Hi, My name is Micah Park Biffle, I am the author of ' A Man's Traveled Heart,' I am a Veteran who found in understanding of my self through writing. I consider myself an architect of the imagination. Here you will see my creations come to life. My short stories, poems, my thoughts, and a little touch of my life. (I AM SLOWLY MOVING OF BLOGGER< FOR NEW STORIES PLEASE CLICK THE "MEDIUM" LINK TO THE LEFT)
She was told to stop, she was told she would amount to nothing. That she is but a flimsy child withering to her imagination. A foolish heart with only a hand for disappointment.
And these words, these thoughts played like a song on repeat. Only thirteen and the world seemed to rage against her. It felt as if the world had built a wall she was never destined to climb. Even her own friends seemed to join in in the thoughts of her faults. Of creating a gossip of distortion of who this girl was.
Thorns is what this world is she thought, thorns is all it has. The budding of roses is never to be. They are cut the moment they try to spring to the sun. Only to be brought to the ground and trampled upon like dirt. Crushed with every passing moment, soon, to no longer be a rose. But a crumbled dream among the rest of the world.
She found no love in her dream, in her wishes, her prayers. For even her parents were not around enough to praise her. Both too busy succumbing to their own vices, their own depression. Faltering to the whims of their flesh and ignoring the desires of the life they created. Leaving this girl to be a dusted canvass left for only a few to see who she truly is.
And though the world lay against her, laying brick after brick upon her chest. And though black tongues sickly twist a verbal vocabulary of putrid lies. She found herself dreaming wide, dreaming beyond the worlds of one at such age should dream.
From the moment she was born, her heart was drawn to the magical toils of dance. Her eyes would glisten as a baby upon seeing her first ballerina. The pink tutu, the shimmering of its sparkles left her in wonder. A smile would crest with great passion as she watched the ballerina dance.
Standing on the tips of her toes, raising her arms in a proud presentation of elegance. All was utterly magical to this girl. The capturing of fluid motions while blending with the tones of a piano. As if to be creating a living color, a color so vibrant, only the soul can see such glory.
Such fascination led this girls heart to fill with adrenaline. The rush to be one, the rush to become something extraordinary to whom many believe she should not be.
And though this world is harsh, and many ignore her effort to become great. She held back no ounce of sweat, no ounce of passion to become what she wanted to become. Day and night, she would lock herself in her room and dance as if she is already living her dream. She made her own tutu out of old clothes her mom had given her. Though it was not pink, but ragged and made of old bland hues.
She saw herself to be beautiful in her creation. Her heart left her no choice but to do what she loved. And with each nigh after school, after dinner, she would dance. She would glide with spirit, with devotion to her dream.
Even among the sleeping of her parents, she would wake in the night carefully. And she would dance in the silence of the moon. And finally, at the age of thirteen, when all seemed hopeless. She received a letter from the most prestigious school of dance. Her heart leapt from her chest and her palms became sweaty. She rushed inside screaming for her parents. Both were mindlessly stretching their minds to drinks and TV.
But still, they lept from the couch, but only out of fright. They turned to their daughter as she ran with the letter stretched out in one hand. Confused, they looked at her as she asked them to open the letter. And so the mom did, not even knowing what the letter was. After it was opened, the mother began to read it out loud.
The daughters heart beat rapidly, her palms sweating from fear, from excitement. Watching in silence as her moms lips coerced the forming of words. With each word read, the daughter grew anxious.
And after only a few moments of reading. The words she had been waiting for were about to be read. But before her mom read the last part of the letter, she asked her mom to hold her. And so she did, she lifted her from the ground, though no longer a baby, they both found comfort in this moment.
And in the last few sentence the mom realized what this letter was, and a tear fell from her face. The fathers hands trembled with excitement, and placed them on the back of the moms shoulders. But before the mom finished reading the letter, she dropped it, and instantly the daughter jumped from her arms and grabbed the fallen letter.
"What does it say mom, what does it say?" as she holds the letter up to her mom.
The mom placed her hands on the daughters face and knelt down. Tears flowed like steady rain, but in silence. She kissed her daughter upon her lips and said,
"You made it honey, they want you to dance for them."
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A Wanderers Inn I have been traveling for thirty days. My horses are weak and I thirst dearly for water. My belly aches as hunger constricts my gut. I am fearful of death in such an unsuitable way. I have always seen myself dying in daring act of life. Be it in war or the saving of a child. Or maybe, even in the defeat of a dragon as I get one last blow with my blade before it strikes me down and it falls to its death beside me. Feeling its last breath of heat roll over my body as our eyes see only our fading souls. I have always thought my death would be glorious. Yet here I am, traveling alone with no more rations, nor water. My horses no longer walk with fervor but lackadaisical steps. And so I pray to find shelter before the cold takes us. Before the empty plains of barren trees and darkness finds us. I wish not to be detritus before my days. Decaying slowly to the maggots as my body lays helpless upon the earth. Becoming a gruesome vision of what lies inside. B
The Moles Never Learn I found myself walking in the snow, my head aching with a sharp pain. I feel the back of my head, there is something crusted upon the rear of my skull. I dig my nail carefully into it. I can feel the crust collect beneath my nail like dirt. As my feet trudge through the sixteen inches of snow I look to my nail and there in my nail is blood. Dried cells of my body. Upon seeing this I become confused with worry. I place my hand once again upon my bloodied skull and began to examine it. I slide my index finger like the bristle of a broom, back and forth trying to see what wound had allowed such blood upon me. But after several seconds of feeling about, I find nothing. No scratches, no lacerations, nothing. My worried confusion musters down to mere confusion. I rub my eyes as I am strangely held with a slight daze. As if I have been interrupted from a deep sleep. And the evening air is not helping my situation. I am comfortably wrapped for a day tr
The Blameful Two The world broke as their hearts bled the shadows of their misery. Seeping upon the world, flooding with the scars of agony. Their eyes trembling beneath the moonlight as their blood stained hands shimmer. Their lips sewn as each is caught in a lie. Both bare, exposed to their duality. Their curtains drawn thus unmasks the bodies they have slain. The skeletons of truth dragged through the spoils of deceit. Each, unwilling to speak. Their cheeks flush in rose petals. Their skin taut to the anxiety of their arrest. They are now the victims of themselves and each the other. Two hell's preached in the underbelly of their weakness. The fraudulent thought in avoidance of pain. And now they stand as nude as the beginning of life, Adam and Eve. Shaking, they are without words. Silent, bearing only tears that fall to the blood soaked floors. The dark whirlpools of hypocrisy. Neither is without sin and neither is without murder. Their souls weep dearly a