December’s Charm
Oh, December, you magical thing,
With frosty air and the joy you bring.
Twinkling lights and laughter abound,
In every corner, cheer is found.
Scarves and mittens, snug and tight,
Faces glowing in candlelight.
Cookies baking, their scent so sweet,
A season of love feels so complete.
Snowflakes dance in a winter’s waltz,
Nature's glitter, free of faults.
Children’s giggles fill the air,
As magic lingers everywhere.
Hot cocoa cups and stories told,
Memories made worth more than gold.
A time to give, to hug, to share,
To show the ones you love, you care.
Oh, December, you’re soft and kind,
Wrapping the year in peace of mind.
Let’s savor you, both near and far,
Our final wish, a shooting star.
© 2024 A.M. Roberts. All rights reserved.
Threads of the Sky
The air in Marta’s workshop always smelled of lavender and wool. The afternoon sun streamed through the small window, casting golden patches across the floorboards, and dust motes danced in the warm light. The hum of the old sewing machine filled the room as she guided fabric beneath the needle, her hands moving with the precision of years of practice.
She had become known throughout the village for her skill, and people came from far and wide to commission pieces. Some wanted quilts that could cradle them in the warmth of a lost love, while others sought fabrics that could bring a touch of happiness to a home weighed down by grief. Marta never refused a request, knowing that the stories she stitched were never hers to keep.
But there were times when the weight of those emotions became too much to bear. After her husband’s death, Marta had stopped sewing for nearly a year, the workshop falling silent as dust gathered on the spools of thread. She had buried herself in solitude, unable to face the memories woven into each blanket and scarf she had made for him.
A Mysterious Client
It was only after her sister’s gentle coaxing that Marta reopened the workshop, though she rarely took on more than a few commissions. One autumn afternoon, as the leaves turned gold and the air cooled, a new client arrived—a man whose presence seemed to shift the air itself. He wore a dark coat that brushed the floor, and when he spoke, his voice carried the distant sound of wind through trees.
“I’ve heard of your gift,” he said, his eyes drifting over the unfinished quilt draped across a chair. “I need a quilt that can hold the memory of a lost love.”
Marta hesitated, her fingers brushing the edge of her apron. She had done many such quilts before, but there was something in the man’s gaze, a sadness that ran deeper than anything she had ever encountered. “What is the story you wish me to weave?” she asked softly, her voice barely carrying over the ticking clock.
The man paused, looking out the window at the clouds gathering in the sky. “She was taken too soon,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper. “I never got the chance to tell her goodbye.”
Marta nodded, understanding his unspoken grief. She led him to the workshop’s back room, where she kept her fabrics—rolls of rich blues, deep reds, and the pale silver of dawn. He selected a bolt of dark indigo, the color of twilight, and Marta felt the weight of his sorrow settle over the fabric like mist.
As she began to sew, the memories came to her—brief flashes of the man’s love, her laughter in the rain, the touch of her hand on his cheek. The emotions flowed through Marta’s fingers, weaving themselves into the threads, turning each stitch into a heartbeat. The quilt grew heavy with their story, its edges fraying under the burden of what was left unsaid.
Threads of Grief
Days turned into weeks, and Marta found herself working late into the night, the man’s sorrow seeping into her own. She couldn’t shake the memories of her husband, the nights when they would sit together on the porch, watching the stars appear one by one in the wide sky. She thought of the promise he had made to her before he fell ill—“I’ll find you in the next life, Marta, no matter where you are.”
But now, she could only find him in the quilts she had made for their home, each one stitched with the love they had shared. She reached for a bolt of blue fabric and cut a piece for herself, her hands moving almost on their own as she stitched her own grief into the seams. A tear slipped down her cheek, landing on the quilt’s surface, and she watched as the fabric shimmered, catching the moonlight in a way that seemed almost alive.
A Finished Quilt, a New Beginning
One cold morning, the man returned to collect the quilt. Marta unfolded it on the table, revealing a landscape of deep indigo swirled with silver threads that shimmered like constellations. He ran a hand over the fabric, his expression softening as he traced the lines of a memory woven into the cloth.
“She would have loved this,” he said, his voice cracking. “Thank you.”
Marta nodded, feeling a strange lightness in her chest. She watched him leave, the quilt wrapped carefully in his arms, and for the first time in months, she felt something other than the ache of loss. She turned back to the blue quilt she had begun for herself, running her fingers over the stitches she had made the night before.
She worked on the quilt in the evenings, adding a new piece each time a memory surfaced—his laugh, the way his hair caught the sunlight, the warmth of his hand in hers. Each stitch brought her a little closer to the man she had lost, and as the fabric grew, so did her understanding that grief was not something to be hidden away. It was something to be shared, to be stitched into the fabric of life, alongside love and hope.
The Final Threads
Months later, as winter melted into spring, Marta finished her quilt. It was a patchwork of blues and golds, threaded with the memories of her husband and the life they had built together. She draped it over her shoulders and stepped outside into the night, feeling the weight of the stars above her. The wind rustled through the trees, carrying with it a whisper that brushed against her ear.
“I found you, Marta.”
She closed her eyes, letting the warmth of the quilt wrap around her like an embrace. She knew then that she would keep sewing, that she would continue to weave the stories of others into her work, because it was through those threads that she could hold on to the love she had known.
And as she walked back into her workshop, she felt as though a new thread had been added to the sky—a line of silver that connected her to the stars, and to those who watched over her from beyond.
