EmalethSummer
Born into chaos, overcoming all, writing for passion, preparing for the fall. Professional copywriter, mother, and aspiring poet and author.
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We are a literary agency seeking fresh talent. In 200 words or more, demonstrate your writing talent. We will be in touch with any and all promising participants throughout the rest of this quarter.
Written by EmalethSummer in portal Publishing

Burn, Witch

The heat was too much. She stubbornly refused to make a sound. The smoke was making her eyes water, and she hoped they didn't think she was crying.

The fire burned brighter as a log burst. Sparks fly in the breeze. The flames reached their target at last. The smoke thickens as fabric catches. The heat is yet more intense. But she must bear it.

The pain has begun. It burns, like a thousand needles peeling away the skin. The smell of burning meat reaches her nostrils. Amidst the pain she wonders if she will be sick. Then the fire spreads higher, and she can contain herself no more. She screams.

The roar of the fire is deafening, her screams blocking all other sound. But as the flames part briefly like a curtain, she can see their cheers and laughter. She wants to shout, to curse them, but cannot.

She cannot yell, cannot scream. The smoke is too thick. She finds herself coughing, unable to stop. her chest feels heavy, as though she is being compressed. She continues to struggle to breathe. The heat is intense, the flames searing, but all other sensation seems distant as her body struggles to find the oxygen it so desperately needs.

Her lungs find the atmosphere lacking. She begins to choke uncontrollably. The flames are lessening, but the heat is higher than ever. She tries to look up at the sky, but all is black. With one last attempt, a ragged sucking in of air and smoke, she drops, hanging only by the ropes that bind her.

It is done, but the fire rages on.

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We are a literary agency seeking fresh talent. In 200 words or more, demonstrate your writing talent. We will be in touch with any and all promising participants throughout the rest of this quarter.
Written by EmalethSummer in portal Publishing
Burn, Witch
The heat was too much. She stubbornly refused to make a sound. The smoke was making her eyes water, and she hoped they didn't think she was crying.

The fire burned brighter as a log burst. Sparks fly in the breeze. The flames reached their target at last. The smoke thickens as fabric catches. The heat is yet more intense. But she must bear it.

The pain has begun. It burns, like a thousand needles peeling away the skin. The smell of burning meat reaches her nostrils. Amidst the pain she wonders if she will be sick. Then the fire spreads higher, and she can contain herself no more. She screams.

The roar of the fire is deafening, her screams blocking all other sound. But as the flames part briefly like a curtain, she can see their cheers and laughter. She wants to shout, to curse them, but cannot.

She cannot yell, cannot scream. The smoke is too thick. She finds herself coughing, unable to stop. her chest feels heavy, as though she is being compressed. She continues to struggle to breathe. The heat is intense, the flames searing, but all other sensation seems distant as her body struggles to find the oxygen it so desperately needs.

Her lungs find the atmosphere lacking. She begins to choke uncontrollably. The flames are lessening, but the heat is higher than ever. She tries to look up at the sky, but all is black. With one last attempt, a ragged sucking in of air and smoke, she drops, hanging only by the ropes that bind her.

It is done, but the fire rages on.
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Write the most meaningful, emotional thing you can think of in 30 words.
Written by EmalethSummer in portal Poetry & Free Verse

Why so mortal?

It was sudden.

They say it is always sudden.

He was fine that night.

Then he wasn't.

He did everything right.

But it didn't matter.

Mortality comes for us all.

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Write the most meaningful, emotional thing you can think of in 30 words.
Written by EmalethSummer in portal Poetry & Free Verse
Why so mortal?
It was sudden.
They say it is always sudden.
He was fine that night.
Then he wasn't.
He did everything right.
But it didn't matter.
Mortality comes for us all.
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Lets shed some reality on mental illness. It's not cute, it's not a joke and it's not an excuse: Write about a panic or anxiety attack. I'd love to see poetry, short stories and glimpses into who you are.
Written by EmalethSummer

A Day at Work

I feel like I manage to appear fairly normal. No one knows what is going on inside. I have to tell an employee to remove their hat. I take a deep breath, square my shoulders, hold my head high. If I act like I don't feel nervous, I won't be, right? 

