All the Ages- (a love story) by avsongbird as read aloud on my youtube channel

All the Ages (a love story)- by avsongbird

"All the ages"- a love story by avsongbird

All the ages- a love story by avsongbird

Lessons learned

If there’s one lesson I’ve learned more than anything else in my life,

It’s that happiness is something worth fighting and struggling for.

I've known intense pain so I seek pleasure.

I've known hatred so I seek to love and be loved.

I've known grief, despair, loss

so I strive for and celebrate happiness

Wherever and whenever I find it.

With every lesson learned,

Every hardship faced,

I find myself coming closer and closer

to the peace and the happiness I've always wanted

in my life.

And I'm grateful every day that my husband and my stepsons

and my friends and now my readers, viewers, followers,

are a part of that journey.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pjae1ZveiHw&feature=youtu.be

"To Be Understood"- a drabble/free-write from my blog read audiobook style on my youtube channel

now that I think about it… where IS my pen- drabble from my blog read audiobook style on my youtube channel

Different types of writing-- and an epiphany, read audiobook style on my youtube

"Down the Corridor" - an original short story by avsongbird read audiobook style on my youtube channel

Scars

Scars

It's not that I don't mind your scars.
I love you for them.
For knowing that whatever left those mars on your flesh
Wasn't stronger than you were.
You shy away whenever they're mentioned,
Whenever they're bared before the eyes of others,
Unaware that I stand there, fighting the urge to bend and to press my lips softly against them,
To visit them with tender affection for the way they remind me of the fact
That I'm blessed to still have you with me.
That I haven't lost you, even as they continually remind me that I very easily could have.

I love your scars, as I love each and every incredible part of unforgettable you.
And I anxiously await the day you stop shying away whenever my fingertips brush across them,
Knowing as you watch me anoint them with tender kisses,
That with each and every press of my lips,
I'm thanking them for granting me the unforgettable pleasure
Of such tender and merciful moments with you.

For my mother, with love and affection vid

Different types of writing-- and an epiphany

               I do different types of writing, depending on my mood. There's writing for my stepsons, writing for my family, friends...

               There's writing I do for public viewing...

               ...and then there's the writing I do for myself.

               Sometimes, those lines cross.

               The most prevalent form of this occurrence actually involves a project that began as a simple "this is for me" story that I began when I was in my late teens/early twenties.

               It was a story I started with no intention of ever making it public, just a way to pass the time and dabble around in my head, to see what came of it.

               Over the course of the last ten years (give or take), that short story/idea drabble stuck at the back of my mind, waiting for its time to come around again.

               Earlier this year, I had an epiphany, while I was working on another story (supposedly having nothing to do with the first). This was a story I'd been working on (off and on) for about five years, and like the first, it was a "just for me" story-- one of those I write and fall into and read over and over again for my own enjoyment (I've always thought of it as my personal version of a housewife novel).

               The wheels in my head began to turn as I took a step back to look at the parallels underlying those two stories, and as I began to connect the dots, more possible ideas began to unfold.

               The nights that followed that epiphany were a blur as I fell headlong into the brainstorm that came up as the ideas collided, and out of it came an idea for a new story-- not just the first story I began all those years ago, not the one I've been tinkering on for five years-- but something altogether new, transformed by the colliding and merging of one story with another.

               The lead in both, of course, is a strong female sort, a reluctant participant in the unfolding events of her life. And I won't drop spoilers here, because I'm having way too much fun brainstorming and working out all of the details and putting the events down onto paper to cheapen them by dropping spoilers.

               What I can tell you is that it is a fantasy story, one with epic battle scenes, epic character development, and yes, unfortunately there may be some epic deaths.

               I can tell you that it will involve science fiction, fantasy, romance, angst, heartbreak, love, hate, and betrayal. That it will span not just one lifetime, on one world, but a few lifetimes in a few worlds, and that there will be one central link between each of the lives shown, and each of the worlds.

               I can tell you that the story may turn out to involve even more than a few lifetimes, or a few worlds-- that this may be just the tip of a very large iceberg.

               I can tell you that I make my characters as human as possible-- they make mistakes, they screw up, they have obvious flaws. I set out to make them as real as I can possibly make them, because I want you to feel not just for them, but with them-- I want you to see their world through their eyes. If I haven't done that, then I haven't done enough.

               As I work on these stories-- poring through piles of notes and word documents of notes and ideas and try to make sense of it all, to transform it into the story that's dying to come out, I hope more than anything that the love I've come to feel for these stories, that the passion I have for the lives and the people and the events I put onto paper comes through in the work, and I hope I do it enough justice that when it's finished, you, my readers, will come to love the stories and the characters as much as I do.

