Everything, Poetry, Theatre, Writing

It Does Not Rise the Same

Flying faster and harder than had been known for her species before, the bird pushes through the sky.

She dodges buildings and trees and airplanes as they seem to leap into her path.

Still faster and faster she flies.

Into the darkness.

She knows that she can fly harder, so she does. And she’s carrying extra burdens, extra weight to carry with her. Sticks for her nest, food for later.

Still she flies. Pushing through the sky.

She knows that if she burns herself out, it’s fine.

She’s a Phoenix. She will always rise from her ashes.

So she continues to fly and fly and fly.

But something changes.

She loses her grip on the burdens. Sticks start to slip from her grasp.

A predator swoops in, steals her food, and is gone before she’s registered what’s happened.

She’s left with nothing but herself.

Still she pushes on.

Through the sky.

Faster.

You see, she’s set herself up to compete with birds of other species. Smaller ones, faster ones. Ones who can travel at that rate.

A rate at which she was not meant to travel.

The birds of other species love the Phoenix, but they don’t understand her need to keep up with them.

For she is a fine bird. But the Phoenix does not see it so.

So she competes.

Faster.

And faster.

Until it’s too much.

She starts to burn, but she doesn’t fear. She knows she will rise again from her ashes.

Like always.

So she embraces the warmth.

Until it’s gone.

Everything’s gone.

It’s just her mind.

Just her.

Then, nothing.

Puzzled, the other birds gather ’round the ashes, waiting.

Although a different kind of bird, she was unique.

Setting her standards high and her expectations higher proved to be her downfall.

Tentatively, the other birds approach the ashes.

There, they spot it. The tiniest baby bird, unlike that of a Phoenix.

It’s still the Phoenix, but the others don’t know it just yet.

She’s taken on a new form.

She’s smaller and lighter, but she cannot carry the loads of her past self.

She must only carry herself.

Whether she will grow into a better bird is yet to be seen.

But, she must start from scratch.

As herself.

And though she does not yet realize it, she has a whole group of other birds who will show her the way.

As she rises again, yet not the same.


This is a first draft.

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Everything, Poetry, Writing

The Open Mic

Ten feet away, an idol stands at a microphone in front of her.

The idol announces that her turn is up in 3, and she isn’t sure

whether she’s ready.

She’s never been one to be so real

in front of strangers, and she doesn’t want to steal

the spotlight from people

whose stories matter more than hers.

Not that she thinks she’s any good.

It’s the opposite. She supposes she could

decide to leave or withdraw, but she sticks it out.

She practically blacks out during the next two sets,

but she tries to focus.

The man before her is powerful

with a message that empowers.

Will her message empower?

No.

But it’s her turn.

The idol returns and announces that she’s up.

Is that really her name? It sounds unnatural, and she wants to throw up.

But she stands up

and faces the open mic.

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I did my very first open mic the other night. I read Stubborn and Enough. I think it went well, but it was terrifying. Thanks to everyone who supported me that night, and special thanks to Kristine for taking me.

A bunny bag sits on a shelf. Others sit below it.
Everything, Libraries, Poetry, Writing

A Journey to Tiny Hands

A lone bag slouches on a shelf.A bunny bag sits on a shelf. Others sit below it.

Filled with books, all ready for tiny hands.

It sits.

And sits.

And waits.

A lone being approaches the bag, smiling.

It lifts the bag and brings it to a cart.

It’s filled with other, bigger bags.

A day passes.

The bags wait.

The being returns and moves the cart to a vehicle

Where it loads the bags and cart.

The vehicle moves for what seems like ages.

It stops.

The being is back, and it lifts the bag and carries it into a house.

After some time, the tiny hands appear.

Two, four, six, eight, ten, twelve, too many to count.

They empty the bag.

Waiting to be refilled, it sits on the floor, satisfied that it has brought the books to the tiny hands.

A month passes.

The being returns.

The bag is refilled,

Reset in the vehicle,

Transported home,

Cleaned, and set on the shelf

Where it will wait for the next being who will transport it to new sets of tiny hands.

Everything, Poetry, Writing

Stubborn

via Daily Prompt: Stubborn

Stubborn. Not moving. Won’t budge.

Not open.

Closed minded.

Closed.

Open up.

To a viewpoint.

An idea.

Latching onto an idea.

Now stubborn with conviction.

Won’t give up a viewpoint.

Standing your ground.

Holding on.

Stubborn.

Being forced to let go.

Tightening grip.

Can’t let go.

Can’t give in.

Must stand ground.

Must stay stubborn.

Tug of war.

Ideas flying.

Whips made out of words.

Stubborn.