & feel joy & wonder & adventure. Metabolize their sorrow and see with hope again.
My writing sample, from my poem The Whispers in the Wallpaper,
There once was a woman who lived all alone
In a cottage of gingerbread, candy, and stone.
With teacups that danced when she wasn't looking,
And a stove that sang lullabies while she was cooking.
At first, these oddities gave her delight ~
A touch of whimsy to brighten her nights.
"How charming!" she'd giggle. "How perfectly queer!"
As the saltshakers waltzed and the mirrors would leer.
But Tuesday last week, something changed in the air,
When she noticed a face in her wallpaper's flare ~
Not just any old face with eyes, nose, and chin,
Her own reflection, stretched in a grin.
"Hello," said the face with a tilt of its head.
"I've been waiting to meet you," it wickedly said.
"I'm the you that you hide when the day turns to light,
I'm the thoughts that you bury and push out of sight."
She blinked and she squinted and rubbed at her eyes,
Convinced it was exhaustion spawning these lies.
But the face remained steadfast, its smile growing wide,
As it whispered sweet nightmares it had stored inside.
This piece is a luminous study in tonal shift, opening with lyrical grace and imagery that charms the senses, only to slip—seamlessly, chillingly—into dread. The transition from whimsy to unease is handled with such control that the reader drifts, lulled by the rhythm until it fractures. The voice remains steady, musical, even as the shadows rise. Absolutely beautifully written Maryellen!
❣❣ thank you so much Kaaos! ❣❣
Yes!
Brilliant!!!
Thank you!!!!!
This gave me chills, Maryellen!!
Thank you Olivia ❣
Such an amazing poem Maryellen 👏🤩✨🧡
Thank you Simone!
WOOOOOO 🙏🙏🙏🙌🙌🙌🙌👻👻👻👻👻👻
Thank you my friend 💗🙌💗
Beautiful Maryellen! You have a way with words that is really inspiring and a joy to read! All the best!
Thank you Nimita 💗
LEFT NO CRUMBS 👏🏻 loved this
Thank You!!! 🙌
No one can write like you… it's a symphony!
Oh Boo, you have made my day. Thank you!
wow!!!! soooo good!!
Thank you Camille! 💗🙌💗
omg I LOVE this!! I'm not usually one for poetry but this was so fun while also being deep and meaningful. Loved the cadence of the words.
Thank you so much Stacy, the original piece is much longer. It was a fun write.
So whimsically brilliant, I love it !
Thank you so much Sarah, I appreciate it. I enjoyed writing this one.
Thank you for the opportunity to share something, Evelyn!
Writing means the opportunity to explore things I'm curious about or that might scare or puzzle me. Or things that fascinate me. I get to imagine what something might look like in the world like in this excerpt from a story about prison farms in Mississippi at the turn of the 20th century (241 words):
"The families of the old men would gather at the prison’s Front Camp to see whether their people would be let go. If those who might object to their release had long ago made the journey to the churchyard, and words and earth had been poured over them, then the men’s families were permitted to carry them home. For as the dead rested, the young men had grown old, and their hearts had cooled and most of the fiery passions drained from them as the years passed. Their sons became men and their daughters women without them; their mothers and fathers died and were buried; and the men they once were—armed with pistols and knives and hearts set ablaze—died and were buried beneath the weight of years, purging them of their most volatile passions, leaving only a hint of the men they once were and the aching desire for home.
So the ancient men of Parchman sat with the king of the known world, but the governor had already read their files and decided their fates. The face-to-face was merely an opportunity to confirm his decisions. Each interview eventually ended with the governor saying, “Why don’t you let your people carry you home?” In response, some men wept. Some uttered a hosanna of thanks. Most, recognizing the ritualistic nature of the proceedings, simply said, 'I believe I will, sir. I believe I will let my people carry me home.'”
I have read an excerpt from Stan’s before; very engaging while laced with suspense and intrigue. I hope others see his dynamic talent. Good luck!
Not sure exactly what happened here ... but this is rich and real, informative and strongly sobersadbeautiful. Smallishly Epic!
Thank you!
I have read an excerpt from Stan’s before; very engaging while laced with suspense and intrigue. I hope others see his dynamic talent. Good luck!
Thank you, Cheryl!
Your comment repeated a bunch of times somehow.
Fabulous, gripping!
