There Was a Paint Sale, So I Painted.

 Just the Wind, acrylic 24" x 36"

 Not My Mama's Evening Gown, acrylic 12" x 16"

 Show and Tell, acrylic on paper 9" x 12"

Smoke and Kisses, acrylic 24" x 48"

That last one has a poem floating around in the smoke cloud. I wrote it in 1999, so obviously, it is romantic, sad drivel.

Here it is. Keep in mind, I was still in my twenties, and full of ridiculousness.

Nothing Less
(a silly poem by a silly girl)


Hold my hand as we watch TV
And tell me that you're fond of me
Stay long enough for a little bit more
And kiss me before you walk out the door

Tell me I'm pretty and tell me I'm smart
Admire my poems and eleventh grade art.
Touch me in places I long to be touched
Give me any reason to like it so much

Talk about times we used to know
Make me laugh and carry on so
Laugh at me falling down drunk on the floor
And kiss me before you walk out the door

Make me feel happy to answer your knock
Tho as soon as you get here, you're watching the clock
Fill my heart with a joy that I've never known
Spend a little time here, then I'm left alone

Whisper sweet nothings into my ear
I'll smile and giggle and hold back a tear.
I'll take nothing less and ask for no more
But kiss me before you walk out my door.


copyright Nessa Locke 1999

Like a Bear in a Cave

The weatherman promised tornadoes, but there were only blue, sunshiney skies and spinning pinwheels. Knowing how quickly the weather can change, I hunkered down on the couch and watched the entire second season of Game of Thrones with the lights off and the doors and windows closed.

I probably should have been washing the dishes or scrubbing the toilet, but I was removing myself from those tasks because it was supposed to be a bad weather day. I was already making excuses in my head. It's pointless to clean if you know a tornado will just mess it up again.

Elsewhere in the world, a socially awkward, stuttering teenager plunged a knife into two of his brothers' tiny bodies, a tired old bridge decided it just couldn't make it through another day and flung a few cars into the depths of the Skagit River, and somebody named Robert Pattinson moved out of his girlfriend's house...again.

Some of those thing concerned me more than others, but I was busy awaiting a storm that never happened. The weatherman cancelled his plans early in the evening. I could practically hear the cheers on Facebook. Apparently, some of these fools who live here think you can predict such things. They must not be native.



I surveyed my Emergency Preparedness Kit (a charged cellphone, a bowl of popcorn, and an unopened bottle of delicious rum). I turned up the volume on the TV when the wind kicked up. Those spinning pinwheels can be noisy.

(Highly unlikely.)

Great Minds...

Melissa Locke Witt is definitely my favorite outlaw.

She posted this on Facebook today, and I love her for it.

As for my personal journey, I took my last final exam for the semester earlier this evening, so I might get back to writing something with some real substance soon. At least until summer classes start....

One Table Over: The Final Essay

One table over, Dr. Dodson is reading through the final essays from an earlier class. I'm just about to write mine. I've got two hours to type up something that will wow her into slapping an A on my paper.

I've done well in this class so far, but this impromptu essay over an unknown poem by an unknown poet--which must be properly analyzed, properly punctuated and properly cited--has got me chewing my fingernails down to the skin.

I'm a fair writer, I think. I used to think I was a spectacular writer. I used to feel so accomplished and intelligent with every A I earned. Under this pressure, I think, I hope, I pray I'll slip out of here with a B.

NO!!! I need an A! (What am I thinking?) I know the day will come when I may have to face a possible B, but it is not this day! (Thank you, Aragorn.)

My classmates have assured me I have nothing to worry about. "No prob," they're saying. "You got this," they're saying. "I'm scared," I'm saying.

They're not sweating it because they aren't English Majors like me. They don't have to crawl back here next Fall and look Dr. Dodson in the eye when she's teaching Dystopian Lit.

And I do.

Endless Pointing and Laughing

I hate the gym. This is the very last time I'll need to step foot in one EVER. Twenty five more minutes of this treadmill will set me free from sweaty pits and unwelcome ogling. Not that I'm anything to be looking at for long. Though I did catch one lady checking out my panty line once. I couldn't tell if she was repulsed or if she was thinking about going with that look herself.

I think mostly it's the women who judge one another in a place like this. She's skinnier than me. I'm skinnier than that one over there, and that lady in the hot pink only shows up every other week. She's not going to get an A like that. She never tries anything more strenuous than those exercise bikes for old people. You know the ones. They have backs on them so you can lean back and read a book while you're getting your heart rate up.

Those are the ones I should be on. I've got plenty of reading to do, but the fat, old ladies are hogging up all the lazy bikes!

Our teacher isn't even here today. Her son had some silly graduation thing going on. Somehow that seems important, so I'm going to let her slide, just this once.

The girl next to me is trying to read this as I type it. I think she's scared I'm going to lose my balance and wipe out on this thing. Psh...she should have been here last week. It was HILARIOUS! (for everybody but me.)

100 Words: First Things First

I was about to sit down and write an award-winning essay about equality as demonstrated in "Harrison Bergeron" by Kurt Vonnegut Jr. My outline is outlined. My works are cited. My notes have been noted, and my mind was focused.

Then I got a whiff of the ole body odor pouring off me and a glimpse of the "jus' rolled outta bed" hairdo I'm rockin' this morning. (What if Publisher's Clearinghouse stops by to give me my ten million dollars? You know they always film that shit.)

Sorry, Mr. Vonnegut. I simply must get in the shower. Priorities, you know.

Dream: This Ain't Alaska

His first mistake was thinking I'd go down without a fight.

He shoved me into the walk-in freezer and bolted the door. I didn't know how long it would take for the human body to freeze to death, and I sure as hell wasn't going to put it to the test. I formulated a plan for survival right away. I needed to knock those fans off the ceiling. The problem was I didn't have a crowbar handy.

When we were kids in Alaska, we called them snot-sicles. I could feel them forming on my face as I desperately searched through the cardboard boxes for anything that would help me. I opened them one by one and tossed them aside as I rejected them. I knew I was running out of time. I needed to stop crying, or my face was going to freeze like that, literally.

His second mistake was thinking the dismembered body of another of his victims would deter me from my goal.

I'm sorry, dead girl. I'm sorry this happened to you. I'm sorry you're dead. I'm sorry I had to use your frozen arm as a bat to disable those fans. I'm sorry you had to watch it all with your frozen dead eyes, staring at me in disbelief.

With magnificent strength, I swung, and the metal box that encased the freezer fans came crashing to the floor. The chamber echoed eerie silence.

His third mistake was coming back for me.