Angela Grout, Author    

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Creative Writings

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Gesture Choices

Posted by angela.grout@comcast.net on November 29, 2019 at 2:50 AM Comments comments (0)

It takes one gesture to cheer a heart of crusha spirit.

Choose your gestures well.

Feeling Words

Posted by angela.grout@comcast.net on November 26, 2019 at 2:50 AM Comments comments (0)

Do you feel the words when it is written that read...You are Safe, Loved and Always in my Heart.

The Forcecul Evacuation

Posted by angela.grout@comcast.net on October 9, 2019 at 10:05 PM Comments comments (0)

In less that 12 hours, you would leave me.

They told me you left over 12 days ago but I refused to believe.

I wanted to hope.

I needed to hope.

I felt you.

Then I didn't.

Then I wasn't sure.

Amd then I pretended.

Pretended to be mad, sad, and alone; but I knew you were still here.

How dare they judge.

But they proved the truth.

You were never meant to walk this eart.

You merely passed thorugh this world using me to fly through.

With dried up tears, I say thank you.

With a deep breath, I cherish knowing you.

Your presence made footprints which will forever be on my heart.

Your absence created a shadow which will forever force me to find the sun.


April Rain Theme Song ~ Chapter 38 ~ A Blue Jay Knows

Posted by angela.grout@comcast.net on September 9, 2019 at 3:20 PM Comments comments (8)
This poem is titled IDLY BY. It is one of the themes of the novel APRIL RAiN. All words are written and property of AM GROUT. (excuse the layout for this website only offers one kind for these entries.) Time has not passed long here. I've waited to feed your soul. But peace came with a price. I didn't plan to sit idly by. He did not do what he did to me, to you. But what he did to you was try to protect you. That was wrong and now you hear me. A little too late for me, but not for you. I only tried to do what was right. But death came in the dark of the night. I felt the blame, you gave him a name. Your heart feels more pain than us. We want you to heal. Even if we are wrong. It might set something wrong. Life deservers so much more than feeling the rain.

April Rain Poem ~ Chapter 26~ Truths for Trust

Posted by angela.grout@comcast.net on September 9, 2019 at 9:00 AM Comments comments (2)
The attack was sudden and unprovoked. The attack was extreme, especially to me. I wanted to fight, I wanted to run. I tried to live but I had to die. A blue could lifted me to an angelic place. Comfort and cures were all over the place. The memory makes me mad. The truth makes me cringe. He could have stopped. He should have confessed. He could have died, but he feared his fate. When he arrives, I will be here.

April Rain Poem- Chapter 4 ~ Nightly News

Posted by angela.grout@comcast.net on August 30, 2019 at 2:10 PM Comments comments (0)
Good St. Michael Protector of our law enforcement. Watch over them, their families and the community. Keep them safe, Give them courage, Protect their lives, Forgive their faults. Navigate them to overcome all obstacles. Guide righteous actions, Nudge gentle compassion, And in temptation remind respect and honor. The oath is as real as the air unseen. Integrity, Character, Courage, and Accountablity. Serving Truth and providing Trust. Providing what is virtuous and right.

Advice from a Frog

Posted by angela.grout@comcast.net on August 13, 2019 at 9:50 AM Comments comments (0)
I adjusted my eyes to see exactly what I was imagining within the glow of the campfire. The reality of the two little eyes that were staring back at me was real. It was a frog. The little frog had hopped into the firepit and was shivering under a log. Attempting to move the flames away from him, I hoped he would jump out of the pit. He did not. I knew I could not stick my own hand in or I would be burnt, so I pondered what to do as he retracted further into the pit behind some cardboard. I told him to get out but his eyes just blinked at me. We stared at each other for a minute, then I quietly said a prayer that God's will be done, knowing whatever happened was not my fault. I could only do so much, it was just a frog. If it were a child, I obviously would grab the hose to extinguish the flame. I thought to myself, "Its just a frog. What am I suppose to do? I can't just extinguish this fire to save it. So many are enjoying the fire, roasting marshmallows and relaxing in front of it. Should I make a scene?" My mind repeated, "It is just a frog." Instantly I thought of Prince Charming...he was once a frog wasn't he? The story of the Frog and the Princess came to mind, and I imagined some girl losing her prince charming. I grabbed a stick and poked the cardboard sending it flying over the flames, the frog sat there again his eyes looking at me for a split second before he hopped away and out of the firepit. As he landed in the gravel below the rocks surrounding the flames, he paused again and turned his head at me and said, "I should have looked before I leaped into that pit. I assumed it was a safe place but it was too hot for me. I like to swim and splash in the water. Fire is no laughing matter, thank you for giving me room to move, to feel safe, and to live longer." I smiled and knew the truth of Dr. Suess's words, a person is a person no matter how small. One lucky prince is free and he made quite an impact on me.