Thank you!
I have read an excerpt from Stan’s before; very engaging while laced with suspense and intrigue. I hope others see his dynamic talent. Good luck!
I have read an excerpt from Stan’s before; very engaging while laced with suspense and intrigue. I hope others see his dynamic talent. Good luck!
I have read an excerpt from Stan’s before; very engaging while laced with suspense and intrigue. I hope others see his dynamic talent. Good luck!
Hi! Writing is a way for me to connect with others and feel less alone. It’s how I breathe underwater. 💗 This is a poem I wrote that still makes me cry when I read it!
“Shatter”
You were never
meant
to be unbroken
but don’t mistake
broken
for incomplete
let yourself
shatter
into the night
Like so many
fireflies
blinking
their scattered light
And when
the pieces
go missing
when you
forget
how to belong
go on a gathering
mission
some starless eve’
with an open
mason jar,
call yourself home
Arrange
your life
like a mosaic
leave nothing out
I cried reading this aloud to myself 💜
It’s one that definitely felt like it came through me instead of from me. I’m glad it resonated. 💗
I loved the last 'line': Arrange/ your life/ like a mosaic/ leave nothing out - stunning!
Thank you so much! 😊🦋
To me, writing means two things: seeing myself and helping others feel seen. It’s making a little bit of sense out of this wild world and connecting with others so they don’t feel alone in all of it.
Here’s an excerpt from a poem included in a recent post I wrote in response to a US politician saying “autism destroys families.” -
What Autism Destroys
Autism destroys the idea that only certain kinds of lives are valuable.
Autism destroys the misperception that only one kind of life is worth fighting for.
Autism destroys the lie that human differences are something to eradicate, fix, and erase.
Autism destroys the notion that life ends where diagnoses begin.
Autism destroys the golden pedestal upon which efficiency and productivity reside.
Autism destroys the myth that conventionality and typicality are the ultimate values to strive for.
Autism destroys the boxes that attempt to confine and restrict creativity, love, and inclusion.
So, Mr. Politician, we’ve clarified what autism destroys.
Now, I have one question for you:
Don’t we all sometimes reach out to God,
or the universe,
or literally anything at all -
and write a message,
or curl a note into a bottle,
and hurl it into the tumultuous sea,
and hope to find something bigger,
something better, than all of this?
Don’t we all hope we can give what we have
and get love
acceptance
inclusion
and
respect
in return?
Don’t we all just walk through the world
and do the best we can -
And hope it’s enough?
I bet, Mr. Politician, once in a while
you even feel like this, too.
Someone unlike you is not a problem
to be solved.
There are problems aplenty for you to solve, yes -
but who my son is,
now, Mr. Politician, that’s not one over which to stress.
Dare I say, the problem to be destroyed
is the hate
inside you.
Inspiring! We should respond to politicians with poetry more often!
Thanks so much, Ansuya! I agree 😍
Nikki Finney’s collection Head Off and Split is a really good model for poems / commentary on politics! Love the “Mr. Politician” turn you make here.
Thank you, Kristen!
Writing is a way for me to metabolize pain and notice beauty. It also enables me to share what comfort and hope I receive with others; as stroke survivor Kathryn Wolf said, my nightmare might be someone else’s survival guide.
Sonnet from the Shadowlands
The sun declines in western sky. Withdrawn
Are clarity of light and hue; brought on,
Long shadows, foggy veils, the sacred hush
Of darkling valley, far from pastures lush.
The golden hour rays play hide and seek,
Illuminate her face with glorious peek
Of unveiled radiance. Then it flies away;
The light of smiling eyes fades, vesperal gray.
Sundowning steals her stories; details dim,
Degrade and recombine in moment’s whim.
The twilight of unknowing steals the one
Who knew me knit together, blood and bone.
In Shadowlands, I clasp my hands round hers,
Here, side by side, as gathering dusk sight blurs.
I love the pictures that I got while reading this, magnificent
Thank you for the encouragement and for reading. 💙
Loved this.
Thank you so much. 💙
Good luck to all the entrants!
I write because the words on the page reveal what I cannot express aloud. For me, writing feels like reconnecting with an old friend, getting to know a new one, enjoying the comfort of a best friend, or simply savouring time alone.
Excerpt:
Poppy stood on the sidewalk, holding a cardboard box in one arm and Hank’s leash in the other. The rescue pup watched her every move, his eyes full of trust she wasn’t sure she deserved.
