Under Lavender Skies

 I've been waiting a little while to share this one because I wanted to make a art piece to post along with it.  Maybe you'll see one in a couple weeks. This story started with the idea to make a collection of stories all around the theme, "collection." I've always liked the idea of collections, I've collected many things over the years, when I was young I collected keys, old and unused or just lost keys I found random places (I got up to 12). Some of the stories I have written, of plan to, are strange like this one (certainly more strange than keys), some are metaphorical, some are serious and a little more normal.  P.S. this story isn't true, and it also is really short and could almost be described as more of a character sketch, or a another character's journal entry, than a story.  Let me know what you think!  Did you collect any strange or normal things as a child or now? Comment below!  A Tooth’s Story  My mouth was bleeding, bleeding because I w...

  You know, I don't think I'm a bad writer but I've never thought of myself as amazing, I think I'm just alright.  And I think that's ok, I have so much to learn that's for sure.  Art of any type (I think writing is a form of art), is so subjective and I try to keep in mind that even if I'm able to get published and known through my writing I'll never be good, at least not to everyone.  Of course that means I will be good or even great to others.  But also, please don't tell me if you hate something I make.  Right now in my life I am writing and making things that I like and enjoy making and it's what's keeping me going.  I mean if I like it there's a chance someone else will too.   Still, it's nice to hear it, that my writing is good every once in a while, from someone other than my mom (love you so much mom). I'm currently almost finished with a 4 week writing class, which I've really enjoyed and wish was longer.  The first ...

 A Poem About Clouds  Today, I point out, the clouds Are wispy and quick across the sky. I know it's been said before, And that many think the same, But I adore clouds. The way they are never the same At times, Hardly touching the corners of the sky At others, Taking it over completely. This is a mostly pointless poem about The sky — but also I often wish I could pull myself up, On one of those days when the clouds cover the sky, And walk around up there for a little bit, In a completely new world Just for a little bit. My life seems to be changing fast, And flitting across the sky like the Clouds today. I have decisions to make and things to do And I'm not sure why it's so difficult to get myself to do them, but it is, And instead I write this poem. I want the clouds to be still And slow. Maybe tomorrow, Maybe then it'll be easier to handle. Or a tomorrow soon after that. It has to be. abby m.

Hey everyone!  I painted this a while ago for my mom for mother's day and never shared it here. Through this painting I discovered white flowers are very difficult to paint... Still I had a fun time figuring it out and adding more color and texture to the flowers!   Pictures and close ups below, I hope ya like it!  ☆☆☆

Grapes for Breakfast Yesterday I ate grapes for breakfast, half of them squishy  And brown, And gross,  And I told you my life story, Tears dried on the frames of my glasses from me crying with my head In my lap.  I ran into the kitchen before the silence grew too loud Too overbearingly loud  For those few moments, the world shut off Even the birds stopped singing and the wind ceased blowing  It was all so loud, louder than I could have imagined,  Like a raging, Relentless, Waterfall. It was just about to suffocate me  When I fled to get more grapes. The only way to describe a  A silence like that one, one that smothers everything around it,  Is with a sound. I also wanted to clean my glasses So I could at least see while we talked about how I could feel like  Less of a rotten grape, shall we say, and more of a person.  In the end, you said you understood but There was plenty of time, from me carefully picking out each rotten grape ...

The Poem Recently. . .  The world has feelt heavy recently and that feeling seems so come much easier then... the obvious lighteness  of the spring wind  through the overgrown grass in our backyard.  I read some advice recently, about how bad times and thoughts will come and go, and how you should let it pass though, you'll have to live life anyways,  people smile all the time even if they don't feel it one bit,  so you might as well set down as much  of the weight of the world as you can.  As a friend once said,  imagine the sky to be your life, the sky will be blue, cloudy, and stormy.  Storm clouds will come but they are not the end though they might stay for awhile,  Let them pass and don't attach yourself to those feelings.  Well, I will continue to write my little poems and stories, and paint and draw, and to learn, The best I can. Though I really have no idea what I'm doing.  It w...

The Man With the Colorful Face   Yesterday I saw an old man With life seeping from his cracks And wrinkles. People, these days, think of being old As painful and dibilitating, They think of walking with a cane And joints, hips, and knees that crack And break They think of people who are a little more Breakable  Then everyone else. As if the consequence of living long Is pain. When I saw this old man  I saw color,  life,  seeping From his cracks and wrinkles  In a way it doesn't For people without them. As if the consequence of living long Is something more.  The pain and color from the years Mixed up in the watercolor pallet Of this man's life, Is something I can only inaccurately describe As beautiful. Maybe language doesn't quite have a word For that man I saw Who walked with a cane, And a drooping sort of pain, And color seeping from his face.  abby m.

    Hey everybody, I hope you're having a good Monday! I wrote this poem a couple weeks ago and I think it turned out pretty well and I even managed to use a specific rhyme scheme through all six stanzas.  I hope you like it!  Stick around to at the end to read a summary of Dorothy Lawrence's life.   Sick and heavy, the day began,  With noise and bombs and fear  And for some reason, I wonder again, why I am here  Charles is next to me, who’s just a young man  No one deserves this, far or near  I write in my logbook, turning away I can’t show my tears  For I too, only, supposedly am a young man. But I’m not,  I’m a woman who's broken the law,  But the aching in my head is like a claw  That’s tearing me apart so I squat  And squeeze my eyes shut, and gnaw My lip, and draw  My will and mind to a place of peace till my body is not so hot.   It is too easy, in this place  To imagine that...

      Here are two drawings of my cats and I quite like how they turned out!  I used woodless colored pencils and I had to figure out how to blend them and get the right colors on the paper since I only have a set of 12 pencils, and each of them are true colors, no tan or light orange, or anything like that, so you're getting true orange or no orange at all.  But I think, while that was difficult at first, it made making these even better, I almost had to look at the photos and see what true colors were inside the colors of Edison and Clementine's fur.  Even though they don't blend, ideally I like how you can still see some of the colors separately too.   I picked photos of them that show some of their quirks. Edison likes sleeping on my purse, it's kinda scratchy and he loves it, and Clementine occasionally "kills" a skein of yarn and brings it out to us and I caught a picture of her doing it once.   What do you think?  Do you...

My skin is buzzing Sitting alone, at the dinner table On a Monday afternoon And I feel daunted, But as though I can Possibly Take on the world. If the world, Really the world, is what I get None of this fake  Impersonal stuff  Everyone seems to care So much about, but Something real.  Like clouds, and cats, and trees, and bees, And kindness. But with music buzzing in my ear I'm unable to move forward Or do anything at all. I am not ready To take on much at all. I am just a someone, Who's sitting alone at a table  Who's got too much buzzing, Who's got too much going on inside her head. "Buzzing" 

From floor to ceiling, rising Up, are butterflies, bugs, and bees  No longer writhing or striving  To survive, you see They are pinned in place, not hiding But displayed to see, for you and me. Up the hill, three children roamed And explored that day, To peek into the bug man’s home  It was early into the month of may  The first window they peaked in, Was the bathroom  It was bees and grasshoppers that affronted them from within Thankfully, no one was using the room. The three friends watched, unable to move, as the doorknob began to spin  A woman stepped through,  She saw them right away  For only a moment she withdrew  Holding beetles in a display,  Her hair was short and of the darkest hue, It was only a moments delay  Before up her face, a smile grew. Still terrified of what she would say, they were dismayed  When she lunged and threw Open the window and set down the display  “And who, may I ask,  Are you, peeking...