The Last Words

She stood there staring at the words on the screen. Her fingers rushed clumsily over the keyboard to tap out some retort. Paragraphs written and erased. Daydreams about conversations that they should have face to face, but wouldn’t seem to overcrowd her mind. What could she say? Would any of it make a difference? No. The answer was always no.

Thinking back to the last time she saw him and tried desperately to not care was a memory that seem to scratch at the back of her mind daily. It was a faded memory, nothing tangible, nothing to really cling to except his words.

They drew her in and she couldn’t help but to feel something. Was it love? Was it just shared passion for words? Now, she knew he would be like the others and yet nothing like them at all.

He would just be words on the screen. Words that maybe she’d give life to in a character and she could imagine how he would act in her imaginary world. This made her incredibly sad though, because it was her narcissistic ways that made her pull strings like a puppet master, controlling the situation, the conversation. Dominating the attention and jealous if it faltered.

There was a sickness in this love story. A sickness that she would never quite get a handle over. It would rule over her as her master and leave a devastation of broken hearts and strings. She couldn’t regain control. She couldn’t even maintain friendship. She watched them all leave her one by one.

Deported, dead, and distant.

She scratches at the wounds, watching it fester. Welcoming the pain because it’s something that can be felt. She knows how wrong it is.

She gives in. She responds when she shouldn’t. She’s angry because she wanted the last words and he wouldn’t let her have them.

Truthfully, he was right. She does need to stay because somewhere she has the capacity to love.  It might not always be an honest love. It might feel more like a routine, but there should be peace in what’s known. Peace in what’s real, peace in what IS tangible.

Forget trying to hang on, despite loving him back. She lets go even when it looks like she’s still reaching out for a hand to save her. She isn’t going to look back again. She’s going to turn around and give in to the peace. The calm.

Letting go of everything else.

Broken and desperate to feel alive again, she picks up the pieces and steps into the light.

“ I think about you all the time though.”

Why?

Because I love you.

Fan Fiction

In an attempt to push myself to write more I have restructured some old works and characters and dumped them into a fan fiction site. I feel kind of dirty just admitting it, but I’m stalled so I thought it might be fun to try. My hope is work on my storytelling without having to develop my own characters right now. All of my muses are gone so I’ve had a tough time in the character department. I’m working on a Supernatural AU fiction right now because I’m familiar enough with the characters and the actors playing those characters that I can confidently write their dialogue. What I’ve learned so far is how to build a story that shows each character’s arc. They all go through a transformation throughout the story and if I can do that with pre-developed characters I should be able to transfer that to some of my own characters that I plan to throw into the story. So, if you are a fan of Supernatural, fan fiction, or writers making an absolute fool of themselves, you should check it out. I’m writing under the name ashsrvnge.

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/12948030/1/Crash-and-Burn

Poetry: Lost at Sea (collab w/ j.x.griff on Instagram)

You can find me on Instagram at wordsmith217

Clarity in the form of confusion

I remember writing stories in grade school. We had to write one each week and I always waited until the night before it was due to start working on it. I would erase through sheets of paper, flicking bits of the cheap pink eraser all over the place and leaving smudges of dark lead wherever the words didn’t flow seamlessly. I was critical of every single word. I hated my voice and had many verbal altercations with myself over the prompts that were given to us. They were filled with whimsy and so many beautiful possibilities awaited us, the young writers of tomorrow, yet they paralyzed me because I couldn’t push past the perfectionist soul inside me screaming, “No! Don’t write that. This is horrible.”

I remember waiting each week for the teacher to pick her favorite to share with the class. I remember the excitement that would build after lunch that was a mixture of actual anticipation and a little cafeteria pizza induced indigestion. The class would all sit in what I like to imagine -a collective group of overjoyed student-writers. Likely, no one else really cared and they were just relieved they didn’t have to fish pencils from their brightly colored pencil boxes to take a timed multiplication drill.

Our teacher shared with us our stories and she would also share with us trips to Narnia through wardrobes, tales of fourth grade nothings, witches, and a chocolate factory. Her love for reading and writing became my passion. I dreamt of being a writer from childhood and teachers like her convinced me that it was a worthy dream, despite the worlds view on writers and artists. They are, after all, one in the same.

I became a teacher instead. I wanted to take the same approach as many of my former teachers. I wanted to encourage my students to love writing and storytelling. I wanted them to be as passionate about reading as I was. I tried and I failed. I walked away after a few short years in the profession. It drained me emotionally, financially, and somehow even spiritually. It was exhausting and rarely rewarding experience where I learned I dislike children and many adults. What to do now?

I worked in customer service and finally landed in my current job. Administrative Assistant for an insurance company. Many days I still have an ache for writing and not just tho blog or an Instagram that boasts of my tens of readers and occasional “likes” that I’m sure are from robots and no actual humans. I’m left wanting more. Always. I crave feedback for the random ideas that pop into my head. I love writing with other people even if the words never reach anyone’s eyes. I have been fortunate to have a handful of beta readers for lack of better terminology. They might not have been qualified to sing my praises as a writer, but it sure as hell was nice to feel the appreciation in real time and I would bask in it. Truthfully, everyone thinks themselves writers now. Everyone’s opinions are plastered on the internet and they are ripped apart by the public daily.

So where does that leave me? I have almost a nonexistent fan base and/or readership. I’ve somehow pushed everyone that used to care away.

At what point do you stop? I write to make connections with people, but if there are no people to write for where does that leave you?

The Delilah Diaries: Samson is Dead!

His strength is gone and only his bones remain. They buried him in the spring.

Without flowers, there is no spring.

