The Butterfly Dragons

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“I just wish they weren’t so afraid of the camera. It’s the only way I ever get to see them,” Aesilver lamented. She sighed and propped her chin in a hand, rose gold hair settling around her long, pointed ears. Her elbows rested on the wooden railing also supporting her camera, but she jutted her hips enough that her decorative bells jingled.

“What are you even talking about?” Calena tossed her lavender bangs from her face, trying to get a better view of the simulated lush environment. Her dangling earrings clinked in response. “This is a botanical gardens. There are no creatures here. You’ll need to go to the zoo.”

Aesilver threw her head back. “Were you not listening to me at all? It took the hover tram two hours to get here. I was explaining the whole way.”

The other elf shrugged. “I guess I tuned it out. All I want to see is the diamond flower. It’s supposed to be the only living plant left in existence.”

“Mm. It is a pity the humans decimated the plant life. Everything is artificial now. Even the animals can only be found in zoos anymore. But that’s to be expected from a race who only values currency.”

Calena played with her holographic phone. “Don’t knock it. Currency is what keeps us living like the princesses we are. Now shut up and tell me what it is you’re trying to find, so we can go look at the diamond flower.”

“The butterfly dragons!” Aesilver lifted the slender camera to her silver eyes. “Be quiet so they’ll come out.” After a few moments of silence, she gasped. Repeatedly smacked her friend’s arm.

Two dragons, no bigger than a fairy butterfly, flitted about the richly colored flowers. Searching for synthesized nectar. Their dainty bodies were patterned exactly off the insects, and there was nothing fearsome about them. In fact, they were thought to be extinct. But they could occasionally be seen in the botanical gardens by a lucky visitor.

Leaning over the railing, Calena squinted. “I don’t see them.” She swatted away the other’s hand. “Stop hitting me.”

Aesilver held the camera display in front of her. Eager to see her pictures. As she scrolled through, she frowned.

“Oh, no…what?”

“I didn’t get any of them.” Her rose gold lips pouted. “We’ll have to wait until they find the courage to come out again. I don’t know why they didn’t show up in any of the pictures. I had it on rapid capture.”

Calena groaned. She allowed her head to fall onto the railing, lavender braids falling around her porcelain face. “We are going to be here forever!”

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Lightning Strikes Twice

Lightning never strikes twice?
No
It strikes again
Same place, same spot
Over and over
Catching fire
Leaving veined scars
Killing and reviving
At the same time
It’s an unnecessary punishment
Descending from the sky
Heaven’s divine anger
Never stopping

Does lightning strike twice?
Yes
Indeed it does
I watch it every day
Over and over
Consuming flesh
Leaving burned scars
Disfiguring and beautifying
At the same time
It’s a mystifying occurrence
Blasting the same wound
A person’s relentless rage
Never stopping

Lightning always strikes twice

But so do I


Volcanic Islands

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Fire meets water
In a spectacular way
Adding to an isle
Most every day
Hot red and cool blue
Collide in a burst of steam
Creating a vicious landscape
Often only seen in dreams
An island appearing dull
Cloaked in garb gray
Until it begins glistening
Drowning in salty spray
Giving the concrete lava
A particular type of gleam
Heightened in the peak
Of the sun’s beating beams

* Author’s Note: This Poetry Thursday was inspired by none other than the nature documentaries on Netflix from the BBC. If I don’t have music on in the background while I’m writing, I’m watching (and re-watching) documentaries. Even as a child, I was fascinated by documentaries. A dream of mine is to travel the world, photographing plants, animals, weather, and everything in between. I’ve always loved nature, and I have a feeling I always will.


Song of the Dead

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I love singing my boyfriend to sleep every night; he’s been so lonely since my funeral. He tosses and turns, mumbling incoherently. I try letting him sleep on his own, but my heart cannot stand seeing him so distraught. So I sing our favorite song. It soothes him into slumber. Then I can watch him in peace.

