A Short Story

This is a piece a already had written:

It’s actually not that hard to kill your best friend. It’s just death. Just murder. I’m walking away and I’m not sorry. That part of me was one of the victims. It’s the lead up that’s hard, the moments before the killer takes over. It’s when you have to pretend to be anything other than what you are, a cold-blooded assassin, that can break you. Especially when you’re lying to the person who knows you best. How could he not have known?

I’m reliving the end in my head. People always say that the eyes of the newly dead are staring, piercing. As I stood above him, his eyes were still open, but they were blank and empty. There was no judgment or fear because he was so unprepared to go, so unsuspecting.

My blood pumped with adrenaline, excitement and sorrow, anger and fear. I knew the second he was gone. It left a sort of sick thrill in my veins that was accompanied by a terrible weight of guilt. When the last breath left his lungs, leaving a curl of gray in the air, I stood up, ready to walk away, but that lasting curl of air swirled in front of me. It seemed alive, so much more alive than the corpse in front of me.

Before that, I watched the soul leave his eyes, and it was my fault. Blood was painted down his front. It oozed from the wound, hitting the pavement with a sickening noise. It slid between my fingers when I helped him to the ground, taking his weight as his strength abandoned him. And it felt like a lifetime, like eternity, that journey to the ground. My first kill.

I stabbed him with a knife. It was as brutal as it sounds.

It just took a moment, just a second of metal through flesh, a quick twist of the wrist. The knife felt so good in my hand, so stealthy and invisible. I felt invincible, so powerful. It’s like being God. But there was a weight of guilt, a premature repentance.

“Sorry,” I whispered. I didn’t look in his eyes. I still don’t know if I meant it. I just moved close to him and did it, slid the knife beneath his coat, metal to cloth, not even slicing off a button. He didn’t even notice, didn’t see it coming.

We had just been walking. Night had set just enough to obscure the eyes of any witnesses. It lent a sort of eerie perfection to the scene. He didn’t know. I wished that I didn’t. I would have felt better if I could have shared his surprise, but this was purely premeditated.

I felt sick because I was excited. My palms itched with the desire to hold the knife in my hand, to move it in that practiced movement. But the other part of me was acting, pretending nothing was different about this walk, this conversation. And the assassin crouched, waiting to carry out her mission.

The idea was to write a backwards story. It's a little different than the usual.


The Human Business

We raise foundation. Naturally unnatural ties. Mother. Father.
We grow, roots. Heart beast and blood, vines. Love.
We bloom and we blossom.
We break. We rebuild.
We trust. Again. Sheltering leaves. Fear.
We move along.
Our roots fill the cracks in the concrete.
We are destroyed. Fire.
We stand up again. Singed.
And we go about the human business of making worlds. Again.
Like birds and nests we live. Fragile.
This is the human way.



There is a house, no tumbledown shack
that in the woods pours forth
with lights like golden fires
not burning but simmer softly
if soft can be untouchable
and illuminating memories
in every room
painful and unreachable
because they are dead
or at least quiet
unlike the city
with its fires
not lights that conserve
as is the style and same humanity
but energy burning
energy in thought
and thoughtless making
of painful memories
like flickering sparks produced
fly bravely in struggles
not so different from stars
but able to be forgotten
if left unembarrassed
and scarred
within the four golden lit walls
that were built both before
and after
but really light spills out
and leaves a vacuum
of inexpressible loss
here in this floor and roof contraption
of the past and unfolding regret
dark is created
by the enclosing structures
that shield away from dark
and both allow illumination
so it is lightening pain
or deafening darkness
let me have my shadows
why, oh why, is the sky so far away
oh, firefly city
sleep on in ignorance
to not feel the agony
that is now before me
in this cold seasonal slumbering death
not any more painful when someone knocks
as past is passed and cannot be foregone
only shut out by blindness
that is now destroyed
by a switch of mechanical invention
has become a psychological trigger
that in this skin I must face
until I can shift away in the forest
that hides also this house of recollections
and run from these golden fire squares
casting their light into the trees
only ghosts of memories
that I can handle
for I’ve already forgotten in that form
which I now maintain
under the star net sky


Pow, To The Moon

man in void
recognize the destination
now prepared
stoic face and steer forward
into blazing infinite ignition
the cabin is not a ship
but always takes stowaways
when they are painful
unwise move, my foe
even in space
this voyager is invincible
fire at whim
and a missed opportunity
leaves pain in my hull
and we are spiraling void
it doesn’t hurt yet
just a remembrance of forewarning
now prepared
man in void

Work in progress



ignite penultimate ramblings
this loquacious pen and feather
for endings are unbending
and rarely enjoyed

implode exaggerated meaning
that core and webby brain
for stars are often forgotten and rotten
and passed before they’re seen

An unfinished poem from the mind of a writer who is possibly rather wise. ;)


A Simple Love Connection

I thought with school coming up (or having already started for some of you), people would be in need of an easy read. I wrote this the other night. It needs editing and it's only part of a larger story, but I think it's cute.

