A month of stories…Day #1

Conversations With Cumulonimbus
Written by Chelsea Marie Hicks

Kneeling in waiting for what sunshine never brings, the skin of her knees ache from indentations made by tiny fractures of what was once boulders, though more likely than not the pieces leaving marks that she brushes away merely belonged to rocks not so infinite or destructive in size.

Greeting heels to the dry, sheltered ground, there comes a strike sharp like an axe splitting a portion of tree trunk, and even she is surprised by the ringing in her ears that are her footsteps.

Daddy never told her to pray to god, so she didn’t, but sometimes she conversed with the clouds hoping that maybe today they would ease up on the rain. She’s held talks with cumulonimbus for weeks now, yet the sky refuses to understand the discomfort that comes from shoes and socks sopping muddy, a feeling like grape jelly filling in the spaces between wheat bread pores but leaving a mess on cracked linoleum floors much worse and smelling less like sugar and more like earth.

Mommy never mentioned that when they came, the rains wouldn’t stop. Perhaps that’s why she can only be found sinking in the sea, constantly confusing the actions of floating and falling, swimming and sinking. It wasn’t always like this, she remembers.

Though these are lies we often tell ourselves while trying to sleep at night.

With thick, muddy water filling in her shoes, making them deceptively heavy, the sky grows darker until it shatters and the glass drops fall to the sea and soil, cold and slightly brittle, and it is then that she wonders what would happen if she just stayed here. Even if the water reached her knees and then her chest and then neck and up over her head; even if her body sank into the mud until her pelvis felt the dark, oily slime; even if it all somehow hardened and water separated from soil and her limbs stiffened and then her whole body became the kind of art that decorates fountains. She wondered all of these things for so long that she stayed.

The sun never came and the earth never hardened and the girl never sank, but her skin always stayed damp and her feet never learned how not to be muddy.


Poetry is exhausting me

Fiction is a fiendish friend of mine that I have been showing too little of attention lately and I’m blaming poetry writing for this neglect. I’ve taken to writing a few poems that might fit closer in with micro-fiction, a form I fancy rather severely. This little ditty is meant to be a surrealist piece and the photo that accompanies it is something I just happened to be looking at when the idea came to mind.

Lennon wall


When it Rains it Sprinkles

An old man made of toothpick limbs
ambled by handing honey dripping
chrysanthemums to the children
making glass castles out of sand.

Their fingernails
were breathing fire.

The weatherman predicted
a downpour of sprinkles
and the women,
dressed in ragweed,
thought it a dandelion day
to make cupcakes out of clouds.

Blinded by the technicolored shower
of lite-bright sugar bits,
the old man watched his sticky limbs
take to neon pixels
and holding on
for dear stability
he clutched his now sparkling
as the ragweed women threw
their arms through the sky
and chaosed through the streets
trying to seize the sprinkles
that were raining
like bunnies and foxes.

Measuring cups

Written by Chelsea Marie Hicks

She didn’t have any measuring cups so I had to use my hands. I remember growing up here in between these walls of secrets and lies, this little blue house on the corner, the place where I buried my cat and my innocence in the dirt. Her cupboards were a barren country with only the scattered remnants of quaker oats veiling the surface area. Her only nourishment came from the nicotine in her cigarettes, every single one meaning to be her last. She was a habitual quitter who could never really quit, but somehow she managed to be a failure her entire life. My fingernails scratched the bottom of the bag and there was only enough mix for a couple of blueberry pancakes. I could have just poured the mix out of the bag, sure, but sometimes I just needed to feel an emptiness that I knew could be refilled. I hated blueberry pancakes and still do. They remind me of her and the part of her that’s in me. She assumed I liked Krustez blueberry pancakes because I always ate them. Because they were the only thing we had. One hundred forty nine calories, seventeen from fat. I often wondered how many calories could be knocked off if I sifted the blue flavored masses out. One hundred forty nine calories, seventeen from fat, still. I do blame her, still. Sometimes but for small things other times for everything. Often I like to think that I got nothing from her, but then I’m reminded that I too am a habitual quitter. I’ve been trying to quit her for years.

Throwing punches at the night air

I’ve been going through a miniature version of writer’s block. Although I must admit that what’s really happening is much more a version of motivational lack than any true block of inspiration or lack of words to say. I did stay up late last night and conjured up a short short. It’s nothing to write home about (gotta love cliches!), but with all the windows open wide in my room I found inspiration from the thundering footsteps of strangers. This is what happens when the air conditioning fails you and the noise of drunk college students meandering home fills your dreams at night. Oh, and when you watch Dexter before sleeping. That show makes you think all sorts of sinister thoughts.

The Things in the Night
Written by Chelsea Marie Hicks

In the night I hear footsteps. I can feel every tread crash into the walls and send shock waves throughout my nervous system. I haven’t left my bed in days, in weeks. It seems I’ve forgotten how to wake, how to eradicate my dreams and the ticks laced in my unwashed sheets that nibble on my flaky flesh. No one, not a single person loves me. If they did they would have found me lying here 15 days, 7 hours, and 22 minutes ago trapped in limbo. If I knew what happened I would tell you, but that night, tonight, tomorrow night, they are all a blur to my 20/20 vision. The one thing I can tell you though is that at least I know why I’m here, numb to everything but what surrounds me. I got here because I used psalms to roll my weed and when I was twelve I told my youth pastor to go fuck himself. I don’t think I’d take either of those things back, but if given the chance I would definitely have told Dante to go fuck himself too. He really messed with my image of hell. If I would’ve known that hell was just like life maybe I would’ve recited my hail Marys. Maybe.

Georgia on my mind

Things I am obsessed with:

1. Microfiction- I love it. I write it. It’s just another example of why “smallness” is lovely and wonderful.

2. Diving Bell- Not the movie, although it was good. I’m talking about the image, it is beautiful and sea themed like me. Plus, my friend Annie Danger bought me a necklace featuring my new favorite icon so I’m quite pleased.

3. Debating what was just about the ending of Gone Baby Gone– I won’t spoil it, but let’s just say the ending is debatable and a hefty debate at that.

4. For sale: baby shoes, never worn- This ties into number 1.

5. Paper Planes- Both the objects themselves, fun to throw and sometimes lethal, and also the song by M.I.A.