Sandra Fitzgerald's Blog
June 6, 2017
The Reserved Space
The challenge was to write a short story based on the topic, The Reserved Space. I was stumped for a long while and wasn't sure which direction to take this tale, so I simply began to write. As it turned out it became a tale of woe.
One of my objectives was to leave you thinking, asking questions. I hope I got there in the end.
Happy Reading.
A Reserved Space
©Sandra Fitzgerald May 2017
She sits with her hands cupped in her lap, her fingers slack; the energy to entwine them has long since escaped. Her skirt rides up annoyingly to expose more of her bruised, thinning legs than she cares to, but not enough about to make an adjustment. Her back is straight and are shoulders square, even though her chest aches while her heart struggles to be invested. Every thick, weighty beat more laborious than the previous.
Such a callous and uncaring thing that it is, the world continues on as it does… as it will. People wake, they live… they belong.
A ruckus half-heartedly distracts her from her empty thoughts. She indifferently raises her eyes from the mesmerising scuff mark on the highly polished, concrete floor to see teens jostle and laugh, drape loose arms over shoulders before they turn to order at the counter.
They dart curious eyes around the over-filled room as they speak. The larger, blonde boy pauses on the lady sitting alone at a table set for six, his brows crossing in annoyance as his brilliant blues spot the stainless steel place card before they roll to the ceiling. A heavy huff passes through his nostrils while he turns slightly to say something to the teenager closest to him. After a beat the second boy follows his friends gaze and frowns. His expression soon becomes a perfect match to the blonde. He nudges a young girl with his elbow before nodding in the lady’s direction. Her appearance doesn’t morph as expected; instead the doe-eyed girl takes a moment to study the lady. She takes in her ill-fitting, brown cardigan, buttoned firmly all the way to the very top. She notices that one crisp, white collar is jutting out oddly, the other neatly tucked into place. The young girl’s frown pinches for an entirely different reason than her friends. Her heart sinks and her stomach stirs, only she can’t quite explain why.
Without losing her focus, she gently jostles the dark haired boys arm, shaking her head in a subtle, no. She licks her lips to help hide her sadness, replacing her frown with a sombre, lopsided smile that does little for the weight in her chest but does, however, elevate the stirring in her stomach.
Her instinct is to go to the lady, but the young, doe-eyed girl doesn’t. Perhaps because of her youth, perhaps it’s because of fear, either way her inaction will haunt her. Creep into her dreams and turn them into nightmares.
The teenagers collect their drinks then weave their way to the back of the crowed room placing them at the opposite side to the lady. A full wall of glass allows for the stunning cliff face and crashing waves to add to the theatrics to come.
A joke is shared, laughter bellowed, and soon the small group have all but forgotten the easily forgotten.
The too-thin lady sitting alone at a table set for six, wearing a tight knitted cardigan with a miss-matched collar mechanically reaches for her handbag. She unclips the catch and slips her small hand inside, all without taking her focus off the server working with fluid confidence. The cool metal wrapped in her palm gives her the confidence she needs as she stands surprisingly steadily. Her skirt slips effortlessly to below her knees restricts the size of her gait, but she takes unexpectedly steadfast paces to the counter. She smiles. It’s small and takes effort, but it’s a smile nonetheless. Her hand, still in her bag, clutches tighter before she draws the gun and presses the slim barrel firmly against the server’s forehead. Her watery eyes rise upwards and her sad smile broadens in a sorrowful goodbye.
There’s a jarring explosion. Collective gasps and shrieks from people who become statues of shock and disbelief. The server’s corpse is sent flying into a wall of condiments quickly followed by a melody of shrill screams, the statues become reactive. Then there’s another deafening eruption… and then…
The callous and uncaring thing that it is, the world continues on as it does… as it will. People wake, they live… they belong.
Love Big & Love Hard
Sandra
One of my objectives was to leave you thinking, asking questions. I hope I got there in the end.
Happy Reading.
A Reserved Space
©Sandra Fitzgerald May 2017
She sits with her hands cupped in her lap, her fingers slack; the energy to entwine them has long since escaped. Her skirt rides up annoyingly to expose more of her bruised, thinning legs than she cares to, but not enough about to make an adjustment. Her back is straight and are shoulders square, even though her chest aches while her heart struggles to be invested. Every thick, weighty beat more laborious than the previous.
