Author of the suspenseful, paranormal romances in my Stranger Creatures series. Also writing poetry, science fiction, and fiction. Sharing info about new book releases by different authors, poems, contests, and more
Keep reading for the two possible endings to this poem
Ending 1 –
Past the threshold
no trail awaits
The stars can’t breach the canopy of leaves
A chorus of vines wrap around me
I’m a present for everything that stings
Venom lessons leach into blood, muscle, and bone,
Wolves wait and rabbits
scream
Over the crickets’ wicked laugh
I hear the stream
whispering
that the forest doesn’t go on forever
The music is gone
so I write my own
Ending 2-
When I cross the threshold
leaves swallow me, doing their best to hide me
from things that steal and sting
Whisper of the stream
guides me
off the path
through briars that cut into my leaves
piercing muscle, clawing at hope
but the sound still calls
I hide from spiders and walk with snakes
through the rain
over places where the earth
split
Stars and fireflies stay true
And the night’s butterfly takes me through the last miles
to the heart
the symphony
the beginning
of everything
Image description – a photo of somewhat barren trees at the edge of a forest. The sky is overcast, and a layer of fog gives the trees a hazy appearance.
Why two endings for the poem?
After I wrote the beginning of the poem, I started thinking of two possible endings- one more sinister and one with a more joyous outcome. I remembered reading those Choose Your Own Adventure books when I was a kid and thought, why not have two endings to this poem?
A song, a promise, a path- hidden except for the first few steps- could be a trap, waiting to ensnare any who dare to enter. Will the price to move past the trees be cuts so deep that souls and bones need to be pulled back together with a needle and thread? Or is the hint of the hauntingly beautiful song a prelude to something wonderful?
The threads binding our souls and bones remember the agony of past lessons, yet the stitches come alive with curiosity. In stillness we dissolve. Beyond the tree line, we find reasons.
drank the corporate-issued devotion-to-policy brew
or chose a regular cup of coffee and steeled themselves to slog through
another day of being under the eye and thumb of
cameras and software packages designed to report
each word
each keystroke
to measure productivity, to predict loyalty
to the almighty company
Corporate mission statements decorate walls and computer screens
Remember:
Positive attitudes only
Daily emails politely warn
that questions come with a penalty
When bodies drop under the weight of unattainable goals
and crack like stones
No blood left to squeeze
The boss with the broom sweeps the old dust out
so the doors can welcome in
younger faces ready to bleed for a company
that will demand the impossible
then sweep away the broken pieces
with a broom
Image description – photograph of high-rise businesses overlooking a rocky section of the James River
About the poem:
As rights for workers and conditions for workplace safety continue to erode, the reality hits hard that lawmakers are not coming to help workers. Nobody in politics is coming to provide actually legislative help because their pockets are being lined for staying silent. Since nobody in power is coming to help, it’s up to us to set a precedent, to draw lines, to set limits, and to be loud and obnoxious when we can if subtle strategies and quiet subterfuge fails. Otherwise, the spineless, manipulative, ass-kissers who have sold their souls for the privilege of serving their corporate overlords will continue to perpetrate wage theft, require unattainable goals, tout unrealistic expectations, discriminate both overtly and covertly, and cause unsafe and/or inhumane working conditions.
I’m thrilled to have three poems (Salt, Garden’s Revenge, and Transformation) in Querencia Press’ anthology, Unstable!
This anthology was inspired by a bunch of asshats on social media being jerks. In response to that behavior, the creative team at Querencia Press asked contributors to send in our most unhinged work, and out of that, they put together Unstable. Read with care.
If you’d like to read more of my poems, find about my latest book release information, read excerpts, get book recommendations, and other fun stuff, you can find me at:
There’s always a little bit of magic, even in the most ordinary things. In my flash fiction story, The Forests After Fire, a song, along with some help from the universe, brings two strangers together.
The weather was still warm enough for one last weekend at the ocean when Caletta’s world fell apart. Well, not her whole world, just enough of it to ruin her weekend getaway and take half the stuff in her house. He left a huge mess in his wake and Caletta was too tired to clean. She had to duck underneath all the questions that hung in the doorway. Numb habits— a gift from a universe that understood that healing isn’t instantaneous, like striking a match or pouring water over a fire.
