resilience

The Edges of the Rain

Some thoughts on current events in the world, I don’t know how other people deal with trauma, cope with reality, with being in the world. The doors to madness are too much reality, and not enough of it. The doors into madness are laced with too much philosophical contemplation about existence, not enough letting one’s self be. What that means is, each of us is finding our own way. I hope we can all do that with as much decency and kindness as possible.

Work continues on the sequel to The Slick Furies. It’s slower going than previous writes as I am plucking all the good bits from other beginnings of this novel. This book has a different tone, historical, a different degree of seriousness. Certainly there will be humor. I’m not in a rush with this write, it’s important to me to get my vision of this book, this story, onto the page as I’ve imagined it. As with any sequel, building on the first book’s history, characters, some of the emotional bonds are deeper. I feel like, think, The Slick Furies really had a sense of connection between the main characters. It’s important to me to make sure that carries on, that I capture that with this second book as well, though some of the dynamics have changed, and that’s what keeps stories like this interesting. These characters aren’t stagnate, they’ve been affected by the events of the story of their lives.

I’m about to begin proofreading, making corrections to, “The Edges of the Rain.” This is one of the novellas I wrote in 2011, rewrote earlier this year. It was easy to write, I wrote the original draft in two weeks. It was tougher after the fact when I read it and realized what I’d written. I’m hoping to release it this fall. This book is a psychological thriller, a nightmare of greed, a horror story of human nature, and all the ways we compartmentalize ourselves. I’m ready to get to publishing it, to be moving on to other things. So, there will be updates on this book as things progress.

 

Those two books should keep me busy for the remainder of the year. I haven’t been able to really write for a few days after crashing my bicycle, one of my better spills, jammed both wrists/hands, one side of my body is dinged up. It hurts to ride. It’s always something. I get up limping every day as is. But, if I give in to all the hurts and park it on the sofa indefinitely, then I’m done. So I do what I feel like I can, as I can. Living with the arthritis for as long as I have, it’s a balancing act of rest and motion, when possible. The last few days, not so much doing. I say that not in complaint, but as statement of fact and appreciation for those things I can do when I can do them. Something I’ve learned from this, is that in all our commonalities, the things we can empathize with another about, there’s very rarely any actual comparison one human to the next, what is the same about each of us is that we are individuals. Part of why I don’t ever compare what I can do ( or be) on any given day, or ever, to anyone else. ( At least, I try not to.)

Rest in peace, Margot Kidder, Ms. Lois Lane. A story about her from someone who knew her for a time was making the rounds, said she loved the wolves inhabiting the area around her Montana home and would regularly leave meat out for them. According to this chap, she said she hoped that when she died, her friends would find her, tell no one, put her on a bed-sheet and drag her up the mountain so she could be the last meal she gave to the wolves she loved. I don’t know if I’ll ever be quite that at peace with myself in this world, but that’s one of the coolest stories I’ve ever heard.

TS

On This Valentines Day

 

One of the most wonderful things within the many fine and good examples that Bruce Lee left us with, is his example of inclusiveness. Despite being met with prejudice throughout his life, he seemed to hold no such feelings in his own heart. He continuously broke with traditions. He fell in and love and married who he wanted to marry. If you came into his studio, dojo, with an open heart, an open mind, a willingness to learn and be taught, he would teach you. It made no difference to him what color your wrapping paper was, no difference to him if you were male or female, his wife, Linda, was one of his students. He stayed true to what he believed in despite being met with continuous opposition and challenges to his ideas, his philosophies, his approach to living. Bruce Lee understood that prejudice is the product of ignorance, and the antidote, is education.

I’m at the beginning of really checking this out thoroughly, but I can show some love for that example for sure.

Have a Happy Valentines Day.

