Late to Camp NaNoWriMo

https://nanowrimo.org/participants/rebekah1213 My NaNoWriMo profile

Stories from this blog prompt …. https://rebekahquinne.wordpress.com/2024/04/01/camp-nanowrimo-5/ 

It was 2:30am when I heard the honk …I was already dressed in case I had to rush to the bus. I was already packed and my phone was 78% charged.  I raced to the bus…..

I get on the bus as there are six other people all fixing their hair or just getting dressed…..

I groaned …”Rebekah, you are almost the last one … .there were total.of nine who missed the bus this year, so you get the last cabin.” the driver explained as I got in and sighed. 

We picked up the last two people who were both in onesies each with a simple backpack. She had an orange onesie with pigtails, and he had a Scooby Doo onesie with stuffies Scooby. They both sat with me as we all instantly felt close and connected. 

We all sat around as there was an older lady in the passenger seat at the gas station, she got us coffee and some muffins. 

She sat with us….”we are going around saying your name and what do you write …” she smiled. 

“I’m your cabin leader Anne. I write fantasy short stories.” She giggled and smiled. 

We went around the bus….

  1. Belle wrote stories that can end all races. She was hoping camp would help her finish her book. 
  2. Paige wrote children’s books as she was a teacher and she was inspired by her own kids and students. 
  3. Alexis wrote books about owning a TV station and the drama that goes with producing a TV show. 
  4. Jack wrote stories of health issues, bonds of friends, secret plots of his frenemies and how he was a bad boy. 
  5. Max wrote several novels on how everything should be lived to max. He had a hard time finishing any of the stories. 
  6. She went by Shadow fun and wrote about erotica and darker tales. 
  7. I am Rebekah and write drama, personal stories and my favorite horror stories. My stories did have some adult themes 
  8. River wrote erotica and sci-fi with both  books and short stories. 
  9. Rayven wrote sci-fi drama and erotica stories.

We told our stories….my stories. 

Story one. . . Growl

I walk into the store just as my cell phone goes off. . . It was agent. I couldn’t believe I was big enough that I had an agent, lawyer, and accountant. I was almost as famous as Rice (I was way better than Meyer.)

“Did you find the driver and got to the New York store?” Chad Alison asked.

“Yes, I did. We are here and doing well. I read from chapter three and then sign books for two hours.” I retell the events.

“Then you and your husband meet me at” He went on about the latest pop restaurant in New York.

“I have a huge announcement for you.” He was so excited, so I hyper and nervous. My sweetie rubbed my shoulder as he directed me to the front desk as I still have my cell phone up to my ear.

“Well, we need to go. We will meet you there at seven tonight.” I explained and said Bye to get off the phone.

There was over hundred people in the store. I read a small scene about challenge of being a vampire in the past. It was from Book 3: Danielle and she was a gypsy, so she had extra magic and charm but was so much stronger at night.

I explained how I got started with vampires, and I gave credit to National Novel Writing month (NaNoWriMo). I even put the website in my books. I love Stroker’s Dracula and Rice’s The Vampire Chronicles. We answered a few questions and then I signed several dozen books.

Later that evening, my husband and I met my agent at the fancy restaurant. I was just in simple dress and my guy in a simple dark blue suit and we still felt under dressed. We saw several celebrities complaining that the soup was too cold. It was supposed to be cold as it was a Watermelon soup to cleanse the palate.

“So you said you had good news?” I blurted out nervous and excited and still hyped over the signing.

“Yes, they want to make Book one: Melzela into a movie.” He smiled hyped as well. I wanted to squeak and scream; it took all of me to stay calm.

“That is amazing.” My husband stated as I could heard negotiating in his voice. He was already on the phone with our lawyer to look over the contract. We had five courses including dessert and celebrated the good news. . . minus the complaining celebs, the food was amazing.

I woke up with a smile on my face. I stretched only to feel that my phone was not on my end table. . I sat up so fast that I got entangled in my CPAP tube. I tried to take the mask off with nervous and blurred vision as the clip on the mask flicked me in the eye. I growled as hold my eye. . . I shift to side of the bed as my barefoot step into something cold and squishy. I growled again. I turned my entire body to use my good eye. I found my glasses, on the edge of the table. Then I see my phone flipped on the floor between the table and bed. I noticed that my green headset was chewed through . . . It was my cat Bonkers; that was the third set he ate through that month and I didn’t have a backup pair. I growled yet again. I found a dirty towel, cleaned off my foot, and the gross mess that Bonkers left when he choked on my green cord.

