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SorrowbirdI watched him flap helplessly between the teeth of a barbwire fence, screeching for help.

"Papa, look Papa! A boy!"

My papa stood dazed for a moment, dust billowing at his legs, his eyes teetering along the field. It wasn't until later that evening he told me he hadn't understood what I had seen. What he had seen.

With grass tickling the backsides of my legs, I bounded toward the boy, "What are you doing? Are you okay?"

As I approached him, I felt his skittish eyes rake across my every movement. With his ten-year-old arms slung inside the gaping maw of a fence and darkened feathers pasted along the creases of his face; he looked squarely

And Here Is JohnHere is John, beside me again. Sometimes when we meet he gives me a small, courtly bow, other times he's tired and he can only muster up a smile as the words "Bonjour, ma belle," fall out of his mouth. Sometimes his eyes burn feverishly, sometimes they're dull, sometimes he's drunk. It depends on where he's been that day. There are only two things constant about my John; he always manages to smile, and I can always see the fear deep in every line on his face.

Paris is grim, and John spends his time here waiting. His whole life now is waiting and fearing what could happen. No one knows what will happen, now. The front is moving closer to the

The Things We Leave Unsaid Common wisdom dictates that meaningful feelings for another ought to be expressed directly and honestly. However, advice is given to be neglected and so too often we are poisoned by our own silence -- the things we leave unsaid.

We are fortuitous that the opportunity for the lesson to be followed by the illustration presents itself. Let us use our discretion and semi-omniscience to observe the conversation between the two young men before us.

"Oh hi. How are you?" It's him.

"I'm good. You?"

"Good." I've been better, but there's no way I'm going to tell him that. "Man, it's been a long time." I haven't seen her in forever. Almost three ye

CelebrationThe night begins with bile-blocked throat and half-sandy eyes. Atop sheets that haven't been changed in forever, atop a bed that is sour with lakes of sweat, I roll over and retch. The floor is a million miles away. I seem to be clinging to a puffy white cliff. There is a metallic stench that shoves itself up my nose, my mouth, and with it, a drip-drop sound. There is someone else in my room.

I sit up just as an insistent whisper starts. "Who's there?" I say loudly.

"Calm down, Quint. Be still, Emma. We're discovered, Veronica."

The voice mumbles and fumbles, but also somehow shines with a proud, dignified youthfulness. Though my stomach h

Elegant

His fingers were elegant.

They worked in perfect rhythm to produce everything he could not say. Where I could only ever hear notes and simple emotion, he heard stories, saw worlds.

I used to envy him, to hide my hurt gaze behind his shoulder blades, to rest my jealousy on his thin, tired shoulders.

His fingers were beautiful.

They danced over the keys; they made the masters look like child's play; they shamed my clumsy attempts at carrying a tune without malice.

I used to long to be him – I would have given anything to have his talent, his skill. Anything was worth the fingers that never failed.

His soul was transcendent.

I coul

the opposite of a love letterSometimes, I think you forgot me.

To admit it, most days I've forgotten you, too. But sometimes a moment comes along that feels like you in my bones, and suddenly you're crashing through my veins, riding my pulse straight to my heart. And you sit in my chest, heavy and unwelcome, and it's hard to breathe because I cannot shut off the reel of memories playing in my head. So I close my eyes and count to ten, breathe evenly and steadily, tell myself that you are miles and years away. But I wake up the next morning with a dry taste in my mouth and a hollowness somewhere in the pit of my stomach and you're hanging onto me like a shadow even thoug

TeatimeIn January, Elsa got new neighbors. She greeted them with apple cinnamon tea.

It gets so cold, here, they told her, shivering in overstuffed parkas. Snow had turned to mud in their front hall—an unavoidable side-effect of moving in winter. Elsa nodded along to their complaints and observations, silently brewing the tea in their kitchen. They were young; they had big plans. Allison and Steve, newlyweds, just starting out. They sat on the cold floor together, sipping with chapped lips. The house filled with cinnamon.