Trees and people take time, and by the time the autopilot light burnt out and woke Caletta from her sleep-walking life-dance, the leaves had changed colors. The trash can full of microwave dinner containers was full and she found herself craving something cooked on the stove. She soaked chicken thighs in butter and seasoned them with parmesan, crushed red peppers, and oregano. Spicy and savory. How long had it been since she’d been able to cook with red pepper flakes? He had hated spicy foods. Dinner tasted so good she cried at the tragedy of eating it alone. Then she cried harder at how the pitiful sound echoed through her half empty house.
The memories and the emptiness burned. Her tears burned too, long into the night. By morning, her tears tasted like the ocean and she wrapped herself inside her blankets to shake off the cold. Things were fine while she took a shower and got dressed. Her playlist begged her to sing, not quietly like she used to, but at top volume, until the lyrics were an anthem. She was happy for a few minutes, but then, the walls made her mad.
Every room in the house was some shade of beige. He’d convinced her that the bland tone would go with everything. Then, he’d made sure everything went with the beige, no contrasts, no vivid splashes of brightness— including her. Somewhere along the way, she’d learned to keep everything on mute, including her thoughts and ideas, because only soft, gentle things got space and love, at least with him. No more. Time to paint the walls.
Caletta dug around the boxes in the back of her closet and found her purple jacket, frayed jeans, and multicolor Doc Martens. Dressed like the Caletta that had been forced into hibernation for stupid reasons, she went to Best Mart. On the way to the paint aisle, she spotted the clearance section for Halloween stuff. Damn, I missed my favorite holiday! She’d missed that time of year when the veil was weak and two different worlds walked together, for those who wished to see. After Halloween, the magic was softer, quieter. But the veil that she felt open every Halloween wasn’t the only veil, nor the only kind of magic that wound through what seemed like ordinary days.
She found a bracelet of tiny silver skulls that jingled and a necklace of red leaves and alternating white beads that gleamed like little snowflakes. The necklace didn’t seem to be in the right place. She checked the price tag. Definitely not on sale. She put the necklace in her basket along with the bracelet, anyway. As she walked down to the paint aisle, she heard a song she couldn’t place but found she couldn’t turn in the direction of the sound. She didn’t feel… ready to hear the whole song. She shook off the strange feeling and picked out paint colors that would make her house feel alive again.
Matteo heard a soulful song playing through static. He wished Best Mart would fix their speakers because the music was… he didn’t know what it was. He needed to hear more of the saxophone notes and the singer’s powerful voice, but the sound faded out completely. He went on about the chore of stocking up on groceries and finding everything on his list for repairing the damage she’d done to the house when she’d left. Ordinary chores and an ordinary day mixed with memories and pain, and questions he’d never have answers to, but that song stayed on his mind. Songs were for hope while the forests healed.
On a night so hot, his ancient air conditioner gasped and tapped out, Matteo dreamed of red leaves blowing in the wind, of snow falling, and soft bells jingling. He heard the song again and found himself on a path of oak trees, lit by fairy lights. Something purple caught his eye, just a flash, then gone before his dream-self could get a better glimpse. When he woke to a broken air conditioner, he opened his bedroom windows and memories slipped out. Fireflies ate the worst parts and lit them up inside their bellies, one last, bright, awful time, then flew off into the night.
That November, the red leaf wind blew quickly into the first snow. The Autumn Festival of Lights in Great Oaks, Virginia began at sunset and Matteo, though he was running late, still managed to snag a good parking spot. He texted his friends that he would meet them soon at the arena for the outdoor concert. Strings of colorful fairy lights lit up the trees at the entrance to the festival. The sound of something softly jingling caught his attention.
A woman in a purple coat crossed his path. Her brown hair and lovely green eyes stole his breath and his words. He could have sworn that he’d seen her before. Somewhere. But he couldn’t find the words to ask. In the distance, he heard the band introduce themselves and their first song began.
“That song!” she said. “I’ve been dreaming of that song for over a year but I couldn’t remember more than a few notes.”
Matteo nodded. “I’ve been hearing it, too.”
They found a seat together and listened to the band play. The snow fell on the concert and the universe wove her magic through the forest and trees, and into the two people who were ready to see.
I typically write paranormal romance novels with a ton of steam and suspense. Over the past couple of years, I have been writing poetry as well as dystopian, horror, and fantasy short stories. I am just beginning to get the hang of writing flash fiction. It’s been a challenge to condense an entire story into less than 1,500 words, but I feel like I’m starting to fall in love with writing flash fiction.
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Christina Lynn Lambert 