So of recent, I've had the good fortune to be featured in four online literary journals right here! I am pleased as punch and feel extremely blessed to have this good fortune, and thought I would share it here with you.
NEWS ABOUT MODERN DAY FAIRYTALES
So exciting news all around, Modern Day Fairytales is now officially Duotrope listed and I am so overwhelmed with the wonderful submissions I have been getting both from there and on deviantart. If you would like to see the listing it is here: Official Duotrope Listing
Also, I would like to announce, after the amazing contributors to Issue 1, Issue 2 is out and it features more wonderful writers such as GuinevereToGwen, NotenSMSK, and ravenwritingclaw
Thank you to all of you for being so wonderfully supportive and kind. I look forward to reading and showcasing more of your work and am currently playing with the idea of a quarterly print version of the journal for your entertainment!
Please do go have a look at the website here: Modern Day Fairytales
Spread the news so that more authors can get features on there!
A LITTLE ABOUT THE MAGAZINE
Modern Day Fairytales is a literary journal dedicated to showcasing the very best of magical, whimsical fantasy based poetry, flash fiction and micro reads. If you believe that this description fits your work, then please feel free to submit your work to us. We promise to respect your work, your ideas and treat you with the greatest care because we know that it is not easy to share your words with strangers.
The following writing has moved me so much. Please do have a read.
shoresHonestly this is not the catastrophe
or the lonely tired preaching an end,
preaching the body's borders as a brittle coastline
preaching the probability of mountains
What blooms from the traffic
in the youngest city in America-
I am learning that sleep is exile but not homesickness,
that every generation declares theirs the last.
What comes shakes the destination or it shakes the vessel
But either way god was excommunicated out of necessity
and our rain manufactured elsewhere for the same reason.
And I don't know who this heaviness belongs to,
the sky thick with a violet and red violence,
the translation is a sea which watches us back
But every single day we receive calls for asylum
through a bright universe of broken glass
I rarely remember the bridge and that lonely evening, where the season was changing its colors, and I stood, like the children stood on snowy days, looking out the window, at those two flocks of geese soaring past the city bridge. I rarely remember the section of the bridge that are your big eyes and straight nose, a smiling mouth with two dimples, the dimples of the boys that are very sweet.
Easily as the boats sway from dock to dock, the water covers the time of our life and the fisherman's oars dissolve our moments. Under our aimless boat is another world, a world split when we made that decision under the liquidating sun. I keep my eyes closed because I want to break like a fever, the way the soft river makes way for everything.
In the transience of the seasonal changes, we have all lost someone.
I told you to forget me, forget the way our movements merged with the twisted arch of a soaring forest, forget the crimson explosions on the print of the breakfast table
Acceptancehow do you sleep well on thoughts about how
tomorrow you're going to bleed all over the floor and the walls and your heart
is going to get smeared across someone's mouth and swallowed, consumed in everything from
vengeance to fear with so many sides to this story
how can you sleep without suffocating beneath the weight of
knowing tomorrow you'll breathe your last and maybe you'll have words before that
maybe not but maybe someone will be there to watch you, to watch over you
keep the vultures away and, worse, hold you close to watch you too closely
how is it you can smile and kiss me softly and tell me to rest my pretty head
knowing that it's probably the last time you'll get to press your mouth against mine while blood
still rushes through your blushing face in the most innocent, acceptable of ways
how are you not dying already oh love please don't tell me you're dying already
we've yet to begin living together like we're meant to please don't tell me you're
to the end of the earthif you should die
before the right time
i would hope the world
would stop spinning
and start crumbling away
until gravity was nonexistent
and i would run to the edge
until my feet lifted off the ground
and i was united with you once more
on clarity, seeing yourself as you arewe're all hypocrites here.
and we're all artists.
we paint ourselves
onto someone else like
it isn't painful for them,
like it isn't killing them
in the process. we give them
ownership of our failures,
we lay our flaws under their
tongues so when they speak,
more often than not, we hear
some distorted version of
ourselves. we expect them
to love the way we love. we expect
them to fight the way we fight. but yeah, we're
all fucking artists, right?
and we're all individuals, of course.
we're all on our brave, one-man
trip to enlightenment,
we're proud of the way
our word has been shaved
down to feelings, and moments,
mood swings, and oxy
off the bathroom sink.
well i can't be the only fucking
one who's tired of being an artist.
i can't be the only one tired
of seeing my skin stretched out over
everyone i know. i am tired of watching
my reflection shimmer and fade in their
smiles, in their wrath. i am tired of becoming
silver in one moment only to tarnish in the
next. i am tired of asking
it's not enoughshe held her breath and jumped from the clifftop.
the shockwave of her body slapping against the surface told her, breathe, breathe.
but she refused.
the waves smacked her upside the head. breathe, breathe.
but she refused.
her lover pounded against her chest. breathe, breathe.
history repeats itself.
i realize this the fourth time i find myself on a couch
with the head of a boy i don’t know
between my stiff, nonresponding legs.
i realize this on the third sip of alcohol. on the fourth.
the fifth. the eleventh. the first time i black out. the eighth.
history repeats itself
and i am napoleon marching across russia
and i only pretend the water is poisoned.
i only pretend the earth is burned to ground.
i pretend that destruction is inevitable
and that help is not an option.
we got close, him and i.
sometimes you get so close to a person
you can feel their lips stiffen
when you try to kiss them.
sometimes you get close to a person,
under them, between damp sheets.
they never stop believing
that you are beneath them.
