Inspiration.
The illusive comet,
The sleeping giant,
The rare budding flower.
You evade me for days,
For nights.
You slip between the shadows
Of my mind,
Leaving undiscernible bursts of notions
In ink black wells.
Like fireworks,
All too quickly, you disappear from view.
Your brilliance fizzling out
Before it’s fully comprehended.
Like trying to catch water
With a net,
Or contain fire in your palm,
It’s impossible to contain,
To control.
-Collins
Those that say they love all,
And those that say they love few,
Are one in the same.
Because love is not dependant on the quantity,
But the fulfillment of one’s own heart.
-Collins
If you saw me on the street, you wouldn’t guess at my illness. Well, some consider it an illness. I consider it an awakening. Brought to me by the lies and failures of lesser beings.
Perverts.
Rapists.
Liars.
Your next door neighbor.
Luckily for me, I am a very good actor. No one has ever suspected my dark passenger, my inner demon. My best friend.
You would walk by me on the street, you might glance at me if you were a young girl. I know they enjoy my looks. But otherwise, you would never know.
I walk among you. I order coffee from your cafe. I say thank you when you hold the door open for me at the grocery store. I bring my car in for tune ups at your shop.
But at night, after I’ve run my errands. After I get off work at my mundane job, I take to the streets. To plots. To schemes. Which all end up in the same place. In the woods. The mossy smell surrounding me. My blade sliding into flesh.
No. You would never guess at my illness.
But I can guess at yours.
I live for your illness.
-Turner
Do you ever just lay down,
And close your eyes,
And it feels like the world is shifting around you?
Like you’re in the eye of a tornado?
You feel still, but your mind is in motion,
Jostling back and forth like a ship on high seas.
You squeeze your eyes shut tighter,
Hoping that’ll stop it;
But it keeps going.
You feel like a goldfish inside a bag
That some kid won at a fair,
Carrying you home absentmindedly.
Your body becomes solid,
But your mind still gushes around inside,
Frantic for footing.
But storms can find no purchase,
Because they are creations of nature.
And they must wear themselves out
Like gale forces winds,
Sputtering into gusts,
Settling into breezes.
And then they’re still.
-Collins
So! I woke up this morning to find the city blanketed in snow. Pretty to look at, horrible to be in. Well, at least to me. But it did get me to thinking about the upcoming holiday season. What is important to me about it, my traditions. So! I’m coming to you guys, to ask what is special about your holidays?
For me, it’s about seeing family I just about never get to see. I love the egg nog and all the special treats. I love taking little ones to see Santa and seeing their faces light up. I also get excited watching others open their gifts and see their elation when they get something they’ve always wanted. It’s also the only time of year I actually bake, which I generally eat more myself then I give to others (I know im horrible). So that’s what I enjoy. What about you guys?
-Turner
one word moniker,
magician.
having the magical ability to disappear
when needed most.
Show me a magic trick
that doesn’t involve smoke and mirrors.
You put love in a box
and failed to make it reappear.
you sawed my heart in half
and wheeled it back stage.
you pulled my emotions from your sleeve.
like colorful scarves,
and discarded them to the audience.
You locked me in a container of water
and made me hold my breath, while you held the key.
but I’ve learned a few things being a magician’s assistant,
and soon I’ll be the one pulling the disappearing act.
-Collins
To pump up your Thursday, here’s a gem I happened across recently. It’s got a funky synth pop/k-pop feel which I really dig. Check it out and enjoy your day!
-Collins
Division is our downfall.
Our need to classify, differentiate and organize
Will be our demise.
We are no longer one species,
But many races.
Sliced and diced.
Dependant on color, language, and geographical location,
We separate each other with boarders,
Calling a little patch of land home.
And you must be patriotic to that place,
Because rooting for another makes you a traitor.
If we removed the labels, all but one,
Would that make us see the world differently?
If we were all just human,
No part of a different group,
Called race, gender, country of origin,
Would we get along any better?
Would we look at another person
And not automatically classify them
By race or sexual orientation,
But instead judge them based on their actions and their heart?
-Collins
“Oh yes the past can hurt. But you can either run from it, or learn from it” – Rafiki, Lion Kin
This is a quote similar to a Buddhist quote that I’ve always admired. So much so I even tattooed a part of it on my body so I would always remember.
As the quote says, yes…the past can hurt. It can hinder you, change and define you. But we have the choice to move past our histories and become better people. Stronger, more knowledgeable. It’s something I strive to do everytime something upsets me, or I feel like I can’t go on. I learn from my mistakes and heartbreaks and choose to be happy.
Oh…and anything from the Lion King? Well yeah.
-Turner
Turner and I have been piloting our blog for long enough that we have finally reached our 200th post. That’s insane. We are very grateful and humbled by the amount of people who can relate to us and what we have to say. Honestly, we never thought many people would appreciate what we create. It’s been really a wonderful experience to step out of our comfort zones and post our writing and poetry for other people to enjoy. Our followers have given us so much confidence in our work and the courage to take our work to the next level.
