Kati Felix

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I live in the thunder and ride the lightning
My sound is grand and big and bom bom bom
I taste like ash and gleam like fireflies in rhythm
I burst at the seams in my excesses
Gumming up the greasy wheels with my dust
I climb up up up the ladder to knock you over
And laugh at the mess
The dew of the dawn brings me serenity
And the rain of the twilight brings me death
I hiss at the world and fling my arms wide to the stars
Incense and grass and mud and fir trees are my palace
The river runs like a jagged gash through me
Ecstasy takes me, and I am
The Wilderness



This is a short poem I wrote after seeing an image of an untamed and chaotic woodland. The poem is not so much about the wilderness as it is about the torrents within humanity’s soul and its relation to Nature


What lands do separate –
Nay, what words, indeed!
For I know not that which
Can bridge the distance ‘tween.

Stumbling tongues and souls
Twined round a similar reluctance
Shadowed smiles and twinned sadness
Reminiscence is a familiar friend

Nostalgia trips along the lanes of soul
Shaking loose long-cherished joys
And oft-mourned loss – I miss you!
Must suffered silence be our cost?

Hand clutch on guilty heart
When fellowship is sundered
And I’m the one to blame
Fond farewells assuage nothing



The Gate – short story

About three months ago, I stumbled across a free online course from The Open University, provided through Future Learn. Start Writing Fiction is 8 weeks long, and it’s still available. I highly recommend it for beginner writers who want to know more about the process of writing, or how to begin a project. Personally, I didn’t learn anything technical, as I’ve taken writing courses before and so the knowledge base was already there. However, I felt I did benefit from the course with a renewed sense of inspiration and a reminder of why I write.  I also had some great interactions with my fellow students, and I hope to keep in touch with them.

My main assignment was to create a 1000 word max. short fiction piece based off of observations or notes that I kept during the duration of the class. I chose the image of a gate standing alone in a field.

I admit it was difficult to keep to the word limit, but the exercise was beneficial to practice finishing a piece. I’m planning a blog post about that specific issue, so stay tuned.

Before I post my assignment, I do want to plug Future Learn a little bit. I found their platform to be really easy to navigate and understand. The courses themselves provide a wide range of student support and forums. I’m currently taking a two-week Archaeology course just as a bit of research for a side-project I’m working on. Also, any course you take has the option to upgrade for around $60, and you gain unlimited access to the course and its resources. You also receive an awesome certificate in the mail!


The Gate – Complete at 998 words


The gate that appeared in the cornfield behind the Higgins’ house one September day wasn’t attached to a fence. It stood alone in the center, like a strange scarecrow, creaking slowly on its hinges in the small breeze. The corn had been harvested the week before, so the field was brown and dead, littered with the dried up stalks and old husks of its crop.

Archie Higgins woke up at 5 AM, like he did every morning, whether it was Christmas or his birthday or just any other day in June. He sat up, stretched, farted, slipped his house shoes on, and shuffled downstairs to switch the coffee pot on. Mae, his wife, would have slept in on a morning like this. But she’d taken a chill during the previous winter. It began with the flu, but gradually diminished to an eternal hacking cough. Archie preferred the silence of the fields and the barn, truth be told, but he’d never stay out there too long if Mae needed him. Just something you did, his father had taught him. Just something you did for those you loved. And he would have kept doing it too, if Mae had survived the summer.

Instead of sitting at the empty formica-topped kitchen table, Archie took his coffee mug outside, to the whitewashed porch. A glorious, golden September it had been thus far, and the mornings were crisp and peaceful. He sat in his rocking chair, a gift from his carpenter son. Dean worked in the city now, owned his own furniture boutique, and Archie couldn’t be prouder. He’d said so only once, after he’d ripped the birthday wrapping from the high-backed rocker, and Dean’s eyes had shone in the light of the setting sun.

He sipped his coffee, strong and black, and sat back, waiting for the sun to rise. It took him a few minutes to see it, but when his eyes did finally alight on the lonely gate in the cornfield, Archie felt a small twinge in his chest. He rocked forward and stood up slowly, feeling the ache in his bones and the chill in his calloused fingers. He took the stairs off the porch, rather than the ramp Dean installed for Mae’s shorter, shuffling gait. She’d only used it twice.

