Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Two Angels Take A Romantic Trip To Hell

My best girl comes to call as the night falls,
like the shimmering stars across the blood moon,
never able to keep away,
because the Devil dared me to take her heart,
and so,
I reached in,
with manicured, meek little fingers and smiled as I felt her warmth.

Hell looked pretty on the postcards I sent to soul,
and as the moon went from blood to blue and back again,
I stayed by her side,
lost in an underground paradise,
where the weeks went by with a quickness that felt cruel.

Summer ended so soon,
chased away by bitter winter,
who had forgotten how to smile,
and decided that nobody else ought to either,
so there I was,
separated from the heaven of hell,
back in a boring, grayscale world,
when I could still taste technicolour on my tongue.

I could always remember.
I would wait by my window for the moon to make eyes at me,
dressed up all pretty in her favourite colour,
and the Devil would drop my darling at my door,
with a satisfied smile,
and the key to her heart.

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

His Love Scared Me To Death

He told me, a trembling wretch, to be unafraid,
and I was uncomfortable with the request,
despite his gaze, so gentle, giving me some comfort.
He told me that he had overcome the world and all its trouble,
and I couldn’t conceive it.
The smallest things were such a struggle, that the world’s truest troubles were too much to even see clearly.
Still, he insisted, his eyes bright and brimming with unlikely optimism,
his hands held mine and I could feel the harsh winds through the holes left by the life he had lived.

How could he ask me to be unafraid?
How could he ask that of me, with thorns across his forehead and a target on his back?
Couldn’t be see what I was afraid of?
Was persecution a foreign concept to the fool with thorns on his head?
How could he ask me to be reborn, when my soul still felt sullied, despite his sacrifice?
Despite my sacrifice and all the scars that had come with it?
He saw. He saw it all and he still asked.

I had tried to lead the life that impotent, angry men had demanded of me,
fighting back against my own biology and the strange, sweet chemistry that greeted me when she and I would lock eyes across the room…
I gave it all up.
I gazed at the ceiling,
praying to Jesus as a shadow I could not look in the face pawed at my lifeless body.
I would rejoice at balled fists meeting my unwilling flesh from one of them,
because it felt less repulsive than a tender, troubled kiss of another,
and why shouldn’t I be punished?
Wayward winter child with her pudding and her pie,
kissed a girl because she was cursed,
and now everyone is crying,
so why shouldn’t I suffer?
I just stared until the ceiling burst into flames,
the stars bursting into view,
because that is what cursed, unclean girls have to do.

He would be there,
the only man I could stand,
thorns adorning his dark, wavy tresses that were wild in the night’s wind.
He simply said, again, that I should be unafraid.
Speaking to a body that was vacant,
he repeated himself as the stars span around his head,
and I thought for a second that I might be dead
(I might have even wished it),
but I was alive,
sailing through the ceiling,
dressed in pretty clothes as the stars sighed in unison.

I was unafraid.

At last, I was unafraid.