Taking the Fall

Taking the fall

I'm not looking for perfection,
I'm not looking for scripted lines.
I can't be swayed by ego, or riches.
I only want your time.

So remove for me your mask,
Your lies, your misconceptions.
Leave your judgment at the door,
Your biased preconceptions.

My soul is honest, open.
And I ask from you the same.
Because that's the way it should be,
The heart is not a game.

If you're not afraid, you should be.
But I need you to be brave.
It takes a brave soul to risk so much,
and it's that honesty I crave.

If you're not willing to risk exposure,
If you're not willing to risk at all.
Then you can take this goodbye as closure.
Because you win only if you risk the fall.

Down the Corridor

http://avsongbirdshortstories.blogspot.com/2015/06/down-corridor.html

Drabble on Love

My love is fiercely complete and loyal.

It is always and forever.

It is unwavering, unconditional, and unquestioning.

It bends its knee to no one

and never apologizes.

It is friend, lover, mother, wife

and child.

It is the crying shoulder, the patient ear,

The guiding light, the rock of ages,

it never abandons.

It is the sea-beaten shore,

Weathered, tested, and undefeated.

It is ever vigilant, ever present,

ever pure, ever true.

It never dies.

Have you Ever

Have you ever had a memory..
that wasn't real?
Have you ever had a touch,
that made you long to feel?
Have you ever known a love,
that brought a cry from your deepest soul,
have you ever had another half,
that made you whole?

Surrender

I surrender to his will at night,
He consoles me as he holds me.
He says it'll be alright,
That I'm dreaming, just dreaming.

Slender fingers in my hair,
Pressing, caressing.
Words like satin in my ear,
Unstressing, suppressing.

I'm grateful he understands me,
When no one else does
as he does.
I say this, and he kisses me,
Says he needs me,
he loves me.

Love Poem from one of my short stories

I could lie awake all night,
Counting the little freckles that grace your flesh,
Whispering tender kisses along your spine
And feeling my heart skip a beat each time I feel you shiver
Beneath my touch.
I would walk beyond the ends of all the ages and expanses
of this good earth
To feel the gentle press of your full lips against my own.
To look into your cornflower eyes and see them
Sparkling and laughing and dancing and full of life and love and laughter.
I would suffer a thousand torments without thought or regret
for the pleasure of being cradled against you,
with your arms around me, my head rested against your chest,
The sound of your heartbeat loud, and strong, and steady in my ears.

To Be Understood

               Sometimes, you just want to be understood. You don't want to explain... you don't want to pretend... or lie... You don't want to have to make excuses.

               You just want to be. And you want that to be enough.

               That's all I've ever wanted in my life. It's a human thought, isn't it? To want to know that just being you, with your faults, your shortcomings, with your joys, your passions...

               To want to know, for one brief moment in time that you... are enough.

                I've always taken people as they were. I love watching the masks fall away, watching the lies fall by the wayside, and watching people become who they are.

               I love them for their scars, and the tales they can tell. For the battles they've won, the hardships they've faced, and survived. The people and the past-times they've fallen in love with.

               I love them as they come. And I've always hoped they realized that I always did what I could to love them as they were-- that I truly wanted to understand them as they were.

               I always wished I knew what it felt like to be understood. To be loved and understood and accepted for who and what I was.

               But then how can I hope to find such things, when at times I find I don't even know myself?

               But how many of us can claim to truly know who we are, or why we do the things we do?

               I've always thought it was my job to dig deeper into human nature. To understand what drives us to do the things we do. Why we love the things we love, why we hate the things we hate, why we fear the things we fear. What kind of a writer could I be without knowing the nature of those I create my stories for? How can I hope to reach up through those pages and touch the hearts and souls of others if I cannot begin to know what they care about?

               I want to pen the words that reach into your heart. I want to find the words to tear you open and make you look deep inside yourself. I want to open your eyes and your heart to the things that drive you, to the passion that burns deep within you.

               I want to force you to face your deepest fears.

               I want to move you, to awaken you unto this world, and unto yourself. Then I want you to do the same to others, who in turn, can do the same.

               I want to brighten your day. I want to make you smile. I want to bring tears to your eyes and make your heart ache in your chest.

               I want to remind you what it is to truly feel, as you were always meant to feel. Love, hate, horror, passion, strife, heartache.

               I want to make you realize what it is to be understood as you are, what drives you, what scares you, what touches you, what stirs your passions.

               I want to awaken you unto yourself. To show you what it is, to truly understand this world, this life such as it is.

               I hope to awaken you to yourself, if I can. And as I find bits and pieces of my soul buried within those pages, in my quest to share the worlds inside my head with all of you, as I read back over them and find myself hidden within them, perhaps one day I will find myself made whole by my efforts, and at last, I will find the understanding I've always hoped for.

