The Library


Here is where I post some of my favorite writing pieces that I've done. Grab a cup of tea (or coffee or pumpkin juice), curl up in your warmest blanket, and dive in!

Perfect Days

the rain falls on the window pane
nobody need know my name
or who i am or where i'm from

i have an old book in hand, and a new one
fantastical lands, adventure, and some more
my bookish friends know me more
than my friends in real life do

a hot drink is there as well
what it is depends on my mood
i hold it between my legs because my hands are busy with the books
but it warms me through and through

opaque thoughts play in  a sideshow away from the main show
boosting my mood or making me more sentimental
perhaps i am foolish to indulge in happy thoughts, steeping myself in them
if they keep me from growing old i shall continue to love them, however much they roll their eyes

the clock ticks, ticking away the time i'm away from the real world.
i'm in a brightly lit study, looking up from time to time to watch the rain.
they say these days are boring, unadventurous, or dreary.
i call them perfect days

Halloween Night

Shivers ran up our spines
Our hair stood on end.
The wind blew through the tall green pines
We waited at the bend.

Something was coming along that bend
We craned our necks to see.
We wanted to see what Doom had sent
On that one thing we did agree.

A soft smell of vanilla and spice
Floated on the breeze.
The leaves trembled as they clung
To the shivering trees.

Around the bend the phantom menace came
I right away knew his name.
I'd seen him time and time again.
In different forms, in different way.

You smiled at me then gave laugh
You proceeded to run away.
I called and called, then prepared myself
To never see the light of day.

All this vanished as I jerked awake
With a start, I rolled out of bed.
I smiled as a realized my mistake
It was all just a thing in my head.

It's on nights such as these, the feeling not new
Things aren't all they seem.
For it is said that dreams come true.
And reality becomes a dream.

Letter to the Pointing Finger

It's the feeling we experience in breathless dreams-ones you wake up panting from, drenched with salty sweat. The feeling that nobody believes you.
Sleep conflates the scene, yet you can feel it with all senses. You have to tell someone something, something that is about to burst from inside, but they do not believe. Then the end comes.
This is my life, this disbelief. No, I've never told a lie in all my days, but my life, seemingly insouciance to the vague eyes that brushes from me to the next person, is a horror story in a world that feigns a fairy tale.
On this frail scrap of paper that miraculously appeared before my strained eyes, I write this, in the hopes you will use it.  I only have one more thing to say.
I hope you look into your fellow man's eyes before declaring them an animal's. 

The Dream Keeper

The Aqualimalus Forest. It was the strangest forest on earth, if you could call it a  forest at all. More a heart stopping, evil gathering, realm of doom. The trees were submersed in water 1/3 of the way up their trunks, so all who dared enter must swim. Creatures of unsurpassed strangeness lurked there, as well as other horrible things.

Then why was I about to plunge into its depths? Why was I standing, trembling, just outside it's borders?

I had not chosen to be a Dream Keeper's apprentice out of my free will. I was chosen by the One, the one and only Dream Keeper until his long life would end. He could sense the end drawing near, so of course he must pick someone to carry on his work of collecting every dream of man ever dreamt. But first, to prove myself, I must do several tasks.
One was going through this forest, and getting out on the other side. Alive. 

Taking a deep breath I took off my shoes, then my shirt. I must be weighed down as little as possible.

Then I dove.

The water was pleasantly warm, and I swam effortlessly. It was quiet save for the tweeting of unknown birds. My mind wandered...what would there be that could be of any danger? It seemed almost calm here.
Swish...swish...through...the...water. It was rhythmic and soothing. 

My heart beat loudly and I stopped, frozen. As I started to sink I remembered and began to swim again.

I saw a deep teal fin cut crisply and slowly through the water. I tried to be as quiet as possible.
Then it struck.
The shark clenched it's sharp and crushing jaws on my wrist. I screamed loudly as I tried to hit it on the nose and wrench my arm away.
Not hard enough.
Not enough leverage.
I gathered up all my strength refusing to look at the blood in the water.
He was stunned for a moment. I swam as fast as I could, lungs burning, thigh muscles numb.
I was almost there. A bloody trail followed me, and I could hear more sharks following, waiting for the attack.
Then the water got black. It was no longer the warm, tropical turquoise.
It stung. And burned. I yelled my lungs hoarse as the hot electric currents pulsed through my body. I must stay strong and I must not let it break me. I must carry the dreams.
Suddenly the pain was gone.
And the mossy shore was there.
I clambered out as best I could with a cut wrist. I knew that that was not all the dreaded forest kept, and I never wanted to go in again. 
The Dream Keeper smiled, nodding his head. His soft white hair blew in the breeze as his eyes sparkled. He was satisfied.