I looked at my phone. . . “**** I over slept.” I had overslept by at least an hour as I had not heard my alarm go off. I barely dressed in my sweatpants and a oversize hoodie, with a unkempt fizzy bun and raced to the local gas station a few blocks down the street. It was a total of twenty minute walk both ways combined, but I needed a headset with microphone; I do all of my music, mediation, and phone calls that way. I growled at I look at the slim choices that all over priced by at least ten dollars. I re-budgeted my groceries in my head as I bought sparkly pink one. The cashier didn’t even greet me, nor did I greet him, we both knew it was just one of the get our stuff, pay for it, and get out transactions.

I got home put a bagel, I look all over the refrigerator for the cream cheese that I bought for the bagels. However the bagel was popped and now more cool than warm as I find that the cream was opened, and left out over night as my brother used it on crackers, but never put it away. However was it last night or the night before, because the cheese was crusted hard and I’m not sure if that green was another food or mold. . . Ewww. . . I growl as I try to spread butter on my cold, hard bagel. I grabbed a cup of coffee only to find that my brother put my favorite creamer back in the refrigerator empty. I growled again.

I finally took a shower only to find that the water was on temp. . . our neighbor had used all of hot water, between using their dish washer, and all four of them showering in the morning. Then I only got shampoo in my eye, and I spent five extra minutes washing suds out of my sensitive and sore eyes. I growled several times as I dry off. I finally get dressed, but I heard a honk on the bus. . . I look out of the window as I racing to finish packing. . . I growl to bare see the bus decorated with a book and a rainbow over it as the words Camp NaNoWriMo was on it. . . .I raced out in bare feet and un-brushed wet hair to see that bus had pass. No one saw me run after it, except my brother who was eating my pizza rolls. Then he said. . . “there was the bus.” . . . No S***. . . I growled.

Story two: Order in the Court

I was getting my things together and packing for writing camp when I heard a knocking noises like the sound of a hammer . . . like a gravel on a judge’s bench. I couldn’t tell where the sound was coming from, but looked around, but it was getting louder almost like a hammer meets a very hard slow drumming sound. As I get closer to my notebook, the sound was so loud that it was giving me a headache. . . I could also hear muffled voices. . . and I heard :”Order. . . Order in the court!” I was confused where it was coming from. . . I looked around, but the sound was strong around my notebook.

I got pulled into as soon as I opened my book. . . It was like a cartoon, my body for just second was like a piece of flexible goo that got sucked up into the vacuum.

I merge in front of a huge wood door that that had the Justice Tarot card engraved in the wood. It was a woman blindfold holding up a scale.

“Go in . . . you are late.” A clumsy man with a black briefcase told me. . . I opened the door as the court room is full of so many different characters. Cat people from a sci-fi story I wanted to write with my talented hubby. My hubby is dressed in a sci-fi space outfit. A beautiful woman in black and orange dress sat next to the Cat people as I knew that was the character I wanted to create for my amazing Rayven. Dragons all with my brother’s faces stuck in them as if they were ideas from a children’s book I wanted to write, but never got around to time. All of my vampires were there, a few witches, a bunch of ghosts, and even my inner demons in physical forms, some were mean but gorgeous, others were just natural hideous forms.

There was a judge a Gothic younger chick who would smile at the characters but frown at me. She had spiderweb with eye makeup on her temples.

“Rebekah, do you know why you are here?” She asked. . . .

“Honestly, no I do not, your honor.” I replied. All of the characters booed.

“You have condemned of having favorite characters.” She sighed in her condemn.

“Is that a crime?” I was confused.

“I will admit I do have some characters that their stories just come out better, and therefore make it easier to write. As for favorite, each character has there own merit.” I explained.

“Lair.” Several of the characters blurted out.

