Blog Appreciation Day, or, ‘I love This Writer’

This is a new feature I’m adopting for my blog. The blogging community is filled with inspiration, wonder, education, and talented people, and like a nest building bower bird I collect the pretty blue things.

Brenna Yovanoff is a YA author who posts short stories here. Her writing is mysterious and seductive, and I've learnt more about writing from her and her critique partners than any other source. She likes terrifying teens, was raised by gypsies, sews her own clothes, and I suspect she’s Dean Koontz’s love child (everyone knows I'm kidding right?). She also has a soon to be released pretty blue thing here.

I guess I need a disclaimer now: Brenna has not traded her grandmother’s jewelry, bribed me, knitted me a jumper, or kidnapped my cat, but she has earned my respect.

I’m sharing this story because Brenna has captured the emotion that surrounds a spirit who has not gone into the light. Every emotion is amplified. The no-light is a lonely wilderness with sanctuary tantalizingly close. Sprits ache with longing, but they cannot identify what they long for. Imagine breathing in, and then not being able to exhale for eternity. You dream, but you cannot sleep. All your senses have been turned off, but you are still aware of everything, suspended in no-time.

Fiction by Brenna: Neighbors

It takes forever for the house next door to sell. Poor For Sale Sign, rickety and crooked, like it's been leaning there all summer, all year, all my life.

The real estate agent blames the lack of interest—no, the entire state of the housing market—on our yard. She leaves a note taped to our front door, saying that no decent family would move in next to a disaster like ours, that the lawn is an eyesore. And it kind of is. I want to tell my dad to get off his ass, crawl out of the bottle and pull-start that mower, but at the same time, I don't want to tell him anything. It's easier, just walking past the mess like it doesn't even exist.

And the house does sell, despite the condition of our yard. I lie out in the weedy grass and watch the people come and go, first the movers and then the family. Their son looks my age, maybe a year or two older. He's tall and dark-haired, with great shoulders and long, graceful hands. He's always texting—never even looks up or turns around, but I don't need to know the color of his eyes to tell that he's delicious. I watch from over the fence, hopeful and terrified that at any moment, he'll turn and see me there. ( continue reading here )

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