Piper leaned back in her desk chair; one stiletto-booted foot perched on the edge of the vintage wood counter at Hamelin Books and the other designer boot crossed over the first. It was a Wicked Witch-like picture to be greeted with, the sight of only those two feet, but Piper really didn’t care. She loved her job, but she didn’t feel like a bookstore required such propriety. Cordelia, her boss, would not have agreed. But Cordelia wasn’t there.
The little bell above the door let Piper know that a customer had entered, but she didn’t look up from her book. At least, it was her intent to remain undistracted by the new arrival, until she heard footsteps approach the counter and then stop. She waited, refusing to look up for a few precious moments.
“That must be some book,” said a male voice. Piper’s insides curled at the sound which was Irish and smooth. She set aside her worn copy of Finnegans Wake to look at the newcomer. She wished she’d kept her eyes on the rather less attractive James Joyce because she wasn’t prepared for the guy that stood before her now. He wasn’t the usual sort---nerdy, arty, skinny, cute but not handsome. This guy was tall and lean but muscular. Her eyes lit on his light blonde hair that looked a lot like a lion’s mane, and then let her gaze travel down to his dancing green eyes.
“Can I help you find something?” She found her voice, and at the same time suppressed a self-satisfied smirk as the guy’s gaze turned appreciative.
“I was told that if I wanted to find Roethke I had to come here.” The guy grinned. “My name’s Ian, by the way.”
“You definitely came to the right place,” she said, ignoring his question. “We’re the only bookstore around that carries Roethke.”
“So you aren’t going to tell me your name?”
“Well, technically, you didn’t ask,” she said. “Roethke’s in the poetry section, up those stairs and to the—What are you doing?” he’d reached down to pluck an old name tag from the jar of pens on the counter.
“George,” he read. Then he met her eyes. “I’m guessing that’s not your name?”
“No,” she tried to sound cold, but she had a feeling he didn’t buy it. She sighed and gave in. “Strangers call me Melissa,” she began. “Family and acquaintances call me Mel. But my friends call me Piper.” He raised an eyebrow. “It’s my last name,” she explained.
“But I don’t want to be a stranger or an acquaintance or even a friend.” Her traitorous breath caught. “So I guess I’ll have to call you something else.” Now she raised an eyebrow. He stroked his chin in mock-thought. “Melissa…Izzy?” Warmth curled in her at the way he said the name. And he smirked because he could tell she liked it, but he didn’t say anything. He did, however, turn and walk to the stairs. Then he stopped.
“I’m not sure I can find it on my own, Iz.” She noticed he was trying to make a sad kind of face. It was actually pretty effective because she found herself rising and walking up the stairs with him.
She helped him find the Roethke book, standing on her toes to reach the top shelf. In a move as old as time, Ian stepped up behind her and grabbed it so that they were pressed close together in the isolating row of books. She turned, but he didn’t move. She could smell his scent, a combination of coffee and spice.
“What do you want that book for?” she said to break the thick silence. He stepped back.
“A class at the university,” he said. “But I’ve been meaning to read some of his poems for a while now.”
“You like poetry?” She couldn’t keep the surprise from her voice.
“Just because I’m a guy doesn’t mean I’m illiterate,” he said, pretending affront.
“In most cases it does,” she joked. Then she bit her lip which drew his heated gaze. She made a decision. “Follow me.”
She led him through the brightly lit rows of books into the back corner. Then she knelt down to a small section of shelf.
“This is where I keep the best books,” she admitted. Ian laughed.
“Hoarding them for yourself, Iz?”
“Something like that,” she laughed. “Actually, these are mine. I usually keep some of my favorite books around, just in case.” She half-smiled, wondering if he thought she was crazy. He was really thinking that she was fascinating and beautiful, but she couldn’t tell from his face.
She rose and handed him an old book. He set the Roethke aside to take it. It was an old copy of poems by Mandelstam.
“An old friend of mine translated them himself. They’re kind of amazing. You can borrow it, if you want.” He smiled at her.
“I want,” he grinned. She laughed a little. She felt isolated in their little space between the shelves. And she found herself liking this guy way too much.
“Come on, let’s get you checked out.” She slid past him toward check out, and he followed. She was acutely aware of his breathing and his footsteps. What was it about this guy? She’d met tons of cute, charming guys before. Her heels clicked on the wood stairs as she descended, jarring her back to reality. Then she heard him curse.
“What?” she asked.
“I left the Roethke back there,” he said. “I was distracted.” His eyes caught hers and held with an unspoken message that said it wasn’t any book that had distracted him. She looked away. “I’ll go get it and be right back.”
Piper went back to the counter, head spinning. She bit her lip before turning to ring up his purchase manually. Then, before she could stop herself, she had a pen in her hand and her fingers were scribbling ten digits and two hyphens on the back of his receipt. She shook her head at herself as she finished.
Ian appeared at the top of the stairs and a smile flitted over her face. She liked him, even she couldn’t deny it.
“Hey,” he said. “Here.” He handed her the book. She slid he receipt into the front cover and put both books into a bag. Ian watched her in silence.
“Take good care of my book,” she said.
“I will.” He smiled, and it did funny, unwanted things to her heart. “Well,” he said. “I’ve distracted you enough for one day.” She snorted. “I suppose you won’t give me your number then?” But he didn’t wait for an answer. And she didn’t have one for him anyway.
The door jingled, and then he was gone. And Piper felt oddly lost for a few moments after that, like she had to reacquaint herself with being Piper alone and not Piper with Ian. I was most unnerving.

