Category Archives: Scribbles

I Can Only Write About Lost Things

When we rose to meet each other
you dove into me like I was home,
like a fish returning to the sea
after being flung upon land in a storm.
I held you to my depths
and, roiling, we two dark things
phosphoresced when we touched.
To me
your skin was the rich earth I danced on
Your eyes caught the moon and held it in shards
Your teeth flashed like lights off the water
Those lips brushing mine- ripe plums.
Now my body is ungrounded
and my fingers, unmoored from yours
are useless ships-
Clumsy, bobbing in the charcoal night.

-For K, who said this was allowed

Sew your forked tongues into one
and open, fingers clenched and numb.
Unwrap your bitter, strangled throats
and let the mourning come.
Break down the dams that hold us
strange to sorrow!  Let us knit this thrum
of loss into a cradling shroud
and let the mourning come.
We close our eyes
and hold our hands
and fall and weep.
as we succumb
we beat our breasts
and rend our skin
and let the mourning come.
No words–Life’s blush has left these cheeks–
No words!  a moratorium:
Return their loaned souls to the sky
and let the mourning come.

Of Loss: a poem in response to the deaths of children

Why I love Avatar Korra (and you should too): An Introduction


I have a new love in my life- and her name is Avatar Korra.

For those of you who don’t know, here’s a snip from wikipedia:

Avatar: The Last Airbender (Avatar: The Legend of Aang in Europe) is an American animated television series that aired for three seasons onNickelodeon from 2005 to 2008. The series was created and produced by Michael Dante DiMartino and Bryan Konietzko, who served as executive producers along with Aaron EhaszAvatar: The Last Airbender is set in an Asian-influenced world[1] wherein some are able to manipulate theclassical elements by use of psychokinetic variants of Chinese martial arts known as “bending.” The show combined the styles of anime andAmerican cartoons, and relied for imagery upon various East-Asian, Inuit, Indian and South-American societies.[2]

And the background on the sequel:

 Reincarnating in turn among the world’s four nations, [the Avatar] is responsible for maintaining the balance in the world. Korra, the series’ 17-year-old protagonist, is the incarnation of the Avatar after the death of Aang of Avatar: The Last Airbender.[7] Set seventy years after the first series in Republic City, a metropolis that recalls a fictionalized 1920s Manhattan and Shanghai,[8] the series follows Korra as she learns airbending and faces an anti-bender revolutionary group, the “Equalists”, led by the masked Amon.[7]

The season is done for now, and sadly won’t return until next year, but you can watch all the episodes online either at or elsewhere if you’re internet savvy.

The original Avatar series is near and dear to me; the controversy surrounding the whitewash of the film led me to the social justice blogosphere, which is how I procrastinate   spend most of my time these days.  The creators of the original series have been praised for their creative world building, their sophisticated and complex character and plot-lines, and their cross-generational humor as well as their ability to take cultures not their own and appropriate them respectfully.

This new series continues in the vein of the first Avatar but features a hero who is a strong, intelligent, brown woman- something you really don’t see in US media.  The show deals with relationships, revolution, familial ties, geopolitics.  It’s feminist, anti-racist, and thought provoking, yet somehow while it’s popular among children and many sets of the nerd community the social justice blogosphere has been pretty quiet.  If I’m wrong please let me know, but coverage pales in comparison to the praise of Hunger Games or Brave – both of which have strong heroines and are geared towards children.

I don’t know if you guys can tell by now, but for me Avatar Korra is the greatest thing since Harry Potter.  And I love Harry Potter with a fiery hot passion, you best believe.

Over the next few weeks I’ll be geeking out exploring the awesomeness that is the Korra series, specifically how the show is groundbreaking in its race, color, gender, and sociopolitical discussion.  This will, of course, be peppered with my favorite Korra gifs.

Let’s get this party started.

Maggie and the Goblin, part 2


Every movement jarred Maggie’s leg, and her glasses kept slipping down her face, but she pushed them up, bit her lip, and told herself to be brave.  The Goblin was cutting through the forest like a loosed arrow, his feet pattering softly on the ground, his breath deep and steady as a racehorse.  They were going faster than her bicycle ever could and —her stomach leapt as he nearly flew over a fallen log—the taste of fear in the back of her throat mingled now with the heady buzz of speed.

Maggie loved going fast, loved the way the wind blew back her long dark hair, loved letting go of the handlebars and flinging out her brown limbs in joy and abandon.  But that was what got her into this mess.  She’d gone too fast, hadn’t seen the rotting board, and fell straight into the iron grip of a goblin.  She scrunched her eyes against the wind and tried to memorize the path they were taking—he was flying on foot and kept to no visible path –sometimes doubling back on himself or stopping abruptly and then changing course completely.  But his actions seemed determined and steady, non-evasive.  He wasn’t trying to cover his tracks—he was following a path only he could see.

