Everblossom: A Short Story and Poetry Anthology

  I shivered as the cold night reminded me of my nakedness. I clung to my furless mocha colored skin. That’s when I noticed it. My hand skimmed across my stomach and I gasped softly.

  The blood, the injury all vanished into thin air. There wasn’t even a scar.

  The stranger looked down to where I traced the wound that wasn’t there, but instead of lingering his gaze shot right back into mine, determined almost to get straight to the point.

  I licked my lips, then asked, “What do you want from me?”

  That damn smile was still on his face as he took a seat on the brick steps right at the entrance of the too gorgeous to believe church. He patted a spot next to him which I hesitantly took. Silence sat between us as comfortable as a blanket full of bed bugs. Until his voice disturbed it.

  “I don’t want anything from you,” He said, “except answers.”

  I raised my eyebrow. “Answers?”

  “Yes, I want to know how you became a shape-shifter.” His eyes pierced mine with such intensity that I looked away.

  I contemplated for some time then asked, “Aren’t you a shape-shifter? Wouldn’t you already know?”

  His laugh came out bitter and bleak. “If I knew how to control my shifts and the history behind it, I wouldn’t be chasing you, now would I?”

  I thought that made sense. Only, how would I make sense of how I changed? How I became something I didn’t even know existed until mere moments ago? I looked at him, wanting answers, so many answers, none appropriate or right, but all the same, I wanted them.

  So I explained. I weaved him a tale that would permanently damage both of our lives. Forever.

  English Major Dues

  Analyze, analyze, analyze

  they say

  Pick it apart

  Tear it into

  shreds

  You look up tearfully and

  prick your finger

  and mesh it with the

  author’s.

  You become one.

  You produce an essay.

  “Prick again, prick again

  my intelligent angel.

  You have the natural gift.”

  Tear it into pieces

  Symbolism holds the bleak key.

  No stone goes unturned.

  Prick, tickle, wiggle

  and out pours the blood

  onto the page

  You splash it and cover it

  with your metallic scent

  covering every inch of

  the author’s work

  They beg,

  they plead

  No more

  No more

  the author whispers

  But the teacher’s cry

  Yes, yes, yes

  You are gifted

  You are good

  Show us your soul

  You take out a needle

  Your blood’s turning pink

  You’ve lost your appetite

  a long time ago

  and your hunger for excellence,

  for praise, for graduation

  Lingers.

  Onward

  and downward into a bloody spiral

  You hesitate for the big finale:

  Senior Thesis

  You know what they want

  You know what they need

  Everybody is crying

  Screaming

  Taunting you, for more

  You take the axe and

  cut your heart out

  and lay it on the table

  Part of you is relieved from

  the constant guilt that your

  heart gives about what is

  right and what is wrong

  The other side, the dark

  greedy side

  decides there’s something

  else you can add to get

  the A+ and the degree

  you’ve been waiting 4 years for.

  Your hands

  your precious, lovely hands

  who have felt and wrote

  through the whole process

  Your advisor agrees with

  your decision

  so off to the slaughterhouse

  Down Knockturn Alley

  with the scar across your forehead

  The mark of need shows

  in your bloodshot eyes

  and constant twitching

  You lick your dry lips

  and put your hands

  over the counter.

  “Chop them off!”

  You don’t care what the pain is

  Just

  Get

  It

  Done.

  Off your hands flop to the floor

  and there, you’ve got the

  A+ and the magna cum laude

  title. However, you have

  no hands to grasp the diploma.

  Everybody laughs.

  You look into the crowd

  desperate for support

  love

  anything

  But it’s far, far too late.

  Your Rescuer has left.

  Wrinkle

  The pale goddess emerged, the blood rivulets sliding down her neck, breasts, stomach and thick thighs. She grabbed the towel and wrapped it around her midsection and emptied out the blood tub with a simple pop.

  She tisked. The beautiful white tub that once was is now a dusky romantic rose color. “Gretal!”

  The maid came instantly. “Yes, ma’am?”

  “Clean this tub thoroughly.”

  “Of course.” Gretal started looking under the cabinets for the rough sponge.

  The women took one look in the mirror and hissed, then looked closer. Dammit, another wrinkle. She pulled out the organic scrub and took a blood stained sheet and mixed it together. She knew it was the only sheet left, but that damned spot . . .

  A smile slowly formed across her luscious pink lips. What was she afraid of? New freshman were coming to Vathory High. Perfect opportunity for more.

  A small trickle of blood was on her finger, and she licked it off, cleanly. Delicious. Perfect. Metallic. Soon there will be more. If only those poor little dears knew . . . A bitter laugh escaped her wide mouth. She didn’t know and she turned out fine. Well, almost.