Anyway, the idea is to start out the story with this little exchange that seems really really normal and then reveal the truth. I'm not sure what the truth is. By the way, the story's called Pied. I'm leaning towards making it take place after the world has pretty much been ravaged, but they're in one of the few rebuilt places. We shall see.


Wings Are Just Machines

Promptly questioning in the moment after

the antiphrasis lingering

what emotions make up omnipotent wonderings

and sit silently on the horizon in this second

perching to hit the faces of the youth

because they go unidentified

and are all the same

with their wings


Made Up Dictionary

I'd rather not feel the pressing pressure, gurgling forth and unable to spill out in agonizing bubbles. Oh, let me sit without this pain that is emptiness. No, loss. No, I cannot name it. It is a crane that I fold from paper. But not to be wished on. Is it nothing if it has no form of its own except this uncomfortable silence.
It is an inexplicable shock of hurt from a dream. God, why do I remember? Thank not the subconscious, for it is cruel. It is bitter and not sweet. And yet it does not hurt, only aches in my chest where my heart should be.
Let me not feel this. I am begging without conviction. As this is pain without form. Is it my nerves or my heart that feels this ghost in my heart-cavity?
But it is better than nothing. I think. It is tears that do not spill over, so it is not a threshold of pain. It is a threshold of aching, longing for what I do not want. But I do want it. I chose elsewhere instead.
The taste is like regret, but they are not the same. I would not go back for it if I had the choice.
Is this happiness? It shouldn't hurt this bad. My face in the steamed mirror is not agony. It is not acceptance either. When will I see forgiveness in the silver?
I can solve it, but that would be the coward's way out. It helps no one but myself. And yet I want that. And I fear it. Back to numbness? I think not. Yet I have never been numb.
I would not forget anyway. The mind holds onto pain more clearly. And an injury is stronger in retrospect. What choice is this to make? Not mine. And yet I made it.
Forgive me, soul. I knew not that I burdened you with this anxiety. I have left my outlet behind. No vacancy here for that imagining.
That is the pain. There is a lump where that thing should be, that thing I cast out. Is this love then?
I never understood destruction. This is love on the small scale. If there is such a thing.
But not love enough to stay. Love to leave is stronger.
Ah, but the aching, physical warmth of loss in my chest, that is where my heart should be. I will retrieve that from the tub's drain and be done. If I could. If I can.
There is a difference between what I can do and what I could have done. Closing off possibilities. That is where I cannot forgive. And yet I think I just did.
My chest does not feel lighter. But I can now see my eyes again. They are the same, if more unfulfilled.
And what is love anyway if I can refuse it? Maybe that is that love is. And the unrefused becomes obsession. Or maybe obsession fills the hole where love has lain. I do not know. I am learning. And it is painful, but without scarring.
Or maybe the soul is scarred. But the most scarred souls have lived. And I can write about that.
Accept I left that behind. My choice is now my hurt that I do not regret. A lock who's key I burned. Then it is ashes that start my heart now and they are heavier than they appear. But it is with them that I may be able to ink my pen.
And I will write a dedication to those left behind. If I have not given that choice away as well.


