A Flower A flower blooms in the soft morning light, A silent promise of enduring might. Spreading its delicate petals, a vibrant hue, Out to the warmth, the life-giving sun, shining anew.
The celestial rhythm, the sun's grand ballet, It rises with hope, and then fades away. Each day a fresh chapter, a pristine, clean slate, A boundless opportunity, sealed by no fate.
Each new dawn brings a chance for profound, lasting change, To break free from confines, to truly rearrange. Each passing hour holds a chance for true greatness to bloom, To conquer the darkness and dispel all the gloom. Each single day is a new chance to reach for the dream, To fuel the deep passion, the bright, inner gleam.
The flower drinks deep of the sun's golden shower, Sustained by the light in this fleeting, sweet hour. It unfurls its beauty, a joy to behold and to see, Sharing its splendor with all, wild and free.
Be like the flower, resilient and bold, Let your spirit unfold, a magnificent story told. Spread your unique petals, your gifts and your grace, For the world to witness, in this time and this place.
The black phone rests, a silence made of glass, A direct line across the choking air. My fingers yearn to seize its cool, smooth mass, To dial the number etched beyond compare. A fleeting urge to break the constant drone, To trade my heart’s loud drumming for a voice unknown.
Or I could message, try to weave a careful plea, A sequence of small signs, an emoji’s face. To message more, to bridge the digital sea, But leaden weight holds me within this space. I am a prisoner in my own inertia’s thrall, Unable to bridge the gap from thought to call.
My restless hands climb to my weary head, To twirl a strand of blonde around a finger’s tip. A pull, a slow release, a mark of tender red, Until the coil is tight upon my lip. A meaningless ritual, a physical display, Of all the mental turmoil that will not fade away
Inside, the engine roars, though I appear so still, My heart a frantic drummer beating out alarm. The air is thin, a breath against my panicked will, A visceral, exhausting, full-body harm. Yet, still life carries on, the sun’s indifferent track,
Oblivious to the silent crisis holding back. And so, I do not call. The paralysis has won, Against the simple, human wish to just connect. I hate the phone for what it has become, A terrifying chance of being now rejected
The pressure of potential, the awkwardness that lies, Reflected in the fear within my anxious eyes. I lift my hand again, to message in the night, But corrosive thoughts poison the touch before it lands: I am a bother, a shadow, an intrusive blight, A need that only inconveniences hands.
A self-imposed boundary, a powerful, deep chill, That freezes my desire and holds my actions still. This cease-less fight, the heart that pounds and strains, The hand that freezes on the tool for grace— The manufactured boundary of “being a pain”— This is the cage, the isolating space.
Anxiety’s invisible lock, a final, cruel decree, To watch the phone lie unused, and never to be free.
Overwhelming fear, irrational thoughts
Like a weight on my chest.
It pushes me down, suffocating my heart,
It sits like a boulder covering my chest.
I can’t move it, as I hear my heart pounding in my chest.
Louder and louder, it gets, as it blocks all other thoughts out.
Irrational thoughts and fears.
It squeezes my lungs making my breathing ragged.
Like a hand wrapped around my throat.
I gasp for air trying to scream but nothing comes out
My breathing is ragged.
My thoughts deceive me.
That is all I can think about.
That worry, that fear, it all consumes me.
A sense of urgency,
A sense of regret.
How did I mess things up so badly?
My thoughts go to the worst things possible.
Overwhelming fear, Irrational thoughts,
Can’t focus, can’t think.
Overwhelming fear, Irrational thoughts
What to do? Have you ever wanted to talk to someone who you are mad at? Have you ever waited a while and found out you are not as mad as you were before? Then have you ever thought, maybe they should talk to me first. Then have you ever thought, maybe I am better off without this person in my life?
What does forgiveness entail? Do I have to tell them I forgive them? Do I have to explain why I was upset? Do I have to beg the person, even though I think I was the one in the right?
Why can’t I let things just be? Why can’t I let things rest? Why can’t this be easy? Why can’t I be normal?
Everyone needs that one friend.
Who will support you and lift you up.
Who will never tear you down.
Everyone needs that one friend.
Who will always have your back.
Who will never turn on you.
Everyone needs that one friend,
Who will listen to your success.
And belittle you.
Everyone needs that one friend.
Who defends you just because.
And who will never speak ill of you.
Everyone needs that one friend.
Are you that one friend to someone?
Do you need that one friend?
There were five survivors: John, Abigail, Michael, Beth, and Lily. Flight 532 took off with 200 passengers with no issues. The flight crew went through their routine checks as they always do; but nothing could have prepared them for what was to follow.
Without warning, the plane lost altitude and crashed somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean. The scene was horrific as passengers struggled to unfasten their seatbelts and free themselves from the sinking plane. Those who freed themselves had to swim away from the wreckage as it sank, pulling the others under the water. The seawater filled their lungs; the pressure built as plasma from their blood filled their lungs, preventing them from breathing. They drowned not only from the seawater, but from their own blood that had filled their lungs.
Bodies washed up on the shore, still moving and struggling, but only five stood and walked to the sand.
Those five did their best to help the dead and injured to no avail. The smell of blood and death in the water attracted the local sea life. Sharks and others came to feed on the victims. Soon the water turned red as the sharks fed on the remains.
