Sinthra

 I don't remember exactly when our house became home for the first time. Somewhere between my parents divorcing when I was twelve, and almost running away at fourteen, we began to clean up the mess my parent's marriage left behind.(1)  This is not to say that we didn't love our father, my sister and I, but we'd grown to fear him and we weren't without our reasons. Actually, it was a sort of a relief when Dad moved out; dinner table discussions began to include us kids as well, and living with Mom meant there were less occasions to get yelled at over a broken glass or a drink spilled in the car. In fact, it wasn't even so bad that our house wa

 I don't remember exactly when our house became home for the first time. Somewhere between my parents divorcing when I was twelve, and almost running away at fourteen, we began to clean up the mess of my parent's marriage as a family(1).  This is not to say that we didn't love our father, my sister and I, but we'd come to fear him and we weren't without our reasons. Actually, it was a sort of a relief when Dad moved out; dinner table discussions began to include us as well and living with Mom meant there were less occasions to get yelled at over a broken glass or a drink spilled in the car. In fact, it wasn't even so bad that our house was cl

This was not always a happy place. The walls, once a sort of flamingo pink had transformed themselves into the exact powdery shade of Pepto Bismol, the cluttered desk, cluttered bookshelf, and cluttered closet left perpetually open the only relief. The ring of papers and clothes piled around my bed made a deadly moat, passable only by me and my mother's voice each morning at six.*  There were no open windows, spaces or doors, but it was mine and that made it sanctuary. From the height of this tower of mine, I could see past the poison brewing downstairs. Black and sticky like tar, it infested every corner and crevice, choking out even the mo

a. She writes her name in her books, hoping that the person who returns the lost one will be the start of an adventure. b. She likes to believe that Time is an errand boy, racing to catch up after every moment a heart skips a beat. c. She cannot live more than two hours from and ocean without shriveling up. d. She's been hurt enough to know a broken heart but not enough to stop giving it away. e. Her life's pursuit is to make her words make things that matter. f. She believes in nothing less than having great love.

 This was not always a happy place. It was not bright or beautiful. The walls, once a sort of flamingo pink transformed into the exact shade of Pepto Bysmol. The ring around my bed of papers and clothes that stretched to the door made a deadly moat, passable only by me and my mother's voice at six, an ungodly hour of the morning for anyone under the age of thirty. There were no open spaces, windows or doors, but it was mine and that made it sanctuary. From the height of my tower, I could see beyond the poison brewing downstairs. Black and sticky like tar, it infested every corner and crevice of the house, choking out even the most determine

Chapter Two As a child, Morgan had often been told to count her blessings. It was in the homilies at church, and in her mother's reproaches when she cried over some lost or broken thing. She had never liked hearing it; it always felt like people were just trying to make her forget what was wrong, make her feel guilty for not being happy all the time. But, sitting at the kitchen table early the next morning, she tried it again, just to see what would happen. There were no bars n their windows, for one thing, entrapping the two of them like prisoners. And everything in the kitchen worked. Well, she said worked, but she remembered there was a f

             It was July and a young woman sat in the dark of her room, rocking back and forth, the silence disturbed only by the crying of the figure in her arms. It's okay, she said over and over again, even though she knew it wasn't. It's okay. I've got you. The girl in her arms was cradling her face where it had started swelling. They'd have to put ice on that soon, the woman thought to herself, there was going to be a nasty bruise there in the morning.             After a while, the girl's sobs started to subside, her breathing evening out and her shaking limbs now only trembling slightly. It's okay, I've got you. I've got you. It'll a

I have not been to this place in a long time. It has been years, in fact. But the four walls of this room are still familiar to me, the view from the window obscured, a blessing I am secretly grateful for. I never really wanted to see the outside world from this room, my prison. It always hurt too much to have it thrown in my face, just how close my freedom was. I hated seeing that I was within shouting distance of the farthest sentry and beyond that... But that matters little now. Well, it does, I suppose, or else I wouldn't have come back. If it didn't matter, I wouldn't be brushing my fingers over the mahogany of the desk, a light film of

It is my greatest desire to be found, And not by just anyone, either. Someone with a story to tell And who cannot tell it without me. Someone who will lend me the strength to create their largest triumphs And depict their most heart-felt tragedies. No calculating mind of crunching numbers, No dry and heartless words of fact. A person who can move me to tell great tales. A being truly capable of bringing this leaden core to life. I pray, find me. Use me. Spill your words forth through my being. Give your greatest fantasies life from the fruit of my veins. Allow me to give shade and depth to the hearts of men As only I can do, O

 It was the sort of storm you only read about in old gothic horror novels. The weather forecast had predicted clear skies and a cool night breeze, but as storm clouds thundered in all campers and late-night picnicers were sent dashing for shelter from the rain that came crashing quite unexpectedly down. No one ever trusted a weather man in The Land of Angst again. Just for the record, “The Land of Angst” was not the nation’s real name. On all the maps, it was still called Terra Angela, after the national heroine, and all the female royalty who had been given her name for centuries . And all of them had been raised under the e