Can fluff be painful?

Instead of the witty awesome lyrical prose piece I wanted, I wrote a poem. But it's still rough yet.
Instead, enjoy a angsty romance oneshot I wrote a long time ago. Just recently posted it on FictionPress though.




Oh, a madman. Oh, a tired companion on a journey. How does he tailor so smoothly with crooked scissors and broken string? He who has been burned like the lace and buttons in his hair can no longer float above the ground. Waiting under a cloudless rain, his favorite tea time, there sits a masterpiece musician with needles and thread. Yet he wouldn’t know when tea time is because he no longer gets on well with history or future. Hoping has forsaken him and his pocket watch. He can only sit and search in his tea leaves for that which will appear on the horizon. His eyes are closing but his mouth runs rapid in another world for which he waits. Everything is clear in the uncrowded mind, but things cannot help pressing in to clutter the space most uncompromisingly. He who once knew all riddles is questioning. But the answer is found in a cocoon. Once he walked along and dreamt of clouds shaped like things, stringing letters along with his needle, embroidering them into rhyme. Dreams are no longer his companions and his companions are now only dreams and housecats, housecats who scratch and bite with their sarcastic smiles and covetous paws, as if they know more than he. They smile grins that stir up the dregs of the sad-faced madman’s latest cup. He who converses with cats and rabbits must also converse with hares, although they do not say much. He is tired of the silence. This poor forgotten reminiscence can’t wait to be remembered. Do you see the stitches in his heart? Everything is impossible for this honored jester. He is piecing together nonsense. Because shards of insanity rain more gently than pieces of perfect sense, and perfect sense in pieces makes no sense at all. In fact, it makes nonsense, and seems only like a few halfhearted tries at getting along ahead when the feet are stumbling behind in shoes three sizes too big. He does not know that his head is in the sky or that he is too tall for his shoes. Sometimes being taller or smaller is much preferred to normality. Maybe he only needs some cake. His favorite food is buttered bread, but he generally eats scones. He was once an artist but he is now only an appointed court official, hanging on the end of an unanswered question. If the butterfly could speak, he would end the fluttering query. Sometimes a headpiece is more like a hat. And sometimes a headpiece is simply a hat. There is no truth truer than that.


Not A Fairy Tale

as promised, her is a snippet from my Beauty and the Beast inspired story. It's simply the introduction, but I'm sort of in love with it anyway. I don't know if anyone cares, but whatever.

In all good fairy tales there is a castle. And there is one in this story as well. It sits right past the horizon where it cannot be seen. Its stone walls are old and covered in grasping vines. The grounds too are overrun with thorns and on its borders there sit a few unwary roses. The windows are dark, for the castle does not disclose its secrets.
In all decent fairy tales there is a girl, a girl who is beautiful and intelligent, kind and unwittingly brave. And there is always a man, a prince, a hero. In any good and lovely fairy tale there is a man and a girl and there is generally a rose, a rose to represent love.
But this is not a fairy tale. The rose is nothing but a dying plant covered in thorns, sinister and shadowed. And there is no man. Only a beast.
There was a time once so very long ago that no one can really remember it, not even the oldest and most ancient textbooks. And in that time there were people who could just barely recall a time when a castle stood on the horizon. But even then they didn't know the tale.
It is far too old a time that I speak of, too long ago for any scholar or historian to teach. But that time existed and the castle existed. Every part of the tale is as true as memory and as false as lies. It is neither here nor there and it most certainly did not happen once upon a time.
Every good fairy tale begins with that most familiar of fairy tale phrases. It is the phrase that any fine fairy tale must being with, just as any respectable fairy tale must end with another familiar three word phrase. But this is not a good fairy tale. It is not a fairy tale at all.

It obviously needs a little work, but I still like it.



