Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Sins Of The Father

Once upon a time, many moons ago, when the sun shone new in the freshly made sky, God had a daughter.

She was the first child. Long before Adam and Eve, or Jesus Christ, and long before all of you, there was the first and most treasured daughter, Invierno.

You will not find her name in any books, or on the tongues of disciples and storytellers, because God kept her a secret, but like the rain must fall and the days must pass, all secrets must be revealed eventually.

God gazed at the girl he had created, and he offered her the world that he had built. She was a humble girl, with a kind and loving heart, and she accepted on one condition. She asked her father to join her on the Earth.

God agreed, and together, they lived a happy life in the Earth. For many years, Invierno and her father were joyful and satisfied. Day to day, they enjoyed the beautiful Earth that God had created. Invierno studied her father, and emulated him, looking up to him as a good daughter should, and at first, God found himself flattered.

As time went by, Invierno’s powers grew. She began to surpass her father. She not only maintained the Earth, but she improved it, making it even more beautiful. God grew jealous of his daughter, enraged that the child he had created could grow into something greater than himself.

Jealousy is a sickness, and God was consumed by it. With every day and every hour, his envy enveloped him further, until he could not look at his child without toppling to the tyranny of rage.

Late one night, as the Earth and all her creatures slept, along with Invierno, God crept to her bedside, with a knife clutched in his jaundiced hands. The blade shone bright in the moonlight as he raised it above her sleeping body.

It was then that he realised her true power. As he plunged the knife towards her chest, vines whipped in front of her and batted against his hands, sending the knife flying away from her. Flowers began to bloom across her skin, as he backed away in horror. The Earth that he had built had grown to love the child and turned against it’s maker.

It was natural. God had made the Earth, but sweet Invierno had been the first to understand it. The Earth began to grow, fierce and defiant, as God retreated in terror. Weeds whipped around his legs and petals protruded from the ground as he ran from what he had given life to. Thunder rang out across the sky as the wind marched against him, sending him flying.

Afraid for his life, and more importantly, afraid for his position of dominance, God escaped his former domain, running and running until it was nothing but a dim light in the distance.

He pondered for years about what had happened, unable to comprehend how his daughter had bested him, even while sleeping. He began building another Earth, the one you know now, where you have spent your whole life, watched by a man who fears your power.

While he watches over you, he watches for signs of your greatness and he will lean forward, with his envious little fingers to place obstacles in your way, but, my friends, there’s somebody that will celebrate you and all that you can accomplish.

She lived, my friends. Our treasured Goddess Invierno lives, and she has transformed the erstwhile Earth into a beautiful paradise for all that want to fulfil their potential.

Will you go to her?

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Are You Lonesome Tonight?

I tie my hair up high for God,
red lips and no blusher,
long lacy skirt, lacy veil across my sinful shoulders as I creep into his arms,
just the way he likes me,
crying in the chapel,
chapping on a priest’s peaceful door to ask if he can help me find forgiveness,
but he never seems to answer.

I am a bride of the Lord,
ever loving but so unfaithful,
the weak rib of an old man who never gave up but always gives in,
because I look so beautiful when I cry,
long lashes with lakes of mascara,
constantly crying in his tired arms when the day ends and I’ve done it again.

He brings me tissues,
to the empty, echoing chapel,
a glass of wine and his son’s skin to keep me warm and fed,
though I treat him like a fool,
never wearing his ring on my finger or around my neck,
finding such sweetness in his suspicions.

When I am gone,
gallivanting and disappointing him,
I can hear his mourning weeping from miles away.
There he is, as I am, when I return in disgrace,
crying in the chapel,
waiting for me to want to be true,
knowing I never could,
but washing his face with blessed water and being by the door when I return,
because I am a sick kind of addictive,
and the most powerful are always the first to be corrupted.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

The Well Meaning Angel

I am a weary traveller,
washing my hands of myself as I fall down at his door,
carrying every wound that I once hoped someone else would hold,
begging for the breakthrough of flaming valleys.

I am too weak to tell him that I do not want to be fixed when he finds me,
he doesn’t try to tell me that I am safe from my own soul and all the terrible, dreadful things it could do,
because he is a servant of my best friend’s father,
and he can never tell a lie.

I want it, but I cannot accept it.
He takes my tears and let’s them trickle back into my eyes,
but they never stay in place.
I take to the seas after sundown,
never going down with the ship,
because he has the audacity to save me, each time I try to drown.

A young man on the hill,
holding the child of a tree in his humble hand.
He guides me back to shore,
pulling me from the wreckage, when he must,
much too good to me,
and never asking anything in return.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Cool, Calming Silence

God,
it’s your girl again,
and she’s made a mess,
but isn’t life just a sequence of mess and the stress of cleaning up?
I’m just asking you not to give up on me yet.

One day,
I’ll pray, just to say hello,
and there will be no crisis and no long wish lists,
just a cool, calming silence…
Just not today,
because I’m back again,
back,
up to my old tricks,
back on my bullshit,
back on my knees with fluttering eyelashes and that baby voice I use,
when I want to give a man the blues…

You know I’d normally never use it for you,
but a girl has to do what a girl has to do.
I spent my whole life doing what a girl has to do,
and the only reward was bitterness and trauma,
so,
just this once,
will you give me that cool, calming silence,
even if I haven’t earned it?

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Old Scratch and The Fatherless Fawn

Fatherless fawn,
meeting Old Scratch at dawn,
his mark etched down her back,
his voice, vibrating in the earth, disturbing and disrupting the plants and the worms.

She was a difficult child,
daughter of lies,
lost under the lights,
an angel that never had the chance to fall,
fated to stay, stuck on the ground where she was born.

She was watched, like the sweetheart of a soap opera.
Morning star pouring over all her labours and her dramas,
ever since birth,
when he gleefully watched the girl being torn from her unconscious mother,
he loved her like she was of his rib.

Can a beast find his way into the heart of a babe?
He has fallen to many places,
but longs to land in her good graces,
not as a lover,
but a mentor,
for he spies the seeds of darkness in her soul.

Once upon a time,
the world saw her as pure,
but he knew he could count on life to let her lose her sparkle,
so he waited,
until she found prayer pretentious,
and would welcome his winged shadow on her chamber wall.