In April, Allison knocked on Elsa's door.

We Were Angels"Mermaids, sirens, they don't exist," the grizzled old sailor said.

"But you saw what happened," the cabin boy insisted. His dark green eyes were wide and a bit teary; he was only twelve, and it was his first ocean voyage. Seeing a man climb over the rail and lose himself in the waves had shaken the boy up, though what was most disturbing about it was the look of bliss on the man's face as he leapt.

"Charlie was always loopy. He made himself see what he wanted to see and he jumped in after it." The old man shrugged. "We come from the sea, and it calls to us."

"The priest says we come from dust."

"Your priest has never been out of sight of

The Cartographer's DaughterEvery night, he would fold her into his arms before she slept. Creases grew into her, turning brown with wear, and she loved them. When she woke up in the night, dreaming of darkness, he would take her to his desk and draw for her a map of her face, turning it into another world. Tracing the contours of her smile, he would scrawl a warning, "Here be monsters", whispering to her that she was a dragon when angry.

As she grew older, she populated his maps with creatures and peoples from the books she read, or her own creations. He taught her to draw, and to write with an old inkpen, in a cursive script her teacher could make neither head nor ta

RJGreta oto. They are found down in Venezuela all the way to Panama. A member of the brush-footed butterfly family. Only two inches long in wingspan. They're my favorite insect.

I met a man once and he wanted to leave everything. He had a bottle in his hand and I was afraid he was going to inhale it all and let his light go out like I'd seen so many go before.

I told him he couldn't leave, because then he would never get to see these fascinating and beautiful butterflies from down south. The butterflies with glass wings that are only two inches wide with tiny bodies.

He asked me if that was my only reason to still be here, a tiny little inse

The Rainfall KidThere are raindrops on his fingers—a glistening cluster of perfectly silver droplets that read like some shining, ethereal roadway map—the night that he comes for her with the thunder of a summer storm rolling forward on his footsteps. The low rumble of it jolts her from a book induced slumber, the cover rough beneath hands and the jumble of last-read letters blurring on the underside of blinking eyelids as rain begins to fall. Although it's almost been longer than memory will allow, she knows that there is no mistaking the sudden upheaval of the outside world for anything other than his arrival—after all, it hasn't stormed in

The NothingsThe Nothings

Once upon a time there were somethings.

Somethings where the little girl with the pigtails would come bouncing home talking to her mother about what she did at school today, how was her friend Jimmy, and oh! she almost forgot her crayons, but luckily Emily was there to remind her.

She would prattle on and on delightedly while her mother listened, her euphoria taking her higher than the moon.

***

She insisted on acting "grown up".

She would sit, straight and stark, and never forget to keep her elbows off the table and her napkin on her lap. She would always say "yes, ma'am," , "no, ma'am,", "thank you very, very muchly," and

WastesShe kept walking into the wasteland. A tall, lean wolfhound trotted at her side, keeping her company in the endless emptiness. She had no other companions; she had seen no one else since she crawled out of the cellar a year ago. Her leather pack, scuffed and dusty, tapped a cadence on her back. An equally empty canteen banged hollowly against her leg. Her knife was honed sharp, but she hadn't seen another living creature or water in three days.

She only knew three things. She needed to go west, and she needed to feed both herself and the dog.

And she was alone.

A shriek made her look around. Far ahead, a hawk circled in search of dinner. S

Practical ArtAngela was an artist, but not in the conventional sense. She didn't use canvas and paint, and the idea of sculpting something made out of a material as mundane as clay made her want to vomit. She loathed the idea of creating art for art's sake; anything she made, she wanted there to be a practical use for it, something beyond decoration.

She labored on each piece she created for countless hours, making sure every detail was perfect. Sometimes it could take months for her to finish a single work. She'd always ask me to take a look at her pieces and demanded that I point out something she could improve upon. I was never an artist myself, but t

Go ForthDear Sixteen-Year-Old-Me,

I'm pretty sure you're afraid of what hasn't come yet – it's a long way off in your head. I'm pretty sure you're also smarter than you think you are, because that's usually how it works, you know. You should trust yourself more. And trust people to like you for you who are.