“Which ones are my favorites and which ones feel left out?” I wanted answers. I wanted to know what was the real crime and what was supposed punishment for the crime. They made a list of me claiming that I favor the vampires, ghosts, and witches the most. The Dragons, unicorns both declared that they wanted more attention.

“I write more horror than fantasy.” It was my rebuttal.

“There is a very fine line between horror and fantasy.” They argued back.

“Dragons can easily be horror. They breathe fire and make you a roasted marshmallow human.” It was another argument.

“You can have unicorn take you out with their horn.” Another character shouted. . .

“What do you say to that?” The judge asked me.

“I rather be friend a dragon or unicorn, not have them kill me.” They all grumbled at my reply.

“Why don’t you use more elves or fairies in your work?” They asked as the first two rows was a mixture of elves and fairies. They all looked mad at me.

“Again, I write horror, not fantasy.” I growled. They growled back.

“Disney really messed up my vision of fairies with Tinkerbell.” I added. “Blame Disney. It’s hard to see you that dark between Disney and then Lord of the Rings.” I rolled my eyes. “I like vampire for the power, sex appeal, and their emotions are just more intense. It’s hard for me to see this in elves or fairies.”

The crowds all started to grumble that the judge had to say. . . “Order in the court.” She smacked her gavel. They quieted down. I was still confused.

“What about your drama work?” A shy and quiet voice an awkward geeky preteenager asked questioned me.

“What about it?” I asked. I know I have written a few drama pieces working on a fear or emotional issue.

“What about the sibling to the main character?” He asked another question.

“The thing is I write the story. . . the character that pulls to me. Once I am a published author and others read my work, and they feel that your story needs out ,then they can write it.” He growled at my answer.

“What makes your story better than the main character’s story?” I asked him.

“You got everything handed to you even after your parents died. Your sister busted her ass to go to school, work, and take care of you. You even bought a violent video game even though you knew you were not supposed to. . . Why should I write about the brat?” I knew the exact character it was. 

“I can’t tell everyone’s story. I write what characters and stories come to me. They need to pull and hold my interest. I have favorite genres, and yes, I prefer horror over fantasy. If the other character pulled me, and I had the time, I would write your story too. My head is always running with several projects and now my inner demons want their stories told, so I’m doing therapy as well as writing…so give me a d*** break!” I barked at them. 

“I’m just a human.” I sighed. 

“Make it interesting, pull my interest … .I’m a newbie with fantasy, with sci-fi … .adding more genres while I’m trying to finish others can get overwhelming.” I added and argued. 

“I’m starting slow. This doesn’t mean I have extreme favorites, but storylines and twists are easier for me to write.”

“We want you to write all our stories…” one of my inner demons belted out. 

“Then stop criticizing me and help me break my writer’s block and be more creatively productive!” I growled back.

“Look, I need to get ready for writing camp, so inspire me or punish me now.” I was losing patience as I could the clicking of a clock in my head. I knew I needed to finish packing for camp. 

“My judgment is… You need to work on your sci-fi and fantasy spin, work with three new characters and work on things to keep you productive and break your writer’s block….Court is adjourned.” As she snapped her gavel, I reappeared in my bedroom as the bus was driving away…

Inner Demons: The War has begun. . .

I’m stuck. So I just started to write. . . just to try fill up the white screen which is my own personal Hell. The white screen mocking me along with those damn demons in my head. . . it’s like starting with an angel on one shoulder and demon on the other. While I was doing good things with the angel, but the damn demon got smart and got his other demon friends to stay in my head.
Now my muses are tied up and I am sitting in front of white screen. There were times were words would just pour out of me, so much so that I have five books all completed, but need a complete edit and rewrite.
The demons echo the same sayings. . .

“You are good enough or talented enough to be a published author.”

“You are just lazy.”

“You are sickly and weak.”

“Just stay in bed.”

“You are just wasting your time.”
“No one cares about your writings.”

“You just keep finding the cliches.”

“You’re stories have been done before.”

“You don’t deserve to create . . . anything.”

“You will never reach 50,000 words. You will never achieve the awards in NaNoWriMo.”

“You should just give up.”

The white screen echoes all of this. . .

The office and house in my head are completely destroyed. . . . bulldozed from the inside out.

