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JarsMy childhood home, a gray, old farm house, sat nestled near the small town of McKean Pennsylvania.    My father moved us there from Pittsburgh in 1954 when I was no taller than a limp potato sack.  I was their only child at the time. He said the city was no place to raise a family. We needed room to run and explore and my mother needed a quiet place to work on her writing. However, in three years of living there she gave birth to four of my brothers.  So much for peace and quiet.  There must have been something in the water.

Folks in town liked to whisper about that house like it was some kind of architectural Jezebel.  By the time I could s
The Business     Wolf stopped gnawing on his third plate of Lapin Bleu d'Auvergne and pointed at Deer with his fork. "The problem," he said, "is that you've got a bum deal going on with your agent. You're paying him far too much if all he was able to get you was public affection. I mean, there's what-- thirteen million white-tailed deer in the United States alone, right?"

     Deer looked down at his glass, which was half-full of some white wine. He was a little unsure whether or not he liked it, as he didn't really know what made wine good or bad or even what type of wine it happened to be. He'd looked
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
list for ninth october1) your lover is dead and
you burn the eggs. grease
streaks the stove. you
sit, stand, switch off
the burner. sit.
the birds chirp. sit.

2) your lover is dead and
the birds are hungry:
the blue-jay funereal
blue, mockingbird
sick ocean grey.
you shore yourself
against the bare mattress,
empty mason jars, your
mother's phone calls,
bestsellers commended
by desk receptionists.
the author's name
dwarfs the title,
that means it's good.
that means it's popular.
you spill tea
and soak its pages
and sit. sit.

3) your lover is dead and
the tea is cold.
the leaves have settled
in rorschach patterns.

the tea
Mirror ImagesI was the first person in my family, outside of my parents, to hold my sister. I had only just turned five at the time, and did not quite understand the logistics of adoption, the figurative birth of a child into a family. All I knew was that here was this small, scrunched up little thing and that she was mine to keep. I held my arms out, and she was settled in them, her pink newborn face wrinkling as she was jostled. My sister, in her infant sleep, looked either deep in thought or constipated, her little brow furrowed, her small cherry mouth pursed in concentration. Dreams played out on the movie screen of her face, small fingers flexing and
I Guess We'll Live To See ItYou should start looking
for a place we can make our last stand.
The dawn is breaking:
Every morning, a little less light,
and the end
is not as close as you think.
Love is not enough,

and wanting

is not enough.

The desert is coming.
The sea is coming.
God forbid
they find us holding our thirst
in both hands.

Instead,
instead;

No,

There is no
rescue.
You should start looking for a place
we can make our last
stand.
Take my frenzy for resignation, put your boots
on. I have a lantern. I have a little
knife. We have so much still
to survive. Open

your hands

and let the thirst out.

Build. We will stand
until t
SnowstormThe children misheard you.
They broke open the jar
looking for petals
and found only flours.

The dust is everywhere,
settling everywhere,
on the refrigerator and the stove,
on the startled mother cat
yowling her pawprints
through the snowy floor,
on her sharp-eared kittens
prancing in the clouds.

The three-year old is screaming.
He has cut his finger on the glass,
there are red streaks in the snow,
and his white-faced brother
stares up at you with a look
commonly reserved for
the confused and the betrayed.
blue baby bluesi.
     peacock feathers of smoke
     brush over my calves

     the plumage working its way
     through the stockings & skin
     to nestle into the muscle

     where it will root like an acorn
     and grow into an oaken pair of wings

     to lift my feet from hardwood floors
     so i can dance
     with my knuckles brushing against the ceiling fan

ii.
     
Expedition Letters to GraceDear Grace,

You told me, back when we were visiting Peru and I was feeling down, that I would eventually find my calling in life. I write to you now to tell you, quite happily, that I have.

I can't explain much about it at the moment, only that my sudden absence from the university is for a reason. As I write, I am currently en route to New York City, to visit their museums and get a taste of the culture. I told you before how I wanted to visit New York while I had the chance, and now I travel with purpose.

