of Stardust and the Beasts
Poetry, prose, stories, and other creative writing experiments.
the Six Sentence Café & Bistro #1 | the Nervous Poet
For this week's six sentence story, I was honored to be invited to participate in the world of Six Sentence Café & Bistro with my own character. Honestly, such things make me a little nervous, as I have never participated in any type of collaborative writing before, partly because I'm scared of the Manager's Office and plot holes and my characters tend to be a bit unhinged, and partly because I started writing stories with this challenge; before that, it was mostly poetry. However, as our wonderful Denise, who hosts the weekly six sentence blog hop, said: "After you escort the first butterfly out of your stomach lining, it is cool, Reelika. And fun." I decided, what the heck—most cool and good things (especially the things that help you grow) are difficult and scary at first. Also,...
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Ten Thing of Thankful #3 | Creativity, Community & Semester’s End
This week went by so fast I didn’t even think of the ten thing of thankful blog hop while living through it. It felt as if I blinked, and it was already gone. The other hoppers’ posts of the week can be read here. Be sure to check them out at this blog hop is the most positive vibes one I have found in a long time. Ten Thing of Thankful #3 First—I have to once again bring up the community of the Six-Sentence blog hoppers. As a writer, I always felt I was far too different to truly fit in, but the more I write, the more I begin to see my own evolution. Writing is a skill, yes—but also a way to stay creative, and that creative part of me is something that keeps me going through the hectic...
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Poetry On the margins of the First Draft #3 | Immortalized
This reflection is part of Margins of the First Draft — a collection of poetry that stems from an overactive imagination and a speck of emotion. (Authors Note) Immortalized So, Today I wrote a poem Crippled by my fear That he will fade into the cruel passing of time Forgotten, lost Like my admiration Rotting Ten feet under Poetry on the Margins #3 Ten Feet Above Such a gentle feeling and such strong words.Ever since I was a kid and knew that I wanted to write,I always thought how beautiful it would be — the thought alone —to make someone “eternal.” Whether it's through poetry, a painting, a song —when I die, my words will be here.And so will be the people and things that inspired...
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Short Story | The Silence Between Us
I feel like I have nothing left to write these days. Instead of creating, I’ve been sitting on my bed in a vegetative state, guilt accumulating with every sip of wine I take. I know I should be writing—or doing something, anything. Sometimes, I catch myself simply waiting for nightfall, just so I can curl up and pretend to sleep, though occasionally, I find myself fantasizing instead.
Short Story | Absence
Any words I manage to put down feel dull and meaningless—especially compared to you, or the kind of love and admiration that has been, is, and always will be within me. I have carried it with pride, deep within my heart, shielded from the harsh realities of this world. Sometimes it feels like the purest thing I’ve ever known; other times, it feels as though I’ve sold my soul to this love, just to feel anything at all. Believe me, in the darkest times of my youth, it was the light I clung to. It was the hope that, at the end of the line, you would be there—waiting for me, arms wide open, welcoming me into the light with your embrace.I felt your absence more deeply than I have ever felt anything before.
Short Story | Goddess in Disguise
Ella didn’t know any other way to love than obsessively, religiously, and with a fiery passion. The kind that could make you shiver when her fingers brushed against your skin. And she would pray down on her knees to twirl you around her finger, to make you stay longer than you anticipated, and to give you a little more love in the hope that you would return it. To her, there were no limitations. She would give away her skin if a man she loved needed it. You could say that every man that ever laid his hands on her was a God she had to worship to reach the pearly gates.
Short Story | Demigods are Worshipped in Wine
This night was like many others. She was preparing her space to write poetry. It was as if she was preparing to worship a God of a sort – with a bottle of Shiraz on the table and Chopin on the recorder, she set orange and cinnamon-scented candles up in her room.
Short Story | Stockholm Syndrome
It wasn’t that she didn’t know that he wasn’t good for her or that he would never stay the night. It was that she had hope. She believed that in the depths of his heart, he had loved her all along, and one day he would choose her. The hope kept her eyes in a protective pink film every time she looked at his face. And all she wished for was to lay in his arms and to wake up to him stroking her hair.