I will not beg

I will not beg for your attention,

I will not beg you for your time.

I will not twist and contort my spirit,

Just to give you piece of mind.

You need to take me as you find me,

Or don't even waste my time.

I don't give a damn what you think is "wrong with me",

Because this isn't your life-- it's mine.

If you're good to me, I'll be likewise,

If you respect me you'll get in kind.

If you love me, you'll be loved deeper than you've ever known,

by this wild and passionate heart of mine.

My heart is fiercely loyal,

It's honest, selfless, and kind.

I'd give beyond everything I've ever had,

and all I ask you for is your love, your time.

But don't ask me to wear a fake smile.

Don't expect me to live a lie.

Because the "me" I am is the "me" that I always was,

The "me" I was born, the same "me" I'll be till I die.

Memories of the meadow

              I can still remember the warm, rich smell of the tall grass in the late spring, and feeling the heat in the air hinting at the fact that summer was right around the corner. I can still remember the feeling of the late afternoon sun shining down on my upturned face, and the warm presence of the blanket against the backs of my knees, and the lengths of my calves.

               I can still remember turning my head to watch his chest rising and falling in that peaceful rhythm as he slept on beside me, and the way his full lashes curled over his closed eyes.

               I could have lain there forever, just watching him dream, feeling peaceful and content and safe and loved as I'd never before felt in all my years on this good earth.

               I never knew what love was before our paths crossed in the woods that day. Was it only a few months ago? It seems a lifetime ago now since then. Days of laughter, days of tears.

               It was another life, for both of us. And knowing now that such peace, such love, such joy could exist, I wouldn't trade a single hardship or sacrifice that I faced in my previous life-- in any of the previous lives I'd led-- knowing that they led me to that meadow, and to the one who shared in such sacred and precious days with me. 

               In times of darkness, in times of fear, and doubt, and dread, I remember the days we spent together in the tall grass, laughing and talking, with no thought but to love one another, to enjoy the time we'd been granted to be together for however long it would last. I always feel myself renewed by such memories of the love and life I found in those precious days, of innocence and happiness and tenderness, and I carry on with my soul strengthened, renewed by such tender memories of young love.

*********

 I you liked this excerpt, and would like to hear more of the story, and learn more about the characters, and the sort of lives they led, and the roads that led them here, please, feel free to comment or share this with others, and drop me a line to let me know. 

I look forward to sharing stories with you in the future-- stories of romance, adventure, mystery, humor, and horror. 

now that I think about it... where IS my pen?

I've loved and cherished and hated and been enthralled and disgusted by people who never even existed.


Such is the life of a writer. To come stumbling across people that no one else can see or hear but you, and to do everything your imagination and your brain and your heart can do to introduce them and their worlds and their happiness, trials, and tribulations with the world.


To use whatever skills and talents you may possess, to show people out there in the big green and blue marble that they are not alone. That there's more to this life than they could ever even begin to imagine if only you believe there is.


It's having your heart swell in your chest with love for the lives you're telling tales of, then having your heart ache and feeling it shatter into a million pieces and scatter into the winds when your characters' hearts are broken.


It's the tears that fall as you find yourself overcome with the grief that your character is suffering with each and every loss that they face, as though the grief were your own.


It's feeling your blood boil in your veins with rage at the antagonist and having your brain churn with ideas for all the ways you could get back at them for whatever dastardly thing they'd done to your poor protagonist this time around.


It's not being good, it's not being evil. It's being everything all at once all the time. It's living a thousand lives in one body; it's a thousand brains inside your own brain; it's a thousand hearts and a thousand lifetimes and all of it forcibly crammed into the space of one lifetime lived on this planet.


It's exhausting and exhilarating and exciting and incredible. It's a rush unlike any other that will drive you from your bed at 3 in the morning (if you haven't spent the entire night at the keyboard to begin with) and drive you from the shower with a towel hastily thrown around your body and soap in your hair, muttering desperately under your breath as you search your house like a madman "Where's a pen? Where's a pen? Where's the penpenpenpenpen..." And all the while your dog is staring at you with his head cocked like he thinks you're crazy.


And maybe you are.


It's not a hobby. It's an obsession. It's a lifestyle. And there are no vacations. You could be lying out on the beach, drink in hand, sunglasses on, hearing the sound of the waves lapping lazily at the shore, and suddenly, out of nowhere, it'll hit you. And suddenly you find yourself scrambling through your beach bag, praying you remembered to pack along your notebook for the ride, or typing away madly on your cell phone because you knew they'd only laugh at you if they caught you trying to bring your laptop along to the beach.


"Take a day off," they'd laugh, and shake their heads.


If only they knew.