The child’s tiny squeaks pierced the goblin’s ears, boring at his brain.  He could feel her trembling; her sweaty little hands were digging into his skin, and he turned his head to snap at her, but thought the better of it.  Small things had fast heartbeats, he knew, and the last time he unleashed his fury at something—a badger had attempted to burrow in his territory—his growl had stopped the poor creature’s heart.  He needed her to finish his deal.  He would be…patient and work to calm her.  In a reedy voice he sang:

Let us go to the Goblin home

Where the hills are high, and the rivers deep

And the gold is bright, and the tunnels dark

And the shepherds tender as their sheep.

Let us go to the goblin home

Where foes are fed to the goblin tooth

And the goblin queen on her ruby throne

Leads her folk with claw and lash and truth.

His mother had sung this to him as a little one, its solemn drudging tune reminded him of the warped bells in the Queen’s hall, and he would dream of gold glimmering in torchlight and the queen’s great beauty.  Pride and security, that was what put little Goblins to sleep at night.  He wondered briefly if it was the same for humans, but put that out of his mind.  Humans were a strange race of creatures- more cunning than his normal prey, but stupid all the same.

And now we have pictures!


From: Maggie and the Goblin, chapter 1

My imooto (lil’ sis) will be illustrating Maggie and the Goblin from now on.

New chapters will arrive weekly, as will the pictures.

Thank you all!  I’ll let you know about the audition tomorrow 🙂


p.s. She’s started a travel blog and deviantart page as well, please check them out!  (I’ve added the links to the blogroll)



Maggie and the Goblin (part 1)




Maggie eyed the goblin with suspicion as the storm crept nearer. Goblins, she knew, were dangerous. Goblins, she assumed, were crafty. And goblins, she figured, did not enjoy having bicycles and twelve year olds crashing onto their heads. Her mother had told her all about them in bedtime stories, warned her about playing near bridges and caves, but she had never seen one and was beginning to doubt their existence. Her eyes flashed from the large and ugly gash on her calf, to the gaping hole in the old covered bridge, then quickly back to the goblin. Best to keep eye contact, she thought. Don’t know what it’s up to.
The goblin was surprisingly calm. The initial shock had worn off, his head was pounding like mad, but the spots in front of his eyes were beginning to fade. He assessed the situation: a shaking girl; a gnarled bike; a feebly spinning wheel; a hole in the floor of his bridge; and the rumbling sky. In spite of his annoyance this tawny girl with dark hair intrigued him. He had never seen a child this close before, and had only ever eaten one man. He blinked his large yellow eyes and waited.
They remained like this for several seconds, expectant as the thirsty riverbed they crouched in, each waiting for the other to make the first move.
“You’ve broken my bridge,” The goblin said, more to break the silence than anything. His pointed teeth clicked softly, while his English crashed and swirled like water in rapids.
“I-I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I was trying to get home. I think I’ll go now…” She groped for the bike handle. Her leg throbbed.
Maggie froze. Her heart stumbled.
The goblin, slightly startled at her reaction, weighed his words more carefully. “You are injured. The storm is coming. You…will not be able to go.”
“But I want to go home!”
Tears gathered in her eyes and spilled down her dirty face. She hugged her knees and yowled like a wounded beast. The Goblin’s large ears flattened against his head. She was so much water, and so loud. And the squeaking bike wheel, and the angry storm, and the crying girl.
“STOP.” He barked. She jumped and fell silent, her lower lip quivering.
“Listen to me.” He said, and the water in his voice smoothed. “I can take you where the storm cannot touch you, but you must pay me in return.”
“…Pay you what?”
“You must fix my bridge. The rest I will decide later.”
She took a deep breath. What else was there to do?
“All right.”
“Good.” The goblin said, and turned to go. “Follow me.”
She gestured toward her calf. “But I can’t-“
“Oh. I forgot. You humans are strange creatures.” He extended his long hand. “We must shake, correct?”
She wavered for a moment, her eyes flashing from her leg to the bike to the goblin. Finally, she took a deep breath and gingerly grasped his hand. It was leathery and warm, and speckled with scars like pebbles on a riverbed. The goblin nodded, but did not release her. Instead he yanked her over his shoulder, flattening his ears to her yelp of surprise, and set off.


The frogs are still tonight.
Mute and scared,
they crawl into their beds
and choke their song.
 no guttural cry
no wasted tears or 
marks on paper 
can enfold
this wasted guilt
can pinch this cold sorrow,
 and numb disbelief
and wind it into an amulet.
Instead, the piercing refrain:
You are gone.
 All is silent.  
All is blank.
All is blank
 -For S