Mia Goodwater
A young writer hailing from smalltown, Nebraska, Mia Goodwater specializes in writing poetry and novel-length stories. This is their 3rd consecutive year attending Young Writers Camp at UNL, and she’s enjoyed it a lot. When not writing he can be seen working, paying back their sleep debt, or reading, and losing sleep due to reading. They’re inspired by music and other writers, often lamenting the fact she can’t update their story more than once a month for his poor fans.
Obscurity
I
Obscure to history
One step away from
Temerity ruining me
Obscured by my insecurity
Hurriedly writing this down so I remember part of me
Sorry excuse for a poet
I don’t show it when I place my mask on
Strapped on strong so it won’t fall
My generation desecrating all these
Good movements and improvements
Am I the voice of one or none
Shouldering the balance between
Wanting to be true to me or getting money
Getting hungry for this fake love you gave up
The devil in the details trailing me, tailing me
Watching me create this false narrative
It’s imperative you see this isn’t the real me
I’ve been left to fade into obscurity
II
What am I if not commodified
Gawked at with the awful truth that
I am my own enemy
I dream of the old me soaring free
Free of the late nights at open mics
Opened doors like I’m a celebrity
Desecated and defecated on my own memory
The young me, old me, dreamed of big things
Making me something
Or else I’m nothing
My name voided out, snuffed out, blacked out
Like I backed out
Too scared to make a stand
Banjaxing these book bans
By those who have their hands in the government’s pockets
Pockets so deep I can barely see between you and me We are all stats in their eyes
Can’t hide what lies inside
Blood on my shoes as I stepped up
Ready and prepped up for the stage
Gauging if I light up and my like’s up
Pumped up to have this fake love
I’m made up
III
A collective figment of your imagination A false idol praying at the alter
I feature seeing all those faces
Halter and chained to this idea of fame
You bestowed on me through this
Fakery and trickery and mimicry
Of those I see as better than me
Relegated to the shadow and never glows Replaceable like I’m shopping at home Depot Searching for some good rhymes
So I can have a good time
Laughing rather than crying
Lying if I’m saying I’m happy
Depression injected in my veins
Gained by long nights after long cries
Longing to be in the stars, burned up
Burnt out, no sleep, bone deep, and weary Dreaming of undeserved R and R
Rest and relaxation
Defamation and defamed
If I dare to take a break or
Speak my mind nevermind my first amendment right Unwritten and crossed out of our minds
The moment someone that’s not the one percent Speaks the awful truth
That you don’t want to hear, that you’re deaf to They don’t care about you
IV
Sadness is the author of my writing
Fighting between my brain and heart for my design In fact I must confess that if I’m not feeling I’m not creating
Not using my curated imagination
Crafting my mask up through the
Task of analyzing people around me
Never free from the social chains binding you and me
Wrap that blindfold around my eyes
Glammed up just to step outside
Bright light I can’t see through
Wring footed, disillusioned trying to write but saying nothing
Ruined my only opportunity for unity
Seeing the same blood from you and me
How long do I have
Until everything I write hollowed out, dead inside
How long till I fade into obscurity
Fame is this poison dripping down my veins
Till I can’t see right in front of me
Sold my soul to the devil, lost myself
Shed my skin left the real me, true me, old me
Left to fade into obscurity
Loss of
Loss of
Whimsy
Play
Imagination
All things we lose as we get older
And colder to this world
A fixation on rules and order
Losing this bright and colorful side of us
Erring on the side of caution
Causing us to see in black and white
No sight for no lines
Straight and orderly
Halting ourselves from this ball and chain
Pain wrapped up in a lie we call adulting
Not be an adult, more like a dolt
Cause we limit what is acceptable
Until it’s inaccessible
A fine line between basic rules and disorderly
Imploring me to check what’s anarchy dressed up as
Factories controlling you and me
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Letters of Lost Love
Papers both ripped and whole were scattered around the floor. Ink stains were permanently spilled across the desk like a long ago memory of someone. Who, nobody knows. The mansion of the Pruitt Family towers over their estate land like a shadow. Lady Maybell Pruitt had died 21 years ago to this very day, and some say her soul is still trapped inside the house, bound to her office; the place where she spent most of her days writing letters to her deceased friend and husband. Nobody knew how she died, her children say it was suicide while the housekeeper said she was poisoned by a jealous ex, and Elisa was curious to see what she could find; it’s been her childhood mystery she intended to solve now.
Elisa Pruit, Great-Great-Granddaughter to Maybell inherited the house. She looked so similar to her Great-Great-Grandmother many of the family had said when they visited, and Elisa understood what they meant. Both ladies had long chestnut hair that laid in waves, sun-kissed and freckled skin, pale green eyes, a short stature, the same scar that ran across their palm and up to their pulse point, but that was where the differences ended. Elisa had cut her hair up to her eyebrows one year for her birthday, by herself, as her family never allowed her to do so. When Lillian, Elisa’s mother, saw what she did, she flipped out. Elisa has always been outspoken, she took up space and wasn’t quiet about her opinions, and she hated the idea of carrying on her Great-Great-Grandmother’s legacy.
Maybell Pruitt was a quiet woman; she never took up space and people often forgot she was there. She grew out her hair for most of her life and it stopped growing when it reached her mid thigh. She loved doing people’s hair, especially her best friend’s hair. Lady Janet Windsor, Maybell’s best friend, spent days at the manor reading over Maybell’s work (Maybell was an avid writer. She wrote her own novels, they were hand bound, and kept with Janet.).