So guess who is the most awesomesaucetastic blogger ever to blog the bloggernet? Me? No, sorry. Thank you ever so much though. The correct answer is shadowreviewer (shadowreviewer.blogspot.com). Shadowreviewer aka the new love of my life decided to link to two of my fanfictions in an upcoming blog post. Hopefully, she doesn't change her mind because then I'll look like an idiot. Anyway, I think that people who recognize other people deserve to be recognized back, so there you go.
I guess I should gather up my courage and tell you my fanfiction address. *Gulp* I'm ascared.

I also have a Fiction Press and since I'm baring me soul I'll give that too.
UPDATE: http://figment.com/users/174496-S-E-Cates

I also have facebook and zinch and all manner of other things, but let's just leave those be for now.

I was trying to find some decent piece of writing to end this with, but I've recently moved to a new state and haven't written in a long time. I promise updates on my blog and my fanfiction and maybe my fictionpress in the near future.

P.S. Spell check had a party with this one (I mean "awesomesaucetastic"? Really? I must be losing my marbles, or maybe just my mind since I never understood how to play marbles in the first place. But maybe that's why I lost them to begin with.)


Greece's Got Talent

I had this fascination with sirens at the end of school. Mythical, beautiful, haunting creatures from Greek mythology. I think they're greatly underplayed in stories. Why is Hercules (big, dumb, jock) more popular than sirens? I don't get it. Anyway, since I was AWOL for so long i figured I'd share a piece of the end of school on here.
This is the poem I read on one of the last days of creative writing for our final.

night’s fair maidens play upon the ocean
endless symphonic cry of devotion
hideous temptresses to haunt the sea
and end men’s poor mortal misery

these mythical creatures of the waves
the voices of death’s angel-slaves
which, stolen from the sky pre-formed
do herald death in through the storm

their lovely swirling etherie
the mask of unnatural born beauty
temptation wrapped in robbed king’s bereft
that one most gentle thief of night’s fair death

all men yet meet the same untrue ending
their entranced will and hope unbending
but yet they go with smiles upon their skulls
and evermore never more than food for gulls

lonely life, fair singing monster
not even gods dare tread less softer
not near that rocky symphony of songs
for gods’ creations make them mortal wrongs
and dare they not step upon those stones
golden blood from their veins swept up in sirens’ tones

ah, fair beast, pity these men
they hold only as much power as their hearts in their hands
those cold and bitter stones guiding their ships
that the siren has tasted singing with bloodied lips

the sirens’ plea nature destroyed to die
near the isle where Tartar’s maidens cry
no ship, no captain prowls the drunken sea
but the beautiful voice of fire
nay, ashes
now floating upon her crests and peaks

Not the best thing i've written, but not the worst either.


Mental Health Day

In the unquiet silence they sit
restlessly with a sudden slowing
lurch of spirit that says
they can no longer live
inside their skins
with this pulsing life ripping their seams
so ungently like the wind
its grotesque smirking liberty
that whisks them away into the night
filled with celestial beings that sit unquietly
in the sounding forever


"I want to be a seagull so I can poop on your head"

Today, my world is about the moon and milk. I don't know why, but that is the image I see.

Fly me to the moon
and let me land among the skies
of heaven's past celestial bodies
except with an escape door
and hinges
that fall back into the bowl
of milky way cereal
and rice crispies crackling
with electric voltage of life
in a storm
that is passing
and shock make me jump
heavenward again
rinse and repeat


First Words

Silence builds. Silence breaks. It crouches in my soul where it should not be.
I wish to give up my silence, to surrender it to the hands of an unforgiving Internet audience. I do not know if I can hold an audience and this frightens me. Not because I need approval, but because I am trading in my silence without a guarantee and I could be left all alone and empty.

What to say? I have stumbled into this blindly. I have no great plan or story. This is my life. It is average on the outside and weird on the inside. It is a scoop of rainbow ice cream (not sherbet because I despise sherbet) that threatens to melt away into the heartless concrete of suburban sidewalks like so many around me.

I am a poet. I am a writer. I am young and bored and have words floating around in my body. They have asked me for escape and I have granted it.
I think my opinions are unique. This is probably because I actually think about my opinions.
I do not know if I will find anything great to say here. My silence is not the result of some great tragedy that I can use to wow you. My silence is the result of fear and lack of time.

I release my silence here. I give it away to the universe. Perhaps something good will come of this.
I am aware that you still don't know who I am. I cannot decide whether or not I like it that way.