I sit at my desk, burying myself in work. Someone has a question. I'm suddenly worried I won't know the answer. I fidget in my chair, lean back to try to appear comfortable, and twist and pull at my hair. I am so focused on appearing to know what I'm doing that I miss half of what the employee is telling me. I take another deep breath, and ask them to repeat the question. When I realize I know the answer, I sit up straight and provide it. If I'm not sure of the answer, I stumble over my words and try to brazen it out. By the time the employee walks away, I feel like I will burst out of my skin. I pace the floor, appearing to check productivity, but really just trying to calm my mind and slow my pounding heart.

My mind tells me I am good at my job. My manager tells me I am good at my job. And, for the most part, I enjoy my job. But there is always that voice inside my head telling me I am faking it. Telling me I'm not good enough. Telling me that I can't possibly convince these people that I am normal.

That's when the anxiety truly sets in. I bury myself in my employee evaluations, pulling numbers and finding productive ways to occupy myself. I begin to feel better.

Now that one employee who makes me the most nervous appears at my desk. The one that makes me wish I wasn't a supervisor. The one who is the typical nice guy. The one that makes my heart pound. I can't let on. The anxiety sets in again. I have to be normal. Normal people don't feel this way! I brazen it out, and don't think anyone has noticed anything. But what if they do? 

What if, at the end of the day, everyone just thinks I'm crazy?

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Lets shed some reality on mental illness. It's not cute, it's not a joke and it's not an excuse: Write about a panic or anxiety attack. I'd love to see poetry, short stories and glimpses into who you are.
Written by EmalethSummer
A Day at Work
I feel like I manage to appear fairly normal. No one knows what is going on inside. I have to tell an employee to remove their hat. I take a deep breath, square my shoulders, hold my head high. If I act like I don't feel nervous, I won't be, right? 

I sit at my desk, burying myself in work. Someone has a question. I'm suddenly worried I won't know the answer. I fidget in my chair, lean back to try to appear comfortable, and twist and pull at my hair. I am so focused on appearing to know what I'm doing that I miss half of what the employee is telling me. I take another deep breath, and ask them to repeat the question. When I realize I know the answer, I sit up straight and provide it. If I'm not sure of the answer, I stumble over my words and try to brazen it out. By the time the employee walks away, I feel like I will burst out of my skin. I pace the floor, appearing to check productivity, but really just trying to calm my mind and slow my pounding heart.

My mind tells me I am good at my job. My manager tells me I am good at my job. And, for the most part, I enjoy my job. But there is always that voice inside my head telling me I am faking it. Telling me I'm not good enough. Telling me that I can't possibly convince these people that I am normal.

That's when the anxiety truly sets in. I bury myself in my employee evaluations, pulling numbers and finding productive ways to occupy myself. I begin to feel better.

Now that one employee who makes me the most nervous appears at my desk. The one that makes me wish I wasn't a supervisor. The one who is the typical nice guy. The one that makes my heart pound. I can't let on. The anxiety sets in again. I have to be normal. Normal people don't feel this way! I brazen it out, and don't think anyone has noticed anything. But what if they do? 

What if, at the end of the day, everyone just thinks I'm crazy?
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Written by EmalethSummer

Lost

I feel so lost

So out of control

I want to scream

But cannot

I want to cry

But cannot

I must be strong

For those who need

My guiding hand

My lasting presence

So many depend

On my sanity

But in my mind

I am exploding.

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Written by EmalethSummer
Lost
I feel so lost
So out of control
I want to scream
But cannot
I want to cry
But cannot
I must be strong
For those who need
My guiding hand
My lasting presence
So many depend
On my sanity
But in my mind
I am exploding.
3
1
0
Juice
13 reads
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Challenge of the Week #55: Write a story of 200 words or more about a stranger. The most masterfully written piece, as voted and determined by the Prose team, will be crowned winner and receive $200. Quality beats quantity, always, but numbers make things easier for our judges, so share, share, share with friends, family, and connections. #ProseChallenge #getlit #itslit
Written by EmalethSummer

Stranger on a Park Bench

She sits alone on the park bench. She holds no book, no leash, no sandwich. A freshly pressed suit adorns her frail figure, the skirt smoothed to perfection. A loose bun perches upon her head, wisps of hair floating around her face.

