Hi!

I’d recommend viewing the ‘About Ashley’ page before proceeding to the other posts- but for you impatient souls…

All of the posts here are sorted into three different categories:

1. Poetry
2. Short Stories
3. Novel Excerpts

You can find selections for each style after clicking on the link on the right hand side of the screen. Thanks and happy reading!

Ballad for the Lost Romantics

It is with a surprisingly sentimental heart that I write these last words.  No, you saw correctly, friends, I did indeed write ‘last.’  After a solid eight months of fanciful writing, This Author has finally decided to turn in her pen and pad of paper.

Although one Mr. Masters’s challenge of uncovering my true identity is certainly a catalyst for this decision, the blame cannot (entirely) be placed upon his shoulders.  Truthfully, the column has grown wearisome as of late, less fulfilling to write and perhaps less exciting for you to read.  This Author needs change; which, one must admit, is not surprising.  I like to think of myself as being modest, certainly not conceited, and eight months is a long time of writing about oneself.

And, quite frankly, the recent renewal of interest in my “secret” identity is somewhat disturbing.  The lure of the challenge and the prospect of the great prize has put friend against friend, and brother against sister, something that completely contradicts the reasons for starting the articles in the first place.

Indeed, the idea of this column had taken root because it sounded as if it would look good on my college transcripts and allow me to vent on some things that, under normal circumstances, I most certainly would not have shared with a soul.  But these, I’m sure we can all agree, are not normal circumstances and I have been free to express, rather plainly, my views on romance.

Of course, I never intended for my articles to be such the smashing hit they have become.  I never dreamed that they would not only run amuck within Moraga Hills Private School, but also spark the interest of our seaside town, Lovington, as a whole.  But ignite a spark they did, a spark that only grew into a raging fire that hungrily swept across our beloved school and town.

But alas, as most so eloquently say: ‘all good things must come to an end.’  It’s sad, but in this particular case, very true.

Before this rather distinctive column can come to a close, though, there is still the matter of the quest for my identity to address.  I am well aware that retiring will not quench this ridiculous need to find out my true name.

What’s in a name, after all?  It’s just another word, but since it is so apparently interesting to you all I suppose the least that I can do is answer the two questions that have plagued most of Moraga Hills for the past eight months: what is Lady Rowena’s true identity and who is this man she writes about?

The answers, friends, are Vanessa Price and Thomas Lee.

I sincerely hope that this satisfies your curiosity and settles Mr. Masters’s bet (I shall be expecting the two thousand pounds within the week, by the by).

So, I bid you adieu, beloved school!  I shall cherish the memory of your sure-to-be shocked faces as you read this last article of mine forever in my heart of hearts; This Author is, after all, a very sentimental person.

Lady Rowena’s Last Ballad for the Lost Romantics
 

Once when I was young
I went for a ride on a plane
And I stopped believing.
For where else can Heaven be
If not on the tops of clouds?
A kingdom that vast,
Cannot be invisible.
Angels are not cruel enough to hide.
Where did the castle made of clouds
And miracles go?
Was it ever even there?

In my neighbor’s yard there grows a tree
It stands alone in an ocean of green
Like a siren of the sea, she beckons me,
“Forbidden fruit is the sweetest, you’ll see.”

Tempting visions swirl in my head
Of juicy fruit in tangerine red
Deep in my heart it planted a seed
I yearn for the fruit on my neighbor’s tree.

Within my soul the seed took root
I dreamed in green and of sunkissed fruit
My will being weak, I could not withstand
So surely and coldly, I formed my plan.

I stole into his yard last night
And killed my neighbor in a deadly fight
In wicked eagerness I savored my treat
I always knew forbidden would taste sweet.

As your head hits the pillow
When you’re not quite awake,
The moment your eyes shut
In the instant sleep takes.

Hidden within a memory,
Lurking in back of a dream
Forgotten in a land of fantasy-
Where nothing is as it seems.

He lingers in the corner,
Unseen but always present.
You feel his eyes upon you,
But act as though you haven’t.

The vision starts to turn
Bringing you face to face.
He takes you into his arms,
And your heart begins to race.

His song is haunting and sad
His manner is cool and aloof.
His expression reveals nothing,
But in his eyes burns the truth.

You fit together perfectly,
His embrace feels like home.
And even when he leaves you
You know you’re not alone.

Now the music’s slowly fading
The song is near its end
You act like you don’t notice,
But there’s no more time for pretend.

The time for dancing is over,
He raises your hand to his lips
Kissing each finger lightly
Leaves his mark at the tips.

Your heart is in your eyes,
But it is not for him to take.
He will always let you go
And your heart will always break.

You awake alone in bed
Where the urge to cry is strong
But not a tear will fall,
For you know it won’t be long-

Until your head hits the pillow,
And you’re no longer quite awake.
The moment your eyes fall shut,
Is where he’ll always wait.

I’ll never forget-
The feel of the grass, freshly cut,
Curled around bare toes
Or the sun
Kissing my cheeks, burning
Eyes watered with the truth
Of fallen tears.
With the scent of the air
Like the sea in winter,
Biting cold, stinging my face
Weaving through hair
Dancing with dead leaves.
It made me smile.
Distantly, your voice calling,
Your words,
I’ll never forget-
The grass cradling my feet,
The sun warming
Tears, flying in the breeze,
Or the cry, wrenched from my lips
Echoing on the wind
As you turned your back
And left me there.

