chalk on canvas

where land and water meet

in a white dress fastened by a blue sash 

auburn hair cut close to the head 

a dove sheltered under the chin 

tail feathers fanning down

the gaze subdued and searching 

they are made of more than 

chalk on canvas

#katyamills

like a stranger

yes 

you burned me again

reigniting the past through your dirty broken 

magnifying lens

hurt

i turned away from this nonsense

and toward my aunt whom you told me

in the same breath

died

harboring the question

have you no heart? 

to me

you are like

a stranger

#katyamills

another loss - vii

it's been over five years since I saw you, my friend, and I heard that you died this july. i don't know if you ever really got clean, but i heard that you tried and that's more than we could of said about us back then, when we were full tilt, chaotic. the new life in me cries for you, my friend, the old embers in my eyes glow in remembrance, i mean, i have forged a path in recovery and life has new wonders to share. i only wish you could have made it through, too. i relocated north of there, not long after the night we shared with music and laughter and our common bond. the signs had accumulated for some time, flashes of gunfire and madness and theft, and the trails and traces of my chemical romance had ended in black smoke signals, severely. my angels were there looking out for me, they saw me into my despairing, then gave me a chance and reason to change, and i implored God and let go and reached out and took up a new and renewable source, and brandished my pen once again. each and every day i can thank my loves for letting me live, and i wonder where were yours, where were yours? your star would have risen and lit up a world, and your daughter would have felt loved once again, and for her and for you and the world i am sad...

memory # sun light strike

I remember my mom cutting my hair when I was a little kid with the same scissors we used to cut out shapes from colored paper,  long with a colorful plastic handle it made a funny sound like a metal cricket when its two sharpened legs came together, one of them cold resting against my forehead to steady her hand, the high-pitched shwee-sh-wooo, and the air in the autumn smelled of crunchy dead leaves, the smoke from the chimneys came across in the breeze, and my eyes wanted to look around cause we were outside, seated on a stool on the porch my dad built, the door behind us painted a bright cherry red when all the adrenaline rushed to my head as the cricket danced across my face, and my mom's hands loving but firm taking hair up between her fingers and licking it to make an end, like a stamp for a letter to a friend, shwee-sh-wooo, then stepping back to check her work and guiding my big head in her hands, eggs and bacon on the breeze coming off the neighbor's trees, the sound of distant lawnmowers and some petrol I can taste as she cuts behind my ears and my face, shwee-sh-wooo, and presses a thumb behind my ear, and her other hand cupping my head, saying hold still! in a firm but even tone, the old school ringing of the phone behind the door, shwee-sh-wooo, getting impatient saying sit up some more so I scoot up in the chair and try to hold myself there, but the colors of the morning and the itching of the hair, have my head following my eyes, and the metal crickets almost cut me, hold still! - I thought I was - and the now she's working on the fuzz on the nape of my neck, shwee-sh-wooo, the goosebumps come up and I giggle feeling chills, and my mom's got her allergies on her allergy pills, maybe hungover from the night before and the mischief we made, my brother and I in the night feeling brave, tiptoeing up to the attic on steps all of which creaked to play air hockey or just watch tv in the dark, feeling adventurous quite high on the lark, shwee-sh-wooo, and now I am hoping it will be over very soon, as my keeper is not happy i'm afraid, leaning into me smelling of dad's cologne and perfume, shwee-sh-wooo she pulls at my hair and shouting hold still! the tone of her voice demanding and shrill, and I picture my ear cut off on the boards, bleeding down into the planks on the porch dripping down into the ground in the soil, to sprout in the dark some ears on a vine, and then i will pick one to best replace mine, and though there is forceful aggressive hedging going on, I still cannot repress a long sigh and a yawn, for I know I am safe at my sweet mother's behest, soon in her loving arms will I rest with her fingers running through the blonde wave she has made, all the ends misplaced and bangs askew I'm afraid, but who knows and who knew and who cares I could say, lucky and kept in a rough-loving way.

lilac and hues. and drops

I painted my nails lilac and went out to say hello to the sycamore trees and the killer bees, and when I touched the sky, the paint proceeded from my fingertips to join the morning hues, creating a colorful pageantry of blues, inside of which found my eyes blinking half the time, dropping salt and water and searching for my daughter in the clouds. I wondered why the flags were half mast today in California, and I don't really wanna know. I listened to some jazz and got a real good rhythm for my spirit, all I had to do was hear it beyond the usual channels superficial on the land, to the deep sea ones carved beyond the hands of man. Arthritis in one finger reminded me I will never be all right, and the essence of my imperfection helped me sleep last night with one cat curled up around my calf, the other making an orange drop upon the blanket. Gore Vidal was in my dreams, up there with the gods and fighting with his mother. She wasn't happy with his books, you see. Drunk as usual.