I will say now, that while what I am about to do may seem strange to you, even mad, I can promise you that I am of sound mind and am d
saudadeLast week, you showed up with the thunder on my doorstep.

Your voice was so drenched with the rain that I almost didn't recognize the way you said my name. It hung in the air like an incomplete sentence, like something unfamiliar, like you were so lost from trying to find everything we left behind and piece it back together that you couldn't find me in your heart anymore. It was pouring and the power was out and I was so tired of watching the world fall apart from outside my windows that I let you back inside my arms and inside my senses, and your bones were shaking as you clung to me and told me how good it felt to come back home.

There wa
ApparitionsI was nervous when I arrived.  Had my information been right?  Was she used to trans patients?  Would she be supportive and helpful or weirded out? Would this be a waste of time or the freeing experience I hoped it would be?

I looked around the lobby. It was small and well furnished. A large coffee table occupied the center of the room, surrounded on two sides by a small sofa and an armchair, which for some reason made me think of my grandfather. On the opposite side of the room, there was a water cooler and several large unopened refill containers.  On a table near the door was the item I was looking
petrichorNiobe weeps.

gold scattered rough across
cracked earth and the last
remains of summer - they fell
like leaves in the arms of the wind.

some scents cannot be captured.
the gods bleed onto rock,
and the stone sends her prayers
in return: petrichor.

listen - the heavy thud of
rain on parched ground;
the monsoon sealing life back in;
the sky bows and kisses earth.

Niobe weeps.
FFM21: The Dragon Thing For the third time in a week, Joey woke up crying in the middle of the night.  It was a behavior that, like most children, he had left behind years prior, along with diapers and pacifiers and Elmo.  It was only in the recent months that it had started again, infrequently at first but worse with every passing week.  What made this night particularly notable was that, unlike the previous dozen occurrences, he could actually remember what he had been dreaming about.
"I was flying," he groaned into his mother's collarbone, sniffling and rubbing at his eyes.  "I was flying over the mountains.  I had these big wings, and everything looked reall
Nameless I walk out of the tattoo parlor, clutching my wrist, thinking the money was well-spent. My friends walk quickly down the steps, eager to eat, be full. At the next story down there is a man huddled in the corner, ripped, dirty coat wrapped tight around his crumpled frame, worn out sneakers, stained sweatpants, fraying gloves.

My friends don't really notice him, or pretend not to, but my heart squeezes a bit as I turn the corner, clutching my wrist, believing my money was well-spent. But at the third step I shudder with selfishness, heartlessness, pray to God that I don't turn into judgment and lack of humility.

I swivel around, nearly fal
You Slept Through The Alarm Again - Little AubadeIf, perhaps, you had turned at that moment
and your hair had caught in your fingers,
the straw being fed into the spindle, struck
by the high, thin light of first waking, the whorl
of a single line descendent from the sun, born
watery from the gap below one velveteen curtain,
all of it staining over gold and dusty and slow,
the edge of your mouth might have met the edge
of my mouth, narrow gaps both without attention
opening—if, perhaps you had turned again,
your hand could have met the curve of my neck,
your canvas rough fingers tying knots of my hair
and I would have sighed, thick spreading in your ear
like the light it
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More from `Halatia

The TideOutside the window waves were cresting in slow motion as the tide began to pull away. Each opaque bubble of foam slid across the peaks and valleys of individual ripples that riveted the water.  They did sickening things with the moon’s reflection, swirling it in a myriad of ghostly greens and golds, stretching it out until it was an unnatural oblong setting in the sea.

Just on the other side of the window, the moon was devastatingly still.  Certainly it hadn’t moved in the silence that had rushed in to fill the void left by the spark of the muzzle.  The scene was illuminated just the same.  The flowers looking more purple than blue
Dead Planet - PreviewMy lungs feel gritty. I coulda made a freaking sandcastle out of the grime that coated my mouth.  Stupid dead planets.

I don't really know why I'm here.  One minute in a lab, next minute BAM, a desert.  And not just a desert.  A desert in the middle of a freaking sandstorm.  Nothing's in the way of the wind, it just comes barreling through with no resistance, carrying a beachful of sand with it.  

