The Kitty

A poem inspired by Edgar Allen Poe’s “The Raven.”

Once upon a morning dismal, while I slumbered calm and blissful,
Dreaming of all the joyous things that make my spirits soar –
I was wrenched out from my sleep, well before the alarm clock’s beep,
As I heard the faintest cry come from behind my bedroom door,
“Not again,” I bemoaned, “Christ, it’s only half past four –
I can’t do this anymore…”

Warm blankets I did shed and heaved my body from my bed,
and braced myself to face the purring harbinger of doom.
With cold feet set upon the floor, I sighed and threw open the door,
And a slinky furry body crept at once into the room,
thus my rage began to bloom.

With her golden eyes so round, she uttered a meek and pleading sound,
And the dread fell upon me like a blanket of cold snow,
She flicked her tail against my leg as her whiny voice did beg,
“It’s too early,” I complained, and though I nudged her with my toe,
still, her meows echoed with woe.

I sighed and led her down the stairs, past the table and the chairs,
And like a queen she sprawled herself out upon the tile,
I fetched her early morning meal, and she released a happy squeal,
And thus began to gorge upon a tasty kibble pile,
Though the stuff smells rather vile…

I trudged back up to my bed, and put the warm pillow to my head,
and hoped the demon would cease to pester me until the morn,
My thoughts began to drift, and I slipped slowly into the rift,
Until I heard that telltale meow, so pitiful and so forlorn,
but piercing like a thorn.

Once again, I let her in, though it was much to my chagrin,
And she leapt upon my bed and made herself a little nest,
With a sigh I settled down, my face set firmly in a frown,
But she snuggled at my side, and I knew that though she is a pest,
kitty cuddles are the best.

~~~

If you’re in need of a new read, check out my YA novel, I’m With You! The ebook is only $1.99 or (£1.55) and paperback is $9.99 (£7.99) on Amazon / Amazon UK. Paperback is also $9.99 on BN.com.

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Lacuna

(Thought I’d share a short story I wrote several years ago and only just stumbled across.)

Lacuna

by: Allie Frost

         Café La Bréche was unusually busy for a Thursday morning. Outside, beneath the bright yellow awning, every table was occupied. To foreigners, the café advertised ‘Paris in a cup,’ but to the Parisians it was nothing more than a simple, somewhat tacky café by the Seine, the towers of Notre Dame watching thoughtfully in the distance.

Emery King wasn’t overly fond of the place, but she had picked it out—and so he went. She said she liked the ambience. He preferred to select his breakfast venues based on the food choice and whether or not he deemed the prices reasonable, but Mona would take burnt croissants and exorbitantly expensive espresso as long as the atmosphere was nice.

“Your coffee will get cold if you don’t drink.”

At his warning, Mona obediently took a sip from her mug, green eyes twinkling over the rim. “Cold coffee is not a tragedy,” she teased.

Emery scoffed. “For €4.50 a cup it is.”

Mona laughed. A breeze kicked up, and she brushed some auburn strands of hair from her face. She had changed her color again. She had been blonde the last time he saw her, and brunette the time before that. He didn’t even remember what her natural hair looked like—or if he had ever seen it.

Mona smirked. “You’ve always been too serious, Emery.”

Emery sighed, crossing one leg over his knee.

You are not serious enough.”

“I am known to be serious sometimes,” she informed him indignantly. “For example, when I tell you I am glad you came to visit, I am being serious.”

He dabbed at his moustache with a napkin. The foam from his coffee always collected there. He would probably need to shave soon. He had an important conference in about a week and wanted to look professional. Mona hated the moustache the last time they had met—Berlin, three years ago. It was half the reason he’d kept it so long. But this time she said she loved it.

“I could visit more often if we lived in the same country.”

Mona took the sunglasses from the top of her head and positioned them over her eyes. Emery wished she wouldn’t hide them. Sometimes, when he looked in her eyes, he could almost grasp what she was thinking, or feeling—almost. No matter what else she changed, her eyes had always been the same. Mystifying green.

“I like it here,” she determined. “There is no reason for me to move.”

Emery rolled his eyes. She liked it now. She would hate it in three months and move a thousand miles away, most likely, and he’d only find out when his letters would return to him unopened with ‘Return to Sender’ stamped in red on the envelope.

“You don’t even speak the language.”

Mona laughed lightly. Emery loathed that laugh as much as he loved it. Such a careless sort of afterthought – as though she found no actual humor in his words, but wanted to appease him. A whimsical flippancy. An expression of pity. It frustrated him.

“Precisely why I like it.”

Emery tried not to show his annoyance. She couldn’t even order a croissant in French. Yet she had lived in Paris for at least a year—or was it two? He didn’t remember. She knew ‘bonjour’ and ‘au revoir.’ Hello and goodbye. She was a creature of constant hellos and goodbyes – it was what came in between those hellos and goodbyes that kept changing.

“What is the point in living in a place where you can’t understand anyone?”

“That’s the point, though.” She stared at him, but he couldn’t quite see her eyes beyond the tinted lenses. “If you don’t understand, then you can pretend. The nastiest insults become the prettiest compliments when you don’t understand the difference.”

             It’s a pretend life, he wanted to tell her. You’re not really living.

But of course he wouldn’t say that. She wouldn’t listen anyway.

He sighed.

“I will never understand you, Mona.”

He had known her for a long time—thirteen years. Since freshman year of college. Every sporadic letter, every fleeting conversation since then always felt like he was speaking to someone he had never met. Struggling to hang on to the image of a person he would never really know, and perhaps, had never known at all.

She smiled coyly. “No, you won’t. But it’s better that way.”

Her coffee had stopped steaming. She had only taken a few sips—the mug was over half-full. €4.50 for a cold coffee. Such a waste—a tragedy.

Just

In keeping with a poetry theme for the week, here’s a selection from my CW class in college.

 

Just
One should never be just anything.
Things are never just fine.
That’s just a saying that keeps
prying curiosities at bay.
We are never just tired.
Fatigue is gauged by more
than how long our eyes are closed at night.
And there’s always subtle truth behind
every just kidding.
Maybe if we all try to just be honest…
No. Just no.
That’s just silly.
When a friend says, “Just tell me!”
You can never do just that.
It’s always more, or just a little less.
And for our mistakes
we chalk them up
to being just human.
It’s just an excuse.
One should never say they are just something.
When they are really so much more.

Just saying.

 

