Andi Leigh
Bio
Poet • Novelist • Short Story Writer • Photographer • Cartoonist
Hello! I'm Andi. I enjoy writing poetry, horror stories, and general fiction.
Stories (8/0)
Yew Wood Doors
Before my eyes, a door is arranged from shadows—crafted of rich yew wood, inviting yet pressuring simultaneously—and I am hesitant to make contact with the brass knob and fall through to new shadows. I never do know if I can stomach mysteries that approach with such ease. Although I have to know what's there and when I look behind me, no candle beckons. I may hope the door will lock behind me. I know I have no key to return but perhaps one will glisten in the fog for me and I'll be allowed to open more yew wood doors on the other side.
By Andi Leighabout 18 hours ago in Poets
Full Contentment
I saw a turtle with its shell against the sun—soaking in the pleasantries that drifted along the mellow winds. The turtle's little head was held high, eyes closed—not in smugness—but in full contentment. I wished to be that unbothered as I walked by hastily, even though I had no destination impatient for my arrival. The turtle on the rock by the rippling water gave me hope, something to look forward to—that I too could be that content if I allowed myself to be, with my head held high, and no worries to speak of. So I continued my walk at a slower pace and the turtle continued to sunbathe in bliss.
By Andi Leigha day ago in Poets
Wild Waves of Gold
Trembling wheat in the sun-baked winds look like wild waves of gold, skillfully swaying in the glittering day—the fields are an endless and open invitation that calls the free wanderers, the dreamers, and anyone needing a change of pace into its splendor, into its sense of comfortability, into a world separate from the concrete and gray—we may tremble with it—with the wheat spun from the blazing sun, with the carefree visions that may be out of reach for many, including ourselves. The rat race dies here and the unwavering winds bury it in soil while we dance as free as the wheat does.
By Andi Leigh4 days ago in Poets
My Tolerated Self
I'd like to think I'd escape for better days. Even though the needles pricking into my skin may urge me to stay put, we are not meant for boxes and contraptions that will keep us inside. The needles aren't real, they are like bugs crawling on my skin—those feelings will fade with clarity, but some days I am unwilling to step outside of my tolerated self; my bones crumble at the idea of a future uncertain. I'm used to the boxes that keep me in place even though I know I can walk right through them and I'd be fine.
By Andi Leigh6 days ago in Poets
Blueberry Sky
Today I studied the blueberry sky and admired the clouds of cream. My eyes chased the whipped shapes and found it to be such a dream. My heart followed the wind's direction, the devil-may-care breeze. I reached up from the grass that tugged me down, I'll never be tall like the trees—with their branches closer to touching the ocean that is the persisting sky, I'll stay cemented for my life, watching from the hillside. But even so, I'm meant to remain with my feet sown into the ground; it's still a nice thought to think that the vastness will take me around.
By Andi Leigh9 days ago in Poets
Apple
I'll pick up an apple off the ground; with time I can turn it into vinegar. Sweetly smelling and pungent, sugars broken down—ready to aid my daily life, but there are some things it won't be able to fix. Though the process of making something new, waiting for the fermentation to finish, patience through the journey to take care of something that I will bottle with my own hands, is enough to make it seem like everything is where it needs to be. Control is something I gain—simply by picking up an apple before the worms get to it first.
By Andi Leigh10 days ago in Poets
Ideas
I am a human being—full of mistakes, full of ideas—some bad, some not worth letting escape. If they do get out they may act like bees; swarming to find the next filling thing without any regard for practicality. So some ideas fall into a jar to die in the back of the cupboard. Maybe one day they'll resurface—pressure too much to handle and I'll have no choice but to let the bees look for their pollen to make honey. It may not be so bad after all—letting the swarm escape to make something new for me or anyone unfamiliar. It's only a problem when it's wasps unknowingly released. That, I do apologize for.
By Andi Leigh10 days ago in Poets
A Busy Memory
There was sunlight skipping off the road, reflecting off of other cars, making it hard for me to know which way I was flying by. If not for focus, there's no telling where I would land. Maybe I wouldn't land at all but instead continue sailing into the sun, into the light that burns holes where my eyes used to be. I wonder how it would feel to burn up while on the way to something with mundane importance. One moment you could be full of purpose and then in the next, you are nothing more than a busy memory.
By Andi Leigh11 days ago in Poets
