Dreams or Reality

"The slow fingers of cold creep and claw across the land, freezing everything it touches, and turning the wind to a thick, chilled mist that blurs the lines of dream and reality." - Sierra Sugar 2012


Many times I stumble.
Nearly as often I fall.
My head stays in a muddle,
While on hands and knees I crawl.
One step after another.
Mistakes mixed with success.
And through the dark I blunder
From one day to the next.
Yet somehow I found the one
Who's strength of heart and hands,
Hold me when the day is done
And gives me hope to try again.

~sierra sugar 5/12/2014 (For Allen)

Tomorrow is another day

Each sunrise brings with it new hope and promise for the day to come. It reminds us to lift our head, breathe deep, and smile even when life around you is trying to drag you down. Let the tears of your heart water the flowers of hope and watch them bloom in the golden sun. So when that fiery ball of life peeks at you from beyond the horizon, piercing the darkness and lighting the way to what ever tomorrows bring, follow it with a smile because.... tomorrow is another day.

~sierra sugar 5/9/2014

Shadows - a writing assignment

     It was less that he was in the shadows, but that the shadows were drawn to him. His tall frame was obscured by the darkness that seemed to slide around him, drawing closer then circling away. Of course it wasn't real, but merely a trick to the eyes, my eyes as they continued to be drawn to him over and over again. At first glance he appeared to be aloof, a loner trying to hide in the corner. But then the light caught his eyes for the briefest of seconds and caused a chill to slowly trickle down my spine. No, he wasn't hiding, he was predator, a man consumed with the hunt silently blending just at the edge of the crowd. His nondescript clothing gave the illusion of casualness, but his wiry build could be discerned by the way the material draped along his body. Not too tight as to be restrictive, not too loose as to be a hindrance. Well made, I'd even venture to say tailor made just for him. A man of taste and modesty? No, his was a carefully crafted look of camouflage. His demeanor was discrete. His attention intense, and now that attention was turned to me. The corner of his mouth turned up in a half smile, the smallest glint of white from his teeth pierced the shadows around him and my heart stopped with a loud thud. His widened smile was the last thing I saw as my feet struggled to get me far away from that place as quickly as possible.

      ~sierra sugar 4/9/14

Destiny is just around the corner

Nancy rounded the corner in a hurry and came full stop as she slammed into Destiny, who was  gazing into a store window. Agitation obvious in her voice Nancy sputtered, "Well excuse me!" Yet her tone indicated it wasn't an apology. After all Destiny was plainly standing right in the middle of the sidewalk.

Destiny smiled at Nancy, her eyes full of light. At the apex of that smile two dimples puckered her rosy cheeks. Her cheery voice chimed like a bell, "Isn't it wonderful?" She asked.

Unsure what was so wonderful Nancy flashed a half smile, side-stepped Destiny, and offered a hurried "Of course," before continuing on her way. Destiny's eyes shifted from dreamy to determined as she turned to follow Nancy. She would not be overlooked this day!

© sierra sugar 09/01/2013

A Writer's Block

Wake up and pay attention

Have any of you ever seen the movie "Sister Act 2: Back in the Habit"? I love both the Sister Act movies, not just for their musical entertainment, but for the inspiration they instill. A quote from the movie has been a big inspiration for me in pursuing my dream of being a writer. Here is the scene from the movie:

Whoopi: I know you want to sing. See. I love to sing. Nothing makes me happier. I either wanted to be a singer or the head of the Ice Capades. Hey. Do you know who the Ice Capades are? Don't roll your eyes. They were very cool.

I went to my mother who gave me this book...called "Letters To A Young Poet". Rainer Maria Rilke. He's a fabulous writer. A fellow used to write to him and say: "I want to be a writer. Please read my stuff."

And Rilke says to this guy: "Don't ask me about being a writer. lf when you wake up in the morning you can think of nothing but writing...then you're a writer."

I'm gonna say the same thing to you. If you wake up in the mornin' and you can't think of anything but singin' first...then you're supposed to be a singer.

For me, my dream is to be a writer. It's what I wake up in the morning thinking about, it's what follows me to sleep at night. That is my dream. Maybe your dream is to be a singer, or a nurse, perhaps a teacher, or maybe an artist of some other kind. If you wake up in the morning and you can't think of anything else but that dream... then that is what you are supposed to be. Time to stop dreaming. Time to wake and chase that dream. Pay attention to life and opportunities that might present themselves. MAKE your own opportunities. BE that dream that follows you every day.

If you want to be somebody, if you want to go somewhere, you better wake up and pay attention!



Her hair, darker than the storm clouds, clung to the high angles of her cheeks, draped over her soft shoulders, and dripped down the length of her silky back.  Each thick tendril was pulled straight by the weight of the water as it sheeted off saturated glossy midnight strands; a rich contrast of onxy against pearl, both made vibrant and opalescent from the cabochon drops beading on her skin.  Tiny rivulets of moisture tickle and stream around her womanly curves, dipping and teasing and leaving raised bumps of chilled flesh in the wake.

There she sat, a vision of unadulterated loveliness.  There she sat, a woman laid bare and washed clean from the fierce downpour.  As time lingered on counted out by they frantic deluge of sky to land, a frenzied rhythm keeping time with her heart she began to tremble, but not from the frigid air puckering her delicate skin.  There she sat trembling, not from the thick, moist air charged with ozone, nor from the wind as it screamed through the tree branches and lashed at the tall grasses, but from fear of being turned away. 

And then a single word was spoken, ringing out over the cacophonous noise. Pure feeling bubbled over and poured from her eyes to drench the sand; liquid salt lost amidst the torrent saturated the grass, the trees, and the flowers filling them with emotion spilled out from within her trembling soul. 

Her bottom lip quivered, and her voice was but a mere whisper, thick with relief and overcome with joy, she repeated her name with comforting recognition, "Rain..."

(c) sierra sugar 6/16/2013