She stares up at her bedroom ceiling. In an attempt to distract her troubled mind she connects the pin-hole dots above her like she does when gazing up at the stars. Her tired eyes roam over a brown spot in the left corner of the ceiling and she makes a mental note to call the repairman in the morning to see when he’d be able to fix the leak.

There is a slight mumble to her left and she holds her breath and body perfectly still, hoping to avoid the inevitable mumblings of her sleeping husband. After a moment her husband sighs and rolls to his left with his blue and green plaid pajama clad back facing her and he is still once more. Relief and disappointment flood her. She feels disappointed that he is not dreaming of her while he sleeps, and relief that he is not, as he always did, dreaming of Her.

Quickly she focuses her eyes back on her ceiling, determined not to let her thoughts wander down that treacherous path. She manages to spot an Easter bunny with a bent ear, a lopsided heart and the big dipper before her husband shifts and utters a name.

She gives a soft, defeated sigh at hearing the familiar name and knows that sleep will not come to her rescue. She is going to have to face the ghosts of her husband’s past alone and quite conscious. Sometimes she wishes she could find it in her to feel angry, or betrayed even, but all she ever feels is a sad acceptance tinged with an undertone of envy.

She doesn’t blame him, though, at least not entirely. It is her own fault. She knew when marrying him that his first wife had been the love of his life, but that did not stop her from hoping, foolishly she now knows, that he could also feel great love for her. But how could he when he remains, even in his slumbers, completely devoted to the memory of his first wife?

She was probably a saint, tall and slim, blonde and beautiful- things she is not.

She looks to the ceiling again, but the Easter bunny, the bent heart, and the big dipper do not have the answers she seeks.

In his deadened heart she planted a tiny seed and prayed that with gentle care and a loving hand it would grow and bear the fruits of her labor. If she had been smart, she would have left long before it reached this point, but still she stays to watch over her seedling which never sprouts even though she wishes so hard and has stayed so long.

That fateful night when she first heard him speak the name in his sleep she realized that it would never bloom and she has been an utter fool to think that she could replace the love he had lost. She has hated that name ever since then, cursing the woman that not only torments her husband but her as well. If she wasn’t dead, she believes she would kill her for the pain she has wrought on her fragile family.

But she suffers alone in silence and only the connect-the-dot character on her stained ceiling know of her heartache.

Her husband tosses and says the name, breaking her leaden thoughts.

She closes her eyes in acceptance- in resignation.

Rolling over onto her side she nearly screams when she sees that he is facing her with his eyes open.

“Sarah?” he asks in sleepy confusion.

As fast as her heart is racing it slows to a stop. “Yes, go back to sleep, my love,” she whispers gently, lovingly.

He lazily grins, closes his eyes and is instantly lost in his dreams once more.

And the smile on her lips breaks as Lisa begins to cry.

The ocean; he reminds me of the ocean. I’ve lost count of the nights I spend lying awake, my cheek resting on my light blue sheets, wishing that they were his cotton button-down shirt. His pale lunar skin makes me think of the moonlight and his dark eyes are like the salt water turned into black ink at night. He is calm on the surface, but beneath the cool façade is a dangerous swirling of emotions that sweep up and pull me under the surface, drowning inside of him. But I can’t think of a better way to die.

I lose myself in memories. Phantom caresses against the back of my hand make me shiver as I huddle under a threadbare quilt knitted by my Grandmother. Moths have laid their mark on it, holes allowing the cold air to hit my skin. I picture his face, strong angular features and a slightly hooked nose. I smile. He is handsome. Not in the traditional sense of the word, but his features are graced with an aristocratic elegance that is endearing for that all of his confident looks, he is just as uncertain as I.

His laugh is what I recall the best, a deep rich chuckle that begins in his chest and bursts forth like the ocean’s waves forming at their peak. He rarely laughs and is quick to take offense, but it’s the scarcity that makes the moment special. When I am able to find the right combination of words to prick his humor, I feel powerful like a god.

I love him.

He loves me.

But I want to hate him. It is impossible, but still I try. I will never despise him for leaving for I know it was not his choice to go.

As the moon filters through my window and my eyes grow heavy, I know that when sleep claims me I will dream of him. I will dream of the past and of a future lost to me, and knowing this makes me cry. My mind cries out for him as does something else inside of me. Someplace where his laughter echoes and his smiles never fade.

And my stiffly starched sheets are always soaked to the brim with salty tears that remind me of the ocean.

The hills are giant dinosaurs
Lain to sleep-
Dirt and time,
Their bed and blanket.

Time passes…

Men build homes on their backs,
Lay pools over their heads,
And walk down their spines.

But what will happen
When the dinosaur awakens,
Yawns, then shivers?

“What were you like as a boy?”
“Shorter,” the father answers.
“What were you like as a baby?” the child
asks.
“Loud.”
“What were you like in school?”
The father tucks the yellow blanket
Around his son.
“Smart.”
The son twists, kicking the blanket off
With his red footed pajamas.
“What were you like when you met mommy?”
“Stupid,” he smiles.
“What were you like as a teenager?”
“Foolish,” he sighs.
The father moves to the door,
Switches the light off. “Wait-!
What were you like at my age?” he asks
His last question.
The father smiles again.
“Curious,” he says softly into the dark,
And he closes the door.