~~~~~

Today, 2/9/2018, is the LAST day to enter the Amazon giveaway for the Kindle version of my YA novel, I’m With You. Must be 18+ and live in the US, though I hope to do an international contest soon. Here is the link to enter! LINK.

Blue Screen

Thought I’d share a poem I wrote several years ago for an English assignment when my old desktop computer (which I still have and still works) was constantly blue screening, much to my frustration. 

 

Blue Screen

Go away, blue screen.
With your white words
that no one with average intelligence understands.
I’m trying to do my homework.
And you wipe it all away, blue screen.
With one ‘whirr.’
My hard work disappears.
How dare you.
I forgot to save.
And you shut my computer down.
Before I’ve finished.
EVERY TIME.
And now you’re staring at me.
In all your blue glory.
Making me run my computer in safe mode.
You’ve taken over.
A digital dictator in cobalt blue.
Has a virus made you come, blue screen?
I’m fairly sure I ran a protection program
to make you happy and safe, always
Very well…I’ll do it again.


What’s that? Nothing’s wrong?
Then why are you here, blue screen?
Seriously, this is due tomorrow.
And that is due next week.
I can’t even listen to music
if you keep popping up, blue screen!
I have a s,fjaldgj,smfnbsjhg: error?
Is that even English?
I have erased all of my possibly dangerous files.
And deleted many programs, just for you.
And yet you remain,
taunting me with your blueness,
and incoherent white-lettered babble.
Oh, blue screen…
Can you not see that you are unwanted?
I AM TRYING TO DO MY HOMEWORK.
Seriously.
Go away.
OR I WILL THROW MY COMPUTER INTO THE STREET.
And you will never glow blue again.
Don’t think I won’t do it.



It’s been a while, blue screen.
You haven’t shut down my computer yet today.
It’s been a nice reprieve
from your teal tyranny.
Have you decided to be nice?
I find that difficult to believe.
You’ve never been nice before.
I will wait.
….