Such a callous and uncaring thing that it is, the world continues on as it does… as it will. People wake, they live… they belong.
A ruckus half-heartedly distracts her from her empty thoughts. She indifferently raises her eyes from the mesmerising scuff mark on the highly polished, concrete floor to see teens jostle and laugh, drape loose arms over shoulders before they turn to order at the counter.
They dart curious eyes around the over-filled room as they speak. The larger, blonde boy pauses on the lady sitting alone at a table set for six, his brows crossing in annoyance as his brilliant blues spot the stainless steel place card before they roll to the ceiling. A heavy huff passes through his nostrils while he turns slightly to say something to the teenager closest to him. After a beat the second boy follows his friends gaze and frowns. His expression soon becomes a perfect match to the blonde. He nudges a young girl with his elbow before nodding in the lady’s direction. Her appearance doesn’t morph as expected; instead the doe-eyed girl takes a moment to study the lady. She takes in her ill-fitting, brown cardigan, buttoned firmly all the way to the very top. She notices that one crisp, white collar is jutting out oddly, the other neatly tucked into place. The young girl’s frown pinches for an entirely different reason than her friends. Her heart sinks and her stomach stirs, only she can’t quite explain why.
Without losing her focus, she gently jostles the dark haired boys arm, shaking her head in a subtle, no. She licks her lips to help hide her sadness, replacing her frown with a sombre, lopsided smile that does little for the weight in her chest but does, however, elevate the stirring in her stomach.
Her instinct is to go to the lady, but the young, doe-eyed girl doesn’t. Perhaps because of her youth, perhaps it’s because of fear, either way her inaction will haunt her. Creep into her dreams and turn them into nightmares.
The teenagers collect their drinks then weave their way to the back of the crowed room placing them at the opposite side to the lady. A full wall of glass allows for the stunning cliff face and crashing waves to add to the theatrics to come.
A joke is shared, laughter bellowed, and soon the small group have all but forgotten the easily forgotten.
The too-thin lady sitting alone at a table set for six, wearing a tight knitted cardigan with a miss-matched collar mechanically reaches for her handbag. She unclips the catch and slips her small hand inside, all without taking her focus off the server working with fluid confidence. The cool metal wrapped in her palm gives her the confidence she needs as she stands surprisingly steadily. Her skirt slips effortlessly to below her knees restricts the size of her gait, but she takes unexpectedly steadfast paces to the counter. She smiles. It’s small and takes effort, but it’s a smile nonetheless. Her hand, still in her bag, clutches tighter before she draws the gun and presses the slim barrel firmly against the server’s forehead. Her watery eyes rise upwards and her sad smile broadens in a sorrowful goodbye.
There’s a jarring explosion. Collective gasps and shrieks from people who become statues of shock and disbelief. The server’s corpse is sent flying into a wall of condiments quickly followed by a melody of shrill screams, the statues become reactive. Then there’s another deafening eruption… and then…
The callous and uncaring thing that it is, the world continues on as it does… as it will. People wake, they live… they belong.
Love Big & Love Hard
Sandra
August 1, 2016
Another Writing Challenge... Ahh... Better late than never...?
Here is July's short story. I couldn't get my head around June's challenge unfortunately and as a result, didn't get the words down.
Never mind. On wards and upwards and all that...
While everything I write doesn't always rock my world, my objective is to post the story anyway. At the end of the day,what we like comes down to personal opinion.
Opinions will always differ.
Thankfully not everything is for everyone.
Here's to individualism!
Sooo....
Here it is.
Hope you enjoy my words.
Love Big & Love Hard
Sandra :)
Underneath it all.
©Sandra Fitzgerald July 2016
The stylish man went into the store. He clapped his hands and then gave them a rub as he scanned the merchandise eagerly. He was a lean man who appeared taller than he actually was thanks to his square shoulders and erect spine. His clothes fit him well, though his white shirt was slightly off colour. His brown shoes were polished. His tie, tied tight and sitting firmly in place.
‘What’s new?’ he all but bellowed, with a smile set with practiced ease.
The sales assistants flocked, how could they not? The man had so much charm it covered them like a comforting blanket, his charisma verging on overwhelmingly addictive. The defenceless staff couldn’t help not be drawn to him.
