I’m sitting in a bar filled with an assortment of misfits. I am alone. I’m here because I have nowhere else to be. By that I mean I have nowhere else I want to be. When I am in this bar I don’t have to think about who I am or even who I want to be. There are so many different people that come to a bar. And by that I mean there are so many stories floating around in this bar.
Leave a CommentCategory: Writings
Acrylic Sunset
Published April 25, 2013 by Jourdan
During summer my favorite time of the day is when the sun is just slipping below the horizon and the sky is a deep royal…
Leave a CommentBellybutton Lint
Published April 22, 2013 by Jourdan
I never before realized what a sad thing a bellybutton could be. What I mean by that is it is the one thing on the…
Leave a CommentIf You Have to Ask You’ll Never Know
Published August 30, 2012 by Jourdan
Lost was something she felt all the time. How do you know what that one choice was that snowballed you into this inevitable reality? This fate where you’re sitting next to empty, greasy, Chinese take-out cartons and squishing ants under your fingers just to feel powerful for once. Stinky, nasty dirty floors. Moldy gray-green walls. Die, ants, die. She knew he was coming soon. She didn’t know what time it was, he had turned off her power, but the sun was finger painting the clouds.
One CommentRiding Into the Rising Moon
Published August 22, 2012 by Jourdan
Thomas pushed aside the midnight blue curtains. He liked the curtains because he could imagine he held a liquid sky between his fingers, rippling and soft as silk. The bottom edges were fading into a ragged grey from years of brushing against the concrete floor. Thomas pressed the fabric to his face. It smelled of dust, cinnamon, and caramel. He pulled one side of the silk curtains back with a golden cord. The moonlight streamed in and settled in great pools. It glittered off the gems set into the saddles of the carousel horses. Thomas stepped onto the creaking wooden base.
One CommentThere’s Always a Calm Before the Storm
Published August 5, 2012 by Jourdan
The whorls in the wood of the dock felt good underneath Alexa’s tracing fingers. The warmth from the sun soaked planks was soothing against her cheek. She sighed softly. She could lie here forever. She wished she could press herself hard enough into the wood that she would become a part of the dock, an eternal observer of the ever-changing ripples of the lake’s surface. She could be the keeper of the myriad of stories told through the many feet that trampled the swollen, damp wood.
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