Without him, there’s only the rain.

He gave me this name when he shared a song.

I’m lost without him.

It all feels wrong and empty.

He was amused by my stories and he’d read them all.

He begged me for help and I let him fall.

Delilah really was Samson’s undoing. She cut his hair and he became nothing.

I could have saved him, I think.

I didn’t have to walk away and let him suffer alone.

Samson didn’t deserve to die. Delilah’s hands are covered in his blood, screaming to God….”why?”

Did you let him in when he came to the gate? Did you push him away like I did? Did you save from the hell he had been living in for years? Did you rescue him and reunite him with his father?

He was broken and alone. He waited and no help came. He wanted to love, but wasn’t given the choice.

Did you cry for his mother? Did you save his soul?

Delilah is broken. She is alone. She needs to believe in something more than what she’s been given.

Bitten

So, I’ve either been bitten by the world’s tiniest vampire or a giant spider. I’m still ruling out a drunk mosquito with really bad aim although my left breast would disagree. I better get a superpower out of this.

 

365 Day Challenge Day 75

July 30

Drawing a blank.

When was the last time you walked away from a discussion, only to think of The Perfect Comeback hours later? Recreate the scene for us, and use your winning line.

Recreate the scene for us, and use your winning line.

I had this conversation with my daughter the other day.  I was remembering my days in middle school. It was pretty bad. I was picked on constantly and I really didn’t want to live. I could never figure out how to ignore the other kids. I tried to pretend I didn’t hear them calling me Rat. I was Hilda, the albino Rat King on steroids.

They threw cheese at me during lunch. One time, they made me a paper crown because you know, King of the Rats and all. I’m still not sure why they thought Rat King instead of Rat Queen? Maybe they thought I wasn’t a girl. Who knows. Teenagers are stupid.

I thought the other day that if I could have embraced the name then I might have been able to turn it around. I could have worn a Minnie Mouse headband every day. I could have found a cheese backpack or purse. I could have taken what they used against me and then they would have lost some of their power over me.

So maybe it took me 20 something years to figure it out. I would love to see if it could have worked.

I remember the day it all ended.

I left Middle School and convinced my parents to send me to a different High School. I wouldn’t have to see them anymore. I went to the mall over the summer and saw one of them working at Dantes Pizza. I was imagining the horrific experience of being offered Cheese Pizza because…Rat King was here.

I walked up to the counter. He looked right at me.

“What can I get you, A?”

He said my name. He knew my actual name. He didn’t call me Rat. It was over. They grew up. Finally.

Real Life via Text Message

Sorry scared.

That this is not real.

Worthwhile

You know me

You’re married, for fucks sake.

I’m not.

You have everything to lose. I don’t. I have lost everything already.

Sorry for the apprehension.

But do you feel me?

No answer?

I wish she was mine. So at least you would have some real tie against me.

But you don’t.

You say I love you. But marry another?

Convenient?

A house together?

What did I expect?

True love? Some Princess Bride shit?

I want the movies but end with reality.

I’m here, you’re there. And nothing is going to change it.

I love you, but you chose.

I never did.

I mean why? After all these years? You find me in Rhode Island?

Why did you call?

Fuck sakes…

You are my light and my darkness.

So end this with the silent treatment cause you are with your husband and I am alone.

Just the way YOU left me.

Not written by me- just posted here by me.

Our Broken Story

Rage.

Not jealousy.

Not pain.

Not distrust.

Just rage.

Everything was punctuated by this emotion that felt like anger, but it was so much stronger and deadlier if left unchecked.

She stood there in the tiny kitchen of her apartment wearing only a shirt while she enthusiastically stirred the batter for a pancake breakfast that would now go uneaten. Blissfully unaware of the battle that she was about to encounter she welcomed his hand touching her shoulder.

He’d seen it from across the room and only moved closer to verify his suspicion. His thoughts were racing. Did he kiss her neck last night? No. The verdict was in. He did not do this. With each thought, each breath, each violently increased heartbeat- the truth was finally clear. Her distance, her aloofness.

“There is a mark on your neck.”

Fear.

Paranoia.

More fear.

Think.

Lie.

“What?! I told you to be careful because the slightest touch causes me to bruise.”

The room started to spin. There was nowhere to run and hide. Her hair was too short to pull over the exposed skin.

Panic.

Questioning, “did that work?”

Lies.

Words were thrown like knives, cutting deep and leaving permanent scars that would be the battle scars of this war.

Fighting.

Always fighting.

Crying.

More lies.

Searching for the reasons and finding none.

No answers.

Only an addiction.

He is her drug.

She is his.

The fight subsides and the pain is pushed down deep, into the darkest part of their souls and they push forward in hopes of finding happiness.

She looks into his eyes and can still see the rage, the pain, the jealousy. She’s killing him and yet, she knows no other way.

He looks at her and tries to find hope in this dismal abyss of hurt and is only comforted by her touch. He’s convinced himself for the moment that she’ll change.

Sadness.

Forgiveness.

Lies.

 

 

Time and Space

She regrets everything and nothing and  like everything in else in her life it creates chaos. No one has been able to make her see that her pain will be her own undoing. Her pain is beauty. She revels in it because it feels artful to surround herself with excessive amounts of passion and raw unadulterated emotion.

His anger feeds her soul;he clings to her for life and for his future. They are built upon madness and joined together by their sins. A strong, but disconcerting union is the foundation in which their house stands. No one understands it, but it is the simplest form of love. They are not as complex as they thought. They simply desire more-more than they currently have and more than they ever had. They just need each other so they can feel alive because when they are apart the space feels like a thousand miles and a universe away.