I need to get inspired, toned my inner mind, take out and kick out those demons, and rebuild.

Those demons do NOT paid rent and need to be ******* evicted. They need have their butts kicked and leave me the **** alone.

I am sick of my depression. I am sick of anxieties. I am sick of being mocked by a blank page. . . I have idea after idea stuck in the vortex of my head some where.

It’s about time I real claim my emotions and head back.

I need to strategize as the huge war has begun. . .

“You are good enough or talented enough to be a published author.” I do have talent and many like my writings.

“You are just lazy.” I’m not lazy, but just differently focused. I cannot handle a 9 to 5 job. I need constant different stimulation and not dealing with the public.

“You are sickly and weak.” Physically, I am complicated, but that doesn’t mean I am weak, I just have extra challenges to overcome.

“Just stay in bed.” There is so much to inspire me out there. . . starting with my boyfriend.

“You are just wasting your time.” That what a regular or normal person may see, but my mind is never stopping. You should see the to-do list I accomplished. Writing is a process . . . a journey.

“No one cares about your writings.” I have several people excited about my next book.

“You just keep finding the clichés.” I find a cliché so I can writing it differently.

“You’re stories have been done before.” There is no technical original plot. I just add quirks and twists.

“You don’t deserve to create . . . anything.” You demons are just jealous. . . I have good family and friends that support me.

“You will never reach 50,000 words. You will never achieve the awards in NaNoWriMo. I have my own goals, and I will write whenever I can. Each word is like a step. . . they do add up.

“You should just give up.” You want me to that to think you won. Just because I cannot constantly get words on the screen, does not mean I am not working on my writings. I refuse to give up.

I am a writer! I will be a published author! People will buy my book someday. . . someday soon!

Battle 4 Part 3

I open my eyes to see. . . I’m sitting in a ripped leather computer chair. I’m in a ratty robe. My hair is a mess: a pony tail only holding part of my hair. . . I’m in a home office: the window shows that they day is fighting the blue skies and dark grey storm clouds. There are piles of papers, notebooks, cups of old, cold coffee which there are abstract designs floating on the top. There are pens of multi-colors that were scattered all over. . . each color had a meaning behind it. Several pens mixed with ripped pages in the waste basket. They were good soldiers and they did their duty fighting imaginary enemies on page after colorful page.

I sit and stare at my half of dozen of projects that were not finished, my other dozens of projects and stories that needed edited, and the great dreaded white screen, for yet . . . something new. I turn on the music and start to bob my head to one of thousands songs that I know. However the screen is still white, and now I am into the song as I spin my chair for the tenth time in a row.

I hear a laughing. I look around, but see nothing. There are more than one voice laughing. The laughs start to sound morphed into almost a hiss and growl.

“Why are you writing?”

“What is the point?

“You will never finish anyway?”

“You rather dance”

“You rather cook.”

“You rather chat with your lovers.”

“You rather color.”

“You rather play video game.”

I realize that my inner demons are messing with my head or at least trying to. I see a small fire place that seems to form out of nowhere. My will-power sparks creating a small collected fire in the fireplace. It smells so good like roasted marshmallows and hot chocolate.

“I am writing, because I so many stories in me. In fact, even you fucked up demons have inspired me. Thank you.” I speak out in a monotone voice.

“The point of my writing is expression. I like to teach and show people things with my stories. It’s like drawing and painting with words and the reader’s mind is the canvas.” I smile as I feel I am clever with that explanation.

“I will finish, maybe not tomorrow, but my main projects will be finished. Endings are hard.” I state the obvious.

“As for all of the other things that I enjoy doing, I know that I need to get some writing in to feel complete with my day. “ I know that they are just trying frustrate and pull away my focus.

I look at the fire in the fire place and I smile. A hot mocha appears in my travel mug next to me.

“You’re place is a mess.”

“How do you know where everything is?

“You look like an unmade bed.”

“You could never represent your work like that.”

“Who would buy a book from someone who looks like a tornado.”

They just want to argue with me. I can say that the creative process whether is sculpture, painting, drawing (with pencils), even writing and acting. . . is a very messy process.

Art is messy. Writing is an art.” I exclaim as the fire sparks stronger.

