Spiraling

Spiraling

Into madness.

My brain

So anomalistic

Idiosyncratic

Unparagoned

Encumbered.

It hurts

Oh how it hurts.

My thoughts

Cut through my mind

Sharp

Painful

Bloody…

I’m bleeding.

A cocaphony

In my brain.

Loud, confusing, caustic.

I’m spiraling

Down

Down

Deeper still.

Indelicate black tunnels

Pull me farther in.

I can’t see now.

I feel the ghosts

Of my past

Tug at me.

I’m pulling apart.

Spiraling into

Lurid dreams.

I’m not dreaming.

I’m failing.

I’m guilty, lost, crazed, unsure.

The spiral is long,

I’m still falling deeper,

Deeper still.

Talk to Me

Talk to me

Say something

One word

Just one

Please…

I need –

I need to know

Where you stand

With me.

Say something.

What do you feel,

What do you think,

What have I done wrong…

I want to explode

I want to rip my hair out

One by one.

These thoughts

They attack me

Like a swarm of bees

Like a hurricane

Like fire.

I’m burning

Slowly melting

into

Nothing.

My body shakes

With fear

Of what you’ll say.

But just say it.

My heart may shatter

My life may end

But I need to know.

Talk to me…

Historical Fiction: My City

The moon’s light broke through my blinds as I tried to fall asleep. Nothing like a world war keeps you up late night after night of wondering if Hitler will choose to dispose of your people… How could he do such a thing? How can he be stopped?
A flash of light clouded my thoughts. I jumped out of bed, nearly gasping at how cold the floor was below my bare feet, and rushed to the window. My nightgown drifted just above my toes; the fabric shook as I shivered from the winter cold.
My fragile hand drew back the drapes, and I stealthily let one eye peek out the window. A shocking breath escaped my dry lips.
They’re here.
Tanks and soldiers quietly entered the city, walking along my neighborhood streets, guns at the ready.
I swallowed past the ball in my throat and forced myself to move. Rushing to my closet, I yanked my coat from a hanger and hurried to my parents’ room. Knocking on the door first, I let myself in.
They were both sound asleep, oblivious to the horrors approaching just beyond our home’s walls.
“Momma, Papa! Wake up, the Nazis are here!”
My father moaned and squished his face into the pillow; momma began to stir. I ran to kneel by her side, “Momma, we need to do something! What if they are back for the Lewinskys? For us?”
Her blue eyes shot open. Her penetrating gaze frightened me as we stared at each other for a moment, then, she turned to Papa.
“Darling,” she shook his body, “darling wake up!”
He growled at her, “What is it?” Papa turned and rubbed his eyes wearily, then he saw me. I must have looked afraid for he sat up and began to violently tug off the blankets surrounding him, as if he were trapped.
“They’re here.” She mumbled. My father rushed to his window to see the Nazis for himself.
“They’ve already been here! Why would they come back!” He quickly shut the curtains and fell to his knees on the floor, rummaging underneath the bed. After a few sounds of knocking wood, Papa stood straight with a Luger in his hand.
“Go get your sister,” he pointed a finger at me. I silently agreed.
Then, his gaze fell upon Momma’s, “Get the other Lugers and take the girls into the attic with the Lewinskys. Do not come out unless I come to get you.”
She crossed her hands in her lap and nodded; tears escaped her chocolatey eyes.
My father rushed out of the room, and I followed suite towards my sister’s bedroom. I placed a hand on the cold door handle, and paused. Sending a quick prayer to the Lord, I attempted to calm myself. If my sister saw my nervousness, she would be a wreck.
I walked into the small girlish room, unable to speak. Her pale face had an expression of calm – I couldn’t wake her. Carefully, I picked her up in my arms and grabbed one of her coats on the way out. Behind my mother, I quickly made my way to the library. She was holding Papa’s backpack full of Lugers. The library was unusually silent, a heaviness lingered in the space.
Slowly, momma pulled one of the books on the shelf and pushed on the wall, opening the secret door to the attic.
Papa is brilliant for having that built, even before the war started.
I slipped inside the narrow space with my sister, and began to ascend up the staircase. Despite the pitch blackness, I found my way to the top. Momma followed close behind after shutting the library door quietly.
At the top of the stairs, I knocked the code knock for the Lewinsky family to recognize. The door swung open after minutes of waiting. Mrs. Lewinsky looked a mess at opening the door. Her eyes looked swollen from crying and her lips were in a grim line.
The three of us entered, not wanting to say anything.
Both of our families could end up being killed by a gun squad for this.
I gently laid my sister on the small, old couch covering her with the coat I grabbed from her closet. Mr. and Mrs. Lewinsky spoke in urgent whispers with my mother a few feet away. She motioned to the bag of Lugers. From the corner of my eye, I could see Jakob staring blankly towards me.
I stepped to his side for comfort. Years of hiding and now they are here…
Explosions, gunshots, and blood curdling shouts rattled the house – and my sanity.
The six of us sat together in a huddle praying for God to rescue us from the doomed outcome. No one cried.
Suddenly, I could hear the front door creak open. Multiple footsteps scurried around the main floor. A whimper escaped Mrs. Lewinsky’s throat.
My mother had given me a Luger some hours ago, and I could feel my hand tighten around it. More sound moved towards the library. My heart beat nearly out of my chest. Minutes later, the hidden door swung open, allowing us to hear the Nazis come, closer and closer – the door swung open and I immediately stood with my Luger pointing straight at my father.
“Papa?” I lowered my weapon and stood, shaking.
Papa welcomed in soldiers with American uniforms. He gestured to them, “These men are here to take back our city from the Reich. They have agreed to protect us.”
Claps and tears of gladness broke the tension in the room. The soldiers watched us with sincere smiles; they gave each other pats on the backs.
They were here to save us; to save my city.