  Bills, Bills, Bills

  Bills, bills, bills

  raining down

  freedom

  life

  apartment

  career

  I thought I had

  my golden ticket

  to freedom and prestige

  but all I got were

  bills, bills, bills

  piles upon piles

  sitting

  waiting

  cornering

  taking

  greedy

  filth

  all part of a maniacal

  scheme to take

  my hard

  blood

  sweat

  tears

  money

  green and cold

  filled the need

  hole

  instead it’s being taken

  away into

  electricity

  water

  for just breathing

  being

  independent

  free

  clamped down

  by the government machine

  student loans

  to success

  What a way to make a living.

  Forget-Me-Nots

  Jia gripped the forget-me-nots in her tiny hands, as she stared down at the grave marking where her dad laid in pieces. She will never forget the date he died: December 23, 2004. It was the date imprinted on her memory, imprinted through the vision that she saw when she was just a little girl. Ruining her innocence. Recognizing death and its messenger then and there.

  She laid the flowers over his grave and stared at her husband, just a few markers down from her. When his eyes met hers, he nodded. She looked back at the grave, never wanting to forget, never
wanting to remember all at the same time. Erik understood that she needed closure before moving on with their family. How could she start a new family when she still couldn’t get over the past? Couldn’t get over the hurt that left a permanent ache in her chest?

  Jia rubbed the spot on her chest where it thumped to life, brought it all back. She suppressed it for so long. Twenty long years. The funeral came rushing back. His cold pale form laying in the casket. She tried to touch his cheek, tried to bring that once rosy cheek back to life. But she knew that once the grim reaper showed up, the end was near. He hovered around her father, until it happened.

  He gripped his chest and fell onto the floor, his eyes glazed over and then he was dumped right into the casket. All of the beautiful goodbyes and the mourning songs poured out of that poetically beautiful Catholic church became one big blur of sadness hanging over the entire congregation. Some people tried to act like dying was a happy thing, that his life being snatched away at such a young age was a great thing. He didn’t have to suffer the after effects of a heart attack, but she knew that things were different. Jia even wished for the longest time that he would turn into a ghost. However, her wish came true in such a different way it surprised her.

  Once a loved one was taken away, never to return for another entertaining breakfast or one of his chuckling laughs that filled an empty household, another one filled her life with love. He taught her how to love and trust again but it was a long journey from ghost to human form. Yet she loved him all the same, and now it was time for them to start a family. The news surprised her at first, but as the months came along, she started to actually look forward to filling her house with joy. Not to mention the screaming . . .

  Jia looked back on the grave, imprinting the last time she remembered him. The ride on his wide shoulders around the big back yard. His laughter and joy filled her whole memory of him and that’s what she wanted to pass her children. But she would never return back to Chesapeake, Virginia. Too many ghosts laying around, waiting for her to solve the mystery of their lives. She had better things to do now. She has a family.

  In Death, You Speak

  In Death, we speak

  in life, we walk

  yet nothing comes to mind.

  A zombie becomes your heart

  your feelings have disappeared

  yet your arms we still hold out

  as if a mummy rising from the dead

  The night speaks to us

  whispering of soft songs

  of paranormal

  of romance

  of the sacred trance

  The power of darkness

  can swallow you whole

  yet despite the sweet night song

  you prolong

  You fight off the death

  you fight off the night

  you still hold your arms out

  of the mummy of the night.

  Your limbs become heavy

  and the darkness swells

  inside you as reason and brain

  drain out like

  the blood drains out of

  your mouth

  Your mouth becomes stiff

  your body becomes rigid

  your heart instantly stops

  and your mind becomes

  food for your fellow nightly

  friends

  The zombie inside you

  becomes one with you

  you embrace the darkness

  the night becomes loud

  wickedly, dreadfully loud

  Despite your lovely funeral

  you couldn’t be happier

  since in death you speak

  and in life you were dead

  Now that you have the

  darkness of death ahead

  of you,

  death has become yours

  eternally

  forever

  and ever more.

  Transcend

  I was not there, yet I was there. I felt trapped between the two worlds. Everything was changing, constantly shifting. I felt my fingers pry out of the cold flesh into a transparent substance, then my legs floated out. Before I realized it, I was starring down at my dead body, nobody surrounding it. I looked at myself, my new body, my new method of transport. It was official. I was no longer bleeding or breathing. I was the undead, a ghost amongst the living.

