This word is a suggestion I grabbed from a 365 Day Photo challenge that I am going to use for writing instead of photos.

The sun washes her face, warming her cheeks. They turn crimson from the heat and her freckles become more pronounced. The wind dances above her, she feels its fingers travel from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. The red plaid blanket she lies on is worn and thin. The frayed edges showing its age and frequent use. The leaves whisper to each other, complimenting the sounds of the birds chirping between them. That’s when she feels it, a small prick at first that turns into burning. She slides her hand along her leg and feels her fingers brush a tiny, fuzzy object. It releases its hold and buzzes passed her ear, the black and yellow body generously plump. She starts to panic as the tiny prick turns red and irritated. She is on her feet and running back to the house without consciously commanding her body to move. The red spot is beginning to break out into multiple red spots, her leg starting to swell to twice its size. She limps toward the house, praying as tears fall down her cheeks. And there in the glade sits a perfectly happy bumble bee. The red blanket attracting its eye, left to blow in the wind, never to feel the warmth of a body again.




I am fire
I am fury
I am hail
I am lightning
I am thunder
I am the earthquake
I am the tornado
I am the blaze
I am the rain
I am the storm
Rage burns my core
Anger pounds against my temples
My eyes light with adrenaline
My words land sharp and hard
I cannot be tamed
You will not control me
You cannot capture me
You cannot contain me
You should not taunt me
You will not like me
I hate myself
I cannot harness this emotion
My words are spoke without permission
My thoughts spill into the open
I do not recognize my own voice
I am fire
I am fury
I am hail
I am lightning
I am thunder
I am Rage and you will feel my wrath

A Heritage That Always Sparks Interest

At the mention of my heritage, interest is piqued no matter where I go. No matter who I talk to, when that one word is mentioned, it’s guaranteed to bring up questions. It’s quite the icebreaker. The style of living is so foreign to most that they can’t help but wonder.
It’s not about WHERE I’m from. If I say I’m from many places – Germany, Ireland, Switzerland, and the Netherlands – I don’t get a second glance. But it’s that one word that, when brought to light, shows the curiosity in every soul. I doubt I would receive the same level of interest if I had some extravagant story about my great great great grandpa enduring the long journey from Ireland across unknown waters.
Most view it as a quaint way of life, that they are all sweet and innocent. To some extent that’s true, but those of us who grew up with it know the secrets hidden deep within. There are some who exceed any meaning of sweet and loving. But then there are those who should suffer as much as they have made the children around them suffer.
I won’t go into much detail in this post and I’m not even sure exactly what inspired me to write about this particular subject, but here I am.
My parents were Amish. My mom was the only one out of 10 children to leave the Amish, while only 4 out of 15 children on my dad’s side chose to stay. I barely know the relatives on my mom’s side. If I were to see any of my maternal aunts or uncles walking down the street they would be a stranger to me. I would walk by them without a second look.
It’s nothing like what you see on shows like “Breaking Amish” or “Amish Mafia”. Those stories are probably about 10-15% truth and 85-90% tale. It’s almost hard to explain to people who didn’t grow up with it. I could write an entire book on what it’s like growing up with an Amish background and still not convey the exact experience. You would catch a glimpse of the traditions and values, but I don’t believe you could fully understand it. I don’t even fully understand many of the things my parents went through.
But still, it is an interesting past. I wish I were closer to my grandmas. My grandpas have both been long gone, I never knew one and the other I miss terribly. I wish my Amish relatives were not so harsh, that we could share our lives and that they could accept my family as we are. This will never happen of course, but sometimes it’s nice to dream.
So this is just one more tidbit of me. One more little piece of the puzzle that makes up my life.
I’ve never had much of an audience. With each new follower I’m becoming both more nervous and more bold. I want to believe this blog could turn into something more than just me typing on my keyboard and sending my thoughts into empty space. I want to believe my words mean something, even if only one person is touched.
Maybe it’ll become more…maybe not…I guess we’ll have to ride it out and see.