Archie reached the edge of the cornfield just as the sun kissed it with a dusky red and gold. Just some kids, he thought. Some kids playing a weird prank, or dumping their trash again. Too old to retaliate. Well, let them think that when their parents get a phone call from the elderly widower farmer from down the road. Should teach them.

He crouched down in front of the gate to examine it, then stood again and walked around it, absently whistling a tuneless song. Mae used to say he was wasted on farming and should have been in the town’s barbershop quartet, or even the theatre troupe, but Archie always just kept on whistling. He’d had a shot, once upon a time, but Mae got pregnant right after the wedding, and his chance flew away like Autumn leaves on the wind. He didn’t regret it much, but sometimes he’d had to remind himself sternly that letting things go was just something you did for the ones you love. He was good at letting go these days.

The gate was crafted out of some kind of exotic wood, though it was old and splintered. Its boards were nailed horizontally, with iron or some other kind of hardy metal. He couldn’t see any rust anywhere, but its age showed in the weathering. A handle fashioned in the shape of a young leaf seemed to be the only decoration, and its hinges were of the same metal as the fastenings.
It stood upright in the chaff of the field, though how it stood with no fence to support it Archie couldn’t figure. It wasn’t nailed or driven into the ground. He walked around it again, counter-clockwise this time, and as he came around the front again, he noticed a sign taped to it. A sign that hadn’t been there before. A sign that read “Open the gate,” in Mae’s handwriting.

Without thinking much, he reached for the handle. As he did, he felt the tips of his fingers begin to warm, then radiate. And with the heat came conjured images of callouses sloughing away, veins and liver spots fading, digits filling out from their gnarled forms into fingers ripe with muscle and vitality. A thrill ran through Archie, and he fancied he could hear Mae’s whisper, borne on the breeze, singing Come away, Archie. But then he felt the twinge in his chest again, more painful than the last. More painful even than two weeks ago, when he felt it the first time. He jerked his hand away from the handle and massaged his left pectoral. The heat left him, and the breeze died. He turned slowly away from the gate and headed back to the house, mind already searching for the Advil and the beginnings of a good breakfast. But the voice of his wife still whispered in his ear. He hesitated, staring at the home he’d built with his two hands, and the field around him that sustained his livelihood through good times and bad. He remembered he was alone now, with no one to care for and none to care. And Mae’s voice seemed lonely. He turned again, whispering Just what you do for those you love and reached for the gate. The pain in his chest faded. So too did the ache of age, and the sound of Mae’s honeyed voice rose higher on the breeze as he grasped the iron handle.

Dean found his father later that day, stretched out under the golden sun in an empty field. In his right hand, he gripped a leaf. Not a dry leaf stained with the reds and browns of Autumn, but a mossy green, springtime leaf.


Writer’s Group Folly # 1 – Iris

I’ve recently joined a writer’s group on Facebook, at the invitation of my new-found niece, Taryn. She and her best friend Kat are both really awesome writers, and I’m always looking for a cool community to grow with. Both as a writer and as a friend. Too often I find myself isolated, and that leads to stagnation in my relationships and in my writing.

In any case, one of the benefits of this group, aside from super cool people to talk to, is the frequent posting of writing prompts. This particular prompt sparked inspiration (doesn’t happen often!) and I sat down and wrote this short story in about 2 hours. You can absolutely tell it only took 2 hours, but I’ve endeavored to edit lightly and make it readable. Enjoy and comment your thoughts!


Prompt # 2 (Paranormal) – posted by Taryn:
Your hero is an artist, and he’s been painting the same woman from his dreams for decades. Then she walks through the front door of his gallery. What happens? What does he say to her? Who is she? Why has your hero been painting her all his life, and what’s their connection?


Irises, by Vincent van Gogh

Title: Iris

“I am Saulo, the son of Lugh, and I am a creator of goddesses. I have birthed light and beauty into this dull world for centuries, though it be strewn with corpses and all the repugnance of humankind. So why in the name of the Morrigan can I only paint the same blasted woman over and over?”

