Emily Dill

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Hues.

March 13, 2016 by Emily Dill Leave a Comment

You leaned in and your mouth tasted red
But your lips were cold and blue
And the yellow of
Your pretend love
Warned of a weakness in you

There was a blackness to your smile
That showed me you’d never be mine
And I would do
While you passed through
But you had someone else to find

I offered you a tepid smile
Trying to hide the green of my need
As I pretended not to care
That a girl out there
Was making your colors bleed

You fumbled through your excuses
But all I could see was the brown
Rough like tree bark
Murky and dark
I let your apology fall to the ground

And when you left for the last time
The purple of your passion shone bright
Your face ablaze
As you ran to face
The one who would set your palette right

Filed Under: Poetry Tagged With: poems, poetry, prose, writing

Young Inside

February 29, 2016 by Emily Dill 1 Comment

My body is ancient
My skin, paper
But when I dream
I take off my age like a jacket
And dance once more

Filed Under: Poetry Tagged With: micropoetry, poetry, prose, writing

Past.

February 21, 2016 by Emily Dill 1 Comment

You show up out of nowhere
A bridge I thought I burned
You speak to me in poetry
A language I never learned
Your words are like a heartbeat
Irregular, maybe too fast
And your face is ancient memory
Best left in the past

Filed Under: Poetry Tagged With: poem, poetry, prose, writing

Writing Wednesday: “Attack”

January 20, 2016 by Emily Dill Leave a Comment

This is another piece that I posted on Prose.com a few weeks ago – it was an entry in a weekly contest, in which they wanted us to build upon the opener, “The land was barren, the sky was black”. While the entry didn’t win, it felt really good to write this as someone who has anxiety and can sometimes get overwhelmed. I also got great feedback from readers who also have anxiety, and one even told me that reading this helped her calm down. There is NO better feeling for a writer than hearing something like that. Let me know what you think!

___________________________________

The land was barren
The sky was black
Once again my vulnerable mind
Had fallen under attack

Leading his powerful army
Over the hill with a shout
Came the commanding General
Crippling Doubt

He’s ready for the battle
And armed to the hilt
With Second-Guessing, Self-Hatred
Mistakes I’ve Made, and Guilt

A little behind the General
Is someone I’ve already met
And I have no defense against
The weapons of Colonel Regret

As each arrow strikes me
The what-ifs flood my mind
That boy I should have talked to
The times I should have been kind

My defenses are already down
So who next could it be
But the one who eats away at my soul
Captain Insecurity

She tells me I’ll never be good enough
And I cover my ears but still hear
About my flaws and weaknesses
My embarrassment and fear

Near the back of the group
Looking positively manic
The one who leaves me out of control
Of course it’s Sergeant Panic

I feel my stomach clenching
My pulse races, my palms burn
I could have maybe fought the others
But this one will have his turn

Bringing up the rear, the last soldier
Comes up slowly, almost at a crawl
Though he doesn’t look that dangerous
Private Memory’s the worst of them all

He seeps into my broken brain
Showing me what I’ll never have again
The faces are blurry, the voices fuzzy
A painful montage of “way back when”

So I wait it out, like I always do
And beg them to be on their way
I’ll live to fight the Army
Of Anxiety another day

Filed Under: Poetry Tagged With: poem, poetry, prose, writing, writing wednesday

Writing Wednesday: “Shadow”

January 13, 2016 by Emily Dill Leave a Comment

A cacophony of shadows, and all I feel is fear.

Our village lives in terror of the Night Shadow, the supernatural being who supposedly decides which townspeople live and die. As a means of warding off death, the village chooses one young woman a year to give to the Shadow in marriage. They always make the sacrifice during a full moon in March.

I’ve known since I was old enough to understand the stories that my name would eventually be called, and yesterday it was.

Tonight I stand in the middle of a forest, with my arms tied to a rope wrapped around the tree. This is where the villagers leave the girl every year. In the morning, when they come back, the rope is always cut, and the young woman is always gone. None have ever returned.

