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Entries by tag: week 6

LJ Idol, Week 6, Sunrise

The beach is most beautiful in winter. It stretches as far as the eye can see, naked and unmarred by the tourists and pickup trucks of summer. I sit on a faded blue blanket at the water's edge, cold packed sand beneath me, eyes fixed on the churning surf bathed in an icy glow.

She dances with the morning mist, wild and untamed, a majestic blend of salt, smoke, and seaweed. I love her; I love her because she wears no masks. She laughs and weeps and rages, revealing herself with every wave that pushes its way toward me, and I am jealous of her honesty. I stretch my legs out in front of me, burying my narrow pale feet into the earth, a desperate attempt to feel dirty, raw, and real like the sea I envy so much. She sees my weakness, and spits in my eye, scoffing at my futile attempt at authenticity.

Minutes pass, and the sky stretches out his hand, waiting for my embrace. I wrench my eyes from the glittering water, moving them upward to watch stale light reflect off of swirling rose and lilac clouds. I've seen this a thousand times before, but his lie is new every morning, and I am eager to believe. As usual, he has come dressed in his finest, assuring me that today is new, full to overflowing with promise. I know by now that there is no redemption, no new beginnings, not for me.

Even so, we all find our own way to survive. I pull my feet free from their brown cocoons, close my eyes, and let the morning kiss me. It is warm and comfortable, and I wrap myself tightly in the deceit of hope. I will leave the ocean to speak the things I cannot, and surrender myself to the waiting arms of dawn.

LJ Idol, Week 6, Ghosts

Dreams are where ghosts live; the powerlessness of night lifts the veil between past and present, allowing them to find me again. Darkness reveals truth, and here I cannot hide.

I am small and cold, my bare feet curled under me, my gaze fixed on the quiet street outside. Where is he? I think I see him, long brown hair ruffled by the wind, cigarette in hand, a gaping hole in the right knee of his blue jeans. He disappears quickly…maybe he was never there in the first place.

My hair is in pigtails, and my new Cinderella shirt is blue. His favorite color is blue. I hear Mama yelling on the phone in our bedroom, but I am four, and want to go ice skating with Daddy.

"Where are you Ted? You should've been here an hour and a half ago!"

If he doesn't come he won't see my new shirt, and we won't get to go ice skating. He promised…he always promised. Every car that turns down our street might be his. Maybe he got a new one. Maybe he got a blue car.


I am small and cold, my bare back pressed against a wall of the tiny closet. The smell of cigars and cheap tequila seep from his poors onto me, the sound of his heavy breathing pounding in my ears like thunder.

"Good girls don't cry."

With one hand he holds my arms above my head, and the other he shoves inside me, causing waves of pain to wash over me like a flood. Thirteen only knows how to survive, and I think about anywhere but here; Narnia and its lion, Oz and its wizard, England and its queen. I taste him, but I am not here; I am in Fantasia on my luck dragon, finding a way to change my name.


I am small and cold, my bed providing little warmth on this October evening. Tears and alcohol do not drown them, noise can't silence them, time doesn't make them fade. Yes, dreams are where ghosts live, and I am their eternal companion.