Unfortunately, I do not think he sees me. I wonder if he senses me. I’m not even sure he hears me, but I know he’s comforted. He cried the most at my funeral, save for my parents. I visited them. Though they did not respond to me as he does. I seemed to only cause them fear and aggravation. So I moved on to my second love.

For days, I wandered his home. Looking at pictures. Reminiscing. We had built ourselves the foundations of a good life. I knew I had picked a good man when I stumbled upon the ring in his room.

He still keeps it by his bedside. Often cries as he gazes upon it. He blames himself for my death, and there’s nothing I can do to change it. I can only sing him to sleep every night. My death is my my fault. My foolishness rendered me lifeless. It had been my finger that found the trigger. They debate if it was accidental or intentional.

Regardless, I serve my penance. My immortal heart shatters every day as I watch him. He trudges through each rotation of the earth as if it were a curse. And he is mine. Thus, I sing to him. After he sheds the grueling duties of the day and crawls into bed. I caress his hair, though he does not know it. I watch him struggle to get comfortable. Listen to his barely audible cries. And then I sing our favorite song as he drifts into a horrible dreamland. Night after endless, isolating night.


Ladies Night

Photography Tuesday is honestly a picture I took of myself a couple weeks ago. I don’t normally take “selfies,” but when I snapped this, I was feeling rather proud. That week saw me working on both my novel and blog every day. It was productive, energizing, and made me extremely happy. Fast forward another seven days. This past week saw absolutely no creative productivity. Hence a week since I’ve posted on here. Work has been crazy as our store already prepares for spring. I won’t say much more, but it’s been both physically and emotionally exhausting. The stress had taken pretty much every creative juice out of me and hid it away somewhere. However, some things changed today, so hopefully, I can get back on track. And I chose this picture to remind myself of the joy of two weeks ago. 


Ice Lichen

Today’s Photography Tuesday brings us ice crystals off my Wrangler from a blistering cold of a morning. The way they formed reminded me of lichen, and lichen is one of my favorite things to photograph. 


Memoir? Memoir.

According to the Merriam-Webster dictionary, the first definition for “memoir” reads as such: “A written account in which someone (such as a famous performer or politician) describes past experiences.” At first, this worried me because I thought only famous people could have memoirs. I am by no means famous. Not even famous among my few friends. I have no intentions of becoming famous. If I finally get my books published and they sell enough that I do reach “famous” level, I suppose I would take it in stride. But the reason I write books has nothing to do with popularity.

Thankfully, the dictionary continued. The second definition for “memoir” states: “A written account of someone or something that is usually based on personal knowledge of the subject.” This was what I was looking for. So, in a sense, I have written memoirs before as parts of school projects, and I hadn’t realized the exact definition of what I had written.

Now that I’ve established a memoir is what I thought it was, there comes the decision of what do I start with? Given that I stick to this weekly plan, there are fifty two weeks in the year. That means fifty two memoirs in one year. I know I haven’t had the most exciting life, but I have more than enough topics to fill fifty two slots. At least, I think I do.

Today can be a memoir about, well, memoirs. Redundancies, I know.

One of the main reasons I want to write these memoirs lies in the fact of I want to remember. It is proven that our brains tend to push out memories and facts it deems unimportant to make ways for new information. I’ve already noticed my short term memory has become highly forgetful, and I’m afraid it will start transferring to the long term memories as well. I may not have the most interesting tales, but they’re what make me, me.

And let’s use our imaginations and say my books do sell, they do make enough money I that I reach what most consider the coveted “famous” level. I still plan on keeping this blog. I have yet to reason why I would get rid of it. There are times when I like to go back and read what I’ve already written. See how I grow and how my subject matter revolves. So, if I do become famous, I want to be able to remind myself where I came from and how I got to be. I want to remain humble. There is no need for pride in an already arrogant, self-absorbed world.

In closing for today’s Memoir Monday, I hope these upcoming personal stories will provide some entertainment. Perhaps some insight on why my brain instinctively chooses some of the themes that I do. Give a glimpse into a simple life to reassure you you’re not the only one who has or is struggling with a particular matter. At any rate, I hope you enjoy.


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