Someday, loneliness may consume us all. I would say the trick is to practice that loneliness. Treat the world with a cold shoulder, never letting anyone get attached. But that means accepting that playing the lone wolf is not as wonderful as it is romanticized.
I choose to live that reality.
Back cover writeup: “In this story, Heaven is beyond ruthless, sending a misfortune angel named Marietta to Earth to take out another target. This time, the target is the unknowing son of Satan.
Upon her arrival, Marietta meets suspicious Chad, the football team captain, and the good-natured punk Lucifer. Marietta struggles to fulfill a handed-down duty from her mother’s betrayal and her choices with a thorny romance.
All the while, Lucifer is just trying to survive high school by keeping his distance from Chad and his deadly new love interest, Marietta. “
Hopefully, I will be able to publish soon on Draft to Digital. I’m currently waiting for the cover art to be finished. And then, the final stage starts, and I can get my book-listed places. I am struggling to do the social media marketing part. So I am going to start posting here again.
Whenever people think of Heaven and Hell, they often remember the story of Lucifer, the angel who fell. One often thinks how Heaven is righteous, and Hell is damnation. But what if this story was flipped on its head?
I want to introduce you to my manuscript An Angel Who Fell For A Devil, a 41,200 YA Fantasy Novel. In this story, Heaven is beyond ruthless, sending a misfortune angel named Marietta to earth to take out another target, but this time the target is the unknowing son of Satan, Lucifer.
Upon her arrival, Marietta meets not only the suspicious Chad, the football team captain, but also the good natured punk Lucifer. The balancing act of fulfilling a handed down duty from her mother’s betrayal, and a thorny romance, has Marietta struggling. All the while, Lucifer is just trying to survive highschool by keeping his distance from Chad and his new love interest, Marietta.
Fantasy storytelling is a passion of mine that I have been able to explore while writing my manuscript. This is my debut book, and I hope that you will find the characters as charming as I have after getting to know them through the writing process.
Thank you for your time and consideration.
She can still hear his screams echoing in her head. It plays on repeat, keeping her awake again. Warm tears stream down her cheeks, dripping off her chin.
“Stop it.” Her body shakes, as she leans against the sink. Years have past since her training, and yet her mind makes it feel like it was yesterday.
Her claws tearing at his chest, digging deep into his flesh. Training never ended until someone was devastated.
“I’m sorry leon.” The taste of blood stained her tongue, even while alone in the dark bathroom. Blood seeping into the cracks of her lips, Lily licks it away, but still spills out the corners of her mouth.
“It’s just an illusion.” Hugging herself, she buries her head deeper into her chest. “It’s all in the past. You can’t hurt him anymore.”
The episode lasted only a little while longer. When her heart rate finally slows down, she pulls herself up. She struggles to turn the knob. Her hands still trembling too much to mober her fingers. She then makes her next mistake, and takes a look in the mirror.
His sinister smile creeps from behind her, He whispers in her ear, “Kill him.”
“No!” She shrieks, covering her ears. “I can’t”.Sobbing harder now she drops to her knees. “I didn’t do it. I swear.”
He calls to her, “You are so close to me, my dear. Not too much longer, and you’ll be mine.” His voice fills the room.
She remembers trying to pull Leon to his feet. His shirt dripped with blood, and his face almost unrecognizable.
His hands pull at her shoulders, urging her to let go. “He doesn’t deserve your help. Leave him for the others. They will finish him off.”
“No.” Her words are inaudible. She lets go of her friend, and follows their leader, WolfBlood.
His title speaks for itself; the leader soaked with blood of the fallen.
She tries screaming, but no words come out. An arm grabs her, and her eyes shoot open.
The floor tires are back in vision, and Leon’s screams are gone.
The night time is both filled with dread, and the moments full of empty motivation. Feeling like I have things to push through for, and yet; I stuck in one spot. Closing my eyes feels like ten years in slow motion. Each breath taken in hurts deep, down in the bottom of my stomach. When was the last time I ate? This morning? Last night? Maybe longer. What was today? Did I go for a walk or was that yesterday. If I don’t have these answers then, does anyone?
It’s hard to imagine a time I slept well, without this game my head plays with my ears. The past two years have been hell for so many, and yet reminding myself of such things makes it scream louder. There’s no reason for these feelings. Swallow them and get over yourself. But the words fall into the pit and it all starts over again.
Both wanting to be something more than a sad millennial, with a half diagnosed disassociative personality disorder.
Isn’t that something, nothing short of original. I wish to that truthfully. But nothing I write feels original. Just a vacant face staring at the screen, watching the words slowly fill the page.
Why does it take so long? To write up even half a page, with minimal meaning. Maybe someone can relate to the chaos on this screen. If I read it back, I’m sure I would want to delete it all. Who would want to read a half assed call for pity.
Maybe I should go back to staring up at the ceiling in the dark. That’s at least a productive act. A good cry always helps the hero on the tv. So why can’t it for me. Far from a hero, but not a villain, somewhere between. Something like an insignificant human, waiting for whatever happens when you fall asleep without waking again.