"Just you and me now, boy," Poppy said.
She set the box down, careful not to break the crystal glasses from her grandmother’s antique hutch and slid the key into the lock.
"Ready for our new home, Hank?"
Together, they stepped inside the five-hundred-square-foot space of possibility and peeling laminate for which she had paid first and last month's rent.
“Home sweet home?” she said.
Poppy let go of the leash, and Hank bolted and wasted no time exploring the new space. His tail wagged with excitement as he sniffed every corner like he’d found buried treasure.
Poppy dropped to her knees and opened the box. A folded quilt sat on top, worn soft by time. She pressed it to her face. It still smelled like sun-dried cotton and lavender—the farm, her grandmother.
She blinked hard. “Okay. No crying on day one.”
She surveyed the apartment, which had cracked paint, a crooked light fixture, and one window facing a brick wall. It was a far cry from the rolling fields and screened porch of the only home where she spent every summer.
But it was hers.
Kind of.
The lease was in her name. The debt was hers, too. And so was the silence.
“Look at this flooring. It’s a metaphor for my old and new life.” Poppy said.
I relate to your need to write because spoken words are inadequate (and hard) to get just right when trying to express everything within. :)
Absolutely! Then you get emotions involved and then I can’t say a word. I’d rather handover a piece of paper that says it all! 😀
awww, so sweet and sad! A rescue dogs make everything better.
Thank you Stacy! Much appreciated! You are correct. For me, my two rescues (and those that came before them) make everything better.
This is an incredible opportunity for so many writers, so I'm delighted to be a part of this.
I write because it’s where I get to be too much, maximalist, colourful, feral, alive in all my excess. It’s where the expletives of my body become expletives of voice, delicately thumbing through the pages between implicit and explicit. Writing is where I exist as holy and becoming, and the act of becoming is where I meet myself: making, forming, conjuring sound into glorious neon-spell across the page.
Here is an excerpt from the poem which gives its name to my latest collection of poetry, Salt-Rimmed Breath on Jazz-Thigh Gospel.
salt-rimmed breath on jazz-thigh gospel; split
(blow // heat // crack // hush // again)
thighs unstuck as spilled gin in the backseat jigger / bite me before the sun makes marmalade of flesh / hiss through the zippers / gasps into elbow crook of the boy who said maybe once in 2011 / he’s here / you’re here / everyone’s slick / halfway out of their costume / it’s not a party it’s a meltdown with beatmatching / love me til the beat — delicate fingerings blown across sheer splinters
//
collarbones catch it first—specks of you in shards of sunlight rich & citrus oil / your mouth opens / not not to speak / just to steam out a vowel / no name / no need / just mmmm and salt behind teeth —
licked sweat from the lip-lusted dancepop hipthrust blowmachine deep of neon-drenched starry night / stranger says do you believe this and you say not tonight / laughter pulsing with bottle-fizz stretching / & snap of thighs against plastic / pop pop pop / no percussion, just consent
tequila pours down yr spine / catches it with tongues / you forget who, twisted / they remember, slurping / they leave a mark shaped like August and cusping tickles of fine hairs as velcro for salt on the back of wrists & lost wedges of time, well, wasted
//
touch me only where the air still moves / juddering where the fan halt-stutters its slow infinite striptease / where boots squeak praise be against the kitchen lino, where the ocean meets the threshold / there is a gospel in the fold of me if you listen closely enough / if you press in / if you breathe through me — yes, you mean it
You might like William Burroughs, if you’re not familiar yet! You may be, though - the eldest of the Beats.
I am very well acquainted with William Burroughs, the beats have always been a big inspiration in my writing! I'm honoured that my poem made you think to suggest him though. I may be well overdue a re-read actually. 💜
Love seeing your voice!
Thank you so much!
Thank you so much for offering this opportunity, Evelyn. 🙏🏻 Writing has always been my connection to the world. As a kid, I struggled to express myself—and honestly, I still often do as an adult—but writing is the medium where I’ve always felt completely free and most like myself. Writing feels like home.
Here’s a 249-word sci-fi/romance short story I wrote that's one of my favorite pieces:
“What Is Love?” by L.E. McQuinn
The sky is turning shades of pink and orange, causing a decrease in Nina’s blood pressure. Watching the sunset, especially on the beach like this, always settles her heartbeat into a steady pace. Her face and shoulders soften.