© 2024 A.M. Roberts. All rights reserved.
There are so many times everyday, where I lose myself to a daydream. So much detail, so much emotion. Like it could be truly real if only I knew how to reach out and make it so.
And then I'm dragged back, kicking and screaming into a reality where I've already given up most days. Where I'm just a guy with a head full of stories that no one can ever truly know.
I feel like if I really knew how to show them, people might be able to draw strength from them. To learn about themselves through the eyes and tongues of people they will never see. Places that agonizingly only exist in the naive and twisted psyche of just another human artist among infinite others.
I'd like that. I'd really like that.
But the war against myself takes up whatever time I might spend making my reality the kind of dream that I live out in my mind every single day.
A war with rules, no limit on the way that my mind commits untold war crimes on me every single day. The weight of every possible mistake multiplied by a margin so large that it loses meaning.
What kind of god would create a being that exists with the talent to bring impossible tales of wonder and growth to life, but is chained and tortured by that same talent, left alone on the outside of the things they create?
A stranger looking in.
Maybe I'm just another egotistical asshole. Who knows...
Memories
Yesterday, I drank tea at 12 noon.
Was it chamomile or black tea?
I have a lot of them, but I can’t remember which one.
Yesterday, my dearest brother called, and we spoke for a long time.
We talked about our childhood home.
It was a bungalow, but we shared the compound with others.
In front of us, there was a large open field.
My brother and I played there with the neighborhood kids.
Our favorite game was football.
There were 5 girls and 4 boys, all ranging from ages 6 to 10.
My brother was the oldest, and we had two teams.
It feels like yesterday; I remember it just like it was yesterday.
But I’m still not sure what tea I drank yesterday.
Soul©
A vessel for dreams
Falling apart at the seams
Just trying to figure it out
What all of this means
Lost in my head
And drowning in dread
Never feeling alive
Until I'm lying in bed
The strife of life
Like the edge of a knife
An obstacle born
To keep me from the light
But when the curtain of night
Descends on my plight
And I find myself weary
Of the endless fight
A world that is forevermore
Free of the war that we ignore
Is conjured forth from the darkened core
Of this faceless spark that you abhor
One day that life will not exist
Any light they shared will be sorely missed
And the spark they brought, from which you sought
To covet and sell, and care for naught
Will be the hope
They use for rope
When they hang your ass
In hell you dope
Let this be a lesson
To those who would steal
The endless expression
Of the things that we feel
No matter how hard
You devils may try
You can't put a price
On the stars in my eye
The Blame-Shifter’s Anthem
She made me do…
He made me do…
They drove me to…
People drove me to…
I didn’t want to…
I wanted to…
I didn’t choose to do…
But they drove me to…
It’s all their fault, they made me do…
You see, I wanted to…
I had decided to…
It’s all their fault, and the others’ too…
None of it’s mine, I always wanted to…
By Yomika
.
You were viscously torn from the womb, ripped from the soft and subtle flesh of your loving mother.
The claws that resurrected you from the sac in her abdomen was the one of your own creation.
How did you, such a miniscule creature, and infant born of this world, manage to make such a heartless dark being of pure greed?
For it is not that you were a fetus of flesh, but you are a fetus of sin.
You are a traitor among the pure.
An anomaly in heaven.
Leave, now.
For your existence is forbidden.
Unity in Pain
To all the survivors
Being born as we speak
I can't promise you much
But I know you're not weak
You've fought a whole war
Where no one could see
But you're not really alone
And that shits the key
When you're lost in the darkness
And can't find you way back
Remember these words
You can weather any attack
You're a survivor
It's what we do
An emotional Macgyver
Who can carry through
I know that shits tough
And I'm right there with you
But that's how you know
You can see this shit through
So the next time you're lost
In a neverending nightmare
Just close your eyes
And know that we're right there
A Patchwork Heart
Sophie sat by the window, the soft hum of the rain filling the room. She ran her fingers over an old quilt draped across her lap, its many patches a blend of colors and patterns. Each piece told a story, a memory stitched into its fabric.
Her grandmother had given it to her when she was a child, each patch sewn with love and care. "This quilt is like your heart," her grandmother once said. "It's made from pieces of everyone you've ever loved."
Sophie smiled at the memory, her heart warming as she traced the faded fabric. There was a patch of blue checkered cloth from her grandfather's old shirt, the one he wore on long walks by the river. She could almost feel the warmth of his hand holding hers as they skipped stones across the water.
Next to it was a bright yellow square from her childhood best friend’s dress, the one they had worn to climb trees and chase butterflies in the summer. They’d laugh so hard that their sides ached, and they promised to never grow apart, even though life had taken them down different paths.
A floral patch, delicate and pink, came from the scarf her mother always wore, a symbol of comfort during her hardest days. Her mother's gentle words echoed in her mind: "You are stronger than you think, Sophie."
With each patch, a new face, a new moment came to life. The quilt, much like Sophie herself, was a patchwork of love—of the people who had shaped her, loved her, and left their mark on her heart.
As the rain drizzled on, Sophie wrapped the quilt around her shoulders, realizing that she, too, was a patchwork of everyone she had ever loved. And even though some of those people were no longer with her, their love continued to surround her, keeping her warm.
In the end, she thought, we carry pieces of everyone we’ve ever loved, stitched into the fabric of who we are.