Skip to main content

Fiction Fridays!

So, I know I have been very inconsistent in posting here.  Maybe you haven't even noticed, but I would still like apologize for being a poor blogger. (In my defense college life is pretty crazy...)

Anyway, this past semester I took an Introduction to Creative Writing course.  "So what?" you ask-- well, with that, I have many creative pieces just sitting here on my computer, not doing anything but collecting dust... or whatever untouched computer files collect.  So I thought, if you don't mind, I'd share some of them with you (hopefully) every Friday! Maybe we can entitle it a series of Fiction Fridays?

To start off this series, here is a poem I like to call "Don't Read Too Carefully"-- a nonsense piece for those who like to play with words.  Enjoy!


Don't Read Too Carefully
By Emma Campbell


If slag hugged the wispy clouds
I sifted blue tears that love.
They trickled through the eyes of man
As we believed to know the truth
That trees could kiss the dawn of sleep.

Snow bites the mud of earth
In wavering outbursts of anger and fear.
We dread the day that death will swoop
From cool breath of autumn’s tongue
And into fluttering depths below.

Belief in skies that swing from Pluto
Cause leather stars to roar.
As I curved the bend I caught
Time’s red sparrow that soars beyond
And lead my cronies home to lull.




Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Day 25 What Are You Carrying?

Yesterday I drove up to New Hampshire to visit Ian (my boyfriend). I got there later in the afternoon and I had spent the morning working on things at home.  About an hour after I got to NH, we went to the Fall Festival at his church across the border in Vermont. By the time we got there, it was dark already, I was pretty tired and hungry, and this event was HUGE.  Much bigger than I expected. It was really cool-- food trucks, pony rides, laser tag, trunk-or-treating, Incredibles 2 playing on the side of the church, the works. But. Of course. My anxiety decided to form a lens over my eyes.  The crowds of people around me grew louder and I felt trapped amongst the hundreds of bodies.  My heart started to beat faster with every person who walked by. I have anxiety, I've mentioned this before, and many times large crowds will bring it on. I'm sure many of you know the feeling. And it can be the worst. Here I was, looking forward to having a fun time and enjo...

Dear World

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- To an utterly broken world, Why? A question so frequently asked, but is it ever truthfully answered? So many horrid, horrific, unspeakable things happen day after day. Many to innocent persons. Many overlooked. Dear world, there is one who knows your suffering. No, not simply knows, but feels it in an innermost way, understands so deeply, so intimately. In fact, he suffered every pain this world has to offer. And he still bears the scars. Consider Lazarus' death.  The biblical story that holds the shortest verse in scripture: "Jesus wept." He knows the pain. No matter how big a scar it leaves on your heart or how long it lingers within you.  He knows. He knows and he weeps with us.  He holds us close during tribulation, and he reminds us that he has overcome it all-- we do not have to be overcome by it all. When dark...

Anchor

Breathe. Inhale... exhale.  I am alive. The first fragile snowflake falls in December. A field of flowers swaying in a spring breeze. A star shoots past the moon on a warm summer night. The low roll of thunder when a storm begins. A broken pot that sits on the shelf in an old potter's home. I see my Savior in all these things-- my Anchor -- but not in the broken pot. You see, the broken pot is one that simply sits on a wooden shelf.  It collects dust. It is known for its brokenness and it does not serve a purpose. It does not know why the potter keeps it.  But the potter knows. The potter has never forgotten the pot. I am the broken pot. I sit on a shelf collecting dust. I am helpless, hopeless.  I cannot serve my purpose.  Nor any purpose. But one day, the potter takes me from my shelf.  My shattered edges shift and crumble.  It hurts. The potter with gentle hands and loving fingers takes on broken piece ...