“help me,” he says. i say okay.
he tells me to sleep with him later
so i say the wrong name in bed,
but so does he;
he means it,
i say it because it’s the only way i can
I hope you are reading thisthe person I love loves music much too much
and the person I love loves that I love the quiet and easy days
loves that I like to stay up late (or early) till the birds sing of morning and
the person I love loves that I love to hold hands and hold a body but only when I know them fully
and the person I love loves listening to my songs and listening to my voice and to my poetry and stories
the person I love has songs to share too and a voice that melts my heart and words that mold it back into something nostalgia old and inspired new
and the person I love loves to look around and take it in once in a while and wonders why we can’t just run away to a secluded place in the forest with a cabin that harbors all of our needs, keeps you and me in a space apart where it rains when we’re sad because we would always be sad together and where the sun is warm on our skin when we are smiling together and laughing together because I made a spectacular pun out of seemingly nothing sp
to my only crush.you were the first and last person i ever liked.
after the age of 14 something broke,
or maybe i just liked the thought of someone liking me back,
or the way you made me laugh.
i liked the concept of you,
until you grew up.
i've known you for 9 years, or known of you i suppose,
but i don't really know you. not anymore.
i know the you that was buried 4 years ago beside a father.
i never saw you break, but i saw the tailspin, the rubble after the crash.
you've been in a tailspin for years,
praying to a god you don't believe in to just stop the ride long enough for you to get your bearings.
you used to be the smell of hamburgers grilling and outdoors and pavement.
you were blue sky summers with my brothers,
your smile a stop sign for my 12 year old breath.
you were airsofting, halo, and the screamo band in the garage disrupting my reading.
you were jokes and guitar strings and water balloon fights.
but by the time i was 14 i'd outgrown liking you,
outgrown liking anyone at all
and you'd o
orionto remember your name
a rib of stars and heartwood,
shaped in the echo
of a careless sky. earthbound, i
am settling into the silky mists
before sleep, listening for the sound
of the river in you
dragging its heavy body
to the sea.
to have forgotten the whole of it
and remembered pieces. your hands over me
in a numerology
of habit, the arc and fall
like punctuation in a phrase.
those moments i felt the shape
of the letters underneath, hydrogen
and bone, promises branded
in dark. the phantom chase
that binds you. the poison carrying
to know you then,
already strung with ache and sinew
to the swinging axis of the sky,
fractured godhead sheathed
in wounds. and i,
a holy fool,
still writing prayers to sunken mattresses,
wilted gardens, the cosmic pause
of your longing on mine--
before i sleep again
in this body full of ghosts
like an abandoned temple.
this cobwebbed vacancy,
oh, my wandering hunter.
drowned compass bent
in the shape of artillery. gone again
Summer Days"Summer Days:"
Snug in my comfort clothes,
This feeling can't be beat
Air conditioning: keep the doors closed!
Else, you'll bask in summer heat
Not a care for hair, today
Your bedhead style will do
Sigh, let troubles melt away
(Including assignments due!)
'Tis the last day of summer!
Enjoy a cup, or few
Of your favorite flavored ice cream
And gain a pound or two!
Please, relish the lovely haze,
And reminisce your Summer Days!
woodland childthe sounds of the city
don't sing the same lullaby
as the whispers and cries
of the forest
and the stone buildings
don't soothe the same way
as the rain and the moon and
oceans in her lungsshe was tired. it wasn't the physical kind of tired. not the kind that can be fixed with exactly 8.5 hours of sleep. no. she was mentally tired, emotionally tired and that exhaustion had already seeped into her bones for such an extent of time that she couldn't remember a time when they weren't always so heavy. when it wasn't so damn hard to hold her head up high.
no amount of sleep helped. no amount of words eased the pain that was slowly turning her insides into mush. some nights she would just lay in bed, staring into the darkness and she would swear that it felt like she was drowning. her sorrows and the sheer amount of pain you managed to cause her flooding her body, pooling in her lungs. wave after wave crashed against her ribs until they were fractured with water seeping in and out in equal parts.
every time she inhaled it felt as if the water was coming a little closer. all of this because she'd fallen in love with you. you have no idea how tired you make her feel. how the cons
Oklahoma, where the wind came and swept you awayThe wind is sweeping down the plains, wheezing through the aching, battered homestead I yearned for. Amidst forever grass and azure oblivion, you eroded me more than wind ever could; reduced to crystalline rubble, you brushed me off into the carmine clay-dust beneath you and fled, leaving naught but unfillable footprints on unstable ground.