The man held out an open hand at the lucky candidate. The salesman’s heart leapt as he felt the man’s grip tighten, applying the perfect amount of pressure, before raising his arm to lead the way to the back of the store.
Coffee was made and a great discussion had. Topics such as needs and wants, the latest clothing trends, the gusts of the cold winds outside and the two new cars the man was debating were spoken about in much detail.
The man nodded and smiled demurely at all the offerings; though in actuality he couldn’t tell the difference from one garment to the next. However, he had new-found faith in the salesman. He now trusted him, you see, to make the right decision for him.
The man looked down, and then sat his long fingers heavily on the salesman’s shoulder, squeezing a little more firmly than needed. He’d had enough of looking at yet another blue suit.
With much nervous fan-fair, the salesman sought out an empty change room, and opened the door. He quickly unwrapped a brand-new crisp, white cotton shirt instead of using the more traditional “try on” option as he would for other customers. Fumbling more than once on the excessive packaging, he hoped the man didn’t notice his anxiety. His desperation to please was starting to get the better of him.
The shirt was hung on a hook to the right. The carefully folded trousers were placed gently on the wooden slats below it. The salesman asked if there was anything else the man needed, with an offer to fetch him more coffee. The man thanked him, taking him up on his offer before the door was carefully closed for him.
The salesman rushed with as much grace as possible through the busy store. Hurriedly closing the panels behind him, he frantically turned the kettle on to heat a glass specifically designed for this particular purpose. He bent awkwardly, feeling the niggling discomfort in his hip, to retrieve the milk from the mini-fridge set into a make-shift opening beneath the bench.
Unconsciously arching his back in search of the ever-elusive relief, he steadied himself to prepare the ultra-modern coffee machine. No one knew how much pride he took in preparing and producing the perfect latté, or the tremendous joy it brought him when he saw the satisfaction on his customers faces.
Returning to the store, the salesman found the man chatting to another staff member. He felt his brow furrow slightly and a thickening in his throat before he made a conscious effort to force away the fear of losing another sale.
Turning up the corners of his mouth, he passed the man the perfectly-made latté, crossed one arm over his torso and lifted his fingers to his chin in contemplation. It was good, but not great. The shirt was exactly the right size, amplifying his slight frame to give him the illusion of a more masculine physique. The trousers however, could be better.
‘No,’ the salesman stated lowly, disappearing in the throng of hanging apparel before producing another pair of pants.
Once again he opened the dressing room door for the man and ever-so-carefully rested the new trousers on the bench, asking if he would be so kind as to try on them on.
The man’s smile grew, causing his sunken cheeks to crease. He placed his half empty coffee on a nearby table and let the salesman close the door after him.
The one-sided debate over vehicle choices ensued before the salesman heard a thump, followed quickly by a grunt. Without thinking he swung open the dressing room door and immediately froze. After an uncomfortable pause, the salesman smiled apologetically as he curled his warm toes inside of his leather shoes. He quickly set the lock back in place to give the man his much needed privacy.
In that exact moment the salesman, with his sickly wife resting on their overstuffed couch at home, had realised something.
The man, with all his pomp and swagger, with more charm that any one man should be allowed… put his pants on one leg at a time. He had to button his button and raise his zip… like any other man.
But this man? This particular man balancing, red-faced on one foot in the change room of a humble department store? He had holes in his socks.
Strip away the layers, remove the falsehoods, the showman, the persona and you’re left with a man.
A man with a life like any other, with the same highs and lows, good times and bad.
You see… underneath it all… he was still just a man.
Never mind. On wards and upwards and all that...
While everything I write doesn't always rock my world, my objective is to post the story anyway. At the end of the day,what we like comes down to personal opinion.
Opinions will always differ.
Thankfully not everything is for everyone.
Here's to individualism!
Sooo....
Here it is.
Hope you enjoy my words.
Love Big & Love Hard
Sandra :)
Underneath it all.
©Sandra Fitzgerald July 2016
The stylish man went into the store. He clapped his hands and then gave them a rub as he scanned the merchandise eagerly. He was a lean man who appeared taller than he actually was thanks to his square shoulders and erect spine. His clothes fit him well, though his white shirt was slightly off colour. His brown shoes were polished. His tie, tied tight and sitting firmly in place.