TS

 

Bruce Lee, website

Bruce Lee, wiki

The History of Valentines Day

You Don’t Mess Around With Jim

An Essay About Being and Becoming a Poetess

Late last night I finished work on another collection of poems, “Thelxiepeia.” This group of poems started out with a different title. When I began editing I knew that many of the poems would not make the final cut. They seemed parts of two books jammed together in a way that didn’t fit and so I opted for a cohesive finished selection and a new title. Thelxiepeia, in Greek mythology, is one of the Sirens, creatures whose seductive songs and music lured sailors to crash their ships. Sirens were often represented as being part woman and part bird. How I happened upon this story of Thelxiepeia was that I was watching an old movie called “Xanadu”, in which a muse, Kira, whose real name is Terpsichore, the muse of the dance, emerges from a mural, and falls in love with a mortal. There are fantastic musical numbers, Olivia Newton-John, Gene Kelly, Michael Beck, with music by Cliff Richard, The Tubes, and ELO. I’ve mentioned this movie before as it has most everything in it that an adolescent girl in 1981, one seeking some escape from excruciating pain, could require of a movie. I still think it’s a beautiful film, though from a completely different point of view this many years gone now. In watching it again I thought to look up the names of the Nine Muses of Olympus, one of whom is portrayed, though it isn’t a speaking part, by Sandahl Bergman, who is better known for her roles in “Conan the Barbarian”, “All That Jazz”, and “Red Sonja.” This led to looking up the names of the Sirens, and the writing of the poem, “Thelxiepeia.” Thematically overall, the collection has to do with the subject of muses and myths, with the stories we tell ourselves so that we can find a way to tell our stories, and those things that help us along the way in that.

xanadu-mural-muses

The Muses, “Xanadu”, 1980

 

In writing these poems, in watching “Xanadu” whenever it was, these poems were written several years ago, and remembering again that time of my life, I understood again how it is that I became a poetess, a writer, and how much of that, for me, relates to, or has or is entrenched in, films and music in someway. In 1981 I turned thirteen years old. Over the course of exactly one months time, I went from being a normal, healthy kid, to being emaciated and barely able to get out of bed. Five foot eight, at that time, my weight dropped to ninety-six pounds at one point. I couldn’t go to school, couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, couldn’t not sleep, and after months of weeks of grueling visits to doctors, specialists, hospitals, they couldn’t find anything specifically wrong with me that they could diagnose as anything other than Juvenile Rheumatoid Arthritis, since re-diagnosed as an adult as Still’s Disease, which is similar to Lupus. That’s back story, it took a year to recover enough, to be well enough again, to really return to school. Point being that I really couldn’t do much of anything other than watch television during most of that time. I didn’t have the ability to concentrate or focus enough to read books during that time as I was in too much pain, though I’d been an avid reader up to then. Being as I couldn’t really do much of anything else during that time other than watch television, many of the usual restrictions on what I was allowed to watch, were lifted. Nineteen-eighty and eighty-one weren’t bad years for film, though my viewing was limited to whatever cable movie channel it was that we had or whatever was making its “Network Television Premier” and that was usually about a year behind whatever was in the theaters. I’ve spoken before about watching the film “Altered States” and feeling a strange understanding of the transformation of the main character while wondering why in the world anyone would willing put themselves through what he does. ( It’s like “Jaws” in that you find yourself just wanting him to get out of the water.) Along those lines I also watched the other werewolf movies of the day, “An American Werewolf in London” and “Wolfen” and the like. The feeling that I had sometimes was very much that I didn’t want to be that, and that I was nonetheless turning into some inexplicable creature and the world was turning into a strange place that didn’t understand me, anymore than I could understand it.

Most of the time, I couldn’t hold a pen or a pencil, couldn’t do schoolwork, wore Ace bandages and wrist braces and homemade splints. I was in so much pain so constantly, the world slips away when it’s like that, for anyone experiencing anything like that I would guess. The way that everyone else keeps time is meaningless and useless and of no importance. On the better days, I’d wish I was at school, I’d think about all I was missing out on, dances, friends, boyfriends, classes I liked. I couldn’t ride my bicycle or play sports anymore and I’d always been the kid that was outside from sunup until dark, though really it was beyond wallowing. Whatever the future was going to hold for me was forever changed. My mother said, “You know, you could still write. You could try writing poems again.” I’d written poems in grade school, and for school, though I hadn’t considered “writer” or “poetess” as a job option outside of possibly being a journalist, a newswoman. And I thought, “I can’t even hold a pencil.” But she got a couple of small notebooks for me and I remember writing what I still consider to be my first serious poem, titled simply, “Alone”, while I was sitting in bed watching the film, “Private Benjamin.” That movie is a comedy, containing one of my all time favorite movie line exchanges.

“Aunt Kissy: I hope my coat’s gonna be good enough. I had no idea it was gonna be so chilly.

Harriet Benjamin: It’s November here, Kissy.