She’s said she “loves” sunsets. They’ve become something I look forward to, though I’m not sure that means the same thing.
“What does it feel like?” I ask. “To ‘love’ something.”
Her brow gently furrows, a soft breeze blowing through her hair. “Being alive is taxing, and love makes it feel a little less so. For a while, anyway.”
“So, love is the absence of life’s burdens?”
“It’s the thing that makes them bearable.” Nina turns to me. “And makes living about more than just survival.”
I was gifted to her a year ago. Usually, she can barely look at me. The most she’ll give is a passing glance. But for the first time, she looks deeper.
My synthetic heart seems to beat a little harder as she roams the face of a man made for her—one she won’t have to grieve. I’m designed to protect her. Comfort her. Give her companionship. Yet, I seem to be failing at all but the first.
Tears pool in her eyes. I reach out, but she stands. My failure cuts. Nina walks to the shoreline and wades into the water, stopping knee-deep. She tilts her face to the sky as if soaking in its warmth.
I watch her the way she watches the sunset.
Love love that last line so much!! 🥹
Thank you, Arielle! 🥹🖤
This is such a beautifully written piece. The imagery is vivid, the emotions feel real, and the quiet connection between Nina and the POV is both touching and bittersweet. That last line is really powerful—it lingers!
Thank you, Jessica! I appreciate this so much 🥺🖤
The emotion in this piece absolutely floors me. Your microfics are always so nuanced and have such a way of capturing us quickly and wanting to keep us in that world. This is one of my favourites ❤️
Thank you so, so much, Sarah 🥺🖤
ohhhh intriguing!
Thank you, Stacy! 🖤
Thank you for doing this; it's an amazing opportunity for the community! 🖤🌙
Writing is how I digest and interpret the world around me; it lets me explain, rationalize, and/or process the unexplainable.
My entry is a blurb from chapter one of my series, "Olivia" :
Recency bias aside, I think that one of the worst things that has happened to this generation is awareness culture—calm down. Hear me out.
The thing about surveillance, in any form, is that it often devolves from being productive… to the opposite. For example: we stop protecting women and start teaching men how to hide, how to act, where to go, what to say, what not to do on a first date—you get the point. Awareness isn’t protection anymore. It’s curriculum. And, to the shock of absolutely everyone, men learn fast—when they want something.
They read the posts. They watch the TikToks. They study the warning signs. You post a list of red flags, they write a script to avoid them. You explain what abuse looks like, they rebrand. I’d laugh if it weren’t so depressingly effective.
Think it isn’t? Look at all of the men who have made being a “feminist” their entire brand—aka “not like other guys”, aka worse than other guys. They built their entire platform on the mistreatment of women. If the mistreatment of women ends, their whole plan goes the way of the dodo bird. The math is mathing now, isn’t it? They’re quite literally betting their paycheck on it.
Writing is the breath beneath my thoughts, the thread that stitches dreams to memory. It carries the ache and awe of being alive and turns silence into song. Each word brings me closer to the truth I didn’t know I was holding.
I wipe the steam from the mirror and look myself in the eyes. Maybe if I stop believing, stop questioning. Maybe the disbelief will make it all stop. Then I see her, the little girl I used to be. She dances through a grassy meadow, her feet barely touching the ground. Sparkles of light pour from her essence like rain, nourishing the earth. Wildflowers bloom in full color. Butterflies, birds, bees, and dragonflies join her in a celebration of life everlasting.
I close my eyes and absorb the joy. The laughter. The carefree essence of this part of me - my fountain of youth.
Time, as we know it, has shown that all the forces that "be" cannot unravel the mystery. If we knew all the answers, we would never move forward in this world that often feels disjointed and in disarray. Too much for some to bear. Too burdensome for them to stay.
I often feel like I am living in a dream. And the best part of the dream just walked through the bathroom door, rubbing her eyes and yawning.
“Good morning, Miss Tallulah Beth.”
“Good morning, Mama,” she says, wrapping her arms around my waist. “Think Donny could make me some of his peachy French toast?”
I kiss the top of her head and hold her close. “If he won’t, I will.”
I wouldn’t change this. Not at all.
