Writing With Pain

So, I know it’s been a long time since I posted here, life got really crazy, and I got hurt; rinse, repeat.

I’ve been struggling for a few weeks now to come up with something to talk about. My mind’s a little fogged for advice, and in all honesty, I don’t even know what I’m doing half the time I write. It just sort of happens. Like bleeding from a cut you didn’t even know you had, suddenly there’s words, and story. At least, that’s what it seems like to me. The more I’ve thought on it, the more I’m just not feeling up to making a post, and then my topic hit me like a thunderstrike (I know thunder doesn’t strike, humor this fantasy writers).

I should just write about what I’ve been going through, why I’ve been gone, how I’ve managed to continue. I should tell you about being a writer with costocondritus.
Now, if you have no idea what that large, and rather impressively difficult to pronounce word is, you’re lucky. If you don’t, you’re probably in my boat, or know someone who is. For those of you who don’t know, I’ll give you a brief explanation; costo(condritus) is pain in the chest, caused usually by swelling in the cartilage of the sternum. Sounds simple, sounds manageable, sounds like I’m probably about to make a fuss over nothing. I’m not, I’m really, reaaaally not. It is some of the worst pain of my life. Sometimes it is all I can do not to just sit and scream in sheer, insurmountable amounts of frustration. I think if left alone where no one else could hear, I would.

It began for me years ago, thirteen, fourteen, in weeks in which just the act of breathing, or laying hurt. But then it was gone, and I’d almost forget it had ever been till it struck me months later once more. It went on like that for years, seeming both random, and timed to when I was doing some sort of physical labor, but not always, most of the time nothing. It was manageable. It hurt, it hurt like hell, but it was short and to the point.
But, as I’ve found out, the longer you have costo, the worse it seems to get. From the beginning of October last year, to the end of December, I was in one massive, never ending flare up. In desperation I began hunting down all forms of things to help, and settled on yoga. And it did help, or seem to, and the flare ended and I had months of freedom from it.

Now it’s back, like an assassin in the night, slowly sliding into place with poisons and despair.

Through my studying I’ve discovered what Dr’s in other countries tell those with costo, instead of handing out prescriptions. Your spine is locked up, or ribs are out, muscles are damaged. It’s unbelievable I hadn’t myself realized this, because as soon as I was told, I could tell.

So, as you might expect, writing with ribs out hurts, and is frustrating and bordering on pointless. For a while, I stopped. I hate that I stopped, I feel weak for having done it. I feel weak for not really being “started” currently.

Finding ways to make myself do it is increasingly hard. All I want is a good night’s sleep and to breathe without it hurting, where in there do words become important? No, nowhere.

At the same time, it feels like losing part of myself every lengthy moment I’m not. It’s like pulling teeth that weren’t even rotted.

So I have found my motivation, though it took a long while. My friends. I love to let my friends read my work, and I like to protect them from the truth of how miserable I am, and the moment I have nothing to give them at our weekly workshops, they’d know. So, through some mix of pride, and pure obstinance I’ve managed to hammer down words enough to get by. I’ve managed to cling to a drive.

It’s both more stressful and not, than simply not writing. Having friends to protect though almost feels like it’s what keeps me going, having someone just distant enough to believe I’m fine. In one week our workshop ends, and I’m not sure what I’m going to do, probably take them all on as BETA readers, simply so I have someone to believe in me, and someone to call me on my crap when I falter and need another kick in the ass.
It’s not easy, I’m miserable more than not, but in the tiny victories I find what keeps me going through till the end of the flare I just have to keep reminding myself will eventually come.

I hope this wasn’t too long winded, or dark, again, I’m a fantasy writer, indulge my fanciful style XD.


The Oakwald Institute

It’s friiiiday. Oh… you’d noticed? fine then.


The Oakwald Institute

I was going to die here, I thought for what must have been the dozenth time in half as many minutes. I was going to die, and no one would even find me.