Childhood and I

"Don't leave me!" I call to Childhood, already walking slowly away.
"I have to go now."  Childhood sighs as my voice wavers.
"Don't leave me! I need you! My life won't be the same..." I trail off as I dissolve into salty streams of tears, wiping my nose on the back of my hand.
Childhood puts down it's small bag, smoothing the clothes that were once all colors of the rainbow, now a light grey tinged with purple. 
"I must leave everyone at one point or another, child. It is the way." Childhood smiles, patting me on the shoulder.
"I will see you again someday perhaps...but for now, I must go rest. I have had a busy life, you know, and I am growing old. It is time to retire."
I sniff again and wave as the blurry mist of Childhood flies away with the wind.


"Oh dear..." I sigh as I strain my back to pick up the small doll my granddaughter has thrown to the floor in her rush to catch fireflies outside. 
I smile into the doll's faded face, grinning jovially through the years unrelentlessly. It's a warm Summer night and I hear magic whispering to me. Fuzzy memories seem to surround me, yet I cannot remember a thing. 
The doll seems to grin even more widely towards me.
I see Childhood has hobbled into the room, now on a little wooden cane. It looks tired, yet it still has the twinkle in it's eye, the one that makes you want to play, to run, to laugh. 
"Hello again."

I smile as I lay the doll on the couch.

Come with Me

Come with me, to sand and sea, to forests deep and green. 
I know every place around, many things have I seen. 
Trouble and toil, sadness and grief, I beg you come away.
If you fear your homeland loss, we will come back another day. 
Now come with me, to kingdom majestic, to oceans deep and blue.
What a good feeling it is to start your life anew.

I cannot come with you dear sir, I cannot run astray.
I must stay here forever, under moon and sun ray. 
The only way I can escape, escape this small little rook.
Is hiding away in a wonderful thing, here known as a book.

Farewell dear, lady, I know your ways, I wish you would change your mind.
But until that glorious day, I must go to change mankind. 
Vale! Adieu! I hope to see you soon.
Sailing by as I do, past the silver moon. 

Fairyland in Reality

"I thought this was an imaginary-isn't this supposed to be fairyland? Isn't fairyland happy and joyful? Isn't is magical?" The girl blurted out feeble protests and questions, trying to ignore all the hate and suffering in the atmosphere around her.
"Little girl, fairyland is but another parallel of your world. What is in your world is in ours." The harlequin smiled a demonic smile, his lip paint crackling and falling to the ground. The girl opened her mouth wide, about to call out, to wake herself from this nightmare that stopped her breathing and made her stomach tingle. "Don't cry out. You cannot leave until you die." a voice curled around like a cold mist in the greenish-grey sky. The girl closed her eyes. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up! She screamed inwardly to herself. She opened her eyes, expecting to see the foot of her bed, to feel the flooding relief of the realization that is was all a dream.  Instead a black executioner stood, silent in front of her. He stayed quiet, but pointed at the girl, then to the rusty axe he held in his hand. The girl ran, over the rolling green hills, blonde hair flowing in the wind and whipping her ears. As she ran, she noticed a dark pool of warm blue water, mermaids swimming blithely through it's depths. The girl however did not stop, but ran and ran until she came to the edge of the woods and could not go any further. She panted, thoughts clouding her straight thinking as sweat dripped down her neck. 
She was going in.
She ran in nightmarish miasma, trampling through branches and crunching on leaves. Evil whispering had started, entwining around her. "YOU SHALL NOT KEEP ME HERE!!!the girl screamed, batting at imaginary foes with her long and gangly arms. 
"My child, it is your kind which have made this world so." said a voice from an above tree, reaching it's hairy huge arm down for the capture. 

The Terror of the Tutu

It  was in Summer that I traveled to England. It was for the weather, to take the stress of my work away.
I rented out a small cottage across the road from a deep wood, away from all inhabitants. This was solitude. I liked it.

