All posts by ninathescribe

I like writing fiction stories, poetry, and I'm working on a book that I hope to finish soon. I am a C.N.A. in geriatric nursing. I write fiction, typically with a paranormal twist to it. I love to read, esp paranormal, dark urban fiction, with a touch of romance. I am a fan of Steampunk.

So many ponds

I find myself in so many ponds, wandering around, dipping my toes into this and that. It seems my tastes in all avenues are changing. I’m getting darker. Not negative mind you, but, less light and fluffy. I feel rage beneath my demeanor. Help me, my Angels.

calmwater

The Year of 2013

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So many things have changed over the year of 2013. I don’t really know what’s to come for 2014. I know what was expected for this past year, and some of it happened. Some, not. I am on a roller coaster. I think I was supposed to have gotten off of it, a while ago. You see, I didn’t really pay for a long-term ticket. I’m still trying to write, I’m still trying to help those in my life, I’m still moving. I’m unemployed. I’m feeling loss, and excitement for what’s to come, but fear too.

I will keep writing. I took this photo of the buttercups above. The photo was taken in my backyard, I can say that now, at the true end of autumn. These flowers I didn’t pick. I recorded their sharp beauty before the temperatures dropped. They’re dead now, been dead. But I still captured them by my camera. I remembered Nature, when no one else knew She was alive in my backyard.

I’ll keep going forward, until someone tells me I can stop.

 

song right now: Florence and the Machine Over the Love

What am I feeling?

It’s not every day we try to analyze our thoughts and feelings. Typically on a good day, it doesn’t come up. We just are what we, think what we think, and feel as appropriate. But, that’s not working for me. Not anymore. Now is the time in my existence when there is more needed from me than I’ve ever been prepared to give.

I don’t think I have the right tools, actually. I don’t think I’m strong enough to save your life. I want to believe I am. I’ve thought for the longest time that I am. But, this test that I’m in, where I’m supposed to live my life and help you through yours, I’m failing. Miserably. I don’t even know if you’ll wake up tomorrow. How do help you?

I’m not judging you. I don’t do that anymore. Because, apparently, it’s never helped. This isn’t going as planned.

Thunder

Rolling thunder rumbles across the sky, like the pounding hooves of Death’s horses, as they herald the dawn. Wind whistles through the cracks of old houses, cold and dark. The screams of the wind, sound like souls crying for bodies. It’s just an autumn thunderstorm, as rain cleanses the world from Summer’s burn. It’s urged out by Autumn’s coloring leaves, as they decorate the ground. Some leaves crackle, as they hold fast their grasps of the branches of trees.
I could sleep, but the sky is cracking, ripping open, and the heavens let free their torrents of rain. Autumn knows she will pass soon too, straight into the cold embrace of Winter.

Plane Jane and the Vaignettes

There is a tale of a woman made of fire
Her eyes a ruby red and her heart bright like the sun
So the story goes, she was in love with the Man of the Moon
Dark madness seeps from his skin

That didn’t bother Jane, she had her own share of madness
It seemed as though Lune had more troubles than he could count
Either way, the two danced in a ballroom together,
Their steps always in time with one another

The decline of their time together was subtle at first
He didn’t know he had fallen out of love with her
For the music had slowed
She didn’t know he had fallen at all

Graceful leaves fall to the ground in their ballroom
A leaf touches Jane, she clutches it in her fist and it burns
To the ground she glides with the deadened leaves
She leaves no mark on the world

He passes away from her
His love ill and decrepit now
Lune rushes away quick passed Jane’s rage
It blossoms like her fire

Creative Collisions

The Class of Einen Monks, especially trained individuals for combat to protect their fragile Gods, stand at the ready in your mind.

You may never know the truth behind your life. Fight! Fight! Gotta remember the end. Burial relief. Let the man find you. Come back fighting. Start with the beginning.

I don’t want to indulge myself. For my listening pleasure. Reaching up from the depths. Cold, dripping ice falls from my skin, I’m needing warmth, before my flesh is scorched.

Touch my listening pleasure points, crank up that rhythm. I hear your pain. I can feel it.  But, you hold back, like you’re strapped to my electric chair.

There are only a few ways to get through Tragedy. You just have to know how to squeeze out of tight spaces.

I don’t allow myself to be creative much. I wonder why that it is. Am I afraid of failure or success?

… Ribbits was determined to complete his inspection of the first floor of the Samson Building in downtown New Chicago before the night was over. He had begun the after-hours cleaning of the 15 floor glass building that illuminated the night sky, as soon as the humans had vacated it. He was almost finished when his internal alarm blared, signifying his day was over.  It was sharp to his mechanical ears, reminding him to return home to his owner, R. Foust Cleaners. His maker, Evan T. Inc., had outfitted all of the Domestic line with special detection systems in cases of fire, burglaries and even when it was time to vacate a job site.

Ribbits was very good at his job, but sometimes he wondered what it would be like to be in a different type of work. Once back at his owners, stepped into the small utility room that his wife called home, plugged himself into the electrical socket by his wife, and tapped the button at the middle of his chest console that read Charge. Tomorrow was his purchaseday, and he tried to imagine what his wife would get him. He was excited. He would be 5 years post-Production. It seemed like yesterday he had come off of the production line and had been Purchased by R. Foust Cleaners.

Reaching over to his sleeping wife, who was 2 years his senior, he smiled and held her robotic arm. The soothing music that flowed from her communications speaker made their fine storage room cozy. Closing down his central calculations center, or his CCC, he felt his body start to hum, as he began to charge for the night.

What I see around me

What I see around me – young and old, a mish-mash of people. That’s what is so funny about common meeting places, like a doctor’s office, or the mall, even the grocers. Each person is coming from their homes, their jobs, their cars, pouring into this building, where I sit. Where they come from doesn’t really matter. Some seem to not want to leave, as they linger in conversation with a clerk or a secretary; some can’t stand the time they burn here.

What people bring with them, their invisible baggage, fuels the Observer’s appetite. Something to watch, a peep-show into another person’s life. Do people see what I do? Are you colored with the crayons that I’ve picked for you? People have secrets. At times, they want to share them. Society has grown more closed. Each of us wants to maintain our anonymity. We sport invisible walls so that in our moments of waiting we will be left alone. Some of us appear to have castles with motes, with shark infested waters surrounding us. That heavy attitude that tells you, not to speak to us. Some of us may feel such a great need, a longing for someone to speak to us, as our loneliness overtakes us.

There is a shaky balancing act between knowing too much and not enough about someone. “…it’s none of your business, we shouldn’t listen as he yells at his wife.” or “I don’t think I ever knew that about my neighbor of 15 years.”

A doctors office is a perfect place to study strangers. You will never see these people again and if you do, you probably won’t remember them.