And yet, you still don’t come.
Hurrah!
Perhaps now I will accomplish something!
All of my homework will be done!
Without constantly pressing ‘restart!’
Without my anguished cries of ‘Why?!’
Without that annoying blue screen popping up
at the most inconvenient of tim –





Curse you, blue screen.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I’m hosting an Amazon giveaway for kindle copies of my YA novel, I’m With You. 20 copies are up for grabs, and the giveaway ends February 9th, 2018. No cost or special requirement to enter, you just have to be over 18 and live in the US! I hope to run an international one soon.

If you’d like to enter for a chance to win, here is the LINK! (Amazon)

Breaking Down

Whilst digging through some old flash-drives, I found one of my old creative writing pieces from the first semester of my final year of college, in 2012. Just thought I’d share it because the memory made me laugh. For reference, I’m now 24, and I was 20 when this was written. 

_______

Some mornings I wake up ready for the day, and some mornings I end up locked in my bathroom with no means of escape.

I have lived alone for a year now. It’s been a relatively stress-free experience, save for a few security-alarm system snafus and several instances of burned dinner setting off the fire smoke alarm. But one morning, after finishing my two-mile run, I took a shower, but when I went to leave the bathroom, I realized the door was locked.

The alarming part is that the door does not even have a lock.

I stared at the doorknob for a good thirty seconds, shocked. I yanked on it, turning it as hard as I could, but it was stuck. The reality hit me. This is where I’m going to die.

After five minutes, I realized the door was not going to open – so I opened the bathroom window, pulled the screen up and leaned out into freedom. It was still semi-dark outside, and, at about 6:45AM it was very cold – and I was in a ‘Yankees Suck’ T-shirt and old track shorts, with no shoes or socks.

I wanted to cry.

The window is small enough that a child of about five or six can crawl through easily. Since I am not a five or six year old child, I faced a bit more difficulty. After several feeble attempts, I was able to slide myself out the window – bad leg first – and I cautiously leapt onto my air conditioning unit. Unfortunately, it was too cold outside for me to fully appreciate my ninja-like moves. I ran back into the house, and the first thing I did (after discovering that the door was stuck on the outside as well) was call my dad to explain the situation.

After he stopped laughing, he gave me his permission to break the door if necessary. Given my history of broken appliances and such – an extensive list which includes 3 printers, a microwave, and a coffee maker – it was probably going to happen regardless of whether or not he gave his blessing.

For the next hour, I took a hammer and a screwdriver to the door. It was futile – mainly because I have the arm strength of a wet noodle, though I did succeed in punching several holes in the wood. It became increasingly clear to me that I was going to have to go back in from the outside. I was going to have to launch myself back into the tiny, claustrophobia-inducing bathroom.

I trooped back outside, grabbed a ladder from the garage, put it against the side of the house, and vaulted myself back through the window, hammer and screwdriver in hand. Head-first, horribly ungraceful, and extremely grateful that none of my neighbors were awake to see it.

I took the hinges off the door, and it finally started to weaken. But it was still jammed. If there had been a table in the bathroom, I would have flipped it. Enraged, I manned up, channeled my inner MacGyver, and pulled the door as hard as I could, splintering part of the wood, and breaking the latch – which had been the whole source of the trouble. The door fell on me – but I was so happy I ignored the pain and let out a strangled victory cheer.

I called my dad with the joyous news – his first question was, “Did you break the door?” and my jubilant response was, “WHO CARES DAD, I’M FREE.” I also promised to pay for a new door, since we are selling the house in the spring, and a door-less bathroom is not exactly a selling point.

Despite the fact that I am a twenty year old college senior who lives alone, has two jobs, and does her own grocery shopping, I have never really felt like an adult. I’m not registered to vote, I can barely drive, and I still wake up early to watch Spongebob Squarepants. I have always been haunted by that question: When am I going to grow up? When will I start to feel in control of my destiny? When does that independence begin?

I can now say that the moment I began to feel grown up was a Friday, early in the morning, when I broke myself out of a locked bathroom. Not exactly ground-breaking in the grand scheme of things, but certainly a door-breaking moment – Past Allie probably would have curled up on the tile and cried. I am finally growing up.

…Although the first thing I did after getting free was pour myself a bowl of cereal and turn on Spongebob Squarepants.