“I know where everything is, because I put it there. Each pile is a project and means something to me. It’s not a prefect system, but it is mine. Now back the fuck off.” I growl a bit. My system is not meant for anyone else but me!

“I will not look like this if I decide to put a picture of myself in the book.” I stop before I start a bitter battle if I comment them on their hideous looks. They are not even human looking, and if they were to be they would not look like Hollywood would accept them anytime soon.

“You have a choice. . . fuel my bad guys in my stories. . . or leave, because I do NOT want to deal with you. I have work to do.” I sigh. I hope their give me an idea or two for a bad guy (AKA villain) and then simply just leave. . .

However my life is never that simple. . .

I go back to typing . . . I type my argument with them. I use them to fuel my inspirational fire. . . my creative spark.

Battle 4 Part 2

Note: I try to cut out many of the cuss words. . . this scene was much more darker and had way more cuss words. I try to make sound as professional as I could.

Battle 4 Part 2 (Part one is Battle 4 Part one – Rebekah Quinne’s short stories (wordpress.com) )

“Come here. Bitch!” I heard a being in a cloak scowl to me.

I am hesitant as I barely get to my two feet when I heard it bark at me. . .

“COME HERE NOW!” I walk to the group of the chanting group echoing the words. . .

“It. Is. All. Your. Fault!”

I get to the hot fire. . . the pressure of the eyes, in the shadows of the cloaks, is intense.

I do not speak, but I look into the flames.

“This is your trial.” It speaks in a clear, calm voice.

“From what it sounds like . . . they have already decided.” I mumble.

“They only speak what you think you feel. What you think you deserve” He is speaking in a monotone voice.

“I have no idea what happened here, for it could be anyone’s fault.” I try to sound decent, logical.

“You hide behind your logical tone, behind your emotions. . . does anyone know the real you? Do you even know the real you?” For a solid moment it’s verbal truth slashed me like a double edge sword. I was literally lost in the analyzation of it’s words. I was stuck, frozen. Who was I?

“You cannot even answer me. By not speaking, I have my answer.” It begins to have a cocky tone to it.

“I have question.” I pause as the voices stop. “How is it to be my fault when I was not here?”

I smirk for a second thinking that I slyly have them.

The flames bounce the fire in a rage as if someone throws alcohol or gas in to the bonfire.

“This is NOT about that at this exact moment, and you are avoiding the main point.” It was a rebuttal.

“You want to know the real me. I try to be honest, but I over think and over analyze things until I twist the honesty myself and question everything. I can rarely ever just take things as they truly are, because of my questioning doubt.

I put others before myself, because I do not feel I deserve the attention. However I like the attention, sometimes, and sometimes I just like getting a compliment and being left alone. I am horribly afraid of doing something wrong, and lose everything. I am horrified of being alone. However I cannot live alone. I am so all over the place, so chaotic,and to be honest I do my best in conflict, but I need time to rest and heal.” I take a deep breath.

“I constantly think I am never going to amount to anything and instead of fighting the thought, I give into it. I do feel it was because of people getting hurt: I’m afraid to hurt others. I like to socialize, but drama can get too much. I also think majority of people all want something from me. . . answers, sex, or money. I wish I could find more people like me, but more in control of their emotions, so they can show me how to control mine.” I sigh staring into the fire.

“For lack of better terms, I never feel good enough, but the truth is I am just enough or more than enough to do the things that I need to do. I know I have a purpose, but I know that probably my true purpose is none of the things in my head. I want to be a writer, get online credit, but not have to read or socialize that often. I am afraid my books will cause majority controversy. The thing is some days I am a fighter, and other days I just want to cuddle under a warm blanket with someone special.” I smile in my other deep breath.

“I believe that paranormal and emotional experiences are very spiritual, and I want to show this in my books.” I explain, but it just sounds like mambo jumbo to me. . .

“Who are you? I mean who are you really? More than a daughter, sister, girlfriend. . . Who are you, Rebekah?” It gets fierce in it’s voice. . . more direct.