The first days were relaxing. I would read all day with a cup of tea, only being disturbed when the housekeeper came to tidy up. The stories enfolded before me as I looked out the window dreaming up tales and remembering past happenings.

Then I saw something which will leave it's memory with me forever.

It was the corner of a pink tutu. 

I was sure that it was a scrap of fabric left by a traveler, a skirt torn on the twiggy underbrush.

But later that night I woke up to a strange sound.

If you have ever watched a ballerina dance en pointe, you may have noticed that their shoes leave a wooden thumping on the floor. 

That is what I heard downstairs. 

I jolted awake. Perhaps a stray cat was outside, an animal of sorts?

I lay back down.

The thumping continued. Now I caught strains of piano music undulating and in sync with the pounding. 

It drilled into my mind.

Then I turned over on my pillow trying to block out the noise.

There smiling at me was a woman, her face covered with makeup and dripping with sweat. She looked pale and almost transparent.

"The show is about to start." she whispered, dragging me by the arm out of bed. 


I want to change, I do.
Innocent as a child, back to the new.
To travel forward, to escape the ditch in the road.
So I can go to the heavenly abode. 
'Tis harder than it sounds my dear,
Life is full of sadness and fear.
Pick up your chin, put on your new shoes.
Don't listen to them who play the blues.
"Who are you to speak though?", you ask, "the one who quit."
You haven't given up until your heart is no more lit. 

It Just Takes a While More

bones break, and are mended.
clothes are torn, then darned.
the one who despises sin is ammended.
the man who is weak can be armed.
can a heart that is broken be made whole again?
can an ache not of body be relieved?
i believe so, i believe it is true.
it just takes a while more.

You Do Not Remember

Once upon a time, when I was very young
I had golden memories that came true.
Just as they were awakening from the depths of my mind, coming into new light
They became even more splendid, in joy unfathomable.
Then a year came, this was the one
Where everything did come undone.
All the carefully tied knots were snipped
With the sharp scissors of Change, a cruel old soul.
I looked upon swift flying time and was not happy with what I saw.
Now it is drawing time to the event which all children yearn for all year 'round.
But Change has trampled that as well, sweeping away the memories that only have a thin layer of dust. 
Turn off the sounds of a year ago, they only bring an emptiness that cannot be filled
A hunger for the past.
Do not unfold the sacred things which I once hastily handled.
You do not hold them in the right spirit.
You do not remember.

Look How Far We've Come

bittersweet memories touch on your heart
sending palpitations of joy surging up and down your whole body
scolding yourself for all the stupid mistakes you've made
can't believe i did that
delete delete delete
but i don't want to delete
i want to hang on to every last drop of adrenaline that might escape from my heart
before sinking into deep sleep
look how far we've come
look how far we have to go
i want to keep my stupid mistakes locked up inside me shut
i want to hold every single miniscule bit of happiness
close to me
swallow the key
so that it stays with me

