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Juliauthoress

Last Updated: 5/13/2008

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Gender: Female
Status: Single
Age: 30
Sign: Cancer

City: CHICO
State: CALIFORNIA
Country: US
Signup Date: 3/9/2005

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Tuesday, May 13, 2008

Fiction 59
Category: Writing and Poetry

GIRL

Blonde hair covered one eye as she peeked out from behind the massive white chrysanthemum. The fan above her spun hot air across the back of her neck. He could smell her perfume. He couldn't remember how many times they'd been like this, close, yet distinctly separate. "Don't look at me," she whispered.

She didn't know she was beautiful.

JAY

He was a known paranoid, eyes darting around the room, ears twitching, trying to pick up some suspicious noise or other. Sometimes he'd turn really quickly, hoping to catch a glimpse of whoever was following him. He never quite managed it, but he knew they were there, watching him. He could hear them breathing, slow and heavy. Rotten bastards.

LAURA

She tried to keep herself in silhouette. Difficult, but worth it. The shadows were always safer. She watched a man walk past, unaware, taking her for part of the scenery. Good. To be taken for a piece of artwork is any true introvert's goal. People can't hurt what they can't see, can they? No. She was smart that way.

6:30 AM

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Monday, July 16, 2007

Too Bad

       I
    had a
   peanut
     once
   but... it
rotted all
    away

(c. 2000)

8:56 PM

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Friday, February 24, 2006

Stepmother
Category: Writing and Poetry

Remember me? I was the one
You blamed for all your troubles.
With cruel lips and crueler heart
You say I tortured you.
I made you clean the heavy damask drapes
And the broad marble floors
In the dark rooms of the ancient house.
I made you cook the family meals,
Burning your soft lily fingers.
I made you wash the family laundry,
Turning your hands into thin white raisins.
I made you iron pink taffeta and blue organza
And meekly serve my own two daughters,
Children I bore in hardship and tears,
Children with gleaming eyes and crooked smiles
To remind me of their father.
You wonder why my face is hard and my hair is gray?
Because the dimpled pink turned to pallor in grief,
And the shining black that once adorned my head
Was not mourning enough when my true love went.
My children, with that great man's blood, ache with hidden sorrow,
And you wonder why I love them so?
Those small, light creatures you call lazy and mean?
Well,
I say you are mean, you
Who never gave me a chance to love
And be loved in this creaking house filled
With echoes of your blonde ghost-mother.
And I ask you, deep in my heart of stone,
Who is evil?

(c. 2001)

11:10 PM

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Friday, February 24, 2006

Julia Dawn
Category: Writing and Poetry

The name book I read
tells me that my name
means "youthful."
Another book says
it means "versatile."
And my middle name speaks
of new beginnings,
fresh starts,
things hoped for
but not yet seen.

In Latin, I think
my name means "hope."
I picture beautiful Roman women,
statuesque and patrician,
lounging
in terra cotta courtyards,
stealing
beauty from conquered cultures
and taking
the sumptuousness of life for granted.

There are days
when I don't like my name,
when the sound sends
disagreeable shockwaves burrowing
into my skin,
when the slurring
of three syllables
into two
sounds like the grating of rock
scraping metal,
when my name's assumed abbreviation
makes me want to yell out
the neglected letter "a" at the end.

When my younger siblings say it,
it is affectionate. It speaks
of days spent reading bedtime stories,
singing lullabyes,
infant tongues stumbling
over the difficulties of sounding out "j" and "l."
When the older boys say it,
it means competition
and camaraderie,
a sense of locking horns
while locking hearts.
When my older sister says it,
it smacks against my ear
bitter and sweet,
echoing up
from an abyss of ancient mutual disagreement,
a bottomless pit
we can never seem to scramble out of,
no matter how desperately we try.

My name comes
from a very distant grandmother, born in England
but pioneering the American West
with a wagon train of fellow believers,
finally stopping
and settling
in the Promised Land
of the Utah salt flats.
I picture her
as statuesque and patrician.

She gave up her life
of sumptuousness and privilege
for one of hardship, raising her sons
in her true faith, sacrificing her youth
to the dust of the trail
and the heat of the desert.

My parents say
I got my stubbornness from her,
my refusal to give up on what I believe in,
no matter how hopeless the situation,
even if it saps my strength
and steals my security.

I sometimes wish
they had chosen another woman
to name me for,
a woman who did not let
harsh conditions dry her up,
who would not have carried the scent
of dirt and blood and animal and sweat
and sorrow
with her for the rest of her life.
A woman
who fulfilled her name.

When I hear my name,
I sometimes rebel.
That word
is not me; I will not let myself
be summed up
in a few sharp letters in black-on-white.
I willfully insist
on being more dimensional
than any succession of sounds can be.
But sometimes
I relax slowly into the soft breeze
of my name, let it caress me
like the well-known, well-loved blanket
I never went to bed without.

When I was ten,
I hated my name.
But now,
I could not choose another.
It is solid; it is comfortable.
I like being youthful
and versatile.
I want to live
as hope.

(c. 2001)