You sit like a dude. Sometimes you don't brush your hair or look both ways when crossing the street. You sing when you wash the dishes. You pick holes in your tights, and bite your nails, and chew on plastic. You make Post-It paper cranes and Valentines with too much glitter. Although, really, when is there ever such a thing as too much gli

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Five Broken CamerasHe is born as his grandfather's olive trees are torn from the earth. Expelled from his mother with a wail, as if he felt the roots ripping from the soil, and breathed and lived as the olives fell like bullets. His father's hands and spade and hope plant new trees in the soil. These will grow.

He knows the word for "shell" before his third birthday, though he has never seen the ocean.
"Cartridge," he calls, "Daddy, I found another one!"
The skins of these metal beetles crunch under his feet. "Army," he chirps. "Soldier."
His mother does not let him and his brothers play outside much anymore. She hangs the laundry out to dry and listens to t

Get OutThey send canaries down the coal mines
To sing until they can’t anymore.
Oftentimes, it’s too late.

In wartime, swallows build nests out of barbed wire,
Preferring a broken home
To none at all.

My throat is no mine shaft
And my chest is no nest
But if you let me sing for you
You might get out alive.

WhispersI love the marks that a woman’s clothes leave on her body. I love the red indents and the proof of a long day before she even opens her mouth.

Tight socks circumventing ankle bones. A watch cutting a bit too tightly around a pulse. The alluringly simple bra straps; wire pressing up into the impossibly soft undersides of breasts; the cryptic clasp nestled between shoulder blades. The imprint of lace and elastic on the taut tender tendon of the inner thigh. The geography of jeans around the hips and trailing along the legs like railroad tracks. The line on her cheek from when she fell asleep on the bus on her way home.

I love the luxuri

LaceI walk through college campuses in the city, where boys bum cigarettes, bad jokes, beer cans, and brittle belief in their life goals.

There are the frat boys who wear letter jackets and haven’t changed much since high school. I know these are the boys my best friend is going to turn into, the kind of boys who don’t have time for me around their other friends, spiked with hair gel and stupid jokes. I can’t help hoping I’m wrong.

There are the hipster boys with their battered guitar cases, expensive haircuts and cameras, and tattoos sprinkling their bodies. I find myself wishing for their hipbones and lazy smiles.

The

Long Live the KingMahogany man with a dream in your head
Your voice like the roar of a nation
Bloody lion’s heart clasped in your hands
Thunderous King, the legions are at your feet
But, ebony angel, a martyr, a warrior, a king is just a man
And you collapse like any other.
All the same, the hushed pages of library halls,
The children of those armies of peace marching in Memphis
Will chant, Long live the King.

Seasons of Love-Winter.-

He’s numb and confused as he hears I don’t love you anymore.
She’s not as numb, but just as confused as arms wrap around her in the cold, the same hands that just a week before had texted, No, sorry, I don’t like you like that.
Together, they share their confusion, but the numbness they keep for themselves.

She can’t remember quite how it happened, but somehow his eyes never leave her, not once. Not for six hours. While it’s not something she’s used to, it feels okay.

He knows in these three weeks that he doesn’t have to be alone at night.

She writes him letters but never sends the

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For My Daughter

by ~IndigoSkyes, Jul 16, 2012, 6:12:14 PM
Literature / Prose / Non-Fiction / Letters

Dear daughter-I-do-not-have-yet,

You will be my perfect. You will be my proudest moments in one small person. You will be made in love, or maybe anger, or maybe even desperation. But that won't matter. What matters is what you will be made into.

You will have Daddy's hair and his nose, and my eyes and my smile, the smile that happens not because someone with a camera told you to, but because you're genuinely happy. But you will have your very own heart and will be full of all the things that give you your you-ness. Whether you sing in the bath or make Valentines for everyone in your class or give your last homemade chocolate chip cookie to the boy sitting alone at recess.

