Jamelia K. Fynn
Bio
I am the star that reaches the sky, shooting upwards; its time to fly! I'm just here being me and living my dreams.
Stories (4)
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The Lioness Head on a Silver Platter
The error of a girl who ate too much, the qualifications that could never be too little, the treasured concepts that have to stay hushed. Why? It can never be too much when getting it late, a blessing in time is a bit of a long wait. As she continued to beat the plate— knife and fork, she took a huff. The Lioness head makes her feel out of touch, though it's the freedom that gave her back her instinctive lush, the trait to her artist brush to retouch. Can somebody feed me? Excuse-moi— please! I'm in need of opportunities that have surpassed me in this broken vessel of a livelihood, the deterioration, the reopening wounds of my excavation. The filthy hands scavenging my flesh that will nourish this earth, before and after I hit the dirt. Rummaging for my jewels, forgetting they don't have the proprietary tools, from their engagements marked up as a map by every sight they found under their schools— fools. I'm down on my knees, and it bleeds! Gripping the gravels of the ground from these unfinished roads, the last completions halting the competition. I'm here for my submission for my inherit transition.
By Jamelia K. Fynn4 years ago in Fiction
My Name is Attached to the Bark of the Dark
Aioli, I am the sauce of my own dreams, then again my mother named me by her own means. She was entertained by a cooking show and heard the name blow, got a pen and wrote it down it seems. And to top it all off, what's next— you know, my middle name is Cake, she likes to bake sweets; can you imagine if she liked different kinds of meats? Thank God it wasn't a name with something more in common with what we all eat, how often Italian is set on many of our programs in specific, for us to observe their treats. It would have been horrific, just like this name that sounds oily, if it were an Italian cuisine show it would have been an echo of Cannoli or Rizzoli. Terrific. Shove a name onto a child because the impression seems good. Let me mention again for the greater observation of food, it sounds nice for the sake of a plate; but for a friend or a mate, it's an unkind mistake. The sound of a block of wood sliding up and down a grater, or an irritating deflater— If I could change it I would, it's in need of a tabulator, to sort out what's misunderstood.
By Jamelia K. Fynn4 years ago in Fiction
Spiralling
00:39 shifts on the A-11 sitting on my wrist, glaring at me in the night's beam; the corner of my right eye spots a few moments of bombings transforming the air with a voluminous stream. Further down west is the side of the other team. As I continue to walk Northwest, plotting my own scheme, clocking the hours for the sake of my scouring means, I double check the barrel of my M1 Garand rifle and its shells, in case anything goes sour, preparing for anything extreme. There is a star so strong above, it looks as if it's staring at me, beyond the smoky screen. Or is it apparent that the propaganda that the assistance of carrots made this young man mighty to peer, to tear through the shades of darkness amidst this war's toll. What a tragedy measured up for a strategic ergonomic and especially economic goal. Though I bear and pray for repair. We are a world of many nations that have to be specifically right here, because of that my dear we cannot cheer; the mental confusions tied to this alternate universal force of violence implies fear.
By Jamelia K. Fynn4 years ago in Fiction
The Confrontational Dance
The horns arise when I go to sleep and sometimes it pokes a visit throughout the day to take a peek. What can a girl do in a world that loves the horns of arcane control? Barricading or contending every resourceful and stimulating goal. Why then— my anguished spirit pities this forceful dominance, grabbing my heart at the stroke of midnight. I'm so bewildered as to why this clutch is such an astonishingly and discouraging plight. Sprawling my essence out like a cross, bare in the sheets, the agony feels like I'm dying upon a mattress that's nothing but a buttress— a stone sheeted pleat, not doing anything. Instead it's multiplying the weaknesses from the entire week.
By Jamelia K. Fynn4 years ago in Fiction