Teddy Benjamin: It’s November everywhere, genius.”

But the film is ultimately about Judy Benjamin finding her sense of self, and the strength to be her own person, there was something in that that spoke to me beyond the ribald, raunchy, comedy, because in that place, the funniest thing in the world, isn’t quite so funny. In that place of so much pain, the funniest thing in the world seems illogical, senseless, and idiotic, I guess one way to put it would be like how the food fight in the film “Animal House” (1978), might not make you laugh if you’re not from a first world country where even waste is taken for granted, and what I was looking for were things that were hopeful in some way, or strong, resilient. It also may be that it was during that time that any remaining sense of humor I had, took a sardonic, somewhat self-deprecating, turn. I looked at the poem that I’d scribbled in the little notebook and that was the beginning, and I hope I never forget that moment. Additionally, it’s become evident to me that my brain might be hardwired for rhyme to some degree, and some of that comes from listening to music and song lyrics all my life. ( My father was a musician, both my parents could sing, there was live music in the house for much of my youth.) Eventually I was allowed to use my mother’s electric typewriter sometimes, when my hands were very swollen, as I could often still move my fingers on the keys for a while even if I couldn’t move my wrists or my hands, however much it hurt. I was a writer before that, but after that, I knew that I was, whether I’d claimed it or it had claimed me, and that was that. I’ve since tried not to be a writer a couple of times and that doesn’t ever work out. I used to say that my writing was my “human’s compensation,” like … yeah there’s all of whatever else there is, but then there’s my writing. God willing I’ll be able to keep writing and writing and writing. Human beings are resilient, and strong, courageous.

Finishing this collection of poems, and it isn’t quite as long as some of the others at only fifty-four pages, I could go right into editing another collection of poems but I found that I didn’t want to, I found myself wanting to work on some kind of story again, some fiction. Though really I am taking some time to organize and edit and clear the decks for the end of the year, hopefully do some fun things, spend some time with family. 2017 has gone quickly, hasn’t it? The last several years for me, I’ve realized, have been about finding myself as a writer again, finding my groove with it all, finding balance and self acceptance, allowing myself to be this and to honor it and the gift of it, to appreciate, and accept, and let be, my own muses. “Thelxiepeia”, I think, speaks very much to all of that. I hope to release it sometime next year, in early spring. I’m so grateful for this gift of being able to write, and I do consider it to be a gift. We all find inspiration or ideas in a lot of different things, people, places, it’s important to honor your muse(s), one of mine led me to Thelxiepeia. I’m uncertain in this moment if these poems were a farewell to the girl that I was or an homage, I feel like I can write about her, but I can’t ever again be her. I’m not sad about that, only grateful for having had the chance to be that girl, and to be looking now to the future as this woman. Becoming is ever ongoing.

 

Teri

 

Thelxiepeia

 

great song from the film “Xanadu.”

One November, I Published Two Books

I’ve worked hard the last couple of years to get some books published, I’m thinking of them as there were “the first five,” and now there is “the magnificent seven.” I also have stories in three print anthologies, and I’m going to get those linked up with cover pictures, as well as having been published thirteen times various places online during the last six years. In the spring of 2018, I hope to release another collection of poetry, tentatively titled “Thelxiepeia”. After that, well I wouldn’t say what was next even if I had figured that out. I am a prolific writer, and that has always been the case.  Even when I think I’m not really writing much, I’m always really writing something. I had a tremendous back catalogue of manuscripts, books, to publish. “Thelxiepeia” is work that was composed from 2011 to 2012 or thereabouts, so I’m getting closer to being caught up.

