All posts by Angela Harrison

Angela is a writer and poet from the backwoods of Texas. She's many other things as well, including a wife, mother, liberal, feminist, mostly straight, LGBTQ supporter, avid reader, outdoor lover, a grand multi-Para and a self proclaimed starfish flinger. She has thoughts and opinions that could be construed as many things, including being seen as a crunchy, tree hugging hippie. Religiously speaking, she’s more Pagan than Christian leaning but basically a secular type. She has been busy producing free range children since 1991 and is currently engaged in raising wild things. She has walked through fire; therefore she may occasionally leave sparkles in her wake. Early Childhood is her passion, as evidenced by the five or six children that call her mommy. She considers herself to be a bit of an attachment parent, aka rebel, trouble maker and pot stirrer extraordinaire. Examples of her bucking the traditional system include co sleeping, extended breastfeeding, unschooling, engaging in gentle discipline (i.e., not spanking) and leaving kids intact. She would like to remind her readers that mommin ain’t easy! For professional credentials see the About section.

The Truck

The truck hummed suspiciously in her driveway. Clara regarded it thoughtfully. It was a rather large truck, white, with lights on top. But how had it gotten here?

Clara didn’t own a truck and she had never seen this one until it appeared in her driveway a moment ago. The hum was suspicious mostly because trucks didn’t really hum. They rumbled or purred or something more apropos of an engine. This sounded more like something electric.

The truck looked mostly normal, with blue lights pulsating from under it. The windows were tinted so dark that she couldn’t see inside, even the front windshield. That was certainly odd.

She reflected that she should probably be afraid, or some other normal emotion that one might have if an unearthly sounding truck appeared in your driveway out of nowhere. But then again, she really wasn’t a normal person.

She became aware of her oddness at a very early age. When she knew what people were thinking without them having to speak, when people she wanted just showed up at the door, because they felt compelled to and when toys she saw on TV and wished for just appeared. But she hadn’t wished for this truck so what was up with it? Why was it here?

There was a soft click as the door swung open. An inhumanly tall man with a bluish tint to his skin stepped out. He wore a suit of soft, glittery silver, all one piece. Those were definitely antennas coming out of the top of his head.

“Hello Clara.” She heard in her head, though he had not spoken out loud.

“Hello.” She thought back at him, still far more curious than afraid.

“My name is Alto and I’m here to take you to the induction ceremony.” He sounded so matter of fact, as if she had been expecting him.

“Induction ceremony?” She probed.

Was that a sigh she heard inside her head?

“You are being inducted into The Intergalactic Society for Gifted Beings,” he thought at her, “you didn’t receive the welcome packet?”

“Uh…no.”

There was another sigh, this one distinct and thoroughly long suffering.

“So hard to get good help these days.” She heard him thinking.

“Well, get in or we’re going to be late,” He told her, “I’ll explain on the way.”

The Fray

The world is full of pain

The world is so unfair

To those who are different

The world doesn’t care

 

Women, minorities

The poor

The downtrodden, the weak

What’s the score

 

Screaming silently it seems

No one seems to hear

Or at least to respond

To the pain and fear

 

Trying in vain to fix it

But others deny it’s broken

How can you fix it

If it’s not broken

 

Frustration, anger

That’s how it Plays out

Then it’s their fault

Not allowed to shout

 

Silently scream

in pain and frustration

Deny the reality

of your station

 

That is what

The world wants

But screw the world

Ignore the taunts

 

Be a warrior, speak out

It’s the only way

to make the world better

wade into the fray

 

 

 

 

 

Epiphany

Stillness. Quiet. Nothing stirs.

This is a memory, sublime;

struggle to see it clearly,

through the swirling mists of time.

 

Standing over a boiling pot

of water, in a trance, caught,

steam rising, water roiling,

with what danger is the past fraught?

 

Gazing back in time and space

In the water you can scry.

Into many other worlds

You now can happily spy.

 

Stuck, standing still, falling in,

crossing the veil, with the sight.

Struggling to understand,

Remember with all your might.

 

What we really are, and why

In a flash, through a rip in time,

you finally catch it, see it

the epiphany you find.

 

Creation makes perfect sense

Your soul begins to rise up,

but in an instant, instead,

you fall, the loss is abrupt.

 

For a split second you saw,

you understood everything.

Then in a flash it was gone,

A memory of nothing.

 

You can’t forget it, ever

But you’ll never have it back.

You know that you once knew it,

You will always feel its lack.

 

 

 

 

Adventure

I watched the sun sink down below the horizon.  It was gorgeous, majestic! The blues and reds mingling as the sun grew huge and sank slowly behind the mountain range.

I inhaled the smell of the impending night deeply; this was my favorite time of day. The heat dissipating quickly as the sounds of night overcame the sounds of day. Chirping of birds and the calling of children ceased as the crickets and frogs took over.

Would I ever see my homeland again? By morning we should be well into our journey. The herds were on the move and so were we. For the first time in my memory, food was scare. Packed and ready to go, we set out, traveling by night to avoid the scorching heat.

I gave one longing backwards glance to my childhood home then turned and joined the others as we set out on our adventure.

