He’s a risk taker, a ground shaker, bomb maker
no gypsy poser who shows her nose to a flamboyant faker
he’s a fire breather, a life squeezer, a teaser
freezing ice blocks of clocks that rocks and rolls down hills of retribution across the retirement homes
old men, old women, singing their woes
sharing all the races and colors, simply waitin’
on another day to take a break, for heavens sake, make their one last dance with the grave so dreary
dealing his decks of death and poison

Pale ochre light leaked out from half shut shades, lazily reflecting off the blackened brick walls of the ally to cast eerie, ever shifting patterns across the network of broken stones. She walked, or attempted to, as her legs begged to run, or at least jog through the horrid place to get into the suns fading light. Yet as frightened and quick as her little heart beat in her chest, she forcibly kept her pace to a quick step. This was not the first time walking through the scant, dirt encrusted area of town.

Hello!

Reaching Rachel People: If you are reading this, I promise to update soon. I'm kind of stuck at the moment. Soon--hopefully in a couple of days--I'll have it done. :)

Okay, now onto this. This is titled "To Argue (With A Child)" but that title might be misleading....so let me clarify. This is NOT about arguing with children! This is not about children. :) More like....teenagers.

Thanks! Enjoy! I'd love to know your thoughts.
-Homey :D

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To Argue (With A Child)

Part One: Confide

She waited. And waited.
All day Sunday.
All day Monday.

Sky came over on Tuesday and spent the night.

Wednesday was more waiting.

And more waiting on Thursday.

Finally, when she thought she couldn’t stand it an hour more, it arrived on Friday. It came in an email, just as she’d thought.

‘Mum!’ she shrieked at the top of her lungs, ‘It’s come, its come!’

‘Dear, I’m kind-of-busy…’

Mrs Miller’s exasperated voice reached Sam’s ears from up the stairs.

‘Hey Sam, just open it without her.’

[Again, a mature situation that may not be suitable for younger readers. ...This also needs a second edit, which it will get, but it's readable and I need to start chapter nine, too. Blessings! Sarah]

The moon had not made her travels half-way across the sky before Martje woke again with a start.

She wondered if the strange noise she had heard was the wind moaning, or a child dreaming. She lay in bed as still as possible and listened. There was nothing.

But ten minutes later, there was the sound again.

She flung off her covers and ran down the stairs.

Hellloooooo! :-)
Thanks to all you Reaching Rachel people for reading Reaching Rachel! (if you see this) Still working on the next chapter.
And thank you to anyone who is about to take the time to read this! Haha!
-Homey :D
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Take me to the meadowlarks
They lurk in the dangerous dark
And if you venture to those parts
You’d be pecked (to death)

There’s something so shrinking about this,
hiding beneath the shadow of a sleeping moon
like I could find safetly in it, as in the moment before gravity catches hold.
Human minds get shaken by the wind so easily,
after all they’re filled with branches and flower petals.
I don’t feel very brave at night, even with the scattered stars,
and I feel even less brave in the morning, without them.
I’ve been told courage comes with light but mine clings in the shadows,
and I’ve found no amount of coaxing can bring it out.

Okay, so I know that I promised stories, and I do have some to post, but I also wrote some poetry while I was gone and I really wanted to share it with you all and get your opinions before I forgot about them. So, next week there will be stories, I promise... and I mean it... :)

BROKEN

The wind sweeps back and forth
Bending the trees with its force
Sending the branches
On its planned course
Breaking them as it move
Yet still it proves
To be beautiful

They laugh,
And taunt,
And mock.
Yet still we do not talk,
And simply sit in shame
As if we’re the ones in pain.

What we don’t understand
Is that we are a part of His plan
To retaliate with love,
Unashamed.

[This story deals both with 'mature thematic elements' and distressing emotions and may not be suitable for younger readers. Blessings! Sarah]

“What? Are you not even studying anymore?” asked Mr. Svenson.

Olaf was kneeling down, fetching a tin can from under the kitchen sink.

“What do you, just go down river with that Italian all the time? Do you even know who the first president of this country was?”