The books I’ve released in the last week, “Gold Mine” and “Maybelline Raven and The Wolf”, both came out of a nervous breakdown that began in 2008.  Fact is, I’ve gotten a lot of writing, stories, out of that breakdown though I’d just as soon not got through anything like that again.  “Gold Mine” is really, I think, something that was written, compiled, jammed together, like a panic attack during a panic attack in 2009. That book was very much the moment at the beginning of an avalanche. The title “Gold Mine” came out of some remembered fragment that life experiences are a writer’s gold mine, to which I thought “go mine your own business,” and then thinking that I might have thrown a gold mine worth of writing into a fire. “Maybelline Raven and The Wolf” was written during the first months of 2014, when I was recovering from the worst of it all and really at the beginning of sorting things out. Most people cannot put their house back in order in the middle of the storm. I’ve said before that much of my work is catharsis in that it is something of a coping mechanism, as much as it is a way to dream, it is also a way to understand things, to reason things out in some way, and sometimes, it’s very much a way to get rid of the poison. I’ve written some horror stories that aren’t anything I want to read, writing horror was way outside of my comfort zone as a writer, so if someone tells me they don’t like horror, I can respond honestly that I understand that completely. I’ve also used the “input/output” analogy on that one, the world isn’t always a nice place, all my experiences in this life haven’t been good, sometimes the writing is way to git rid of bad emotions or baggage, we’ve all got stuff. I’ve written some super hopeful, sappy, in love and in love with life stuff too. We learn to appreciate the balance between the “good” and the “bad,” to understand that sometimes those things change, and to sift the wheat from the chaff.

“Maybelline Raven and The Wolf” began as I started to sort out my own ancestry, to research my own family tree. One of the biggest lessons to come out of that has been not to jump the gun. I started out with family stories, finally got to the 100% bottom of some things, researched the actual genealogy and family tree, did a DNA test only to then further read that such a test might not tell you what you want to know or even reveal the truth of your lineage because with each generation the bloodline thins, so to speak, and people migrated and mixed and so on. I learned that the descendants a person can verify and trace are generally the best indicator. I am of English, Irish, and Cherokee descent. It was ultimately easier for me than some as my parents are no mystery to me and I did grow up with a grandparents who were interested in the family history though there were discrepancies and oddities to be sorted out. For example, I grew up with a story that we were related to George Washington, as well as to an “Indian Princess,” to which my grandfather would say, “She wasn’t a princess. That wasn’t her real name.” When you hear stories like that as a kid, it’s ridiculous. Yeah right, sure. In researching the family tree, I found a George Washington, not thee George Washington, but a George Washington. From there I thought, “Okay, what other of these stories are true, and what have I had wrong?”

On my mother’s side of the family, I am able to trace back to the 1500’s in England, to Scotland and to 1800’s Ireland and a young man named Joseph Creighton, aged thirteen years, traveling alone, who arrived in New Orleans in 1847 aboard The Berlin, to Reverend David Caldwell and the Revolutionary War, and to Civil War soldiers who fought on both sides of the conflict. On my father’s side of the family, I am able to trace my ancestry to 1500’s England to Sir Robert Bell, Speaker of the House of Commons, to 1600’s Colonial England to Thomas Burgess whose affair with Lydia Gaunt led to the first ever divorce in Plymouth and to Cherokee Chief Doublehead ( a sixth great-grand-father), whose daughter, Cornblossum (Princess) Doublehead married Big Jake  Troxell and  their  daughter, Margaret Troxell married James Bell in 1809, whose great-grandson, William, a great-grandfather, who married Lena Burgess, one of my great-grandmothers, and the sixth great-grandaughter of Thomas Burgess and Lydia Gaunt. There were also family stories of a relation to The Younger Brothers, of the James- Younger Gang by the marriage of a cousin, connected through the Carson family, though I was unable to verify those stories.

I went on my first cross-country trip to Mississippi and Louisiana before I was quite two years old, and I remember the highlights, including getting bit by a dog. These stories were swimming around in my head as I wrote the story of Maybelline. Maybelline Raven is a woman who has witnessed and experienced something horrific. As a result, her mind has found a way to compartmentalize and deal with the trauma as she remains terrified and trying to protect her children. Set in 1762 in a fictional village along the banks of the Mississippi River, this story was an important turning point for me, it is a story about courage, about strength, about the incredible power of the mind and the heart to heal, it is a story about resilience, survival, and love. Maybelline Raven is also a story that I believed in so much that I was will to roll the dice on publishing my own books, though it wasn’t the first book that I published. Creating “Maybelline” helped me understand my own processes of coping and healing.

I’m going to be taking a bit of a rest ( I already am, caught a bug, needed to sleep, etc.) and hopefully enjoying the holidays, sober,while trying to avoid eating too many delicious baked goods. I’ll probably be working on something. I’ll probably post again before the year is out, or not. Until then, “Gold Mine” and “Maybelline Raven and The Wolf”are  available on Amazon. The paperback of Maybelline should be available any day now.

Enjoy!

Happy Holidays!

Teri

Believing Again, II.

This will be the first of two posts today.