Don’t Leave Me

His lips soft against mine. Then more pressing. Hands sliding down my body, gently, slowly. Touching every inch of me. They please me. They make me cry out. But then it hurts.
Then, I touch him. I glide my tongue along him. I tease him with my plump lips. Please him with my body. Ever so slowly. Ever so longingly…
The night ends. My legs shake from exhaustion, our hearts beat restlessly together. His chest moves up and down strongly. I watch mesmerized.
At a last embrace I cling to him. To his strong body. His muscular arms wrap around my fragile figure like a fortress. I am safe. I am protected. I am weak.
“Don’t leave me,” I want to beg.
His body is warm against my skin. It gives me chills of comfort. I shiver.
Our lips meet one last time, and I want to cry. He leaves. Slowly, turning to give me a grin before escaping.
I shut the door. The door, a prison gate. And suddenly I’m alone. Lonely.
I lay in bed, craving his nearness. I yearn for him to hold me while I sleep. Maybe his presence can keep the nightmares away. The trembling. The crying.
I’m alone. Thinking, remembering and embracing the idea of how his skin felt upon mine. How he felt inside me… My body aches.
The dark of night seemed to surround me, haunt me and crowd me. I felt constricted. Afraid. Nervous.
Alone. Alone confuses me. Alone attacks me. I am uncertain of myself. But with him I feel certain. Oh how I crave his closeness.
Once alone I ponder my choices, my soul and my mind. I think till I want to carve my brain out of my skull. I dig myself into a never ending hole. I dig my own grave.
It’s as though I can feel the dirt being poured onto my chest. The weight breathtaking.
I need touch. I need him. I need help.
Alone frightens me. I am not who I am. I am uncomfortable.
Don’t leave me.

What is Conflict?

black-and-white-books-life-love-Favim.com-496881

Conflict is a serious argument or problem.  How are you using conflict in your story?  Are you using it to develop your characters or are you writing little quarrels just to fill the pages?

Conflict is a serious argument or problem, typically what motivates your character.

Conflict is not to be taken lightly, it is a main part of your novel!  Using this allows you to create suspense and intrigue your readers.

Using conflict not only captures more attention, but also exposes your characters’ traits.  In life, if you go through a rough time, it really brings out who you truly are, so who are your characters?  Are they strong and capable, or do they crush under pressure?

As conflict is a natural part of life, it is a natural part of writing as well.  Conflict is necessary to keep a story going.  The main conflict in a story is the primary plot, but don’t exclude minor conflicts.

Don’t just write useless conflicts between characters to add length to your novel, write conflicts that give more depth to your story.  With main and minor conflicts, your readers will be able to see what motivates the character, which is oh so important!  Without motivation, what’s the point of your character’s life?  What would they strive for?

Write conflict, write about how life is hard, write about why your characters do what they do.  Conflict makes your story great, so don’t ignore it!

“The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph.”  Thomas Paine

James 1:12

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