some People ((the lucky
ones)) find it easy to
meet new people.
They enter a room glowing
with confidence and a smile
that never seems to falter.
Their aura draws all to Their side,
creating bonds which will last
until Their popularity dies.

I on the other hand
simply cannot
meet new people.
I halt before a closed door,
Their noises quieter
than the Dragon
I have become,
the breath puffing
from my nose as smoke.

strange how I would choose this metaphor
of Adira, a warrior unafraid to
conquer her foes,
when I cannot face mine.

Adira is who I strive to be,
the animal I know sits
beneath my thumping heart
and still can't reach. she
is the fire and ice within
my soul, igniting courage
to know what I fear.

It takes our combined strength
to open the closed door
ahead of me before
I can panic.

Fireflies

It's funny, how the fireflies call to each other,
Flashing flickers of lights which dance
Through the sky as miniature stars.
They need not the words we humans
Find needed. If I were to invite
Your flame, would you fly to me? Or would I
Float among those twinkles of light,
Tangoing through the trees of twilight?
     I call. You answer.
No words are heard, just the harmonies
Of hearts ascending into heaven.

I still don't know how to pronounce vermouth??

I find, no matter how much work I have to do, I always have time to write creatively. Even now, when I'm in the process of three research papers and final projects, I create time to write. (Procrastination? Of course. But it's good procrastination. I'm still writing, I'm just not writing what I'm supposed to. See? Good procrastination. Not killing my brain cells.)

Anyway, I'm in the middle of writing a short story in a slightly different voice than I'm used to (seriously it's like killing me) and definitely from a different point of view. I figured, why not show you? So this is a small excerpt (seriously. a tiny one.) for you all to read. I hope you enjoy it:)

The old guy, a man named Joe who couldn’t have been any older than that ancient tabby cat you found, winked at me when I entered. We’d become good friends, Joe and I. I’m not saying we ever braided each other’s hair or gossiped about the new edition of vogue, but people grow closer after wiping down a bar covered in barf. After all, it’s not every day you can get up-close and personal with the contents of someone’s stomach. That adds another dimension of trust issues.

So, Joe saw me walk in, the same as I had for the past two months. Every Tuesday afternoon at two o’clock you’d trudge through the heavy door, splaying the bright light across the cement, make your way to the bar where no one sat (because honestly who gets drunk at two in the afternoon?), and demand a Manhattan—1 ½ part Jack Daniels, ½ part sweet vermouth, and a dash of bitters, served straight up with an extra cherry. And, predictably, I would come in at nine after getting a call from my buddy Joe to rescue you from yourself.

This time, the glass in front of you was short, fat, and mysteriously clear. Vodka? Not really your style.

“How has he been today, Joe?” My question seemed to amuse Joe, who chuckled at me.  Joe never missed an opportunity to laugh, and with good reason. His monster shoulders shook, his mouth fell open without care as his booming laughter filled the room. An involuntary smile crept over my face, Joe’s infectious nature overcoming any sense of gloom I’d been feeling. Joe had the effect on everyone—everyone, of course, except you.