My hand trailed along the wall as I moved blindly through the dark. Sounds leaked through the stone, like the whispers of tortured drafts, chilling the air with their broken fingers and softly muttered moans. With every step I took deeper into the blackness, dread coiled tighter in my guts. I had already turned so many corners, I didn’t know which way was out. All I could do was continue, following the weeping and muffled screams that bespoke the intent of this place.

A shreak raked over me, and I shuddered, feeling the sound against my spine like claws. It could be hers. I tried to make myself move faster, turning another corner in the hopeless labyrinth that was the Oakwald Institute. It was like the place was meant to confuse. Actually, it probably was.

Faint light trickled onto the floor ahead of me, spreading over the tiles and pressing back the inky darkness. My fingers closed over the pistol I had stolen from my father earlier in the night. I pulled it free of my waistband, taking the safety off slowly so it wouldn’t click.

I held it with hands too steady for the way my heart was hammering against the inside of my chest, an army of maddened construction workers, set on ripping my rib-cage down like some old scaffolding.

Gun first, I slunk up along the wall, pausing to listen. What I heard made my stomach turn.

There was a soft snuffing, followed by a wet noise, then it repeated. A sharp, cracking crunch came a few moments later.

Steeling every nerve in my body, I turned the corner.

In the paleness of the light, all color was lost. A dark shape knelt over something on the floor. Around it, a black puddle slowly spread, following the paths between tiles and trickling away with sluggish progress. I stood frozen as the thing shifted, biting into the thing. A body.

The gun in my hands snapped up to aim at the creature’s back. My hands still held steady with an iron will and not much else.

The animal turned. Blood dripped thickly from an elongated snout. A forked tongue flicked out to lick something that almost resembled lips. It raked a clawed hand through shaggy hair, fixing all too human eyes on me.

I couldn’t move. My finger pled to pull the trigger, but something stopped me. Those eyes stopped me.

“Hello, Jason,” she said in the voice of the girl I’d come to save. The voice I loved. The honey tone and life were gone, leaving a raspy hiss I barely knew. But it was her. A shudder crept over my spine and made every hair on my body stand on end.

The gun clattered to the floor, an explosion of sound in the frozen silence following her words.

Monica’s eyes.

Once, I’d wished that they would be the last thing I’d see, hoping that that would mean we would spend forever together.

She sprang. Before I could dodge, she was on me, teeth sinking into my flesh. I screamed, throat cracking on the sound. The smell of my own blood made me sick as I was driven to the ground.

I see you found another treat.” The new voice was rich, and thick with an accent I didn’t know.

My eyesight, already so poor in the dark, was fading away to nothing. So this was death? I felt her teeth in me still, and was sure I would have screamed again if I had breath.

The voice came again, distant and more muddled. “Leave him alive. This one I want.”


Eyes opened to the world, where everything was a tinted gold. Pretty as a sunset, but wrong.

The room around me had long tables covered in… surgery tools? A massive vat sat almost out of sight. I turned my head, but it refused to move. Panic, sharp as a knife struck me. I couldn’t feel anything. Nothing. Nothing.

A machine was beeping wildly.

Sedate him,” someone said in an even voice, too far to the side to be seen.

Darkness swept around me. A hand flashed out of view, an empty needle in it.

We will start again,” the same voice said.


“…Fighting like a wild thing! But we got him!”

The man yelling into a walkie-talkie had three long slashes over his face. Blood ran from them like rain from the gutter, trickling off his chin and to the floor where it pooled.

I strained against the chains holding me, even as the sedative started to take hold. More, I wanted to hurt him more, hurt them all for what they were doing, what they were trying to make him into. No. Me. Jason. Me. The thoughts clung and stuck, a detached feeling creeping up. Only the sedative.

I would never be one of the beasts. Not even when my claws dripped with blood and my body was a misaligned thing of broken parts would I surrender to it. Never.

He would live. Jason would live. And he would remember, for her.


The door slammed shut behind him, and he crashed to the floor, unable to keep his buckled and bent legs under him. Once, they had been different, long ago. Straight, and thin. Human. Now they weren’t, and human was a distant thing he remembered as one remembers an old smell, faded and lost in the mind, but still a part of you. He remembered a face better. It belonged to a girl, and he loved her more than life, or… he had, hadn’t he? Yes. Of that he was still sure.