"Writing is the breath beneath my thoughts, the thread that stitches dreams to memory. It carries the ache and awe of being alive and turns silence into song. Each word brings me closer to the truth I didn’t know I was holding."
Gorgeous.
agree!!!
Thank you so much.
So proud of you for taking this step, Chera! And such an excellent excerpt to share!
Writing isn't something that I do, it's a part of who I am. Words are the very air I breathe and for me, to write is to be. I couldn't imagine my life without it.
For my submission, I am including a sample from chapter 15 of my upcoming book, Jorden Castillo and the Age of Monsters: The Serpent's Rise.
Despite her talons, Mamá Valentina wasn’t a bad driver, though she did jerk the wheel now and then. When they arrived back at The Den, just the two of them, she cut the engine, but didn’t unbuckle her seatbelt, even as Jorden unclasped his own.
“Remember what you promised me, sobrino?” Though her voice was quiet, Jorden never had an issue hearing her. “You may wield great power, but you are not invincible.”
“I know that,” he murmured, dropping his hand from where it was perched on the handle of the door.
“Then know this too, braggards and heroes are not long for the world,” she let out a slow breath, her shoulders rounding in resignation. “I wanted to keep you, but you are not mine to keep, and now I am giving up the last shred of hope that I have for you. Pero por favor, do not forget your people, or your mythos. No matter where you go after tomorrow, or how those humans try to mold you, remember where you come from. Y no me olvides.” ‘Do not forget me.’
“Nunca,” he shook his head. ‘Never.’
And suddenly, the many divisions between them didn’t seem so important anymore. She reached out, pulling him into a hug, and he returned it, squeezing her tight.
“Ay,” she winced, pulling back with a laugh that was half-choked from emotion. “You are very strong.”
“Sorry,” he grimaced, but she shook her head.
“Do not apologize. You will need it for what is to come.”
Wow, what an opening line?! I love this!!!
Thank you! She’s on the monster side of the human/monster divide!
This sounds amazing. Are you going Indie to publish? Or traditional?
I’m querying for trad publishing now with limited degrees of success, but I only need one yes, you know?
Well, you will find the yes you need I'm sure. This sounds like a quality story.
Thank you for your incredibly kind words 💛 if I can’t land an agent by the end of summer, I’m planning to go indie with it!
Writing is therapy. Until I started my writing journey, I kept my feelings bottled up. But when the words flowed, so did joy.
Clowns
On the way to the carnival, my brother and I tell each other what foods we plan to devour. Our mother winces when we mention the three-foot cotton candy stick and deep fried twinkies.
We ask our father how many tickets he plans to buy. We think one hundred should last a few hours. We tell our mother we’re old enough to go on the Ferris wheel by ourselves.
For the first time in a long time, we feel like we belong. We’re just another family. Laughing. Eating. Living our lives.
Then an hour into our outing, a small person dressed as a scary clown follows us. He calls us chinks, squinting his eyes, mocking the accents he thinks we have.
“Chop suey, come over here,” he yells at us.
“Why is he saying that?” my brother asks.
“He’s trying to be funny,” says my mother.
“He’s not,” I declare. I lunge at him, but my mother holds me back.
The clown takes a martial arts stance. “Come on Jap, I know karate.”
My mother tries to steer us away. My father swallows hard. But none of the other people notice what’s going on. It’s just background noise, like birds chirping.
“We’re going home now,” my mother whispers.
“I don’t want to go yet,” my brother screams.
We tiptoe to the exit. We’re taught early on not to fight back. Be the model minority. Financial success will be the best revenge. Someday, the clowns will work for us.
END
What a vivid, well written scene — and so deeply disturbing for that innocent family.
Writing gave my life a new meaning. My writing journey began as a wonderful surprise during the pandemic. It has unlocked an exciting world of vivid imaginary scenes swirling in my mind, ready to be brought to life on the page.
Below is an excerpt from my WIP titled Unbreakable:
GRIEF HAS NO ENDING. So does pain. I realized that when we lose someone, they not only leave us grieving and in pain, but they also leave a hole in our hearts—they take a piece of us.
The feeling is intensified in a mother's heart. Despite all the comfort Art, Avery, and our parents consistently shower me with, the hole can never be filled. It's like an invisible wound that is rubbed and salted every time the memory of my pregnancy is recalled.
My writing journey started the same way, a wonderful surprise :)