Elisa walked around the office slowly, noting down everything she might sell or get rid of, things like old and rusted jewelry, out of date dresses and suits, and lead-painted paintings. An old feline, with soft fur and bright eyes followed the girl around, winding around her legs like a snake. The collar read Purrcey. Purrcey was a cat that wandered in the house one day, and since he was fed, he never left. The previous owners allowed it because he chased away the mice though the entire part of the house they lived in.
She stopped, almost tripping over the cat, but she did care. An entire section of the bookshelf was covered in letters, similar to the ones on the floor and desk, but these weren’t from Maybell, they were from Janet and Vincent, Maybell’s husband. The letters detailed the love both Janet and Vincent held for Maybell.
Elisa scanned through each letter, but she paused when she saw the final letter written from Vincent. She read it aloud, as if evoking the spirit of Maybell and Vincent herself, “My dearest Maybell, Light of my life and the flower from which I need to breathe, I regret to inform you I will not last long on this earth with you so far from me.
My disease has caught up with me and I will not survive the trip home to spend my last days with you. Fear not, for I shall watch over you from the heavens above. My love, by the time this reaches you I know I shall take my last breath, but know that I will forever be in your heart. Forever goodbye, your dearest Vincent Pruit.”
The letter smelled faintly of poppy, lilac, and musk. Permanent tear stains caused part of the old ink to bleed. Elisa placed the letter down reverently like messing with it would harm Maybell herself if it was creased. Elisa wiped her eyes quickly and moved out of the office, trying to forget the letter.
When she came back into the office later that day, once the sun was set and the moon was high in the sky, Elisa felt something in the air. It felt heavy like the weight of thousands of eyes watching your every move, scrutinizing them. The feeling got heavier the longer she stayed in the room making it hard to walk. The letters stay scattered on the ground, and Elisa could swear she heard the faint sound of weeping in the background.
The window overlooking the manor grounds- overgrown grasses and wildflowers, was open, letting nighttime air stir up the old letters and papers. A shiver ran up Elisa’s spine. When she went to close the window, something appeared behind her. It was as cold as death and glowed a faint blue.
“Hello, what are you doing here, dear?” a voice spoke from behind her. It was inhuman and oddly calm like the silence before the storm.
When Elisa turned around she was faced with a distorted version of herself. She responded to the question before she could think, “This is my home. It was left to me by my family, and I was going through everything,”
The spirit tilted its head too far to the right and looked Elisa up and down. “Oh,” the spirit said and then it floated over to the letters, looking at them mournfully. “Would you like to hear a story? It’s been years since I’ve been able to talk to someone,” she said absently.
Elisa nodded. The ghost smiled sadly and launched into her life story. “I got married at 19 to my husband; it was a marriage of convenience for both parties. My family wanted to marry me off to a nice man before I got old, and Vincent’s family wanted to marry him off before his disease made him incapable of producing heirs. He suffered from a degenerative disease, you see. We didn’t quite care for another when we met, but overtime we fell in love with eachother.” she explained, sorting through Maybell’s old letters.
She continued, looking out the window, “He traveled for work frequently, so I was left at home often. That’s when I met Janet Windsor, my neighbor. We didn’t get along at first, she was so loud and upfront about everything, and she tried to break me and my husband up multiple times. When it didn’t work, she calmed down and we became very close. Vincent and I exchanged letters when he was away, but it never felt the same from when he was home. Then, Janet and I wrote letters to each other, and she sprayed hers with so much perfume in an effort to make me not forget her…” The spirit paused.
“I never did forget you, my lovely Janet, my lavender,” she murmured to the last letter Janet sent to her.
“When both Janet and Vincent died, it felt like my heart was hollowed out of me. They were my blood and soul; I needed them to breathe.” the spirit said in an almost whisper, a phantom tear sliding down her face. “I couldn’t accept that they were gone, so I continued to write letters to them. I didn’t eat or sleep for days after the news of Janet’s death by consumption and when I got Vincent’s final letter. I know I was a sorry sight to see, the whispers of my children and maids said so. Finally, I remember going to sleep one day and waking up looking down at my sleeping corpse. I remember the thought that I killed myself spreading around, and it wasn’t entirely true or false. I died because I didn’t care; my soul was already with them, but my body was trapped on this mortal plane.” the spirit, no Maybell Pruitt, explained with a sad finality.
Elisa walked over to the tortured soul and sat down at her feet. “Maybell Pruitt, that’s your name right?”
Maybell looked down to her Great-Great-Granddaughter and froze. “Yes, yes that’s my name. It’s been years since I’ve heard it. Can… Can you say it again, dear?” she asked.
Elisa looked into the dead woman’s eyes, eyes that seemed to be hollowed out by grief, and answered, “Maybell Pruitt, I am your Great-Great-Granddaughter, Elisa Pruitt, and I inherited this house from your children, and everyone’s been so scared to mess with it. They say it does your memory and legacy a great disservice,”
Maybell fell to her knees with a sob, neither happy nor sad, a sob of release. “Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you…” she said over and over again.
Elisa was wrapped in the ghostly arm of her ancestor; she could almost feel the tears soak into her shirt. The two women stayed like that for the night, and when the sun finally broke through the sky bringing light and day with it, Elisa woke up.
The room was lit softly by the mourning sun, golden beams illuminated the now clean room. The letter that covered every surface disappeared. The table still had old ink stained soaked into the wood grain, but it was desolate of parchment. Elisa got up slowly, looking around the room. She was unsure if last night was just a crazy dream from stress, but then she froze mid-movement. On the old desk, laid a letter, and written in old, loopy cursive, was the note, “Thank you for listening to me, dearest Elisa. I can finally move one and meet my lovers in the sky,”
Elisa left the office, holding the letter in her hand tightly..