“What did you say, Uncle?” asked my niece. I plunked my paintbrush into its cup, and ran shaking hands through my matted hair.

“Do not listen to old men, sweet Madeline. We gibber and crow only mad things.”

Madeline, ten years old and guileless as all children are, smiled at me and continued her sketching. A bird, I saw. A great black raven done in pencil. Graphite smeared her fingers and caked under her nails. I smiled.  

We stood at our easels in a bare fluorescent glow. My gallery, white-washed to better display my work, was little more than one room in a grey-faced office building situated in a downtown urban sprawl. Like any other inner city, we didn’t have an abundance of sunlight, and now heavy storm clouds gathered above. Not the best locale for an artist, but one must make do. The universe gives many gifts.

And the universe dealt me many gifts, indeed. The last centuries had seen the destruction of my ancestral home, the execution of my father, the cowards’ deaths of my sisters and brothers, and my flight from Erin to this New World – this stinking charnel house of factories and office buildings and rap music.

And what could I do to rebuild my father’s tattered legacy? Raise my orphan niece and paint. Hide. Sell my treasured works to idiots who hang them in their dining room so their brats can throw gravy at it.

“Uncultured, godless, fear-mongering…,” I whispered.

My niece knew nothing of the horrors we faced. She, being but an infant in light of all the years ahead of her, saw only the innocent and good of her new home. She attended the local elementary school, where the barbaric educators taught her the ignorant ways of this land. “Read this book for your age group, don’t read ahead. Speak our language, no one knows what you’re saying. Don’t paint so well, you intimidate the other children.”

Fools! We immortal creatures will reach our zenith long after the rest wither and die. And I will be the old man watching, tutoring, guiding her heart toward that which is bright and beautiful and transcendent. It is the curse and the gift of the Children of Lugh. I must make my father proud and his granddaughter as great as himself!

And yet, how can I create all manner of beauty if my work never varies? Even now, as I stood at my easel in the far corner of my gallery, this woman’s face took unconscious shape in the landscape I’d been painting only moments ago.

“Who is she, Uncle?”

Madeline stood on tiptoe, one bright eye closed to better see the face of the mysterious woman peering from between vibrant flowers.

Small and lacking any distinctive attributes – not a too-high brow, or uneven nostrils, or a crooked smile! – this woman’s image flowed from my paint brush for thirty years. She haunted me as often as I breathed and slept and dreamed. My heart ached to possess her, to know her, to forget her.

I stepped back and waved, my hand an emerald and violet smear in the close air of the gallery.

“Who can say? She is Fate. She is Doom. Perhaps she is Destiny. Or she is only a figment of an old man’s mind. I have made a living painting her, and yet I hate her very bones.”

“If you hate her, why do you paint her so often?”

Why, indeed? Even a hoary man of uncounted years cannot plumb the depths of fate.

The tinkling of the bell above the entrance stifled any answer I could give. I quickly wiped my fingers on a rag soaked in turpentine, and twisted my easel around to hide it from view.

A man, dressed in an ill-fitting blue suit, strolled up to my counter, ignoring the riot of color around him.

“Hello, I’m wondering if you could show me how to get to city hall?”

He’d entered with another, to whom I paid little attention as I brought out a map with a huff. Bought only a month ago, my map was stained with coffee rings and grimy with dirt. It belied the majority of my clientele; most people wanted directions, but never stopped to enjoy the beauty. Why go anywhere if you can’t enjoy the journey?

I brought my finger to the gallery’s location, circled in blue ink, and began to trace the route. His gaze followed my movement, though cognizance seemed lacking.

“You’ll want to continue down this street. Turn left here, but if you pass the fountain, you’ve gone too far. I’ll not be directing you again, so find it the first time.”

A clatter and thudding clunk beyond the man made me start.

“What are ye doing there? This is an art gallery, not an obstacle course!”

I reached and plopped Madeline down in front of the map with an instruction to “help this poor sod, best as you can. Uncle will be back in a moment.”

A woman, short and raven-haired, reached down to right the column stand she’d knocked over. I grabbed for the sculpture, obscenely sideways in its new position on the floor.

“Leave it! You’ll only chip the plasterwork. It’s not dry yet.”