Check myself again and I should stop typing these things. Someone could read it, of course they can, I hide behind my blog. Pretending no one notices what I wear on my sleeve.
So I guess goodnight blog. And Whoever else reads this.
The tingling starts in the tips of my fingers,
And infects Its way through my arms and down my legs.
Keep talking, just keep talking
Distractions are key is what everyone keeps telling me.
Six months into my new bubble, my new world.
Lungs hurt if I push too hard,
The pain makes the ticks worse,
Or so the doctors tell me.
Try and acknowledge my feelings.
The tremors will only go away if I do.
But how can I feel my way through the constant stabbing in my chest,
When each new specialist tells me, they don’t know what else to try.
Now, you tell me It is all anxiety?
How is that the answer after six months?
All the blood work?
And “atypical” symptoms.
Tell me how anxiety affects the beat of my heart!
The fullness of my lungs?
Tell me how,
Tell me anything.
Tell me It is my genetics,
Tell me something is wrong with my cells.
Anything but, It is my anxiety, my brain messing up.
The trembling gets harder to run from.
It chokes and tightens every joint.
Only letting the movements work that It has picked for me
And now I lay, waiting to be found, frozen in place
But when found, I’m once again told I was still.
The tics weren’t visible, and if I just start moving,
The paralysis will go away.
Is It still anxiety when It ruins your life?
I haven’t been able to work since late December. For me, this has been very difficult. I like being active, and I’m not a homebody. Five days a week I was at a dog rescue. At least a few hours, twice a day, five days a week. And then, I would sometimes go once a day at least one day of those two days. Of course, I worked around the shelter, four days a week.
But now, I can’t sit up without wheezing and coughing; pain shooting through my chest, down my ribs. This is my new reality.
Now, everyone loves a few days with nothing to do. But those days are far behind me. And I have found myself, when I am not dealing with invasive thoughts, only thinking about starting my own animal rescue.
Clearly, funding is almost impossible amid a pandemic.
For now, I’m just making spreadsheets, upon spreadsheets. Not knowing if I ever can make use of them.
This is how I find myself trying to find a new distraction from my new life on the couch. I sleep here. I eat here. All of my living is in one spot.
This is how my last six months has gone. So I ask, How is everyone else surviving?
It’s been awhile since I have used my blog. But after 2020, and how 2021 has begun, it seems like a good time to restart. This blog started when I was a very naïve 19 year old girl, who thought I would be an award winning writer by 25 and a top stylist in New York. Today, I am a transman, who cant start testosterone yet because my spouse and I want kids. I no longer do hair after 7 long years. I turned 26 in February, and have never gotten a book published, though I am still working on a couple manuscripts. I will brag however, and say that I own a house, and married one of the best humans I know. I am more focused on humanity than being rich and have a successful career in the glamorous hair industry. I volunteer with a local dog rescue, where I never want to stop working, even after hours of adoptions. I can’t get enough.
But I currently can’t work. My health tanked after switching jobs. I cant walk around a grocery store anymore. I’m in constant pain, I can’t breathe if I try a 5 minute walk. I’m not living the life I have now. I love my new job and being able to focus on the shelter. And I don’t know if or when I will return to those things. I’m on month 3 of the doctors not knowing what’s wrong, other than my lungs aren’t working and my heart rate is erratic.
So now I knit again, and need my old outlet, but with new intent. I started my blog looking for approval, and praise for my writing talents, of which I am not sure I have. I will still post my creative writing, but I think this I will focus on myself, and my journey through medical tests, and accepting what I cannot control.
I hope the journey isn’t too hard.
A Boy Named Henry
The Simmons public library was a melting pot of the haves and have-nots, a mixture of homeless people and the wealthy older residents of the nearby neighborhood. The silence was only disturbed by coughs echoing from the side hallway: a man bent over, choking on the dip tucked in his lower lip. His companion smacked his back with a dirty, dried and peeling hand. Behind the desk two middle aged librarians stared at each other, gesturing at the pair; neither sure who should ask them to leave. In the lounge area, a group of old men sat. Each of them had gray hair, trimmed neatly above their collar with charcoal and blue ties looped perfectly.
A character that stood out more than the other library guests, was a boy browsing the section of the library that kept various maps. His clothes were clearly picked without proper measurements; his hair a fluffy mess going every angle from his head. Each time he picked up a new map, he had to pull the cuff of his sleeves above his hands. He was far from blending.
Footsteps grew louder and he turned to see one of the library assistants next to him, the third time since he had been there.
“Are you sure there’s nothing I can help you find?” Concern overcasts her smile every time she greets him.
The group of men watched from a distance, snickering amongst themselves. The boy made eye contact with them all. “No, I think I found what I needed. Thank you though.” He put the last map back on the shelf. Picking up his backpack, he pushed passed her, stopped by the group of men. Without even a wince he spoke intently, “I hope you all have a wonderfully uneventful day.”