Bright Lights


Her heart throbs, it aches
It cries for the place she felt most at home
Pictures won’t do it justice
Taking about it isn’t enough
To be standing in the center of it again,
To be looking down on it, glowing in the night
That will be the only thing to satisfy her
To breathe in the salty air
To close her eyes and feel the sun warm her face
It was the bustle of its people
It was the green of the grass
The beauty that was the night
It stole her away
It captured her soul and holds it even now
She had been content
She had enjoyed the snow, the never ending fields
But one week in that place had changed everything
She was a captive of her circumstances
They would hold her in place
Keeping her glued to the ground she hated so much
Would she ever be free to go back?
Would she ever be able to see those bright lights in person again?
Her heart bleeds with each beat
Her head swirls with images, memories
One day she will make it there
One day she will return
One day she will make it back to her brights lights and ocean air

Rainbow Cake

My masterpiece of the day was making a rainbow cake for my daughter’s birthday.

I started out with white cake mix and then split the batter into 6 bowls before adding food coloring.


After the food coloring came pouring it into the pans.



Then I baked it as you normally would. I did crack it by trying to remove it from the pan too early.


So I ended up just leaving it in the pan to frost it.

This is how it looked after icing and cutting it.


The girls loved it and since they’re having a sleep over I will probably make them colorful pancakes in the morning.

April Showers


Rain falls in soft drops against the windshield as I wait patiently for the light to turn. People driving here and there, living their lives. I think about them. Where are they coming from? Where are they going? What makes them so impatient to get there?
What do other people think when they see me? Do they wonder where I’m coming from? Where I’m going? Do they wonder about my choice of hairstyle? Do they wonder what put this look on my face?
Am I as insignificant as I feel? I’m one person in a billion. A tiny speck in the grand painting of this world.
We are like the rain drops on my window – sticking in one place for a bit, until it’s time to move on. We may pair up with another drop or two for a trip down the glass. Maybe fall to the end with them or maybe be left behind or make the final trip alone.
Ultimately we all end up in the same place – the bottom of the pane, the end of the line. It’s the way we get there that differs. We’ll either ride gently down the grade, gracefully accepting our destination or be wiped forcefully, dragging our feet the whole way.
They say April showers bring May flowers, do you think something better will come of our journey?

Green Eyes

Green eyes stare through the metal wires. They shimmer as tears begin to gather. She blinks and a salty stream slides down the warm, freckled cheeks. The scratches on her face, legs and arms burn and tingle. Her brown hair is matted to her forehead, wet with sweat. Her arms are wrapped tight around her knees that she has pulled close to her chest. Her skirt and underwear are soaked with blood. She flinches as the cries travel from the next room over. She slams her hands over her ears and rocks back and forth. Where is Mommy? Where is Daddy? She doesn’t understand. She pinches her arm trying to wake herself from this nightmare then puts her fingers in her ears when she hears the whimpering again.

His hand is wrapped in her hair as he pulls her toward the room. Her arms stretch out, trying to catch anything to stop her. Her fingernails scratch the wall and one breaks off, sending a sharp pain all the way down her arm. Tears slide down her pale cheeks that were once olive from sunlight. She cries out for him to stop. She loses her footing and falls, dragging across the floor by nothing but her hair. She catches the door jam and tries to hold on, then the door knob, but he’s too strong. Her body is lifted and swung through the air landing hard on the springs of the mattress.

Green eyes stare dully at the ceiling, no light emanating from their depths.. The stucco patterns above are undetectable. She barely feels his hands on her. Her cheeks are dry, she has no more tears to cry. A crack in her lip breaks open as she breaths and a single drop of blood slides onto her skin and dries. The dirt under her fingernails has turned them black. Her freckles have faded, the basement is dark. Her cheek is sore from the bruise that is still healing. The weight of his body falling onto her as he finishes just adds to the pressure already filling her chest.

Her arms are spread out as she turns in a circle in the grass. She lifts her face to the sun, soaking in the warmth and heat. She senses his eyes on her. She moves awkwardly at first, but more swiftly as time goes on. She moves in fluid, gracefully, patterns. She dances, swinging her arms this way and that way. She plans her dance, practices for her recital. He doesn’t interpret her dance, he doesn’t even try to.

His palm lands hard against her face and her head spins as she falls. He grabs her ankle and drags her through the grass and mud away from the fence. Her hair is stringy and dripping. She kicks him with her free leg and has hope for a second before he grabs her hips and slams her on the ground, her face falling hard against the moist, rain soaked ground. He flips her over and thunder claps as the back of his hand connects with her other cheek. Her lips splits open and blood mixes with the rain falling hard as he yells at her and then grabs a clump of her hair pulling her back into the house. She’s drug down the steps, her back hitting each one grudgingly. She is slammed against the wire and lays in a pool of blood, rain, and mud.