Her face, flushed with embarrassment, caused my harsh words to die in my throat.

“I’m terribly sorry, is anything damaged? Please forgive me, I’m not usually so clumsy!”

A sunflower-print dress flowed over her trim body to her ankles. Her small hands fluttered about as she spoke, like butterflies on a windy day. The ebony of her hair matched perfectly her eyes, which glistened with concern over a slender, rosy face. For an instant, something squeezed in my breast.


She frowned at my word, and hastily opened my mouth before she could speak.

“It’s quite alright, I assure you. Nothing…nothing damaged. What is your name, may I ask? Why did you stop in today?”

I wiped my hands on my apron, leaving more smudges to mingle with the others. Perhaps it caused me to look like some ancient parrot, for she gave a brilliant smile and stuck her hand out to shake mine.

“Iris. Iris Balor. I just pass by this place every so often on my way to the city court. I’m a lawyer, you see. I collect art. My fiance didn’t want to come in, but I’m desperate. I need a piece. A good one.”

My heart rose again with rapture. I bared my teeth and took her by the arm.

“Of course, my dear, I have everything! Anything you like. Any style. We are the best here, only the best for patrons with an eye for beauty.”

Here was my first admirer, my only customer with real taste in a month! I paraded my work for her – paintings, sculptures, even the small, moody, pastoral sketches I would do on parchment over simple dinners of boxed pasta. I hid those from most of my customers, whose eyes would not savor the clean, dark lines of pasture, glen, or mountain range.  

She pulled her arm out of my grasp.

“Just something simple, really. It’s going over the bed in my guestroom. We host a lot of dignitaries, government officials, ambassadors, people of that sort. I just want something unobtrusive, but impressive. Would you have anything suitable? Maybe a landscape.”

I froze, gesturing hand hanging in midair. My mouth blubbed open and shut, like a vulgar fish.

“Your guestroom?”

My congealed heart dropped, like a titan falling from the heavens. She wanted a masterpiece to display for some stranger to ignore. To gather dust as the years of wedded bliss and misery float by until all the belongings are split between the ill-dressed man and this goddess. Perhaps she’d wander by, every day, never pausing to gaze for more than a second or wonder at her resemblance. Perhaps she’d dismiss all mysteries and never return to this cesspool of a gallery.

Here was my paragon! My unknowing muse! Could she see her likeness in my work? Thirty years. Thirty years! The universe taunts me with foresight of my own humiliation. A last insult to a decrepit and forgotten son of a god. Me, a downtrod and crumpled immigrant scraping an existence with an orphan, the pair of us cowering against the onslaught of business and technology, science and hard fact.

We myths and legends, with our truth and beauty, had no place in such a New World.  

“Why don’t you try Ikea?” I growled.

I turned away against her expression, feeling as though every rib had shattered and stabbed into my lungs.

“I’ll come back another time. Perhaps you’ll have something then.”

The man and woman left, both disappointed, and I returned to my niece and my landscape, taking comfort in the pride of my art as only a Son of Lugh could do. I rubbed the woman’s image out of the painting, out of my head, out of my heart – and started again.

“Uncle,” my niece asked, “what kind of flowers are you painting? Aren’t those irises?”

Letting Loose Your Inner Child

We have all heard the little nuggets of wisdom and read all the articles on how to be a good writer. We’re taught grammar and punctuation in school. We are even taught that good writing looks a certain way, such as Steinbeck, J.K. Rowling, Tolkien, C.S. Lewis, Steven King, Shakespeare, or all the other great story tellers of grandeur. We are also somehow led to believe that bad writing takes the waif-like, substance-less forms of works like Twilight, self-published ebooks of the dinosaur porn variety, or even mediocre fanfiction.

I contend that if you write down anything at all, even if it’s one stanza of poetry, or a line of dialogue, or even just a single word of passion written down in haste simply because it stirs something inside you – You are a good writer.

Hear me out before you tell me how terrible your writing is, or how much you want to improve. We’ve all been there. We all want to get better.

“I went for years not finishing anything. Because, of course, when you finish something you can be judged. – Erica Jong

Isn’t this what we’re all afraid of? We’re all so scared of someone else – another writer, perhaps – judging our work and therefore judging us as not good enough.

