Author: Cindy

If My Words Were Currency

If all my words were currency, were magic and were spells, I’d write the world into a place where they could buy and sell. I’d have castles built from poetry, and mountains raised from song; the rushing rain would fall in colors and my favorite books last long. I would buy the sea and stars from all the sentences I’d bleed; constellations, fireflies, new notebooks I don’t need. I’d write letters in the woods, if they could make sunflowers grow, and if maples sprung from sounds, I’d sing aloud the songs I know. If my pen were a plane...

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I see the world two different ways. Day-old tea and dried petals, spilled and scattered. Broken mirrors, envelopes left unopened. Blotchy smudges of newspaper records, and the words that left paper cuts. Artificial flowers and smiles. Bloody battlefields and fractured families. Dusty picture frames, and memories favored, faded, forgotten. We use streetlights to pretend the world isn’t so dark. But this is not the only way. Two a.m. comets and the smell after rain, the sky dripping with expression. Stained glass, words repaired with touch. Still whispers of libraries, and books that understand you. Oceans that sweep away sad...

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The Sound of Redemption

The idea of sound has always been one of my favorites. To watch fireworks as they hit the top of an inky black sky and shudder delightedly at the boom that follows. To touch the frosted window as the snowflakes dissolve into teardrops and hear the howling of the wind as it kisses my cheeks. To leap into a heap of fire-tinted leaves and hear the crunch as well as feel it. Sound has always been my favorite sense, but I stand in awe and admiration of the people who make it their favorite fantasy. To be captivated by...

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Captain’s Log, Stardate 70797.4 For thirteen hours and twenty-four minutes, we have tailed the cosmic trail of the vandalizing devils who dared damage our ship’s hyperdrive. I stare out the glass and into the black that seems to be the color of my mood. The surrounding clusters of gas and rock, stars, asteroids— such maddening technicality— are insistently scattered in our way. My growing impatience covets an audience with the supernova responsible. Clean up after yourself, you haphazard accident! The sudden impact of an asteroid fragment sends a jarring quiver through the console. I stumble, beating my head against...

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A sunflower grows in the melting blue of an ombré pot on the windowsill of my sunlit room. The suggestion of my supportive friends is advice I can attest to: It benefits a plant if you talk to it and sing to it, and whether it’s owed to the music of my voice, or the carbon dioxide brimming from my lips, I talk anyway, and I wonder if it would help me grow if I could hear You talk to me. My sunflower is more of a greenflower now, standing with only a foot’s height of pride, still lacking...

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