Maybe There’s More

a short story by giselle hawthorne

The short long wooden ruler came down on his trembling outstretched palm. He grinned, but it was not the grin of triumph, or the grin of embarrassment, or even the grin of a trouble making schoolboy. It was the grin of one that keeps back manly tears.
“Ow.” was all he said, and he shuffled back to his seat. He bent his head over his lesson once more.
He had not snuck that tack on the teacher’s chair. He had not put sawdust on the janitor’s sandwich.
How was it that trouble always fastened itself to James Thomas Wright like a burr to a sweater? He certainly didn’t know, but he did know that he was growing tired of it and wished it would stop.
The class pulled itself out the the algebraic stupor to glance curiously at the figure that had stood up. The school’s drab and greyish uniform hung limply about her small frame, and her hair, which was shoulder length and of a dirty gold color, was mussed. A few people in the back snickered. Kathleen Prior was always a comedic spectacle to the easily amused people in the back. She ignored them, though she could feel her cheeks burning. She hoped it didn’t show. The teacher looked upon her, waiting for her to speak. “Miss Loveland...well, I know it was believable...he is...well, James Wright didn’t do it.” She sat down, feeling her heart beat wildly. Miss Loveland’s dry lips curved outward into what was a half amused sneer. “Oh, is that so, Miss Prior? Please tell me who did do such a beastly thing then, if you please.” Kathleen shifted uncomfortably in her chair. She didn’t know, how could she? She fumed with anger at that Wright boy who always landed himself in awkward situation. Yet, she knew he had not done it. She had watched him. He was not that kind of boy. “Miss Prior” Miss Loveland’s voice grew higher, tenser, and more irritated. All eyes were on Kathleen. “I-I did it, Miss Loveland.” The words were out of Kathleen’s mouth before she had had time to think about them. She expected some outrage, a roar of laughter. But there was nothing for five whole seconds. Finally Miss Loveland spoke. “You are telling a falsehood, Miss Prior. I know that you did not do it-why you claim you did, I do not know. Was it to shelter this...this… boy? Or was it simply to gain attention? I have no earthly idea, but you both shall be punished.” She smacked her bright red lips together pleasurably and led the trembling girl and the bewildered boy to the front of the classroom. “Mr. Wright, go to that blackboard and write I will not put tacks on the teacher’s chair in your finest handwriting one hundred times. Miss Prior, you come to this blackboard and write I will not be a flirtatious liar one hundred times.” Miss Loveland was obviously pleased with herself, and half the class was laughing at this last punishment. Kathleen felt her eyes growing hot, her throat choking with tears. I will not cry. I will not cry. She repeated to herself, writing out the mocking words with the itchy white chalk piece. They blurred under the veil of tears that covered her dark grey eyes. I will never, never, shelter a boy, nor anyone else, again.
The next day, Kathleen Prior did not come to school. The day after, the headmaster got a cold letter from the angry Mrs. Prior about her daughter’s withdrawal from the school. He waved it away with a mumbled response of “over sensitive people”, and went back to eating his lunch.

“I say, Robinson. Let me go. That cough is simply horrid.” The tall, dark haired young man looked upon the older one with a great deal of concern. The man called Robinson came up from his coughing fit considerably bewildered. “Oh well...Wright my boy, I’ve made the trip several times and you’ve never been out of England, so I’ll let you go. Mind you don’t forget your work though-I want photographs and more notes and articles.” The boy, James Wright grinned. “Right-o. You’ll have a top notch batch of articles by the time I’m back.” Robinson smiled. He liked his young apprentice journalist’s vim and vigor, willing to help, and sense of humor. Robinson had been a travel writer for years, contributing his intriguing finds and photos to papers, some very notable. But he was getting on in years, and traveling around was not exactly the best thing for him now. Oh, to be young! But Wright would be glad to travel abroad, and what better place to travel internationally than to the City of Lights?


It had been seven years since the Prior family had moved from their crowded neighborhood, but James Wright couldn’t have forgotten that face. It was still small and thin, framed by shorter golden hair. Right now, it was fixed on a piece of paper that was inked everywhere. James strode over to the figure seated on the rickety old chair. The figure looked up. A startled look was in her eyes, but it was gone in an instant. It was replaced with a half amused, half annoyed expression that James had seen often on the school playground. “Hullo Prior. Fancy seeing you here.” Kathleen forced her mouth to curve into a grimace. “Good afternoon, Mr. Wright. Please, take a seat.” James pulled out a chair loudly and sat down. They stared at each other awkwardly for a few moments before James spoke. “I was sent here on a mission by Jake Robinson. I’m sure you know him?” Kathleen nodded. “Yes, I’ve read several of his pieces in the paper. He’s very impressive.” She swept her eyes over James in a subtle indication that she did not think he was very impressive. He coughed nervously. “Look here, Prior. You’re not still upset about that little bit of unpleasantry so many years ago. I really am sorry. I was a stupid ass back then.” Kathleen could not hold back the smirk. “It is not often I forget things, Mr. Wright.” she said simply, taking a sip of the dark espresso. A tall waiter with a jet black moustache scurried to the table. “Bonjour, monsieur . May I offer you something to drink?” “Coffee please, black.” The waiter wrote rapidly on his notepad. “Merci, merci.” He hurried away. James laughed. “Interesting sort of people, aren’t they?” Kathleen raised her eyebrows. “Oh you must not laugh, Mr. Wright. They are easily offended.” James smiled. “Like some people I know.” Kathleen pursed her lips, saying nothing. James sobered at once. “Look, I’m sorry. I’m just like that on the outside. I can’t help it that I offend people left and right...I can’t help that I’m so-” Kathleen smirked again. “Undelicate? Unfeeling? But I daresay you could attempt to mend that. Maybe there’s more to you than meets the eye or heart.” She stood up, gathering her portfolio and pens. “Well, Mr. Wright. I must take my leave now. Good day.” She hastily handed the waiter some bills and chattered in rapid French to him, pointing from time to time at Wright. He didn’t even want to think about the things she could be saying about him.