The last few years, as previously mentioned, have been not a little challenging. I made up my mind a long time ago to let the challenging times, that’s a nicer way of saying the bad times or the hard times, make me a better person, not a bitter one. I wasn’t ever a person to hang onto a hurt. I’d acknowledge it, feel whatever I felt, but I’d move on from that sort of thing pretty quickly because hanging onto it, that keeps you stuck. It’s taken me a while to understand why I was hanging onto some hurts, how that happened, how I got into a mindset that was taking me down the lonely road to bitterness! That’s an actual road. Some of it had to do with unrealistic expectations, of myself, of other people, and of life. We’ve been through some tough times, trying times. But, those unrealistic expectations I had, they existed because I didn’t realize how hurt, and scared, I already was, that there were some hurts that I really hadn’t let go of or even understood yet, and that I was carrying that with me, and then trying to create, hoping and expecting to create, a “perfect world” in which no more hurt could ever occur or happen to me again, where everyone always behaved properly, never took advantage, appreciated things accordingly, had the proper amount of respect for things that are sacred to most everyone, home, marriage, children, livelihood or one’s work, personal property that was worked very hard for, personal privacy, and so on, the things that you would think that everyone takes seriously, and wants respected. For many years I was also very protective and private because of certain situations in my life that have since resolved themselves in one way or another, some things run their course. In other words, I wasn’t actually closed off, but, being a mature person who is also a mother, well, it wasn’t all just about me, not ever. I had very definite ideas about parenting my child and how to conduct that. If other people didn’t agree with, or understand those things, decisions, that is something I will never be sorry for. There were also Norman Rockwell type holiday family dinners involved in those expectations, ideas, or imaginings, where no one took sideswipes at anyone else, ever, everyone loved and appreciated one another, friends were exceedingly loyal to a fault, the bird was never too dry, and certainly, no one was ever trying to turn everything into a joke, or telling you to lighten up because you were so wanting this fairy-tale, this unshattered dream, no one was ever fighting or passing out in the Azaleas, breaking grandma’s swan that’s been on the mantel for years, and so on. That isn’t even including all of the things in life that there’s no way to plan for and that you never see coming, like illness. And every time a new “betrayal” or hurt happened to me, or in my world, my world shrank. It’s one of those things where it’s a self-protective kind of a mechanism, because a person doesn’t want to be hurt anymore, or simply can’t absorb another hurt, but it ends up having the opposite effect at some point, and it ends up being hell on everyone around, and hurting others, because people are only perfectly imperfect.

It gets to be hell because there’s no way to make it perfect. There’s no perfect thing that if it was just this thing then it would all be all right or all right again. Then its walking on eggshells over everything, because still hanging onto some hurt. You can be protective of something into oblivion. Sometimes people are so afraid of something being taken away from them that they’ll destroy it from the inside out without meaning to. Sometimes, when you have something really good, it can be difficult not to be afraid. And then how do you trust something good again after a difficult time?

Closing oneself off from life, from the world, however, because other people have hurt you, isn’t the answer. It’s kind of a strange thing for me to say because it’s obviously something I’m pretty well versed in, but, life is often quite messy. Therein, too, has been some of the issue, because I’ve been one of those people who has tended to think that life is messy because people are messy, so, don’t be messy. Again, unrealistic expectations, in general, I’ve been messy too sometimes. The thing is, that sort of thing can be contagious, etc. and so on. Would the perfect world be the one with no other people in it? Adam and Eve alone together in the Garden, without the interference of the devil? Would it be Henry Bemis, “Time Enough at Last” in The Twilight Zone, with an unbroke pair of glasses and all of those books? Would the perfect world be the one with not that many other people around? It often happens that people get to feeling that way and they go off to live places where there aren’t quite so many other people, and, there’s something to be said for that in some regard. But, even in places where there’s only say, a hundred people, percentage wise, there’s still going to be those one or two jerks.

“Before you diagnose yourself with depression or low self-esteem, be sure you’re not surrounded by assholes.”   ~ quote usually attributed to William Gibson

People, can be baffling. But, if you’re closing yourself off, don’t expect the world to miss you, to care, or even to understand it.

