Mackenzie Writes

Abigail sat in her room absorbing her surroundings: walls painted in plum purple and lavender, a twin bed with a white (painted metal) bed frame, with a budding rose and vine design, a closet with two white sliding doors, a tall dresser (taller than her) with a black 32in box TV. The closet was over flowing with clothes that she thought probably didn’t belong to her, some of her favorite books, and miscellaneous little girls toys in shades of pink and purple. However, a yellow-tinted, glass piggy bank caught her eye. It sat atop of the third shelf above the drawers in the closet. The piggy bank only contained pennies. She thinks about what she did yesterday; she played miniature golf with her Daddy at the Magic Castle. And then she remembers that the day before yesterday her mommy dropped her off with her Daddy at the grocery store. Her parents are divorced, a faint feeling of despair washes over her as she thinks of that and then it is replaced with a heavy wave of relief because sh

Abigail June Braywood stood in the middle of the Miller Park soccer field as her mother tied her thick, curly, red hair into a tight pony tail. The girls natural strawberry highlights shimmered as the sun shined down on her. The tie was decorated with strands of purple and black ribbon. Abigail represented her team colors proudly. She was squirmy and impatient, as most children her age were. The girl’s mother would describe her as defiant and stubborn. This was her first year playing soccer because she was finally old enough. Looking ahead, the young girl found her team mates running into the field to greet her. She excitedly attempted to escape her mothers grasp, “Abigail June!” her mother yelped at her, “Stop moving!” Abigail’s mother jerked her by her pony tail. Abigail quickly stood at attention; she knew if she heard her middle name called she was about to be in big trouble. Her mother hurried to finish the pony tail; and unpleased with the results, Abigail’s mother sent her to

Note: I've posted a lot of poetry so far, which is odd because I would not consider myself a poet AT ALL. But here is a poem I wrote in February of 2014. Enjoy! :) A Baby Is Coming and It Goes Too Quickly I heard the words leave my mouth, "A baby..." A baby is coming and we are not Ready. We feel the movement inside, maybe. Hopefully we don't have to tie the knot. We try and try to forget what we did. But e'rytime we feel a kick, we remember. We know we are too young to have this kid. Its coming soon, and its not December. I am wondering if it will be a boy. I am wondering if it will be a girl. I'll love it, my little bundle of joy. Overwhelming happiness makes me twirl. There is no more "we" it is just me. Now I cry under this big, old, dead tree. 

The other day I was asked a question. Considering my recent life events and writing topics (not yet posted), I really thought about it. If a God or Deity asked you for your service, would you help them and why? My first thought was to say "No." However, I thought more about it and first I would ask them what they needed. Depending on what it was is where I would politely give my answer. If I were to answer no, it would be because I have already sacrificed my life to whatever planned destiny has been dealt to me. I didn't ask to be here and if I had a choice to say yes or no, I would need a pretty exquisite reason to service whomever is "in charge" and I would hope they would be understanding in explaining why they needed me and what they needed me to do before I made a final decision.

I am a puppy Living in a bubble and My world is You.

I was wearing light blue jeans over my bathing suit and an old band tee that I grabbed from my hamper this morning. i was in a rush to get Melanie to school. One of my black chucks was missing from my left foot. I don’t recall putting socks on before I left the house; you don’t need socks at the beach. The sun visor hung down and the mirror cover was ripped off. I looked myself over, the debris showed no remorse on my body as it pierced through my flesh. My mascara was hardly running (even though it was left on from last night). Blood dripped out of a gash on my forehead; A long strand of my red hair stuck to my wound and the rest, smelling like coconut, hung down with me. I tried to take a deep breath of that sweet coconut smell but the smell of my skin burning and the stench of gasoline was overwhelmingly pungent. I was alone, all alone. My range was tires to the sky and Was stuck inside. “HEEELP! Some one please… HELP!” I screamed as loud as my lungs would let me. Could anyone her

I am not I am not all of these things you tell me I am I am not I am not lazy  I am not mean I am not stupid I am not fat I am not ugly I am not weak I am not I am many things but not those I am  I am busy I am kind I am wise I am strong I am beautiful I am healthy I am  I am not all of the things you tell me I am I am not I am not crazy I am not powerless I am many things but not these I am I am struggling But… I am I am so much better than all these things you tell me I am. By Mackenzie Woodward

Experiment 1: Subway restaurant/ A phone that calls dead people Her mother sat her down at the far end of the dining room table and her mother sat at the head of the table across from her. "It is time I tell you the truth of our family," the mother explained to her daughter. The girl had a puzzled look on her face. The mother went on to explain that their family posses powers which connected them to the "other side" and she was able to communicate with spirits and ghosts. Her mother handed her a new cell phone and said, "I want you to start using your powers to help the dead cross over through purgatory to their final resting place." The girl was confused and distraught by her mothers words. She wondered what she was supposed to do with this phone. She excused herself from the table and as she was stepping out of her house, her mother beckoned, "Expect a call on that phone today." And she closed the door behind her. She had been craving Subwa