Lily did her best to help. The blood and gore didn’t bother her as much as it affected the others. Oh, the blood. The sweet smell, she thought as she wrapped the bodies for burial and placed them in the shallow graves the survivors dug for them.
The others thought Lily was in shock or suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder; but, she wasn’t. Death excited her.
They found shelter for the first night; but, that first night was when the winds came. A strong wind rushed through the beach and swayed the trees, calling to Lily. She moaned in her sleep as she heard the wind. “Lily…. Lily… come to me, Lily.” The voice grew louder; but Lily kept sleeping. The voice grew so loud that she put her hands over her ears to block out the sound, but still, the voice came.
As much as she tried to sleep that night, the night the winds came, and she kept having nightmares. The same nightmare repeated all night.
In her dream, Beth was sleeping when a figure appeared before her. The figure, a shadow of a man, appeared to smile as it stood over Beth. Beth woke with a start and screamed as the figure slit her throat. He continued to cut into her as the spray of her blood spewed from her body. When the figure left, Lily crept over to Beth’s body. She ran her fingers through Beth’s hair and moved her fingers in the blood, as if it were natural to do so.
“Sleep well,” Lily said with a smile.
Lily woke panting with a sickening feeling coming over her. Then in an instant, screams filled the air as the others woke, “Beth, Beth!” the others screamed as they searched for her. Only a pile of blood lay where Beth once slept.
Blood covered Lily’s hands. She looked at them and then ran to the water to wash them. How could this be? I told myself it was just a dream. Why are my hands covered in blood? Where did Beth go? When Lily finished, she returned to the group and helped them look for Beth; but, they never found her.
After a while, they had given up hope on finding Beth. Lily sat on the beach staring at the waves, trying to push away her feeling of guilt. I smiled and laughed as she died. What’s wrong with me?
The next night the demon killed John. Lily laughed and danced around the tree as his feet dangled in the air. Every night the demon killed another person, and the excitement in Lily grew with each kill. The dreams excited her. The demon strangled Abigail. That one didn’t excite Lily as much as the other ones had. She found she enjoyed watching the blood pour from the victims far better. He even let her cut off Michael’s head. Oh, how exciting it was to slice through his neck as the blood splatter upon her face. Why am I acting this way? Something or someone unlocked this – my want for blood and death.
On the fifth day, the beach was silent when Lily woke. She was alone. The only sounds she heard were the lapping of the waves, the beat of her heart echoing in her ears, and the voice. Still, the voice called to her once again.
“Who are you?” Lily called out. “Why are you giving me these dreams?”
The winds stopped as the voice fell silent. Lily was the only one left. Was this demon coming for her now? What did it want with her?
Lily walked into the woods hoping to find what was hunting her and kill it before it could kill her. She found a stick and took out her red pocket knife. She sat on a nearby stump and sharpened it, thinking she needed something to defend herself if she ran into this demon figure. She walked for hours as the sun rays burned her back; Lily knew it was late afternoon. She kept walking, thinking she should turn around and go back.. She could be back at the beach by nightfall; but, then she came to an abandoned cabin. It was a wooden cabin, and the stench of rotting flesh filled the surrounding air. It turned Lily’s stomach, and she turned away to vomit. The smell before had excited her; but, this was far too pungent. She growled, “Get it together.” Shame came across her face. This smell should excite her and not make her sick. She was not expecting the smell to be that pungent. After a few long moments, she regained her passion, her excitement, and explored the cabin.
She grabbed the doorknob but pulled away as blood was covering it. The blood shocked her; but, it did not faze her. She entered the cabin and let out a gasp as she saw the bodies of her fallen peers hanging in various positions. Abigail sat in the center of the room in a rusted steel chair with straps confining her to the chair. Weapons of torture lay all around the workshop. Michael’s body lay on a wooden table with two clamps holding his head in place. Beth lay on another table, a metal one, and poor John. He dismembered John’s body and placed each body part in a glass jar. Her hands shook as she examined the jars. This is insane. Get out! Get out now!
Winds came rushing in behind her as the door opened. She turned to see a figure standing there watching her. “Welcome home, Lily. Are you here to join me or just watch as you do in your dreams?” he asked.
Lily froze in place. Part of her wanted to run – run back to the beach and away from this creature, but another part wanted more. Another part of her wanted to stay. She wanted to stay and explore, experiment, and kill. Holy God, she was becoming a monster.
The shadow moved toward her, sensing her inner turmoil, “That’s a good girl. I can tell how excited you are. We’ve been waiting for you.”
Lily smirked, for she knew this shadow of a man would not hurt her. He wanted her to help him. Help him, yes, I want to help him.
“Now go home and dream of more victims for me,” he commanded.
The next morning, she woke up back in her bed at home. Was this a dream? She walked into her living room and turned on the news.
The reporter spoke, “Yes that is correct 199 passengers on flight 532 confirmed dead.”
She gasped as she felt a cool breeze rush through her apartment. “Lily….” The voice was back. She turned around as the shadow figure was in her doorway.
Check out Nancy’s latest book: Ramblings of a Chaotic Mind and The Shadow Realm Chronicles: Maeve This is a collection of poems, thoughts, short stories, and art. I hope you enjoy them.
This little voice inside of me keeps,
Telling me that I am not good enough.
When you think you are good at something,
Only to find that you aren’t that good.
It is disheartening.
Criticism is hard to accept.
A thick skin I need and do not have.
I often ask if I am good enough,
But I don’t think I will ever know.