GRAND THEFT LIFE

GRAND THEFT LIFE is a novella and literary fiction. It is the first book in my Daughter of Darkness series. The most accurate subgenre designation is low fantasy, which is defined on wikipedia: "low fantasy places relatively less emphasis on typical elements associated with fantasy, setting a narrative in real-world environments with elements of the fantastical. Sometimes there are just enough fantastical elements to make ambiguous the boundary between what is real and what is purely psychological or supernatural. The word 'low' refers to the prominence of traditional fantasy elements within the work, and is not any sort of remark on the work's quality." The story is about a kidnapping which turns into a strange and shocking homecoming for the protagonist. It is told from the point of view of our young heroine, Ame. I tend to write from the inside out (internal thoughts and feelings), so the story is character-driven with a coming-of-age theme. Though the setting is contemporary and real, the plot has fantasy elements. Some of the characters possess preternatural abilities, divergent from humankind. Including our heroine. This is not my first foray into fantasy. But it is my first published longform in this arena. I am thrilled to have the opportunity to share this world with you! Book Two is coming soon.

PUBLICATION 2015 UPDATE

Dear readers! I welcome your thoughts ...

Book One of my new project (WIP) Daughter of Darkness, is nearing completion. A literary fiction. I have been ironing the creases out. Here is a synopsis. My protagonist, Ame, is a young woman recently come of age, trying to find her way in an chaotic urban environment. Her father died in Vietnam. Her mother gave her up. She was raised in the mountains by her step parents. She hears voices in her head all her youth. But they are not hallucinations; the voices foretell her future.

One of her true kin, Freddy, finds her and abducts her to Oakland, California. Though at first resistant, Ame comes rather quickly into the fold. She learns about her people and her heritage. Freddy becomes like a father figure to her. She begins to believe. Her experience resonates with what the voices told her all along. She always felt different from the others.

She discovers her own latent preternatural capability, in this dark land. She makes friends with a girl whose experience parallels hers. Bless and Ame become sisters. She also finds a love interest in a young man of punk persuasion. An unusual spirit named Hendrix leads her to the dark art which is her birthright. She is conflicted, however, by the violence inherent in its practice. Bless and Freddy encourage her in becoming who she is naturally meant to be. Yet she cannot completely embrace her identity. What other choice does she have? If she hopes to survive this culture of fear.

- Katya

Author K by K 2015

SHE COULD HAVE ME

"I would give in to her, and only her. All she had to do was rearrange the stars to spell my name in the sky. Sure, she could have the totality of me. All she had to do was compel the Buddha out from under that tree, to come and sit beside me. Ya, then I would be hers. All she had to do was pave the streets in platinum, put pearls around my neck and ankle, ink our love forever in a secret place on her body, put an end to all my pain, dress me in black with a white rose behind my ear, ask my hand of my divinity, by the thought heard around the world. I had no lofty demands! All she had to do was marry me, in San Francisco City Hall, with a sea of origami white ravens overlooking. I was easy! All she had to was what she did last night, a hundred and one times over, and love me down to my cotton stuffed ears and black button eyes, my DIY made soul patched together with fishing line leftovers." -K

Sisters (excerpt)

" I edged up behind her until our hips were touching, and put my arm around her waist and a fingertip in her belly button, to comfort her. Freddy was in the bathtub, just staring at the ceiling with his eyes focused out. “Well, they’ve taken over all right, that I can see” I said to my dead little sister. " -K

Daughter Of Darkness TEaSeR

An excerpt from my soon to be released novella...

"Stay. Stay here with me, with you, with the world. Stil. Still your fears, let them coagulate into a lifeless form. Pull. Let me pull them out of you, so you can stay. Stay here with me, with you, with the world in all its desensationalism. Draw. let me draw out of you that too which you cling, here in the shadow of San Francisco, in this ageless night of Broadway and her storefront theatrefront shining, pimping, fronting, sinning, drinking, smoking, screaming, flowing trade of flesh and desire to no end. Down Auto Row I walked, secretly chewing on a hundred lost city souls along the way, leaving them each and every one not as dust, no, leaving them no longer weary in their ways, some standing, leaning against the brick facades or street signs, tipping their hats up now so the street can see their eyes, some walking, slower now not faster, able to stop thoughts and worries and feel the air if nothing else, some unfolding out of some hidden corner to zero, shivering a little less, realizing that they are the warmth in a cold dark night and nothing less, and nothing less than zero, so the only way might be up and out, so yes, as you watch me fade east into the bright night and know me for carrying you to some neon orange hope away from fear, the time is now, the energy is available to you freely, sons and daughters of human kind, open your eyes, yes, see that it may not be so bad as you had it out to be, and only you can not be a victim of only your circumstance, only you can hasten headlong to your death, only you can make your very next move or be otherwise static yours, and swallowed by the fear strikes you sound."