The ground is a maze of spiderweb cracks.  It must have been a million years since rain last fell.  Not even a hint of green.  Just shades of red and brown.&
Summer's NightRemember how moonlight flooded the hills,
   Broke frothy over crags, slipped so lightly
Into clefts, stray rays forming wily rills
   That flowed in harmony, a choir nightly.
The rush of silent song mirrored the muse
   Of moonlight birds who gave birth to the voice
Of the wind, concealing the truth of ruse
   That night would not end if it had a choice.
Stars have given way to the weary pink
   Of dawn.  Moonlight lifts from the green leaving
Gold dust in its wake.  The final broken link,
   End of color. Song ris

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November 19, 2010
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:iconhalatia:
I suck at titles right now. Anyone who has a better one, I’m all ears!

I have been dreaming of them lately. I cannot say why. But the story has been clawing at me for a while now, and I decided to finally just write it out.

The picture sits on my dresser still. And it is beautiful.
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Daily Deviation

Given 2012-02-11
The Good Man is a short, intense, and honest piece of non-fiction by `Halatia. ( Suggested by `LiliWrites and Featured by $wreckling )
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:iconcrematedman:
Mood: Love =CrematedMan Aug 2, 2012  Student Writer
It's difficult to do a lit deviation about family, making it different among thousands. I think you nailed it.
Reply
:iconhavetales-willtell:
`HaveTales-WillTell Mar 3, 2012  Professional Writer
I missed this the first time around. I blame my overflowing inbox.

Wow. Just, wow.
Reply
:iconpagan-poetess:
*pagan-poetess Feb 17, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
CONGRATULATIONS ON THE DD! :heart: you deserve it so so much!
Reply
:iconhalatia:
`Halatia Feb 18, 2012  Professional Writer
Thank you!!
Reply
:iconpagan-poetess:
*pagan-poetess Feb 18, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
you're very welcome!! :)
Reply
:iconmeimax3:
~meimax3 Feb 15, 2012  Hobbyist
Thank you for sharing this story. It is very hard but i think its also a different experience. I really like it.
Reply
:iconxlntwtch:
*xlntwtch Feb 13, 2012   Writer
:+fav: Very powerful. Congratulations on the DD. It hits very close to home re some family news here. Thank you.
Reply
:iconnononolittlejimmy:
*nononoLittleJimmy Feb 12, 2012  Hobbyist General Artist
Beautiful. :thumbsup:
Reply
:icondcaw:
~DCAW Feb 12, 2012  Hobbyist Photographer
I've been debating with myself whether I should comment on this or not - mostly because I was all turmoil and tears after I first read it and I am likely unable to get my point across. Well, but I'm here now anyway, because I found myself unable to backbutton.

So, basically my story is similar to yours, only with my uncle in the place of your grandfather. Before he died (of cancer even) he didn't do something very important, which in the end almost broke our family apart. Since then people made it a point to tell me the ugliest things about him, his failures, his misdeeds, everything. It completely destroyed the image I had of him since earliest childhood.
This part of my past still haunts me, even after seven years have gone by. It is also unlikely that I'll have that moment of finding something redeeming (like you found the picture) since my family, in their anger and disappointment, annihilated almost everything.

So, with this in mind, it is no wonder that, halfway through your story, I burst into tears upon reading how the family secret affected you - but I cried even more at the end. And here's my point: I'm absolutely and overwhelmingly happy that your story did take this turn. What you describe about your grandfather really portraits him as the good man he surely was. Thank you so much for sharing this with us. When I'm going to log out any minute now, I won't be doing it in a troubled, sad mood. It felt good being able to share a part of my story here, too. Only very seldomly the context is appropriate to do so. The resolution of your story was like a weight was lifted off my chest. Again, thank you so much. :heart:
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:iconmorgan-michele:
~Morgan-Michele Feb 11, 2012  Hobbyist Digital Artist
This really touched my heart, primarily because I just lost my grandmother to cancer a few weeks ago. Thank you for sharing this beautiful piece of literature with us.
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