She runs through the house, desperately trying every door that could lead outside. She jiggles the handles, she kicks the wood, and slams her thinning frame against them. She hears him getting up. Hears his heavy steps on the wood floor. He yells her name, the name he has given her. She can’t remember what her name was before this. She tries the last door. Her fists slamming as hard as she can against the wood. She screams as loud as she can. She twists and pulls on the handle. She hears his heavy breathing. His large hand grabs a chunk of her brown hair and she blacks out when her head hits the hard wooden door.

Green eyes shine intensely as sunlight reflects off a puddle. The bat feels cold against her palm. The knife handle feels familiar in a way. Her lungs expand and contract smoothly, controlled. Her heart beats calmly, rhythmically. A red drop slides from the tip of the bat onto bruised skin. Her dirty, stained tank top clings to her skin as sweat and blood mix together. The coughing, sputtering, and gargling doesn’t bother her. The blood drying on her face, her neck, in her hair – it’ll wash off. She watches the liquid pooling as it spurts from the wounds. Her brown hair looks black and shines with the dampness. He gropes at his neck, it’s no use.

She stands over the body, satisfaction dripping through her veins. Fifteen years is a long time to wait, but she was patient. It had given her time to plan, time to observe. Time to practice her dance. The yard doesn’t feel so small now, the fence not so tall, and the doors not as strong. His hand reaches for her foot, pleading, begging for help. She crushes it and feels the bones cracking beneath her heel. She hovers, waiting for it to end, reveling in the pain and suffering.

She stands at the end of the driveway. Her green eyes filled with hope. Cars pass by with a whooshing sound. She feels the blood drying on her face like a mask. A car stops a few feet after her and an old couple gets out. Their faces wear a look of worry, shock, and confusion. They guide her toward the car, looking cautiously toward the dark house. She doesn’t flinch when their hands gently pull her arms and she doesn’t resist when they help her sit in the back seat. Slowly a smile forms on her cracked lips. A glint reaches her eyes and she laughs. The end has finally come.


My Thoughts

I can’t stop them. I can’t contain them. They swirl and run together. They surround me, my head spins. They press against me, crushing the air I’m trying to breath. This one says I need a break, that one says I don’t have time for a break. I try to figure out which one to listen to, which one is looking out for my best interest. Why don’t they leave me alone? Even when I’m trying to sleep they are there, nagging me, keeping me awake. There are so many.

“Read this book.”
“Talk to him.”
“Remember to call her.”
“Don’t forget to stop there.”
“Remember to go there.”
“Send that email.”
“Make that chart.”
“Did you remember what to do?”
“Are you paying attention?”
“Are you listening?” 

“STOP!” I shout with my hands over my ears and my eyes shut tight.
Take a deep breath, I whisper to myself.

“I read part of the book, I’ll finish it later. I talked to him yesterday. I’ll call her tomorrow. I can stop there on my way home. I went there this morning. I’ll send the email in a minute. I already made the chart. I remember it all. I’ve listened to everything – every fucking word.”

I make then stop. I force them to be silent. You will not control me. You will not consume me. In this moment I am my own. In this moment I will have peace. This is my time. My time to be who I am and do what I want. Tomorrow you may come back, and I will deal with you then, but today I am done.

Today my thoughts are silent.

March 365 PC – 31. Baskets



I almost thought of putting a picture of myself up for this one since I’ve felt like such a basket case lately, but then I saw this little basket and thought it was perfect!

Life is crazy. Between the overtime I’ve been putting in, siding for my networking class, and taking care of my home I’ve been having a hard time keeping up with the photo challenge. I have a new strategy.
In order to feel like less of a failure because I can’t complete the photo challenge along the right time line, I am going to use the photo challenge suggestions as a guideline if I get stuck. I am going to try to post at least 2-3 times a week if not everyday. I want to keep up with this blog, it’s the one place I can really express myself. I get lost in editing the pictures or writing my mini stories. I love to write and I love to take pictures so instead of making it a task, I am going to turn it back into what it was to begin with – a release.