Young man, this is about your hat.

Young man, you can’t see the world through the brim of your hat. Raise it up only slightly and see the stars. Raise it down only slightly and see the ground. The earth. The footprints that you haven’t made yet. Please young man, you can’t see the world through the brim of your hat. It is only good to shade parts out, when the sun youngman/aleciawritesis to bright for your fresh eyes. Or when the tall people look down on to you. Young man, don’t use your hat as a beacon of ignorant youth – a sight to hide. Use the brim of your hat as an expression, a wise judgement on how you wish to be seen.

A wish on how you’d like to see.

Because the stars are a beautiful sight.

Written by Alecia 

All comments/feedback our welcome, please tell me what you think!

Chocolate Cake Late At Night

More like brownies. Really, really good brownies. Brownies that are so good – you don’t crave more because they play to your taste buds ever so perfectly. Especially when you substitute the two tablespoons of water – for heavy cream and then slip in some chocolate chips. Can we say YUM?

Here’s the mouth-watering, recipe to luxuriate on: Click Here!

I hope you have a microwave.

Sincerely,

Alecia

Don’t give a boy a home.

Don’t give a boy a home. Only four walls that are crumbling. How would that make any sense. He won’t always be a boy, as chance would have it – he will never be a boy. The plans for him were sturdy. Solid. Firm. Non-existent. At one point, they said they would paint the walls. A nice forest green. Such a green that would make him want to read and create things. Make him want to dance and laugh and invite serenity over. But they wouldn’t fill him in. So they painted the walls a broken grey. They left the boy to watch the walls crumbling. Falling in sync,  behind it with a plastic dust pan. Shuffle shuffle, sweep sweep.  Even the music had left the walls. They are soundless, creak less. Like they never once held any potential to strike a chorus that could change his world. Because that would be silly. Who doesn’t want crumbly walls, with an icky grey colour. Soundless. Empty. And blameless. A boy doesn’t need a home. Only four walls that are crumbling. Until he bangs out a stained carpet that only caught the walls and no swaying feet. But they wouldn’t replace it. Change it. Fix it. So he rolled it. Fitted it. Picked it. And pitched it. At the wall. The crumbly wall that blocked the sea. And it fell. Rushing to the ground. In a plume of grime. Standing there he blinked. Choked. Cried and cursed. Written by Alecia Writes  

No Title # 000_1

The path is paved. The path is unscathed. I could walk on and on. As he shouts at me

Moments a blur. Moments a lure. Casting a shadow as a scream back. Just one more hour, I say.

You just passed one, he’ll say.

Walking through it all. Is more like crawling.

With a belly low and elbows raw. I will walk and walk until that hand changes

One up or one down. He’ll cough out a smirk.

And I will cough out my will

One up or one down. With something always moving.

Written by Alecia

My name is Alecia.

Hello! My name is Alecia.

And I am reintroducing myself, and my blog. If that makes any logical sense. With the recent of events of getting more work hours, and keeping on top of school – I’ve been a dreadful scheduler. If time was a person walking down the street, I would have bumped into them a few more times then comfortable. Like when you run into your ex, or that weird family member that was twice removed, or something like that. Nevertheless, I am back. Like J.K. Rowling wrote from the voice of Bellatrix in Harry Potter, ‘The Dark Lord will rise again, Crouch!’ Not that I am comparing myself to the Dark Lord…

… anyhow this blog will now have a semi schedule post of once a week. Sometimes two if time and I don’t awkwardly meet up at the movie theatre, whilst on a date with procrastination. We’ve been hitting it off lately.

Here is a link to this blogs first post ever (throw back to 2013): http://aleciawrites.com/2013/10/04/greetings/

A link to when I set my manuscript on fire: http://aleciawrites.com/2014/08/15/i-set-my-manuscript-on-fire/

And lastly, a link to my twitter:  https://twitter.com/@aleciawrites/

That’s about it.

Have an extraordinary day,

A. Writes or Alecia Writes

(can’t decide which signature I like better (A. Writes or Alecia Writes) , what do you think?) 

The Very Tall Woman

It’s an interesting feat when there is a storyteller involved. The little things that get missed, don’t anymore. From the slight smirk. To the secret grumbles one can make. Gets written down. Told and re-told for anyone who wants to listen. Because knowing this is how our history becomes history.  But we won’t get into that. We will get into the story of the little old woman who lives down the street. And when we say little, it’s being ironic. In real life she is extraordinary tall. With chin length hair, that she brushes out to a point.

Imagine her how you will.

Her eyes are still forever young as her hands are not. She often sits in the middle of her patio, on the ground. Legs crossed. With scratched on pages coiled around her. Being held down by muddied rocks.

And this is her. In her glory. Being the one thing she only needs to be – a storyteller.

Written by A. Writes

Feedback is always welcome! :) 

@aleciawrites

Wee bit more

I could say she had tired eyes.

The lines that wrapped around them told me so. And the way her gaunt skin tightened when she cried, told me so.

But who am I to say so. It is not a wee bit of a screech or a placid mans walk. But it certainly isn’t what it is.

From the young child down the street who didn’t even think to speak

To the laughing mans grin who didn’t even wait to stop

She just whirled around here – over there – under somewhere

Oh look, she’s on the stairs

Breaching the very essence on what made her likeable in the young child judgment and the undeceived old mans framework.

“Hey, it’s here!” The little one giggled.

“It always is.” The old man replied.

Slowly it crippled. And each second adds more weight to their already buckling bodies.

Just like now. Reading this. It adds more – of something.

More of her.

And her tired eyes and quick wit.

It adds more time.

Written by A.Writes