we were made out of

sugarcane

carved out of cherry wood

strung together and

yanked at the seams,

catapulted into the sky.

and repeat,

as predictable

as the spinning

of the earth

held to the ground with

toothpicks

sleeping in flowerbeds

souls sprouting

roots and clinging

to the soil.

like eyeless wanderers,

like breathless astronauts,

like foolish mortals

buried at the edge of

the atmosphere

:

beginning anew

each day

graphite trails silver down blue wrists,

the winter's sky a steel-grey slate.

this is eternity, identical computer tabs,

sunken eyes and uniform steps.

The tears snap against the linoleum,

clicking like so many mechanical pencils,

sputtering chains of letters and numbers and self-worth

across the sterile floor.

a vernal flower in the ides of the year

a crocus made of golden tears.

ashes spilled from winter's urn

snow is turned to slog as sun rises in the morn,

the march of spring across the winter-trodden fields

leaving gold and sun at its radiant heels.

patties frying on open grills,

until from the skies, the water spills.

a vernal flower in the ides of the year,

brief beauty that perseveres.

I can’t imagine

going back there.

the thought of it

is suffocating, yet…

no, no,

no thoughts of

glimmering memories

that posed themselves

as gold,

but turned skin green.

a corpse lies in my bed.

bathed in blue light, foggy eyes

stamped on an unmoving head.

it's growing fungus along the spine,

colored in reds, purples - fire and wine.

mushrooms lift from the sheets,

painting a skyline of decay, haunted

by that unearthly blue horizon.

light coming off that small device

embossed in still palms.

a simple, rectangular box, metal and silver

a coffin of it's own kind -

but somehow the picture i paint

is still beautiful, in a way.

we all die a little at night,

it's just the way the world turns.

so why not make death just

a bit more sublime?

after all,

we'll be dead a lot longer

than we'll be alive.

I am looking at the scars on the back of my hands,

the little ones,

a crescent across one knuckle,

nicked playing warrior with wooden swords.

The one at my fingertip,

from learning how to cut onions,

pulling swim goggles over watering eyes,

laughing around the tears.

When I tell her I know her like the back of my hand,

I am referring to this place,

all splinters and sweetness,

and a thousand other moments that have faded with time.

When I tell her I know her

like the back of my hand,

I wonder if she realizes

I don't know her at all.

golden, cracked, and delicate

as the heart i've been given

wrapped in candy stripes and evergreen leaves

sordid, restless, absent

whispering into darkness for too long

tear out a strip of sunshine, darling

claim it for your own skin

running, whirling, radiant starlight

crackling beneath the bones

and now, just sing

Whims are funny things, but sometimes when chasing rainbows you do find gold at the end. I was flipping through those whom I follow, and who follow me, searching for someone whose work I thought I might find interesting enough to delve into, when I noticed a profile picture of a library in Prague that I believe I have actually visited (see photo above). This was how I chose SadieBug’s works to explore. I soon discovered that fortune, once more, shone like the sun down upon me.

Being pretty regular on the site, I know SadieBug’s username, of course. And I know I have read interesting pieces by her, because I only follow those who pique my curiousity. We have had some inconsequential interactions, shared “likes” and what-not, but I did not know her writings. Being honest, my expectations were somewhat low. What I found, however, lifted my spirits, and my ever-souring opinion of today’s youth.

The writing I found is immaculate, with zero noticed grammatical mistakes (although that might not pass a better editor’s censuring). I mean, not even a spelling error or typo to be found, making me insanely jealous. There is a great diversity of style in her works, highlightling creative storytelling, emotional poetry, thoughtful introspection, and the “show, don’t tell” descriptiveness that all who write strive for.

I feel like I really know who SadieBug is after reading her posts (I hope that doesn’t sound old man creepy”). There was a line in Who Am I? where she states, “I am a girl who lives through lines on a page, never knowing who I truly am.” I can feel that thought through her chosen picture of the library, through her love of “Gone With the Wind,” and from the “bookshelves and scattered volumes that litter the rug in her room (paraphrased).” I have grand-daughters that must be close to SadieBug’s age who, while extremely intelligent, do not read. This saddens me, who am an avid reader, to no end. I read “Gone With The Wind” sometime around Jr. High School, certainly later than 9 years old as SadieBug did, and am excited at the reading possibilities in front of a young lady who is that far ahead of most readers.

I started with her very first post and worked my way forward. My favorite piece was Anxiety Says, written a year ago. It is the conversation between an insecure teen and the voice in her head. The honesty it shares is such that I imagine it was difficult to hit “post” when it was completed, but is a breath of fresh air to all who have experienced the same fears, and that would include most of us, I am sure.

I loved Facets of Myself, what I took as being an embarrassing day at the pool. “While I am the girl at the edge of the pool who woke up hating the world, tomorrow I will not hate the world so much, and it is a slight difference, but it matters.”

Ice Cream Flavors is whimsical and delicious.

Dear Strangers highlights a powerful gift for observation and descriptive writing.

There are dozens of great reads here, and I am sure you will enjoy others that I have not mentioned, but you certainly will not be disappointed by giving these a look.

Kudos, @SadieBug... and... write on!

you smell like honey, gingerbread

and the promise of snow,

my winter sun,

dripping slowly from a jar

sticky fingertips and a trace of nutmeg,

tangerine zest, your love

and all those trickling stars,

lost in the beating

of a pulse,

almost as if powder sugar

slowly coating

our raspberry hearts

My hometown exists simply because it is the exact midway point between Memphis and Birmingham, so the Kansas City, Memphis and Birmingham Railroad put a stop there to service their trains.

Amory, Ms. is a small (7k inhabitants), fairly insignificant railroad town. My grandmother's father ran the hotel there at the turn of the twentieth century. She used to tell me about standing on the platform and waving at the passing troop trains... both WWI and WWII. The most exciting thing I can remember happening there in my lifetime was being awarded a lock on the Tombigbee Waterway. Three of my four grandparents were born and died in that tiny town. The fourth left on one of those troop trains and was fortunate enough to be brought back home for his burial. Most weren't so lucky in them days.

She is is a good town, with good people. They don't have a lot, but to say they are poor is a lie. They are happy, mostly. They are content with God, America, and Family. They work hard, play hard, and they care about one another, although they are distrustful of outsiders. You would be too if all you ever got was screwed by'em. Fun fact; the Apache word for stranger is the same as the Apache word for enemy. It is no different with someone from Amory.

Even I am looked at with suspicion there. I, who call it my hometown. That is because I never lived there. I was born there, and taken away for a job. Funny thing is, the last time I walked down Main Street in Amory an old men walked over to ask if I was "Big Bill's Boy?" I am not. I am in fact Big Bill's Grandson, but it about made me burst with pride, anyhow. Big Bill died in 1969. The family I have left in Amory are all in the ground, but one day I hope to go back, to lie with them, to make it "my hometown" for real.

In the meantime, I just call it home.