“You are Fat.” I am curvy, but I hate the word fat. My curves make up who I am. I am finally appreciating and even enjoying my body thanks to a person, actually persons that means the world to me. I understand losing a bit weight to let myself breath and move better is a good thing, but to take it all off, is like taking a huge part of me. I have always been curvy. I’ve always had a belly and once I got breasts, I was obviously noticed a bit more.

“You are ugly.” I am not a model, but I am not a total physical train wreck either. I am not the usual type covered in make-up wearing shoes that can cost as much as my rent. I like clothes that can relax or dance or clean in. I am happy with a tank top and my favorite jeans. I do not like zippers on my pants. To be honest, I break zippers, and in another life I think I was guy, and I would get my junk caught in a zipper. So yes, I wear stretchy jeans or sweats. Sometimes I want to get pretty and go out, but I am a complicated being not just a “woman.” The same beings, my twinsies, also taught me we are all complicated, and we should love our complications.

“You should be alone.” I have people who love me and want me happy. I love them and want them happy too. Why with a mentality like that should I be alone? While, I will admit I enjoy my alone time, the 2020 quarantine taught me the need for socializing and connections. Most of us as human, need multi-connections; it help us see the world from different angles, different view points.

“You are not enough.” That is a loaded statement. . . and it way too vague. The word “enough” should be categorize as a “four-letter word.” I would cuss like a sailor horrible words and still feel better than say to someone: “You are NOT enough.” They may not be right for a job. However we are all here for reasons and purposes beyond our own understanding. I also like to think when you die, you see your purpose before you move on. (This explains why ghosts have unfinished business.)

“You are untalented.” I may NOT be on a best seller list, but I do have people wanting to read my future writings. Even today, I had someone said that they read my work, enjoyed my stories, and that I am a good writer. I have grammar issues, especially when I think way faster than I can type. However I do try to reread my work,correct it when I can. However I know I have talents with my words, my coloring, and my baking.

“You see I can mentally hear that you arguing with all of their arguments. Now tell me how you see yourself. . .”

“I am a curvy, spunk younger woman who has talent and with the willpower can and will accomplish anything I put my mind to.” I instantly feel determined. The flames flicker and fade down. The cloaked beings fall silent and eventually disappear. I am alone with the low flame. The grass grows around me in a instant, and there is a medium fallen tree for me to sit upon. . . I sit down just knowing I am supposed to.

“You see even that dead and broken tree has a purpose even after it stopped growing branches and leaves. In fact, that trees really didn’t produce as much leaves as the other trees around it as it was too covered away from the Sunlight. I am your willpower. The crime was you giving up, and as we both can see you have not. You simply allowed the doubt, worried, and fear to take away your sunlight.”

“Are those the cloaked beings?” I ask, actually curious.

“Yes, you have depression, anxiety, monsters of your past. . .” He pauses and sighs. “And monsters of your future, which shouldn’t even exist. You worry so hard that you created beings and problems that should not exist. You have the right to have dreams and not let worrying mess with them.” It sounds logical and straight to the bitter dark point.

“How do I simply stop worrying? If you are inside me, then you would know that worrying is in my nature.” I am just as straight up with my willpower.

“Just keep my flame strong and keep going, and you will make it through your obstacles and worries.” It didn’t promise, but it seems very sure of itself. I could not doubt against it’s confidence.

“So if this a battle, would have it been a victory?” I ask curious.

“It’s more like a pep talk before the big game or battle. To be straight with you. . . your doubt, worry, anxiety, bitterness, depression, fear, anger have all been working with your inner demons. They have your muses all mixed up. Without your inspiration, motivation, will-power, and muses. . . it’s hard to get your writing dream accomplished.” It pauses for a moment. . .

“We are going to get you back to your old writing busy self soon enough.” I could hear the promise in it’s voice. I smile with hope for the first time in a very long time.

“This is set up, a prep time. . . now we need to strategize for your darker parts have more coming. You also need to heal and get more inner strength.” The flame flickers.

“I also need more power.” I get more wood by picking up sticks. Each stick was a worry, the bigger branches that I would drag were worries and fears.

“Every time you see repeating number know it’s the Gods, Goddess, and Fates are looking over you and I.”

Poem Day 30: Story

(I was supposed have posted this July 30th, but I’ve been down with health issues.)

Story.