I know I can't build sand castles with these glassy silicon shards, but still I smother them with silt-ridden adhesive and pulverize them into a new shape--a form of me a mirror would admire for a Picasso. Mayhaps an artist's eye will find beauty here someday, but until then I will shelter from rain and locusts and seek a new self in all this titian-tinged glue.
the rainchild, the skin dripped from his fingers & the blood beneath was clearer than the truth, rivulets of rainsong pouring down the storm drain straight to the pacific ocean ; he never needed to cry. "the clouds
shed enough tears for all of us," he told me once and i remember
when i first met him, those arms outstretched & palms like little pools, oases running through lifelines. the fortune teller told him he would only live as long
as the storm
"it's the water in my veins," he said; "it washes away the stardust & we are all drinking our ancestors' ashes, did you know my grandfather tasted," he said, "like raspberry cordial & did you know that freckles
are like nebulae & your cheeks are full of moonlight, did you know that thunder
only claps after the lights go out?"
when i was young i counted miles in the silence before those soundwaves drowned my ears in rumbles. the longer the silence the farther the light & now, my voice is racing to catch up with your radiancy. sometimes we can see but we
april twenty-fourththis morning i slid out of a bed
that's never felt like mine,
heaving an exhausted breath
and prying open still-sleeping eyes.
when i exhaled,
i felt as if my life was seeping
out my lungs.
when i breathed back in,
the cold air slid between
the slits of my skeleton,
bringing nothing but emptiness.
it's strange to think that this is my life
in its rawest form, and that
if i decorated it with
ribbons of good grades
and certificates of good friends,
it wouldn't really be my life
in its rawest form
and something about that saddens me.
i'm just another girl, really,
who uses frilly words
and too many run-on sentences,
and hopes against hope
that one day i'll be able to lift my life
in its truest, barest, rawest form
in the fragile jail of my fingers
and the cracked cup of my palms,
and look it straight in the eye and say,
"today, you are not a tragedy
and you are not a sad lullaby.
today, you are the most
to ever grace these ears."
is black, like a
and as a hand-print
she calls to you—
an echo of
what once was.
a half-truth, back-
is too dark to
guide you home.
a mind, a man, a songlearn about choking.
learn about space &
the distance from the pier
to the bottom of the ocean.
contemplate obscure types of light, wonder
why they don't reach out & touch you,
imagine yourself beyond a veil,
see life as a collection of images
stitched together by the clumsy fingers
of an amateur.
find consistency in the rough parts, beauty
in the disturbed & the dark
between fine straight lines.
don't put too much stock in words:
sound is a language some can't
as callused, bleeding hands.
there is no mundane.
minds are bendable.
shadows can be touched.
when you press your fingers into your eye sockets,
the sparks you see are real.
fill yourself with precipices, reflections,
the soft touch of human hearts.
explain to yourself that you are a man
but explain your tears as well.
cut yourself with love;
believe in beauty.
you're meant for this; you can feel it,
like you're drowning
(it's warm water &
you can still breathe).
artist's dawnhalf past four
mellifluous silence hung buoyant
on gossamer skies
she painted the sun lithe
and lissom strokes brushing space
with sunrise bursting from her fingers
she perspired morning
brow beading imagination
of clean towel clouds
and citrus sunlight
1.Said the eagle to the fish
As he sped to splatter on a dinner-plate rock:
"Close your mouth, skydiver-
if you swallow a cloud, you'll never come down."
"Rituals, smituals!" Rejoined the fish,
"I am hooked on hope like you will never believe;
even a fish can learn to soar."
Houdinii used to be disgusted by the scars
etched beneath my collarbone,
the tally of my worst mistakes-
yet i am not the only one condemned
with the sins of an escape artist:
you shed your shell with me, then took
the fastest route that led just south of intimacy.
i thought you were a hero. i thought
you were a wild thing- a fearless soul, a heart
that refused to be contained. and i knew
something like this with you-
our little taste of fireworks
and trumpets. i saw the veins
on the inside of your thigh, tasted
the sweat on your upper lip,
felt all your calluses and soft spots-
the great and terrible entanglement
of limbs and lives, blooming
like a flower, or a bruise-
and when i touched the life
between your lungs,
i think the worst is that we'll never know, now,
if the marks we left would have been scars
i wish that we had tried:
we could have proved them all wrong,
you and i.