You will learn,” said the man who’d shoved him into the cell without light that smelled like the blood and death of others. “Just like all the others, you will learn what you are, in time. Or you will rot here.”

The man’s boots were loud in the silence and his too keen ears. But even with his new eyes, the dark was absolute. Her face hovered like a vision through it.


Who was he?

He didn’t know why it matter, but he’d been someone. And once, perhaps a very long time ago, that had meant something. Now it was a nagging thing, refusing to leave his mind.

A bowl of food came skittering under the door, sloshing its contents over the side.

He darted forward, bowed legs working awkwardly. Wrong. His muzzle dipped into the food, eating with no care for taste. Taste? The thought slipped away, water through fingers unable to trap it. It wasn’t important.

Nothing was important.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, a face swum and danced to life, then it was gone.

The beast lapped food up from the floor, ignoring the dirt and grime. A boy died, deep inside him, and all he had been, was no more.

Just So You Know

In case anyone has ever wondered this; my mom just found out a have a section called ‘write right, ya ninnies’…. And she is offended on all your behalfs.

I know you all were dying to know that, don’t lie XD.

ALSO, she is fine with this going in the RANDOM SHIT category, though my dad says it should be ‘RANDOM SHITE’.

Follow me to join the insanity XD.

You know you want toooooo.

Wishes On Words

Wishes On Words

A Poem

By Phoenix B Meadows


I wish my wishes on words, were birds
And they’d fly to find you,
And tell you,
I’m sorry.

Because I’m so sorry.

I wish my wishes could guild the pain and turn it golden,
Dance it in the firelight of your heart.

I wish my wishes were strength, to fight off the terrible,
Never ending

I wish my wishes would find you and bottle you up so you’d be whole, and wholly you,
And nothing else could reach inside to tear at you.

I wish my love was a shield,
Slam forth and knock down your enemies in droves, throw them over the treasure troves of what you can become and consume them.

I wish your pain was my pain, so I could find the hole in its armor,
And tell it to go the fuck away.

I wish my words could be more, drafted forever to reach perfection,
And ever lacking.

I wish they could tell you how much you mean,
To everyone.
How much the world needs you, because you actually make it brighter, and I love to play in the edges of your fire.

I wish I could feed your fire,
Instead of watch it dwindle away from a pier to barely banked coals,
Too tired to lick up and light the night that surrounds them.

I’d love to chase that night away, not for you, for me,
For everyone,
Because you deserve to get to met everyone,
And yes, some people are dicks, but you never find the gems if you don’t get a chance to wade through the stream.

You’re like the flower that bloomed to early, and is being scoured by the sun,
And I,
I wish I was the shade.

I wish I was your blade,
And you could use me to slay every monster you meet.

I wish I could stand in you feet for a day, not only so I could learn better what words to say,
But so you could have mine, and for a minute,
Have it easy.
For a minute have a breath,
I wish
I wish
I wish,
But my feet aren’t very good, either.
I’d still let you try them on, if I could.

I wish I could spend even one of those long nights beside you,
Silent as a ghost,
Or in the mindless babble to distract the undistractable,
Because I know I can’t dive the agony away, but I’d wade out into it, and fight it like a coming storm.
I’d be in your hurricane, if I could.
I wish,
I could.

I wish
I wish

I wish

I wish I could make you know how much stronger you are than you think,
I wish I could be your floaty, so you’d never again have to sink when the tide rips through you again like a black storm rolling over hills and consuming all the valleys in shadow.

I wish I could rope the sun for you when it’s too dark,
And be the shade when you need a place to hide from everything,
From anything.

I wish my wishes were birds,
Larks with sweet songs on their tongues and swift wings, swifter than my feet could ever be,
I’d have them say “I love you”, for me.

And I wish that would help.

I wish I was a real phoenix,
And my tears could repair the tears in you, like stitches in a wound and salve on top, and send you on your way to make a life of dreams,
Ever though I know,
That would mean you probably wouldn’t have time you me.