The tree nearby has few leaves waving in the breeze. It’s trunk is dark, and its branches appear ready to fall. A newspaper from the day before blows past the bench, unnoticed. Behind her the slide is rusted, and the swing hangs on one side by a single chain. A man wrapped in a blanket stumbles past, looking for a place to rest.

All around the sounds of the city rage. Horns blare on the busy street nearby. People shout at each other on the sidewalk, some to be heard, others in anger. All around her is the controlled chaos of the inner city.

Yet she sits, hands loosely in her lap. Her head is held high, but her eyes appear to see nothing. She is out of place, out of time, lost in her own thoughts. I approach, thinking to ask if she is well. She does not acknowledge my presence, and I awkwardly retreat and move on.

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Challenge of the Week #55: Write a story of 200 words or more about a stranger. The most masterfully written piece, as voted and determined by the Prose team, will be crowned winner and receive $200. Quality beats quantity, always, but numbers make things easier for our judges, so share, share, share with friends, family, and connections. #ProseChallenge #getlit #itslit
Written by EmalethSummer
Stranger on a Park Bench
She sits alone on the park bench. She holds no book, no leash, no sandwich. A freshly pressed suit adorns her frail figure, the skirt smoothed to perfection. A loose bun perches upon her head, wisps of hair floating around her face.

The tree nearby has few leaves waving in the breeze. It’s trunk is dark, and its branches appear ready to fall. A newspaper from the day before blows past the bench, unnoticed. Behind her the slide is rusted, and the swing hangs on one side by a single chain. A man wrapped in a blanket stumbles past, looking for a place to rest.

All around the sounds of the city rage. Horns blare on the busy street nearby. People shout at each other on the sidewalk, some to be heard, others in anger. All around her is the controlled chaos of the inner city.

Yet she sits, hands loosely in her lap. Her head is held high, but her eyes appear to see nothing. She is out of place, out of time, lost in her own thoughts. I approach, thinking to ask if she is well. She does not acknowledge my presence, and I awkwardly retreat and move on.

8
3
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Juice
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Written by EmalethSummer in portal Poetry & Free Verse

A Simple Thing

Tis a simple thing

To have a birthday

To become a year older

And celebrate life

Tis a simple thing

To be "over the hill"

A 40 year party

With friends and family

Tis a simple thing

We all take for granted

That we will live

To laugh and love

Tis not a simple thing

Feeling loss each day

Each year

As the wheel turns

An unhappy birthday

For him, my lost love

***Dedicated to Nathan James McDuffy June 13, 1976-January 25, 1995***

***Don't drink and drive!!! Save a life!!!***

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Written by EmalethSummer in portal Poetry & Free Verse
A Simple Thing
Tis a simple thing
To have a birthday
To become a year older
And celebrate life

Tis a simple thing
To be "over the hill"
A 40 year party
With friends and family

Tis a simple thing
We all take for granted
That we will live
To laugh and love

Tis not a simple thing
Feeling loss each day
Each year
As the wheel turns

An unhappy birthday
For him, my lost love

***Dedicated to Nathan James McDuffy June 13, 1976-January 25, 1995***
***Don't drink and drive!!! Save a life!!!***
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you know not what I now know
Written by EmalethSummer in portal Stream of Consciousness

The Witch

You know not what I know

Of the world beyond the veil

The art of true seeing

Calling upon the powers of the universe

Forcing them to do my will

You know not what I know

Of heartbreak and joy

The ability to shape life as I wish

And the heartbreak that comes

When karma comes to visit

You know not what I know

Of the beauty of nature

The call of the wild

Begging my presence

Bringing me a peace unknown

You know not what I know

The burden that comes with knowing

And the freedom that comes with magic

The peace that comes with acceptance

Of who I was born to be

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you know not what I now know
Written by EmalethSummer in portal Stream of Consciousness
The Witch
You know not what I know
Of the world beyond the veil
The art of true seeing
Calling upon the powers of the universe
Forcing them to do my will

You know not what I know
Of heartbreak and joy
The ability to shape life as I wish
And the heartbreak that comes
When karma comes to visit

You know not what I know
Of the beauty of nature
The call of the wild
Begging my presence
Bringing me a peace unknown

