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As an empath, I feel all the things. It can be overwhelming. I don’t know how not to feel things, even if they start to consume me. Making things helps. Being creative helps. Writing helps. This poem is one of the outpourings of the healing process. The dark hours are the worst They are long…
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As an empath, I feel all the things. It can be overwhelming. I don’t know how not to feel things, even if they start to consume me. Making things helps. Being creative helps. Writing helps. This poem is one of the outpourings of the healing process. When there are sleepless nights And your life seems…
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As an empath, I feel all the things. It can be overwhelming. I don’t know how not to feel things, even if they start to consume me. Making things helps. Being creative helps. Writing helps. This poem is one of the outpourings of the healing process. There’s a hollow place inside me That nothing seems…
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As an empath, I feel all the things. It can be overwhelming. I don’t know how not to feel things, even if they start to consume me. Making things helps. Being creative helps. Writing helps. This poem is one of the outpourings of the healing process. There is no point In wishing For a shatter…
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Short poems sometimes say everything that needs to be said. All that ink on your heart pulls me towards you I dip into you. I put you on a page, stretch you thin. A bursting bubble in my throat, a song about to break Using every piece of you you ever gave me Every thought…
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There is much more to this story than is recorded here. Maybe one day I’ll tell it all. Or not. It’s not really that great of a story. It’s full of pain and doubt. The phone was ringing and I didn’t want to answer it. He hadn’t called me for over a year; why should…
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This is one of those ideas that may never go anywhere. If you’re wondering why it’s so raw, it’s because I’ve been this woman before. I know what she’s like. She wakes up long before the alarm has gone off. She doesn’t fall back asleep. She stares at the ceiling, thinking of nothing, thinking…
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Today I have a bonus post. It’s summer and my nostalgia is running high, even though (because) the world still feels upside down. It has been a tough few months for me personally, and a heartbreaking week for many of us. I am trying to cultivate the seeds I’ve been given to bring about something…
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Out the window the sun was rising fast. Edward had not sat at the piano all night. He had not been home all night. How long until the monsters chased him down and found him here in bed with Elisabeth, fresh and lively and unwilling to do their bidding? How long until they exterminated him?…
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Elisabeth was drenched in fear. She had not been out of the house that day, not since she had returned home from Edward’s apartment that morning. She had not accomplished anything that day—had not cleaned the house or made herself lunch or lit the candles when the sky began to grow dark. The ash falling…
The Quick and the Dead
Short stories. Creative experiments. Ideas that might not pan out.
The Quick and the Dead 