I’d trade every minute I have left with you, and every one I’ve had,
If the rest of your minutes could be good ones.

I wish my wishes were birds,
And I was those birds,
Because I’d go to you,
And I’d simply be, for you.

Be there.


A Poem By

Phoenix B Meadows



Change is never bad,
I know I’ve had someone say that to me.

Change isn’t bad, it’s all about what you do with it.

I’d like to tell you change isn’t bad,
Maybe it isn’t,
But changing…

Changing sucks like nothing else.

I like to think turning into a butterfly hurts,
Because maybe that means you’re becoming a butterfly.
Or maybe an angel from a human,
Wrapped up in a chrysalis of things that break normal people,

Maybe you’ll come out an angel,
Even though I know you already are one,
And I don’t even believe in angels.

I hope you come out with beautiful wings,
And a smile.
A smile that could stretch a mile or blind with its strength and relief,
That the change is finally over.

I like to imagine that caterpillars have panic attacks before their wings bud,
Because it isn’t something they know how to deal with.
I like to imagine, none of the butterflies can tell them,
So they can’t prepare any more than you.

But maybe you’re forging.

Maybe you’re becoming a blade,
An avenger,
Ready to fight down the evil that laps at you.

Forging must hurt,
And the heat must make the blade anxious from before the first hammer fall to the last.

So maybe you’re a blade,
Still half forged and heating in a bed of angry coals.

Maybe you’re a blade, with a sweeping curve and a wicked looking tip,
Meant to rend terror from the world like cutting crop heads free of their stalks.

Maybe you’re an assassin’s blade,
Ready to fight back at all the wrong, and sneak through the blackest of nights and down it,
Made from something tougher than steel, that glows when light its it like a jewel.


Maybe you’re something new.
Something better than everything,
Something that takes forging in a chrysalis of fire and ice
And pain,
To make.

Maybe the world isn’t cruel,
It’s just changing you,
And whatever comes out, however long it takes,
I know it will be strong.

So forge,
And know that someday,
You’ll be better than a butterfly.

What About The Moon?

Sorry it’s been so long since I could post one of these! I give you, my sad attempts at humor!!! Yay…..


What About The Moon?

By Phoenix B. Meadows

“Cows aren’t boring,” he said, rolling his single, silver-green eye for emphasis.

The other waved a hand that was mostly tentacle. “You, are boring,” she replied.

He couldn’t object to this statement. Their last two hundred and sixty-seven dates had been on earth, doing, you know, the normal: seeing movies while disguised in the skins of different human celebrities, stealing cows from farmers (because who doesn’t like to watch humans run around waving their little arms and screaming in frustration? Bilzon 9O2 thought it was very romantic—his girlfriend did not.), and deatomizing circles in fields, then watching the humans try to find patterns in them beyond the starter deatomizing stencil set that came with every inter-space ship since the early 60,000’s, every bit as standard edition as the DIY dissection-kit-for-morons—after all, human is one of the softest materials on this, that, or any other planet. They’re just so darn squishy. It’s utterly irresistible.

Bilzon 9O2, or Bilz, as most people called him—since calling a friend by his creation number is in no uncertain terms, awkward—thought many things though. Most of them did not earn his girlfriend’s seal of approval, and so he thought them too quiet for her to hear. Though sometimes she would suddenly round on him and shout, “I heard that!” He was fairly certain she couldn’t though, since most of the times he’d been thinking about whether he wanted brains or pepperoni on his pizza—it’s a hotter debate than pineapple, don’t judge him. Or do, he probably won’t give a farting tiddlywink what you humans think.

Right now though, Bilz was finding himself in a rather tight spot. His girlfriend didn’t want to do any of the things he could think of, and she positively hated his cramped and cluttered inter-space ship for anything other than to get from point A to point F, so that seemed to skip over corny make out sessions.

She stomped a tentacle. “Bilz? Are you listening to me?”

He blinked, and realized he’d been looking off into nothing. “I… um.” His stuttering, seemed a good enough answer.

“You never listen to me, Bilz!” She shouted, stomping her tentacles in a little wave.

