For my English class we had to write six different kinds of poems. This one is a "personal reaction to a place." I read it out loud in class and I think people were caught off-guard. Success.

By Elizabeth Gosney

Everything brown.
Hell is not red with flames,
for it is brown.
I have seen it.
I have lived it.

And Hell,
It is brown.
Four walls blue.
A bedroom in Hell is not black with soot, 
for it is blue.
I have seen it. 
I have lived it.

I flew to Hell on metal wings
in a polyester seat,
eating a bag of stale peanuts.
I arrived in Hell and it was cold,
nearly frozen.
Fitting, I think.

Before, I had lived as a troll in the forest
where everything was green.
I would pick berries, squeezing the purple juice
into my throat between my tongue and cheek.
I picked another, a defensive thorn
slid into my flesh.
The red juice squeezed out between my fingertips.

There are no berries in Hell.
Only brown.
But I would take the red without the purple there, 
if only just to feel like a troll again.

Everything brown.
Except in the pit. There it is copper.
Precious metal.
Filthy lucre.
The reason for Hell to exist.

When the copper fails, Hell will stay.
The demons will move on.
The brown will stay.
The blue walls will fade.
The brown will stay.

Everything brown.


Five of 13 nieces and nephews. Dang, we gots some good lookin' kids in our family.


Brianna and Gage




We were bored last night, so we went up into the canyon and wandered around one of the many parks, taking pictures and laughing at our ridiculousness.

Sarah and me, jumping over a poll.
"Hey guys, Chad fell down."

Jacob wanted to be different.

Good form, Kathryn. And Sandra, well, it was good until you biffed it on the landing. ;o)
(No worries, she was OK.)


Thomas went with me to the Phi Kappa Phi initiation banquet. We got a free dinner and made snide remarks about the "pagan ritual" at a religious school. It was fun, especially when we set our forks down while still chewing our last bite, bid our fellow table-dwellers a good night and left without listening to the speakers that were to follow. 

Oh, and p.s., Phi Kappa Phi is a national academic honor society, not some crazy society that practices lewd or questionable rituals. Promise.

2.6.10 #2


I took a drive on my scooter today. It was warm enough. 
I wanted to clear my head. That objective is much harder to achieve when wearing a helmet. It was a nice drive anyway. 

Do you ever feel like you're doing everything wrong, but you're too scared to change it? Do you ever feel like you're doing everything right but it just isn't enough? Somehow I feel both ways at the same time. 

But hey, my hair looks good. ;o)


© 2010 E. Gosney

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[p.s. Happy Birthday Kelsey!]


About Face
A personal essay by Elizabeth Gosney

Some people say they can't see it. I know they're lying. How can they not see it when it is plastered all over my face? Quite literally, actually, because it is my face. Crooked, limp, lopsided and, since the day it happened seven years ago, forever altered.
Before I go any further, let me clarify something. This story, this narrative, is not a dramatic account of a tragic accident that drastically changed the course of my life comparable to a made-for-TV movie. My life was changed, yes, and at the time it seemed like a tragic thing, but the paralysis of half my face turned out to be a grand adventure — one of self-discovery, of adaptation, and of realizing my face reflects who I am more now than it ever did before my smile went limp and my eye refused to blink.
I was in the ninth grade — a self-conscious girl who walked quickly, dressed like a boy, and spoke hesitantly in public. I was a wallflower, a corner-dweller, and I preferred to soak in life through observation more often than through participation. True confidence was only exuded by my awkward frame when I was on the softball field. I could play any position, from catcher to left field, and I was respected for it. My teammates didn’t make me captain or look to me as their leader, but they knew they could count on me, and that was good enough.  
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