You know not what I know
The burden that comes with knowing
And the freedom that comes with magic
The peace that comes with acceptance
Of who I was born to be
2
0
0
Juice
68 reads
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Write a piece about what the word WILD means to you.
Written by EmalethSummer

Circle of Life

The wise woman weeps

For the world in chaos

Attempting to guide others

In the ways once lost

The mother nurtures

Her children in slumber

Calm as a summer breeze

Guiding them on their path

The maiden dances

Around the blazing flames

Long hair flowing as a cloud

Around a beautiful face

Maiden, mother, crone

The circle of life

But only the maid

Dances to the beat of the drums

Loves to the heart of her soul

Surges like the waves of the sea

A part of nature and all surrounding her

Wild, untamed, enjoying life

Until the time her maidenhood ends

And the mother she becomes.

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Write a piece about what the word WILD means to you.
Written by EmalethSummer
Circle of Life
The wise woman weeps
For the world in chaos
Attempting to guide others
In the ways once lost

The mother nurtures
Her children in slumber
Calm as a summer breeze
Guiding them on their path

The maiden dances
Around the blazing flames
Long hair flowing as a cloud
Around a beautiful face

Maiden, mother, crone
The circle of life

But only the maid
Dances to the beat of the drums
Loves to the heart of her soul
Surges like the waves of the sea

A part of nature and all surrounding her
Wild, untamed, enjoying life
Until the time her maidenhood ends
And the mother she becomes.
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0
Juice
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///// Nightdwellers 'Beginning Line' Challenge (Jun 1st) ///// Your mission, should you choose to accept, is to submit a piece of literature inspired by all that is nocturnal, gothic and darkly (it can be anything from poetry to a short story) that begins… ‘SHADOWS SLUMBER AS THE SUN GOES DOWN’… Tag it #nightdwellers #beginningline. I look forward to reading all your posts…
Written by EmalethSummer

Shadows slumber as the sun goes down

The moon lights the way

Down the trails and pathways

Crickets whisper softly

Birds coo as they settle to their rest

A coyote howls in the distance

Calling his mate

I lie down, weary of the world

The grass as my mattress

The stars as my blanket

The sounds of nature all around me

And sleep peacefully in the arms of the Mother

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///// Nightdwellers 'Beginning Line' Challenge (Jun 1st) ///// Your mission, should you choose to accept, is to submit a piece of literature inspired by all that is nocturnal, gothic and darkly (it can be anything from poetry to a short story) that begins… ‘SHADOWS SLUMBER AS THE SUN GOES DOWN’… Tag it #nightdwellers #beginningline. I look forward to reading all your posts…
Written by EmalethSummer
Shadows slumber as the sun goes down
The moon lights the way
Down the trails and pathways
Crickets whisper softly
Birds coo as they settle to their rest
A coyote howls in the distance
Calling his mate
I lie down, weary of the world
The grass as my mattress
The stars as my blanket
The sounds of nature all around me
And sleep peacefully in the arms of the Mother
5
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Juice
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Writing Prompt #1: A girl. An abandoned house. A memory. In no less than 100 words, take those three prompts and create a short story. There are no rules.
Written by EmalethSummer in portal Fiction

The street was quiet. She guessed the neighbors were all on vacation. She would be on vacation, but instead her parents decided they had to spend their summer moving across the country. She left her friends, her home, even her dog behind.

Her father just didn't understand. "I'm building a better life for us. Why can't you be happy?" he had asked her.

"Happy? I'm supposed to be happy? You made me leave Beth, Cory, even little Daisy behind! How am I supposed to be happy? I hate you!" She screamed this and more as she stormed out of the house.

Now, trying not to cry, she kicked a stray rock down the road. Thinking about how selfish her father was, she gave the rock a good kick. It clanged against a fence post, and she looked up.

Immediately she was transported to another time. She looked at the house, and saw a beautiful Victorian style home. Rose bushes lined the front of the house, and a white porch wound its way from front to the side. Lace curtains hung in the windows, and from inside you could hear the sound of music and laughter. 

As if in a dream, she walked to the door and went inside. She felt as though she belonged here. It was her home. Within was an array of beautiful cherry furniture, arranged as a welcoming entry for guests. Just inside the door was an elegant winding staircase. The wood was so polished that it reflected the light from outside. 