I don’t know what happens to them – no one does – but we all assume the same thing: The Night Shadow accepts the village’s sacrifice and kills the girl.

Through the treetops, I see clouds moving to cover the full moon. Instinctively, I know I’ll see the Shadow soon.

I hear no noises; shadows are always silent. But a change in air pressure assures me that he’s close. I spent all of last night awake, wondering what I would say to him and how I could best plead for my life. But now that the moment is here, all I know is that I won’t die whimpering or begging, as the previous girls assuredly did.

“Hello, husband,” I say, trying to sound amused.

The breeze pushes my hair into my face, and I blow it away.

“I was beginning to wonder if you’d had a change of heart. Cold feet and all that.” I focus on a tree a few feet away, looking for the shadow in my peripheral vision without being obvious. I think I hear the slightest laugh, but it could be branches moving.

“I really don’t remember accepting your proposal,” I continue, “but I suppose I must have. Congratulations to us both.”

I feel something brush my neck, and tell myself it’s the wind.

“I really can’t wait to meet your family,” I say. “Are they quiet types, like yourself?”

I feel him behind me, and I notice the moon has now cast a second shadow on the ground by mine. I shiver when he speaks.

“Beg,” he whispers.

I should. I know I should. But I don’t.

“No,” I reply.

“Do it,” he presses on.

I close my eyes. “I won’t beg. Ever. Kill me or set me free, but I will never beg.”

I listen for a response, eyes still closed.

Seconds pass.

I feel a release of tension in my wrists. The rope has been cut.

“Will you beg?” he asks one last time, mouth inches away.

“I will not.” I don’t look at him.

“Maybe next year,” he breathes.

And he’s gone.

I’ll be here when the villagers return in the morning.

Filed Under: Short Stories Tagged With: prose, short story, writing, writing wednesday

Tales.

January 10, 2016 by Emily Dill Leave a Comment

Hello from snowy Kentucky! 🙂

I know a few posts ago I mentioned that I won an online weekly writing challenge + $100 from Prose.com – it meant SO much to me not only to win, but to actually make money from something I have an absolute blast doing. I can’t think of many better ways to start the year! But I wanted to share my poem that won the challenge with you guys. I sat down and wrote it all out stream-of-consciouness-style – I didn’t hesitate or edit until the last paragraph. The line “You were the beauty, but I was the beast” was what came to mind and what I really wanted to write, but I couldn’t rhyme anything with beast without sounding forced, so I switched the words around a little, and I ended up actually really liking the ending. Here’s my poem, Tales:

The clock struck midnight
The pumpkin changed
The shoe is missing
Stepmother’s deranged

The princess sleeps
Dragons breathe fire
Thorny walls grow
While the prince climbs higher

The apple bitten
While miners cry
Her white skin sparkles
While her insides die

A watery home
Abandoned for land
Atlantis forgotten
For a two-legged man

The tower loomed
No sign of a stair
The prince’s way up
A ladder of hair

The carpet soars high
A genie obeys
And a prince is an urchin
Who just changed his ways

I was a beast
But the beauty was you
And I’m reminded each night
That fairy tales aren’t true.

Filed Under: Poetry Tagged With: blog, contest, poetry, prose, writing

Storm.

August 19, 2015 by Emily Dill 4 Comments

loveit15

You know the feeling.

You walk outside right before a storm. The air is warm – almost stuffy – and tense. Something needs a release, and time is running out.

There’s heat, sure – but is it the good kind? Or is it suffocating?

Thunder rolls in the distance, and you know it won’t be long now.

Just a few more humid breaths.

And then –

It breaks.

What I’m saying, dear, is you’re the storm.

And I don’t know what’s worse.

This bloated moment as I wait for you to rumble through.

Or watching you break.

Filed Under: Poetry Tagged With: poetry, prose, writing, writing wednesday

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