There is a number, a precise hour, minute, second between the sun’s revolving door and the moon’s sparkly shine when the world grows quiet and lavender fields weep violet. Do not cry for me sir, no, no, no. You must never feel worried or woe. Do not spill your tears; I do not know my tempest time. Smile instead when you see me, a soft hello and gentle nod will
Please do not underestimate the fragile girl who has been broken. The grown woman climbs barbed wire fences unapologetic, her jagged and cut limbs battle cries that honor the scars. Bleeding profusely shrugging off the pain, she is awake and determined. The girl is immune to the swirling, incessant noise hovering overhead. Simply choosing to embrace the beautiful and worst kinds of misery. Nah, man she’s better than wasted breath.
To The Orbs Duty, responsibility, obligation and drudge I run around making false promises lying to myself I must end this cycle of debt, hush-hush niceties and learn to live it This life Starring me The oddity full of venom and regret Regret for harsh words hurled in the face of others living in the continuum The vortex seasonal cycle of disgust and disappointment Passing judgment upon
#Author Diaries is pleased to welcome Wendy Garfinkle, Booktrope author of SERPENT ON A CROSS. Wendy is a writer who holds degrees from three different universities, including MFA in Creative Writing from Wilkes University. Her debut novel, SERPENT ON A CROSS, which was published October 30, 2012, by Northampton House Press as an eBook, was re-released digitally and in print – with new content – by Booktrope, in August
In modeling you go on countless go-sees, maybe twenty a day. Most forgotten before you hit the bottom stair. I remember being nervous, awestruck walking into the brilliant photographer’s studio apartment, she had ‘requested’ to see me. Mary Ellen Mark wore no makeup, trademark braids and a gentle demeanor not to be mistaken for meekness. Raw genius is rarely loud or pretentious. I didn’t book the job, but remain an
Because it’s raining, and my mother sits in the kitchen with a pencil reading Georgia Pine., first edits. I reflect. Typing in my Zen room, deep in the world of Georgia Pine. I work fast, anxious to see how the story ends, intersects, everything comes to a close. (even I don’t know if they characters will veer left or right). I am melancholy. I will miss Harrison, and her descendants. For me, living in
We talk about it. Yeah, we do. In my house, we talk about a lot. The mundane living stuff, movies, books, music, groceries, even the weather. And, death. We talk about that, too. Well, I do most of the talking. The persistent, detective’s daughter, ever annoying and inquisitive. The fervent need to know what comes next, how it should look, the driving force. The uncomfortable, inevitable last chapter. Well, you