The girl went up the staircase, seeming to know exactly where she was going. She turned the corner when she reached the hallway above, and took the second door on the left. Within was an eighteenth century style four poster bed with a canopy of velvet and drapery of mesh. A victrolla played in the corner, an opera of great intensity. 

Out of nowhere a shadow of a man dressed in black appeared. She fell backward, landing on the steps. He came toward her, ready to kick her down the stairs. She braced herself against the coming force, eyes shut tight. There was a crash of sound, then silence. The kick never came.

Slowly she opened her eyes. She lay in a hallway filled with cobwebs on a floor of moth eaten carpet. The winding staircase was dusty, with chips in the railing. Disoriented, she made her way back down the stairs. The furniture and curtains were gone. The house smelled musty, obviously abandoned. 

Shaken, she wandered outside. The rose bushes were there, but long dead. Curious and disoriented still, she followed the porch around the side of the house to a large backyard. She wandered aimlessly to the back of the yard underneath an old oak. Her face went pale, and she began shaking with fright.

There, beneath the tree, was a grave. The stone read "Here lies Anna Marie Wallace. Her life cut short, she is forever in our hearts. May 1832-1845."

Thirteen. Anna was thirteen. She looked on her arm at the birthmark there, the shape of a footprint. Now she understood why they were here. But they were in the wrong house. She ran to her new home, desperate to tell her mother. She saw her past life, a memory, not a dream. And she knew now where she belonged.

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Writing Prompt #1: A girl. An abandoned house. A memory. In no less than 100 words, take those three prompts and create a short story. There are no rules.
Written by EmalethSummer in portal Fiction
The street was quiet. She guessed the neighbors were all on vacation. She would be on vacation, but instead her parents decided they had to spend their summer moving across the country. She left her friends, her home, even her dog behind.

Her father just didn't understand. "I'm building a better life for us. Why can't you be happy?" he had asked her.

"Happy? I'm supposed to be happy? You made me leave Beth, Cory, even little Daisy behind! How am I supposed to be happy? I hate you!" She screamed this and more as she stormed out of the house.

Now, trying not to cry, she kicked a stray rock down the road. Thinking about how selfish her father was, she gave the rock a good kick. It clanged against a fence post, and she looked up.

Immediately she was transported to another time. She looked at the house, and saw a beautiful Victorian style home. Rose bushes lined the front of the house, and a white porch wound its way from front to the side. Lace curtains hung in the windows, and from inside you could hear the sound of music and laughter. 

As if in a dream, she walked to the door and went inside. She felt as though she belonged here. It was her home. Within was an array of beautiful cherry furniture, arranged as a welcoming entry for guests. Just inside the door was an elegant winding staircase. The wood was so polished that it reflected the light from outside. 

The girl went up the staircase, seeming to know exactly where she was going. She turned the corner when she reached the hallway above, and took the second door on the left. Within was an eighteenth century style four poster bed with a canopy of velvet and drapery of mesh. A victrolla played in the corner, an opera of great intensity. 

Out of nowhere a shadow of a man dressed in black appeared. She fell backward, landing on the steps. He came toward her, ready to kick her down the stairs. She braced herself against the coming force, eyes shut tight. There was a crash of sound, then silence. The kick never came.

Slowly she opened her eyes. She lay in a hallway filled with cobwebs on a floor of moth eaten carpet. The winding staircase was dusty, with chips in the railing. Disoriented, she made her way back down the stairs. The furniture and curtains were gone. The house smelled musty, obviously abandoned. 

Shaken, she wandered outside. The rose bushes were there, but long dead. Curious and disoriented still, she followed the porch around the side of the house to a large backyard. She wandered aimlessly to the back of the yard underneath an old oak. Her face went pale, and she began shaking with fright.

There, beneath the tree, was a grave. The stone read "Here lies Anna Marie Wallace. Her life cut short, she is forever in our hearts. May 1832-1845."

Thirteen. Anna was thirteen. She looked on her arm at the birthmark there, the shape of a footprint. Now she understood why they were here. But they were in the wrong house. She ran to her new home, desperate to tell her mother. She saw her past life, a memory, not a dream. And she knew now where she belonged.
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Juice
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