Sunday, 6 April 2014

Sunday Scribbles

Sometimes you have a story in you  that just need to get out. This one, in particular,  will never go anywhere.

Most likely because I will never finish it.

Or it won't fit into the brand I'm trying to build.  Or a baby pterodactyl will swoop in and destroy my computer, and every laptop I try to operate after that. When I convince my agent to accept handwritten MSs, the pterodactyl will develop a vicious hunger for pens and pencils alike.

I thought it'd be fun to blog about the words no one will ever read. So, for your viewing pleasure, here's a taste of the book I'll never finish.


You wake me up the usual way;
incoherent text messages and snowballs against my window.
We’ll get caught one of these times,
but you don’t care.
“It’s worth it,” you say.
“You’re worth it,” you say.
You kiss me like the plane is going down.
Like I’m the only thing worth saving.
You kiss me like you’ll never let me go,
but we both know you will.
You’ve already started.


You’re so fragile.
I could snap you into pieces with my bare hands.
The look you’re giving me now makes me
feel like I already have.
“I have to go,” I say.
You push your fingers into my hair and slip your tongue into my mouth.
“Come upstairs,” you whisper.
The lie sticks on my lips but I force it out anyway.
“I can’t.”
Do you know I’m going to see her?
You curl around me and slide your icy fingers underneath my t-shirt.
I know I could…but I don’t.



Before, you never would have left.
You would have stayed until the sun spilled into my room.
Now, you don’t even look back.
Now, you don’t even try to hide it.
Hide her.
She’s all over you.
Her lip gloss stains your cheek, her perfume lays claim to your pillow.
You think I don’t see it?
I can’t see anything else.



Her mom doesn’t care that I’m over,
 though sneaking in is half the fun.
She’s waiting for me,
 already naked under her covers.
It’s like getting a present that’s already unwrapped.
She doesn’t run her fingers through my hair.
I don’t care how school was.
She tears the buttons you just sewed back on.
I tuck them into the pocket full of condoms.
We don’t make love,
we fuck.
She doesn’t sigh my name,
she screams it.
She sinks her nails into my back,
 carving her initials into my skin like bark.
I don’t kiss her goodbye.
I never do.
All my kisses are saved for you.


I remember the first time I saw you.
Jenny warned me you were trouble.
I couldn’t resist.
You acted like you didn’t even see me,
But I felt your stare all night.
You stayed on the couch the entire party,
a different freshmen bringing you a beer each time.
You only got up when I left.
You only got up to chase.
Jenny said you were hard.
Damaged Goods.
I should have known fixing you


I want you more after I’ve been with her.
I want to wash the taste of her out of my mouth.
I want you on my breath.

My parents know.
Dad just shakes his head.
Mom won’t even look at me.
They love you.

I love you.

Or at least I would if I knew how.


“You look tired,” Jenny says at school.
“I’m fine.” I shrug your sweater off my shoulders.
I’m always fine.
“Don’t lie,” she whispers.
“I’m not.” I smile.
I’m always smiling.
“It’ll be okay.” She hugs me.
“I know,” I lie.
I’m always lying.

I think about the days
we couldn’t make it through class
without sneaking out to
devour each other in the stairwell.

Where did we go wrong?


I remember when it all changed.
You were out with Jenny.
You’re always with her.
I went to that party.
She was there.
I filled her plastic cup until foam sloshed onto her fingers.
I got hard when she licked it all off.
I stayed hard until she sucked me off.

I hated myself after.

I still do.


We sit together at lunch.
You and Jenny exchange insults
while I pick at my salad.
I feel your phone vibrate
against my leg.
You pretend you don’t.
You’ll delete the message later,
like you can erase your sins with the press of a button.

I watch you in gym,
waiting to see if the sweat cracks your mask.
When you flick your hair out of your impossibly
blue eyes, the girls all sigh.
“She’s so lucky,” they whisper. “I wonder what he’s like in bed.”

They don’t need to wonder.
All they need to do is ask.

Ask her.


I used to love the way you watched me.
The way your mouth wrapped around my name,
the way you blushed when I kissed you in
the hallway.

I loved the way you loved me.

Now your love is a noose,
my guilt the rope,
slowly dragging me upward.

One of these day the toes of my
sneakers will drag across these
gym floors before
going up,

Because one of these days,
you’ll know.


I wait for you in your
beat up old chevy.

You smile when you see me.
The light makes your golden hair shine
and my breath leaves my chest
in a gasp.

You’re perfect.

“Hey.” You press your mouth against my
sun-warmed shoulder. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too.” I still do.
 Even though you’re right next to me,
I miss you so bad my heart actually aches.
“Can I come over tonight?”

Your lips leave my skin.
“I’m busy tonight, how about tomorrow?”

It’s always tomorrow.


I’m trapped.
Admitting it makes me
a pussy, but it’s the truth.
I can’t escape her.

I tried tonight.
I told her it was over,
that I couldn’t keep doing this.

I let her hit me,
let her scream and throw things.
I took my punishment.

But now it’s three am
and I’m reaching for my
phone, already
her mouth


So that's that. What are some of the stories that dwell in your trunk?

Wednesday, 2 April 2014


My name is Jenna, and I'm a scareaholic.

A fear junkie. Horror hound. Whatever you want to call it. I love being afraid. I love scaring people. Anytime there's a new horror flick, I'm there opening night. I've been reading Stephen King since I was nine (thank you, unsupervised garage sale purchases). I road tripped town to Idaho for Scarywood. That was my 26th birthday pressie from my parents. I wanted to get my engagement ring from a pawn shop just for the slightest chance it had some gory history.

Lately, horror is all I've been writing. I've been burning out on Ghost Adventures and the horror section of Netflix. I've had more nightmares the past month or two then I've had in years. I see the potential for fear everywhere. Last night, for example, I stopped at Walmart to pick up a few things. I turned down an aisle that was only occupied by one other person, an older gentleman. He was tall and wide, wearing work clothes and a plaid jacket. He wore those big, clunky steel-toed boots that always seem to be caked with mud. In his hand was a tiny, fluffy yellow dress. The kind you make your six-month-old wear to a family picnic. That's it. He was probably just picking up a pressie for his granddaughter. But in my head, there is no granddaughter.

There was no one else in Walmart. It wasn't five in the afternoon, it was two in the morning. The lights are flickering on and off. The coolers are empty,the stench of sour milk fills the air. The shelves are bare. I think I'm alone. My shoes squeak on the stained floor as I scavenge for food. I haven't eaten in days. Heavy footsteps fill the air. I press my back against an empty bread shelf. I hold my breath and peek into the next aisle.

A man is at the other end. I haven't seen another human in weeks. He's old, his face tan and weathered like a crumpled paper bag. His head is covered in knotted, grey hair. His mouth is rimmed red. He walks down the aisle, his body jerking from the effort. He doesn't have a weapon. The only thing in his hand is a blood-stained, yellow dress.

And then I blink and see the man return to his cart. Among the groceries is a car seat. He smiles at me and walks on by.

That, ladies and gentleman, is how my brain works. Anyhoo. Moving on.

When I first started drafting my latest brain monster, a YA horror called THROUGH THE PALE DOOR*, I polled my facebook friends about what they were afraid of.

What are you afraid of?

Seriously. This is important writing research.

 ·  · 

Isn't that interesting? People are afraid of random things like balloons and foam, all the way to dying alone or leaving their children. Naturally, I cherry-picked my favorite fears and tossed them into the story. All of my characters experience one or more of their greatest fears, and many will die from them.  Friends, don't say I never wrote anything for you :D  

So now I have to ask....What are you afraid of?

*Thanks for the fab title, Rach!