Of all the writing advice I’ve ever encountered, there is one “rule” that sticks in my mind.

We all have two voices in our heads while we write. The Child and the Critic. They both are useful, if you let them do their job cooperatively.

The Child is the one with all the ideas, the joy, the sheer eagerness to pour your heart and veins onto the page.

The Critic is the one who tells you how to improve and how to edit and how to make it shine.

My Achilles’ Heel is the Critic. My brain is mostly attuned to the editing portion of the writing process, so I am always looking to improve it. But, like so many of us do, I take it too far. Like the Erica Jong quote above, I’ve never finished a work longer than a short story for school because I always got stuck a few chapters in, or right at the beginning of the “good stuff,” or conflict. I found myself hating everything I wrote and thinking it was too juvenile, too unstructured, not clear enough….you get the idea. I still struggle with these thoughts every time I sit down to a blank page.

Let me give you a bit of background:

The earliest I remember wanting to be an author was 7th grade. I was in a very small private school in the inner city. To improve the tiny arts program we had, the school introduced a creative writing teacher. He held all of two classes. I don’t remember much about what he taught before he left, but I do know that it made an impression to my barely-thirteen year old self.

A few weeks later, the school introduced a journalist. I knew him previously, he was a member of my church. I wrote a short story based on a dream that I had for an assignment and showed it to him. He showed me where I could improve and told me to bring it back to him when I’d rewritten it.

These two teachers encouraged me to see writing as something realistic, something I could do, something I had a talent for.

 I still have that story, in an old composition notebook. Later, I realized that my dream was based off a book I’d already read, so I’m glad I never showed that to anyone else. God forbid that a young girl plagiarize another author’s work!

As a teenager, I wrote Lord of the Rings fanfiction and dark poetry. My life was a turbulent wreck at that point, so these things were my escape. As I got older, my heart warmed up to the idea that this was my calling; this is what I was meant to do. although my mind continually pointed me in other directions.

So, back to my point. I took a Writing Class in East Texas in early 2010. I wrote more in that three-month period than I ever had up to that point. Every week, I was turning out work that I hated. Consistently. There was maybe one story that I didn’t want to rip up and burn. After that class, I was so burnt out that I didn’t put a pen to paper or finger to keyboard for a year. Aside from school assignments, the writer in me just didn’t think she “had it” anymore.

Everything I wrote seemed terrible, overthought, contrived, and immature.

But then I took a few classes in community college and I got a small measure of confidence back. I had a teacher who thought I had talent and asked me to be an editor for the campus magazine. While that didn’t pan out, it did renew in me the sense that this is something I could do for a career, or at least as a serious hobby.

“Start writing, no matter what. The water does not flow until the faucet is turned on.”  – Louis L’Amour

The Child portion of my writing does not like to come out and play too often. She is cautious, wanting to stay within the boundaries, always looking to the Critic to police her actions. And the Critic, too often, steps in to make sure everything is “as it should be.”

The last three years, I have worked on an urban fantasy novel. I am always embarrassed to tell people the genre because it’s “too nerdy,” and not serious enough. But I am proud to say I haven’t stopped working on it yet. Sure, I’ve gone months without touching it, but then I’ll come back to it and write ten pages before I get stuck for another three months. The first 10 chapters are absolute crap, but I won’t edit them until the whole damn thing is finished. When that will be, I have no idea. Sometimes it’s better to just tell the whole story, and then go back and fix it.

This is the primary function of the Child and the Critic. Let the Child out to play, unhindered. Children need to explore everything, need to see how things work, need to see what is in every nook and cranny.

Write your story, your poem, your essay, your memoir. Let it go where it wants to go. Just get everything out.

And then let the Critic out to polish it up. But always remember to let both of them respect the other.

However, you need to find the process that works for you. If you find you write better when you edit as you go, then do that! But if you find that you hate everything you write, and want to constantly change it, maybe it’s time to reexamine your process and let the Child have fun.

You are a good writer simply because you have the guts to open your veins to the page and bleed out words. Let yourself play. And then, once you have had your fun, let yourself make it shine, without worrying about someone else’s opinion.