Red Rose Reflection

Posted by angela.grout@comcast.net on August 8, 2019 at 9:30 AM Comments comments (0)
That man brought those flowers. Paid cash and asked to be anonymous. He was a friend. A friend of hers from high school. He knew she was an addict. He always found her attractive and would have liked to maintain a relationship with her but she chose the drugs over him. Heartbroken, he went on his way and had a successful life in all he did, but always felt like a failure for not being able to help her. Now he was helping, decorating her lonely memorial service with multiple floral designs. Her daughter wondered where they came from, as she sat alone in the room with her mother's ashes. Someone loved her mother besides just her, and the drug dealers and the drugs. The daughter mourned with the friends from the AA. Those friends witnessed her stand before them week after week announcing she was back on track, even though she hadn't had a successful weekend without a drink. She wanted to. She had good intentions. Each week she pleaded for her sobriety and addiction to be in control but it controlled her. She died in her sleep. Her daughter discovering her in the morning laying in her own vomit and covered with track marks. She passed away alone, leaving her only daughter more alone. At the memorial service, there were no words that could bring her back. There was no mentions of any love for her daughter. The flowers stared back at her as she questioned her mothers love and actions. Those drugs took her mother and now all that is left is an urn on the table with a photo of her selfie. And flowers, so many flowers. No card message accompanied these flowers. No sign of where they came from but the fragrance is amazing, and the colors so bright. The red roses burst with their color within the mix of lilies and carnations and snap dragons. Mom loved snap dragons, often stopping to admire the garden at our neighbors. She gave me a red rose once. It was my high school graduation day. I pressed that rose and now found myself reaching for the one next to her picture. There would be no burial. I can not afford that. She sits on my mantle. The rose dried next to her. Some nights I yell at her. Some nights I cry silently asking, "Why?" I don't know who my father is. I don't have any siblings. No cousins to call my own and well her parents just disowned us after I destroyed their house because I didn't want to live with them. I wanted to be with my mom. Mom made it right. She got me back. She got a job and taught me to work too. We split the rent. Now I am alone. I know I need a roommate because I don't want to be alone. There is this guy, he might want in, but I am afraid he wants more than just a room. But I am afraid and along, and broke with only this home. Mom placed her drink on that mantle and now all that is there is what the drinks didn't take of her. That is not the mother I want. Two years have passed and now I carry my own daughter within me, I know how much mom did love me. For over twelve years she did. Until that guy impressed with her more than drinks! My guy didn't impress me with a drink, he carefully created a shrine to place my mother in so that he could be thankful that she made me who I am. His arms welcomed me, and his knee asked for me. All of me. The lonely, the scared, the mad, and the scarred. And I felt his love growing inside of me and realized it was a part of me which was once a part of the goodness she was for me. Thank you mom for bringing me into this world. I am not mad at you for leaving, just the why and how. I understand your loneliness and I know you were never lonely when I was with you. Now I am without you, and I look at your shrine and pray for your love to shine down on us now. Then the stars on the Christmas tree twinkled with a glow that led my eyes to the picture tucked under the urn. I forgot it was there, I put it there on a dark angry night, refusing to look at that selfie. I called her selfish, but now I know it is me being selfish for not letting my love for her show. I lifted the urn, and hugged the photo. With a light kiss on her lips I leaned it on her remains. After the birth of my daughter, my husband brought me two gifts. One was a small portrait of mom that he commissioned a painter to paint. All framed and ready to sit in her shrine. The other was a red rose.

Fluttering Eyelids

Posted by angela.grout@comcast.net on June 18, 2019 at 3:00 AM Comments comments (0)
Water falls caressing the earth. Nurturing its blooms. The water falling from your fluttering eyelids will eventually guide you to grow. No need to dry the tears for they will heal the wound.

Effective Words Affect Me

Posted by angela.grout@comcast.net on October 31, 2018 at 3:00 PM Comments comments (0)

When I pick up a pen, I often pause to consider if a story is worth writing. I make this decision by how the inspiration and the influences that surround the idea of the story affects me. If the story affects me to the point that I must sit and write, I set a timer, and do it.

I seldom pause when writing with a pen in hand, therefore the scribbles are most likely only legible to me. I once tried to learn shorthand so that I could write faster, but the dashes and slashes and symbols were too forieng to understand.

The cool thing about handwritten rough drafts is that I can abbreviate, use private symbols or even write the word "ELAB" when I want to elaborate more in the typed version of the story. Typing the rough draft is easy, editing is not so easy. When typing the words I slow down seeing the edtis that need to be made such as punctuation, verb tense, and spacing.

My type A personality doesn't allow me to h and editing over to just anyone. My trusted sources provide me with what I need, yet I am still responsible to make the final edits, something I want to let go of a little. Every page I type, I can get sidetracked wihtthe  aesthetics of the layour. But truth is I just want the storiues to be as pleasing as the visual words on the page.

The reality is the effective words on the pages in some of my stroies may not bring peave when the cover closes, but they will certainly affect the reader.

In my journals and my everyday life, my writins are often reflective. In the stories I write, I have many moments where I reflecgt on the what ifs, whys and the what would I have done in that circumsatance. I suppose that is the way effective writings work. An effective story, has words that provide an effective way to affect someone's thoughts. They certainly have affected me or I wouldn't have picked up the pen.


(Submitted to Write Angles Conference 2018 )


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