Dirty

I have a friend that I trade writing prompts with and I really enjoyed this take on a poem about getting dirty. With permission, I am sharing it with all of you:

 

Jack walked along the country road

Humming along the way

He tripped and fell

And said, “oh hell.”

As he landed

To his dismay

 

In a pile of mud

Filthy mud

Oozing, wet, and sticky

All over his hands

All over his clothes

Now soggy, mired and drippy

 

Jack sighed

Wanted to cry

But got back up instead

And continued down the country road

Squishing the mud as he tread

 

by JN Quigley

The Incident

She fumbled for the light switch. It had to be here somewhere she thought as she stumbled along the wall in the darkness, feeling for it. This level of darkness was impossible, was there not a window anywhere? A bit of moonlight or a street lamp shining through a curtain? Seriously.

She felt the primeval panic rising in her throat. She tried to calm herself, to think logically. But every primitive instinct in her body was screaming that the darkness was evil, bad, to be feared. She had to get out of here.

She felt hot tears come unbidden to her eyes and start to spill down her cheeks. Mucous clogged up her throat and her breath came out in ragged gulps. Just as she was about to lose it completely, she mercifully found a doorknob. Turning it, she threw herself through the door and out onto the fair grounds.

All around her sirens blared and the sounds of the shouting filled her ears. Stumbling away from the doorway she suddenly found herself struck by the glare of a spotlight. She froze like a deer, and for the same reason. Going from complete darkness to the blindingly bright spotlight, she was momentarily stunned and blinded.

“Ma’am! Ma’ma!” a voice was demanding.

She looked up, blinking, shielding her eyes, trying to make sense of the words that were being said to her. The words were unclear, muffled, coming from a distance. As she struggled to focus, things began to sharpen, the words became decipherable, clearer, closer, and she was able to make out shapes around her. Police cars, an ambulance, cameras, were those reporters?

“Ma’am, I need you to focus!” the voice was more insistent now. She looked up into the face of a firefighter that stared back at her with a mixture of fear, amazement and concern, “I said, did you just come out of that building?”

She glanced back at the door she had exited through and nodded, numbly.

“My God! How is that possible?” He took her arm and guided her toward the ambulance, a uniformed officer holding the reports at bay.

“Ma’am! Ma’am! What’s your name?”

“Who are you?”

“What were you doing in there?”

“Did you have anything to do with the attack?”

“What’s your association with the victims?”

Victims, what were they talking about?

As she sat in the back of the ambulance she glanced down to notice she was covered in blood, she looked up in horror as the spotlight hit her again, a reporter she realized this time. She tried to remember what had happened, but her memory started with her frantic search for the light switch. Any existence she had prior to that was gone, wiped from her memory.

“We’re going to need to question her,” a police detective was saying to the paramedic that the firefighter had handed her over to, “we don’t know if she’s the only survivor or the perpetrator.”

“After she receives medical treatment.” The handsome young paramedic replied, loading her into the back of the ambulance and closing the door.

“I’m sorry,” she finally managed to speak, “I don’t remember anything.”

As the ambulance pulled away from the crime scene, he smiled at her with red glowing eyes, “It’s ok, all that is behind you, you’re one of us now.”

 

 

Mirror, Mirror

“Mirror, Mirror on the wall” she joked.

“Yes Mistress?” Came the reply.

She froze. Did that really just happen? She turned back toward the mirror, its surface shimmering now in a way it hadn’t before.

“Umm…………” she was at a loss as to how to proceed.

“Did you have a question mistress?” the mirror asked.

“Yeah, why do you call me mistress?” as soon as the words left her mouth she realized there were at least a dozen more relevant questions she could have asked. Starting with, how on earth the mirror was talking.

“Because you are my mistress,” it answered, “you have fulfilled all three requirements, you have physical possession of the mirror itself, through which we can communicate, you have the power to summon me and the ability to scry.”

“Scry?”

Did she hear the mirror sigh?

“Yes, mistress, scry, the ability to see visions in reflective surfaces such as water, glass or obsidian.”

Well she had to admit that her interest was piqued now. This overly large and ornate mirror had been left to her by her grandmother. It had arrived on her doorstep, with a simple note attached.

“For Esmerelda, who holds the power.” She hadn’t understood it then but it was starting to make a bit more sense.

Ok, so scrying is one thing, but this mirror is talking to me, she thought to herself. Out loud she asked, “Who and what are you?” Yes, that was definitely a more sensible question. She had about a million questions about her grandmother now, but one thing at a time.

“Let’s just say that I exist in another dimension and this mirror serves as a portal for the purposes of communication for those who have the eyes to see and the ears to hear.”

She wasn’t sure if the mirror was being overly simplistic or outright cryptic, she was sure the mirror didn’t mean physical eyes or ears. She was equally sure that she wasn’t living in a fairy tale; this was rural Texas for the love of Pete! Well, she might as well play along. What could it hurt? Maybe she was on a hidden camera show!

She leaned forward and reached out to swipe her hand across the mirrors surface. It responded, the surface shimmering as if she had disturbed a pool of tranquil water. Through the shimmering surface she could just glimpse the other side, just glimpse her future.