There was a young woman

She smart, bright, and creative

She met a curious man online

They exchanged words

He read her many stories

She was pulled in by his charm

He was pulled in by her stories

He liked when they chatted

They would flirt and play around

They met a few times,

But their realities were different

But they knew they were in paths in their lives

She hoped that he would still want her stories

However he disappeared for months

Leaving her

  • to question her feelings,
  • to doubt her creatvity,
  • to make her apprehensive about others
  • To cause extreme depression and loneliness

Time went by and she picked herself up

And slowly started to write again

He messaged her again out of the blue.

Just to start the cycle over and over

Toward the end he tried to make her feel bad, and guilty.

However she knew better . . .

He proclaimed he had feelings, but was never there when she needed him.

She told him to stop.

She simply walked away.

Poem Day 23: Kittens

I miss my kittens:

Mona, my nuzzler,

She snuggle in my neck and sleep with me.

Mama, tough kitten,

She could tackle the bigger kitties. She had my aggression

Elmo, my snuffles,

He knew I would nurse him back to health. He trusted me. I hope he is doing ok.

Momo, my darling

The poor baby was empathic and felt my anxiety.

Mama (2), stray follower,

She follows me like a dog and talks to me. However I cannot bring her in.

I hope to have another kitty soon.

Each kitty taught me about myself.

They were good companions.

I love how even though they were okay on their own, they still wanted me.

I really enjoy cats. I love their purr.

Poem Day 21: Memory

I listen to a simple song

It has an up beat.

I smile

And sway my hips.

I giggle and bounce

To the fun beat

I feel like a kid again

I remember being at home

Dancing while baking cookies

In the kitchen

Playing the song

On a cassette tape

Over and over

Giggled

Sang

Danced.

I had no worries

I was in the moment

The cookies were great

The song was fun

And I was happy.

I miss it.

Poem Day 20: 20 lines

Me vs Darkness

1. Darkness is a demon, monster, living image of pain and depression

2. I, am a struggling artist seeking comfort yet inspiration

3. Darkness want me to be in anger, sorrow, and pain

4. I am just trying to get from day to day: hoping tomorrow is better and more productive than today

5. Darkness wants me to roll in bed and let life pass me by

6. However I want to throw story after story onto the computer, inspiring others.

7. Darkness wants to make me do nothing and feel bad for it: feel guilty for it. Make me purposely unproductive. . .grrr.

8. However healing and avoiding sickness like the virus and extreme heat is not doing nothing.

9. Darkness says bad things: You are ugly.

10. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. I am seeking the beauty even in the darkness.

11. Darkness complains: You are fat and lazy.

12. I try to exercise, but it’s difficult to do it here. Just because I have curves doesn’t mean I’m wrong. Being healthy is more important than thin.

13. Darkness growls: You are worthless.

14. I am worthless to you, darkness, because I am normally a helper, perky person.

15. Darkness scorns: you will be alone.

16. No, I may have parts of my journey I have to seek alone, but I have good family and friends who love and care for me.

17. Darkness sighs: why are you even here? You have no purpose.

18. I do have a purpose. I am to write and inspire and entertain others in my story. I have more purpose, but I have yet to discover but I am living my life and when I find it, I will know.

19. Darkness growled: You know its all a lie. No one cares about you. They are just see what they can use you for. It’s all pointless, meaningless, the world is better without you. Just take yourself out!

20. No darkness. You are a lonely, bitter monster. I’m sorry you are so sad and lonely. . . So Much so that you have to pull others down, because misery loves company. However I have friends and family that loves me and I believe tomorrow is better than today. I have faith my future will be bright. I hope you get out of the shadow and see the light and maybe make a friend.

Poem Day 19: Friends

I need genuine friends.

Someone who knows I am complicated and I need to hear the truth.

They need to know I am honest and I will not hold back.

I have health issues so sometimes I cannot give them the energy that they need.

Someone who understands me and who truly gets me.

There is a true, sweet connection between each other.

It is a two way street. They give and receive as I do the same.

Someone who let’s me worry over them, and who let’s me spoil them.

Someone who makes me laugh, but supports me when I cry.

In the end, we support each other and have each other’s back.

That is a friend.