The Fictional Ordinary

Tokens of your grief&nbsp; are kept safe in sacred places. We are tucked tightly under beds&nbsp; or framed and hung on ornate walls. Decades of our stories are&nbsp; woven into floral wreaths of faded locks,&nbsp; and our final smiles are cast in plaster&nbsp; begging to be remembered by anyone who cares. We are spirits of sickness, phantoms of forgotten pain. We are the voice that echoes from the shadows of a vacant basement. You may forget our names, our faces, our tales of woe,&nbsp; but we reside here regardless. The dead will always tend to hide in the darkest places&nbsp; of your wandering mind.&nbsp;

Blackout Poem of "Cubicles" by My Chemical Romance

I am a writer who enjoys creating short stories as well as poetry. From a young age I’ve been drawn towards dark and unusual themes. Through my writing I like to explore gruesome topics and show readers the beautiful side of the macabre, while sometimes still keeping a sense of dry humor.&nbsp;In addition to my passion for writing, I love creating visual art and I (somewhat poorly) play multiple instruments. For my portfolio I wrote six poems that all share themes of magic and witchcraft. They’re all self contained pieces that describe common experiences through unusual imagery.

Queen of Wands

She gazes upon her subjects, eyes ablaze with ambition. A new reign falls over the kingdom, dousing the scars left by tradition. Flames may roar throughout the land but she’ll stand tall with feline grace. Meeting every conflict with courage and every challenge with haste. Unbothered by her enemies&nbsp; and the foul things they may spout. She knows who she is, and she lives without doubt.

Her name is copper rivulets that stream from my nose and cold needles that carefully pierce my flesh. I think I used to know her-- the girl who lives behind mirrors&nbsp; and underneath the surface&nbsp; of suburban mud puddles. Her skin was made of cotton and her hair was splintered golden yarn. She always wore her button eyes with pride&nbsp; like two bright blue badges,&nbsp; commending her for her sameness.&nbsp; Sometimes I think I can almost hear her voice,&nbsp; but then I remember she never really had one. I wish I could forget her-- burn every last thread that sewed my memory of her together, and leave no trace of her polyester stuffing. For now, I’ll just let the blood run and accept each needle patiently.&nbsp;

My words are stolen from the precipice of my lips. My tongue, another dragon slain. A failed Charisma check. -10XP He pulls my words from his tall, black hat. They’re mangled beyond recognition. Rabbits tell venomous lies-- yet everyone thinks they’re pretty.&nbsp; (I never thought they were pretty.) He speaks fluently with sleight of hand. A passed Dexterity check. I’m stuck with 52 pickup. Cards scattered over the ground. I don’t want to pick them up anymore. Flies bounce around inside my mouth, ramming up against my teeth before falling down at the back of my throat and tangling together around my vocal cords.&nbsp; He stole my words and left me with an empty hat and a dead dove. I think I might be dead too.

I live inside the words you speak. Underneath the wild heliotrope, I wove my cocoon. A place of solace for you to guide me as my wings grew. I turned sour and gray, as the illusion of your beauty faded, and I found myself within the binding silk of your web. Drain me of my life, and leave me to rot by the rosemary. return to the crutch of the elm tree, whose sickness festers in the spring twilight. The elm will die and your silken tongue will falter, and I will forget the words that spew from behind hemlock smiles.

Name

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