However, if you’re closing yourself off from the world to the point where you’re not doing things that you want to do, well, then you’re the one who is missing out on your own life. I wasn’t a closed off, fearful person, far from it, I was the exact opposite of fearful and closed off,  but I did become that way. I’m also the only person who can fix that. That’s really important to accept responsibility for. I am the only person who can fix it. Like quitting drinking, taking better care of myself, it’s something that I’m looking at and wondering, when did this happen? How did this happen? I was never this closed-off, fearful person. I am the only person who can fix it. People will always be people. The world will always be the world. There’s a lot of good out there too. I am, once again, making the conscious choice to let it make me better, not bitter, and live.

Teri

 

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That one Twilight Zone episode where…

Bad Hair Day

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Have you ever had a “bad hair day?”

This here webpage had to undergo another slight change. I’m going to say it was a bad hair day, among other things. I’m having a bad hair day. This, too, shall pass.

She: “I’m trying to get you what you want.”

Me: “What I want, is for you to get out of my hair. And stay out of it.”

Really, I wrote four thousand words that I’ve had the wisdom to keep to myself, as in no one will ever see them, because other than me getting it out of my system, it was a complete waste of my day and time.

spilled-milk

Because if you give a mouse a cookie, it’s going to want a glass of spilled milk.

TS

Grain, Available Now!

Nineteen Stories

1. DRIVE  ~  Trying to get home

2. The Fine Art of Being Human ~ infidelity, the delicate workings of forgiveness

3. HUSH ~ a robbery gone wrong and a doctor trying to quit

4. THE NEED ~ a desperate love

5. Antares Lariat ~ lassoing stars to try to pay the bills

6. Personal Assistant ~ a temptation

7. THE WIDOW SMITH ~ a woman seeks a reckoning

8. SEVEN ~ a working-girl trying to find true love

9. The Hunter ~ an inter-dimensional time traveler on a chase

10. DONE BONES ~ a buried body

11. Don’t Let Go ~ a love affair

12. Tick Talk ~ the malaise of a ticking clock

13. Teenager ~ a teenager trying to survive being a teenager

14. Strange Comfort ~ the beginning of healing

15. Scorpio Moon ~ a monster in the moonlight

16. Roll Me Away ~ the grass isn’t always greener

17. An Embarrassment of Riches ~ a betrayal

18. It Takes So Long to Get Ready ~ a ghost story

19. All The Long Way Home ~ a chain of convenience stores that are really a gateway to the places of the past

         The stories of GRAIN weave a soliloquy or haunted dreams, presented in emotionally intimate vignettes and moments glimpsed of the before and after of certain life changing events, the frailty of being human, of love, hope, and longing, of trying to escape monsters, and get home, in one piece.

GRAIN, available now on Kindle at Amazon.

Also available in paperback!

The Slick Furies, and Winsome Vein, Available Now!

Available Now! In time for Halloween! 
Get The Slick Furies!

The vampire novel.

Talessia Sinclair works for The Aeternus Fidei Research and Development Center in the quiet City of New Faith, as a criminal profiler. Her last case left her sitting behind a desk, filing papers, for the mysterious Tom Lassiter. Now she must return to the hunt, with her new partner, the no-nonsense, Agent Finn Treadwell, to catch a vicious serial killer. However, this serial killer, is different. This serial killer, is a Vampire!

The Slick Furies is a pulp-horror roller coaster ride firmly anchored in the modern world with roots trailing back to Sixteenth Century France and beyond. Call it Vampire Noir, with a sense of humor, this book never pretends to be something it isn’t. With deeper themes of transformation and love, The Slick Furies will leave you hoping for another bite!


The Slick Furies is available now on Kindle Direct at Amazon.

The Slick Furies, now available in paperback!


Winsome Vein   

In the fall of 2008, after years of cumulative stress and battling illness, author Teri Skultety suffered  a catastrophic nervous breakdown, one that would take the better part of a decade to recover from.

From 2005 to 2008, fearing that she was once again being stalked , not only online by her abusive father ( he is since deceased), but by a former acquaintance, while coping with tremendous grief after the deaths of her beloved grandparents, she wrote thirty-nine poems.

Fear. Illness. Betrayal. Death. Resurrection. Survival. Love. Salvation.
These are the courageous poems of Winsome Vein.

You can read these here…

Sorrow’s Mistress
Will She Burn?
Cure: The Female Animal
Slipshod Paradise
Decorated Reflections
Stone
With All Fine Corpses
Supernova
The Scream

Winsome Vein, the complete selection, is available on Amazon.