  My rifle still laid in its hidden place among the green bushes under the tall pine trees. The place froze the rainfall of bullets but they came streaming back once my hearing came back with such stunning clarity I covered my ears. I looked around the thick forest, the scent of blood and lost filled the air. My comrades were shouting out instructions, hiding behind the trees that offered us their shade. Yet I was no longer a part of that group. Not that I ever was, I was only playing a pretend game with the Allies. I am always between the fence, ratting one out to the other. Hiding under the uniform as a soldier yet at my heart I was no man’s land. I was an individual, and now I’m nothing.

  I drifted away from the macabre scene. Nothing could hold me back or make me return to the blood-filled land. However, something was pulling me towards, yanking me forward, driving me to a place that I’ve never known: Chesapeake, Virginia, United States of America.

  Jesse

  I cry for moments we never had

  for those days that never happened

  but somehow we connected

  Shared a secret past

  of moments never shared

  but happened all the same.

  I cry for the kiss we never shared

  I cry for the laughs we never had

  I cry for those sparks that became fire

  and grew forever more

  I cry for more time that

  I wish we could share

  I cry for the time that your hand

  squeezed mine, releasing the oxygen

  that I had within.

  I cry for harsh words never spoken

  of regret

  of anger

  of pain

  I cry for when your skin sizzled against mine

  I cry for the time you smiled at me

  such a knowing smile that

  it made me blush

  I cry for everything we had

  and for everything we didn’t.

  I cry for the time I drowned,

  melted in your arms

  I never wanted to resurface

  I cry for that devilish look in your eye

  I cry, I cry, I cry

  for second chances

  for another meeting

  for another time or place

  where all of our potential memories or

  even just our one world to exist in a second

  one split second where the rules change

  and life becomes fair

  and where the world makes sense

  about why I would meet you

  in the first place.

  God I cry for that wish, that second

  that one split second where everything

  Changes

  I cry forever for that

  love

  that time

  more time

  for you, always for the unattainable you.

  God how I wish wishes would come true

  or even just this one,

  since I know even without those

  moments

  I still fall for you

  every casual glance

  where in our world it seems the same

  instead

  it Shifts.

  I love you more

  than either of us will ever know

  but it still beats

  throbs

  for a chance to live

  I cry for that throb

  these crazy thoughts

  that will never be

  for writing a Cinderella ending

  in a world where that doesn’t exist

  I cry, I cry, I cry damn I cry for you

  and our world so mu
ch it kills me

  I’m still out there drowned

  dead, dead, dead

  Wishing you were here with me.

  Black and White

  “It’s not that I don’t want a baby with you, sweetheart,” Brian said, with that charismatic grin of his. “I just don’t want a black baby.”

  Savannah stood there, her bright yellow dress billowing behind her as she leaned against the railing. As the cruise ship tipped over, she tightened her grip, fighting against tears and the threat of sea sickness. It was always the same fight.

  Ever since they’ve been together, race has been the core issue. Her creamy dark chocolate colored skin has always stood in their way. He never mentioned it by name until after five years of dating and her urging him to reconsider the marriage topic that he specifically stated that he didn’t envision himself marrying a black woman.

  She thought love conquered all and somewhere, somehow someone has answered all of her prayers and deepest desires. And now that it had happened, the perfect life she couldn’t dream for more, he brought up the baby issue. Again.

  He even did the research this time, printing off sheet after sheet of egg donors that would be perfect, accompanied with pictures of what their baby could be like. Blonde haired, blue eyed. Those pictures laid on the bed, spread out like a map dictating where their path should lead.

  Although, she should have known. She should have known that he would want more. He always wanted more. He always wanted to put her into this white picket-fence American-ideal dream box and she could never fit it. She has always been different.

  The way she dressed, thought and acted had always been disrespectful to the strict rules of modern society. Including her yearn for the exotic, the mystery of the white man, but this didn’t fall into what she dreamed it would be. Fake. Phony. Picture perfect came at a hefty price. It came with the acceptance that she would always fight to keep up with his standards.

  However, her path was split down the middle. She knew one day it would all come to this, to an end, to a head that would ultimately seal her fate with either accepting his modest proposal or denying it outright. She wished she could rewind time and be born into whatever he wished her to be, to please him with her outer layer of skin. To shed another layer and to look right into his eyes and know that he truly loved her for being her.

  Savannah turned to face him. “Brian?”

  He turned, his grin still plastered on his face. “Yes dear?”

  This was her choice, her body, and her life. The decision has been made.

  WSV #3

  reason

  season

  change

  crisp

  air

  inhale

  cough

  sharp

  shiver

  spell

  reverse

  flip flops

  tank tops

  shorty shorts

  sandals

  laughter

  music

  volume

  noise

  children

  playing

  hot

  desolate

  sun