No one said a word as he went down the hall, dropping a dollar for the homeless pair on his way out the door.
Stepping out to the curb he debated where to go next. Looking at the map he snagged, he felt his cellphone buzz. He took the phone out of his pocket, another missed call from mom; another voicemail. He turned the screen off and slid it back into his pocket.
It would take at least another hour in a car to get to his friends house. Who knew how long it would take walking. If he used the phone his mom could track him. She was the last person he wanted to talk to. Even if he did, he is sure she would never listen, let alone understand. So he kept ignoring her, and tried to forget he had a phone at all.
It has been roughly fourteen hours since he left home, and about six hours since she had noticed. Packing light, meant no disturbance to his bedroom at a glance. His mother would never notice a missing pair of jeans, nor a few toiletries from the bathroom. She was too busy with her important job and her pampered husband to know anything about their “princess”.
He let out a long sigh, “Maybe the cat will miss me.” She was most likely sleeping in his closet, unaware her awkward companion was gone.
Honking brought him back abruptly from his thoughts. A car was only a few feet from his feet. In the midst of daydreaming he must have stepped forward. He jumped back, and yelled “sorry” as the car sped by.
His gaze dropped to his feet. He really needs to keep it together, stay calm and keep going. Afterall he wasn’t welcomed at home.
‘You need to stop this. You’re making your mother cry.’ His stepfather’s voice kept ringing in his head. Everytime he stopped moving, he stopped thinking, the feeling of his shirt being yanked from his hands returned. His face somehow still feels the scratch from the bra strap being thrown at him.
His hand brushes his face, trying to wipe away the feeling. Food seemed to be the only reasonable distraction so he headed to the gas station he saw on the corner.
* * *
He placed a coke and trail mix at the register. The girl behind the counter popped bubble gum, chewing loudly while scanning the pathetic meal. When she handed him the change, she called him what every stranger instinctively calls him. “Have a good day, miss.”
“You too.” Correcting her felt somehow rude. He lowered his head and walked out towards the bus stop. He looked at the schedule hanging above a heavily stained bench. If he gets to the mall on the next bus, he should time for fifteen minutes to spare before heading to the next town.
He waited patiently, avoiding eye contact with the others who slowly joined him at the bus stop. A pair of boys stood a few feet away. He could feel eyes on him. The two were staring at his chest, which was almost completely hidden under a tank top and a flannel. One of the boys snickered when he crossed his arms, trying to further cover them. He turned to face the direction the bus was coming from. It could not get to the crowd soon enough.
A hard thud and he was sitting in the front, staring out the window wondering how much longer he had to wait to start his life over again.
Without a car, he was bound to struggle every step of the way, but cars require money. Resting his head in his hands he closed his eyes and let himself nod off.
A sudden jerk woke him up. The bus was breaking fast and shook both him and the woman sitting to his left. He braced for both of them as the bus came to stop.
He walked out of the way of the passengers behind him. Opening his wallet he counted twenty- eight dollars. He hadn’t planned enough money for meals. In fact he hadn’t planned leaving at all. Thought about it, sure. But, never believed he would ever take off, certainly not before college.
He saw a sign for a cafe across the street. He hadn’t eaten more than trail mix since he left. A bagel and cup of coffee sounded more enticing than ever. He hurried across the street.
At a table near the front he could see a woman holding a baby. Their skin pink and wrinkly; a fresh new baby.
The lady next to the mom asked her if the baby was a boy or a girl. The mother proudly exclaimed she was a girl. He wondered if that’s how his mom acted when he was born. Proud to announce his assigned gender to every stranger who asked. Maybe that’s why she was so angry now. The little girl she saw, grew up to be a boy she didn’t know. Maybe she wasn’t angry, but hurt she can’t be proud of having a little princess any longer.
He watched on, listening to the women adore the new baby. “Is your husband happy you had a girl? Or did he want a boy to be his little buddy?”
The mother shook her head giggling. “Oh he didn’t care. He just wanted it to come out with only one head.”
The woman chuckled, “No but seriously. A girl must have been the real dream. Watching her play dress up and have little tea parties.”
“Well sure that’s wonderful to look forward to. But really, it didn’t matter to either of us. All we wanted was our baby to be healthy, no matter who they grow up to be.”
He felt his eyes well up with tears. He wiped them away and pulled his phone out. He had so many voicemails from his mother. He clicked play on the first one; knowing each one would become more and more painful.
The last one began to play. His mother’s voice is calmer than before. “Hi, it’s mom. But you probably assumed. I know things have been hard, but I know we can work things out this time. Just call me when you’re ready. I love you, Henry.”
He replayed the message over and over again. She really called him Henry. After everything she and her husband said, she called him Henry.
Swallowing through tears he dialed her number. After two rings a soft voice answered, “Hello?”
He wiped another tear from his eyes. “Hi, Mom.”
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