I will write you poems and stories about how you are my miracle. I will read them to you sometimes, just to remind you. As you grow, not a day will go by that I'm not thankful for everything you are. You will be dazzling and beautiful and brilliant and compassionate and playful and curious and all of the things I was too scared to be.

You will learn how to dance before you can walk. I will teach you numbers by counting the stars in the sky. I will teach you colors from the world around you – "look, the sky is Mommy's favorite color today." You will absorb everything - the sounds, the lights - through your skin like a balm.

When you are born, your Daddy will cry because he's never seen anything so beautiful. He may not love me forever, but he will never have any doubts about you. "Look," he'll say the very first time he holds you, showing you this overwhelming, magnificent world outside the window, "all this is yours."

Growing up is not an easy thing. But remember that it's okay to not know. It's okay to just take it as it comes. People will come and go, and make you laugh and break your heart. There might be someone who crumples your smile like a used tissue. But promise me you'll never stop loving, no matter how much it hurts.

You will be my warrior, my brave flower. When people pour lies and hurtful words into your ears, I will come along with a sieve and replace them with what is true.

You will make the world a better place, simply by being a part of it. You will take the sunny days and collect them for rainy ones. You will prove to your daddy what love is. You will discover every day that life is going to be confusing and scary and wonderful, but I know you'll go through it all with a smile, the smile that happens not because someone with a camera told you to, but because you're genuinely happy.

When pulling petals, remember that the answer will always be "she loves me."

For My Daughterby ~IndigoSkyes

Literature / Prose / Non-Fiction / Letters

In answer to the prompt: "What are you here for?"

I wrote this in fifteen minutes.
I know there are cliches and such, but it's one of the most sincere pieces I've written in a long time.

I'm going to be an awesome mom someday, you guys.

Questions.

Is this relateable?

Any cliches I should get rid of?

How does this piece make you feel?

Critique here.

love 1 1

~~joy 0 0~~

~~wow 0 0~~

~~mad 0 0~~

~~sad 0 0~~

~~fear 0 0~~

~~neutral 0 0~~

~KiaraGoldsward Mar 28, 2013 Hobbyist Traditional Artist

I actually just cried. This is...beautiful and amazing and just perfect. So all I can say is just...thank you. Thank you for writing this

~IndigoSkyes Mar 29, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

I am honored, thank you so much.

~KiaraGoldsward Mar 31, 2013 Hobbyist Traditional Artist

You're welcome ^^

~Solarune Sep 21, 2012 Writer

Awwwwwww.

I'm afraid I have no monster comment for you on this one, just... awwww!

Also, congrats on the DLD you wonderful person. <3

~IndigoSkyes Sep 22, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

~WaKip Aug 18, 2012 Writer

-Yes, I did find this quite relateable in strange ways. Both in the sense that I hope to become this mother some day, and in the way that I'm a little envious of this daughter, though shes not even here. I never really had much of a mother myself, she was there, but not there, you know? Ah, but thats about all I'll say before I "TOO MUCH INFORMATION!" you xD
-I actually felt like a lot of this felt pretty original, I can't really see anything that felt directly cliche. Some of it had a little of that feeling, but in honesty I still wouldn't like them changed, they're really well put and appropriate, so why would I?
-Both inspired to one day become this mother, to one day treat my child just like this, but as I said, envious and very sad at the same time. It was kind of mixed.
Beautiful piece, I absolutely loved it. Fantastic job, I'm happy to give this critique on it and add it to my favorites~

~IndigoSkyes Aug 18, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Thank you so much for the lovely comment and the fave!

~WaKip Aug 18, 2012 Writer

No problem

=Sammur-amat Aug 15, 2012 General Artist

Congratulations n the DLD, you lovely, lovely soul!

~IndigoSkyes Aug 15, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Thank you, dear!

And thank you for the fave as well.

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