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Gilmore Girls Fanfic

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 Time moves backwards, and the end is known from the beginning. *** In a Gilmore Girls alternate universe, Lorelai and Chris are together. They've stayed together, and are raising their only child, Rory, a precocious, starry-eyed, well-intentioned teenager living in the same small New England town, brilliant at school if she applied herself. Very rich, she feels the effects of a peculiar isolation and, having effortlessly mastered the studies required of her, immerses herself in unorthodox ones. Still liberal by vice of being a product of her time as we all are, but perhaps in a less dogmatically centrist way, Rory was early on raised a Christian by her grandparents but has now branched into other systems of belief, finding the doctrines of the church unsatisfactory to explain the world as it unfolds around her. She has a thought, and it soon materializes. The townsfolk are animated by her moves, and seem to slowly spin around her as if pulled in by the gravity of her narrative
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DisneyDisney!

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It was a beautiful day in a hell-hole town. Perfect weather broke up a Biblical torrent of week-long rains. The last day of the best city festival had wrapped the community in a cozy Autumnal sweater. And the football team had just won a close and incredible game – a contender for game of the year – full of inexplicable turns of fate that subtly hinted at a watchful and benevolent eye of God batting his lashes at them from beyond the clouds. Today behold – he cast his favor in their direction. He couldn't believe it. A fumble, a pick, a missed field goal, and a fifty-one-yard run for a touchdown, in the last two minutes, for a complete table-turning, neck-biting, thumb-sucking, foot-jobbing turnabout, twice ? It was unreal. “ That was un reaal ,” somebody plainly beamed to somebody else, walking past where he sat in the public square, observing the crowd from no distinct point within it. “ Back to the grind tomorrow!” his friend replied. “ What a way to end the weekend!”
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Old poem - Lost in the Forest

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 old unedited poem from 6/9/2023 - part of Lost in the Forest (story I am forever working on, illustrated poems) *********   The true king wanders just like you draped in rags cut on the woods he need not hide inside a tower – he walks all over the earth and calls it home So long you could not recognize him, sad eyes lonesome gazing forward turned away from problems, burdens, disillusioned with their illusory world Demon burden springs a dark dream so seductive, sheep stay sleeping just to see the storm upon the sea to watch the moon go dark And you, queen, searched for flashing eyes in shadows, shapes come forth from only corners who would never adore you, never tell you love is free Many times you've seen his shadow, and tried to pull him by his clothes, embrace you – but it always goes, wandering when light shows he is not the king The long lost king, you thought he was asleep but he was wandering across the forest home and he never did abandon
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Men and their Names

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  No more names on my arm, my God, no more names on my heart. Each name is the song of a different Earth; speaking it, the map must rewrite. Then all of my reasons are reasons no more; all of my reasons disappeared. A coherent “why” explains the wind and the trail that led me here. If that why is no longer relevant, if the reason has disappeared, then so has the trail that explains why I'm here; and the wind that cannot be held never blew. You touch me; and you lie to me. You say you are like me. My power is to embellish you, but “you” are your own country. And when I become your satellite, because you have pulled me in, my mind must rewrite my history, and the truth of what I'm in. A woman is the field upon which battling voices fall; her hearing is reality-inducing attention. Your voice sounds so under my skin... it fits so well with your eyes. Your voice becomes the native tongue with which I describe the world. No more names on my skin, my God. No more hands to spin. An hou
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The Way to the Lighted Cafe

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  The Way to the Lighted Cafe Though privately in a rush, that didn't come through in her movements. She drove calmly to a rest area off the highway, bought and languidly drank a coffee, sitting for an hour at a long table in front of the window wall reading a book while people came and went. She was reading, as she appeared to be, but also waiting, though, again, this wasn't apparent. Everyone passed by. Many conversations took place all over the plastic cafeteria, amplified and disfigured by the acoustics but ultimately rendered as one loud murmur. She shut them out to keep reading until the sky started going dark and she still sat in front of the windows, now watching the cerulean deepen by the minute. Road lights and headlights came on, their light fractured and splayed upon the glass and, at the same time, the world just behind her – the tables, bathrooms, fast food, customers, travelers, and her own self – rapidly came into focus and melded with the asphalt, traffic
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