“Platypus,” he said, hoping the pet name would calm her. “I always listen to you.”

This, was not true. In fact, Bilz spent most of his time automatically toning out her voice once it hit a certain octave. Of course, this is not the thing you say to your girlfriend who is many times your size, has three times as many limbs, and a temper as big as a full grown male African elephant.

He smiled placatingly in a show of his small, baby sized teeth.

Her gaze bore into his eye, and he resisted the urge to blink. “Okay, wiseguy,” she snapped, “what’d I say then?”

Bilz paused, mind running over the possibilities. He landed on either complaining about him, or one of her friends—who seemed more like targets than friends to him, but he only had one eyes, so maybe he was missing something—as the most likely of the dozens of options.

“I’m not good enough for you,” he proclaimed, because she always seemed to enjoy it when he told her how much better she was than everyone. “You need a nice strong Vvizen, not a shrimpy Ghiilz like me.”

Her tentacles writhed in pleasure. “Vvizen are hot.”

“They are,” he agreed. “So hot, like a nuclear implosion.”

The grin she gave was positively terrifying. “Maybe I’ll dump you then, find myself one of them.”

Bilz knew she wouldn’t, she just enjoyed the thought, and his reaction to it. So he dropped to his knees. “No, please. Please, you know I need you, Platypus. Who else will tell me what to do?”

She looked down at him as he wrung his hands in an exaggerated manner.

“Oh fine,” she said finally. “You need someone to do it. Get up.”

Already with the orders. He stood though, and she let him hug her and kiss the tops of her front two tentacles. Once, he’d kissed the other side, and they’d had to go to the doctor to detach it from his lower lip and chin. The entire thing had been a humiliation that Bilz was loathed to repeat—even the doctor had laughed at him.

“Lets keep it simple,” he suggested. “Lets just have a picnic on the moon.”

A New Segment

So I thought in honor of finally returning, I’d start up something new: What The Typo.

We all make them–well, maybe not you, but I’m not an alien, so…. doesn’t count–and sometimes they can be…. quite amusing, or embarrassing. I thought since I’m about to read through about 20 pages of story I could find something that is an utter slip up. If not, maybe I am an alien.

*pokes through first three pages*

Good news (I guess) not an alien! SO MANY AWFUL SENTENCES… ugh, yay??

First terror I found

“Could you call a go a man?”

Okay, I know what that should be, but can’t help but think of someone looking at a large turd and asking if it’s, in fact, a dude.

And I’m not sure if it’s ironic, or just sad that it’s supposed to be god… *cough*. The god in question is an A+ shithead, so, at least it fits I suppose.

Next we have hissing knees…. yup.

“He [*] dropped to his knees on the hard stone, holding back a sharp hiss of pain from them.” I knew he was weird…. but hissing knees? That’s new.

[*it’s actually the mc’s name, but I don’t want to give it to the big, wide internet]

Well this one is just bad:

“”She is as fierce a warrior as I have ever met,” he spoke finally, seeking words not only to please his father, but to kill Morana from trying to kill him again.” To kill her, to kill her, to kill her so he lives. My hands can’t type while my brain is thinking, and the keyboard knows nothing (Jon Snow) ((*cough*)).

And now, to find something epic that doesn’t have a bunch of terrible typos in it!


Give me a minute…


He put a hand on [MC]’s chest. His own snapped up to grab Eshengael’s wrist, terror clawing at him at the thought of being shoved from the mountain.
Eshengael did not push him backwards though, instead, pressing down with a force which threatened to buckle [MC]’s knees.
“Father.” The word was a whisper.
“You are my son,” he said, this time with a finality. [MC] felt fingers of nausea coiling inside him. “And I cannot kill you by the laws of blood that join us. So I will not kill you.”
[MC]swallowed, meeting his eyes. The wind pushed at them both, black and white hair mingling with their closeness. His fingertips dug into Eshengael’s wrist, in an iron grip the god ignored.
“I will bury you.”

*dramactic music plays*

So that’s part of the prologue for my current story, enjoy, or flee, whatever. Byessss