To thank all you wonderful people, we wanted to share a sneak peek at our current novel venture entitled “Riptide.” (the photo above gives you an idea of what the story will involve.)
The bus station is large, with pale green linoleum flooring that clicks as you walk on it. The big windows let it light from the street lamps outside. It’s basically deserted, apart from a middle-aged man curled on a bench sleeping and a couple checking their watches and chatting quietly. The last time I was here, I went with my parents to pick up my aunt Millie. It was the middle of the day and bustling with bright cheery people. This is a stark contrast to then.
Hesitantly I approach the ticket counter where a bald man with red cheeks and a tight shirt counts ticket stubs. He eyes me dully.
“What can I do ya for, kid?” he drawls.
“I’d like one bus ticket please,” I say.
He rolls his eyes and taps the board behind him which indicates the places the buses go. “Where to?”
Good question. I hadn’t though that far. I check down the list. Houston, Detroit, San Diego, New York. None of the choices appeal to me until I see one that reminds me of the money in my pocket.
“Can I get a one way ticket to Santa Cruz please?” I pull a few bills from my purse and place them on the counter.
The man sits up a little straighter in his grubby chair and slides the money off the counter, counting it quickly. “One way or round trip?”
“One way.”
He nods to himself and taps some buttons on his register. A receipt prints out and he hands me my change and a pale pink ticket. “Bus leaves in fifteen.”
“Thanks.”
I catch sight of my reflection in the glass of the door before I push it open. My blonde hair is messy and sticks up in places. There are bags under my tired blue eyes. No one waiting for the bus pays me any attention though. When it arrives, everyone piles on, sliding their luggage into the storage compartment on the side of the bus. I settle into a seat at the back as the bus pulls away from the curb and idles at a stop sign. Closing my eyes, I nod off, clutching my purse and thinking about all the things I’ll be able to do, just because I can.
*****
I wonder if my parents have reported me missing yet. I wonder if Tanner is crying over me. The idea of either possibility screws my mouth into a grin. I guess Stella isn’t as perfect as you thought she would be. Ha.
I stroll down the boardwalk, lugging my suitcase along. The station the bus had stopped at was only a mile from the beach, so that’s where I headed. Spying a hotdog stand, I head over and order a deluxe with everything. My stomach grumbles as I speak, my mouth salivating at the thought of relish and mustard and onions slathered over a steaming dog.
“That’ll be $2.00,” the server says as he squirts the toppings onto the hotdog and sets it on the counter.
“Sure thing,” I smile, reaching into my purse to pull out a five, furrowing my brow when I can’t find a bill. I open the purse and turn it upside down. A mint and a dime clink onto the counter. You’ve got to be kidding me. “I swear I had money in here. I took a bus here and someone must have stolen from me while I was sleeping.”
The server snorts and dumps the hotdog into the garbage. “No money, no food. Now get lost.”
I stare at the garbage in distain. “Please, I’m really hungry. I could—“
“I said get lost!”
Hungry and upset, I wander away down the beach, tossing the useless purse in a trash can. This isn’t really turning out how I expected. I’ve got no money, no place to go. The waves rumble as they crash into the shore, young kids shrieking as they try to outrun the water. I set my suitcase down and sit on top of it. Rolling up my jeans, I pull off my shoes and dig my toes into the sand.
I watch as women in bikinis eat popsicles and giggle to one another. A group of boys in trunks run with their brightly colored surfboards slung under their arms toward the water. A young boy builds a sandcastle nearby, placing seashells around the perimeter. Everyone on this beach is having an awesome time, and I’m here alone and totally screwed.
A little ways away, near the lifeguard chair, there’s a hose where people can wash the sand from their legs and I notice some kids drinking from it as well. I walk casually over and take a long sip from the hose. The water is cool and heaven against my dry lips. I drink until I can’t fit anymore in and I can feel it sloshing around in my stomach when I move.
I spend the rest of the day combing the beach, people watching. I check out the shops along the boardwalk. Most of them sell souvenirs, but a few sell bait and tackle as well as surf attire and equipment. Lots of the people working in the shops eye my suitcase like I might steal something. I wouldn’t. I’m not desperate enough to, not yet. I smile at them anyway, and say have a good day as I leave.
When the sun has sunken below the horizon, I head back to the beach. It’s become obvious I’m not going to have a place to sleep tonight, so I look for a reasonable place that provides me a little privacy. I find what I’m looking for a ways down the beach. A small peeling blue bait shack is nestled beside a palm tree, whose fronds droop down, dipping into the sand. I curl up against the shack resting my head against the suitcase. Tomorrow I’ll start figuring out just exactly what I’m going to do.
-Collins
turner collins 