Even if she did have nice hair, Kathleen was rude, thought James. She had put him in a bad mood. Just my luck to meet her on my big getaway. He thought disconsolately as he unpacked his suitcase in the small hotel room. He took out the camera and his trusty notepad. “And now to ‘Le Tour Eiffel’” He said in a high mock French accent, sweeping out the door and down the hall.
The famous architectural wonder was crowded, as to be expected, but James got several satisfactory photos. He watched the bustling crowds with interest. How busy they were, in their own little worlds. They took little notice of each other. What were they thinking, James wondered, these individuals that made up the  grpups of dreamers, thinkers, and doers. There was definitely something more. Maybe there’s more to you...Kathleen’s words came back into his mind. Every person here had a story, and so do I thought James. Did he, in truth like his story? Not especially. But it wasn’t too late to rewrite it, was it?


Two weeks later, devotees to Jacob Robinson’s weekly column raised their eyebrows at the new change that had been made. Some shook their heads at this new and modern article, but most of the readers were intrigued by the new perspective of the sparkling Wright. It is true, Wright was not as delicate in speech as the eloquent Robinson, but his insights captured the interest of many.

Unlikely Discovery

By J. T. Wright

I observed the old man with the blue scarf crossing the street, the middle aged woman pushing the pram, and the young lady with the golden hair that sat at a rickety table, writing. All very different, all living in their own world. But as I reflect on these images, and more in my mind, I come to the conclusion that there is more to these people than meets the eye. So, despite the splendor of Le Tour Eiffel, the glorious sights of the Louvre,the spectacular cuisine that I had the privilege of enjoying while in the “City of Lights”, I believe that the most notable of experiences was watching all the diverse types of people that come to one of the most famed cities in the world. Some come for love, some come for fame, some come for business--all have their own private revelations and reasons. They say some of the best things happen in Paris-I myself can attest to this statement…


The bell could hardly be heard over the pouring rain. Mrs. Archer, the trembling little housekeeper hurried to the door. She raised her old grey eyebrows at the young lady who stood dripping on the doorstep. She hurried back upstairs.
“Mr. Wright?”
“Yes, Mrs. Archer?”
“There’s a..erm...young lady here to see you. Calls herself Kathleen Prior.”
Wright opened his eyes wide in surprise at this statement. Why, hadn’t he seen Kathleen in Paris two weeks ago? It seemed years, but in reality, it was a relatively short time. He hurried downstairs to the drawing room.
“Miss Prior! What can I do for you?” Kathleen smiled. “I wanted to personally congratulate you on the brilliancy of your recent article, Mr. Wright. It touched me. I say this with the greatest sincerity.” She lay a white gloved hand over her heart. James grinned. “Is that so, Miss Prior? I have to admit, you inspired me greatly to write it.” Kathleen’s mouth dropped from the wistful smile to a look of bewilderment. It soon changed however, and her face took on a look of great earnestness. “Mr. Wright…I traveled far, far away to escape my past, my own securities, my fears. I was foolish, and I made a great many mistakes. I harbored so many grudges. I understand now that...well, that people aren’t always what they appear to be on the outside. Things aren’t always what they seem. And we, of course, aren’t the best judges of everything.” She smiled. James took a step closer. “Do you think, Kathleen, that you could look beneath the rough exterior of this blunderer, and find the hope and yearning to change underneath?” He was serious, the most serious Kathleen had ever seen him. Yet she knew how to answer, how he felt. How she felt about him. Their eyes met in a wordless exchange of promise.


The End


  1. Wow, Kathryn, these are amazing! And all the poems rhyme! I'm terrible at rhyming. 😮

    1. Thank you, NatureMama! I think the more you read rhyming poetry, the easier it gets to write. ;)

  2. Hello! I actually run a poetry contest over at, and I would love to see you enter! If you want, you have until 12:00 tonight to write a poem and submit it. But if you can't tonight, I understand. It's really short notice! But you can always join any other week.

    1. Hey, Allie Taylor! I actually got home pretty late so I can't do it this week, but I'll look into doing the next one! Thanks!


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