‘What’s new?’ he all but bellowed, with a smile set with practiced ease.
The sales assistants flocked, how could they not? The man had so much charm it covered them like a comforting blanket, his charisma verging on overwhelmingly addictive. The defenceless staff couldn’t help not be drawn to him.
The man held out an open hand at the lucky candidate. The salesman’s heart leapt as he felt the man’s grip tighten, applying the perfect amount of pressure, before raising his arm to lead the way to the back of the store.
Coffee was made and a great discussion had. Topics such as needs and wants, the latest clothing trends, the gusts of the cold winds outside and the two new cars the man was debating were spoken about in much detail.
The man nodded and smiled demurely at all the offerings; though in actuality he couldn’t tell the difference from one garment to the next. However, he had new-found faith in the salesman. He now trusted him, you see, to make the right decision for him.
The man looked down, and then sat his long fingers heavily on the salesman’s shoulder, squeezing a little more firmly than needed. He’d had enough of looking at yet another blue suit.
With much nervous fan-fair, the salesman sought out an empty change room, and opened the door. He quickly unwrapped a brand-new crisp, white cotton shirt instead of using the more traditional “try on” option as he would for other customers. Fumbling more than once on the excessive packaging, he hoped the man didn’t notice his anxiety. His desperation to please was starting to get the better of him.
The shirt was hung on a hook to the right. The carefully folded trousers were placed gently on the wooden slats below it. The salesman asked if there was anything else the man needed, with an offer to fetch him more coffee. The man thanked him, taking him up on his offer before the door was carefully closed for him.
The salesman rushed with as much grace as possible through the busy store. Hurriedly closing the panels behind him, he frantically turned the kettle on to heat a glass specifically designed for this particular purpose. He bent awkwardly, feeling the niggling discomfort in his hip, to retrieve the milk from the mini-fridge set into a make-shift opening beneath the bench.
Unconsciously arching his back in search of the ever-elusive relief, he steadied himself to prepare the ultra-modern coffee machine. No one knew how much pride he took in preparing and producing the perfect latté, or the tremendous joy it brought him when he saw the satisfaction on his customers faces.
Returning to the store, the salesman found the man chatting to another staff member. He felt his brow furrow slightly and a thickening in his throat before he made a conscious effort to force away the fear of losing another sale.
Turning up the corners of his mouth, he passed the man the perfectly-made latté, crossed one arm over his torso and lifted his fingers to his chin in contemplation. It was good, but not great. The shirt was exactly the right size, amplifying his slight frame to give him the illusion of a more masculine physique. The trousers however, could be better.
‘No,’ the salesman stated lowly, disappearing in the throng of hanging apparel before producing another pair of pants.
Once again he opened the dressing room door for the man and ever-so-carefully rested the new trousers on the bench, asking if he would be so kind as to try on them on.
The man’s smile grew, causing his sunken cheeks to crease. He placed his half empty coffee on a nearby table and let the salesman close the door after him.
The one-sided debate over vehicle choices ensued before the salesman heard a thump, followed quickly by a grunt. Without thinking he swung open the dressing room door and immediately froze. After an uncomfortable pause, the salesman smiled apologetically as he curled his warm toes inside of his leather shoes. He quickly set the lock back in place to give the man his much needed privacy.
In that exact moment the salesman, with his sickly wife resting on their overstuffed couch at home, had realised something.
The man, with all his pomp and swagger, with more charm that any one man should be allowed… put his pants on one leg at a time. He had to button his button and raise his zip… like any other man.
But this man? This particular man balancing, red-faced on one foot in the change room of a humble department store? He had holes in his socks.
Strip away the layers, remove the falsehoods, the showman, the persona and you’re left with a man.
A man with a life like any other, with the same highs and lows, good times and bad.
You see… underneath it all… he was still just a man.
May 4, 2016
April in May...
I'm a little late posting the monthly writing challenge this round... life and all that getting in the way stuff. Never mind.
The topic was 'Perfume', but it came with an added challenge - we had to mix two genres. You know... horror and comedy or suspense and drama and so forth. I instantly wanted to write something lusty but suspenseful.
Lust and suspense...
...and perfume
...hmmm.
How to make perfume lusty with a side of suspense...?
Or suspenseful with a side of lust...
How indeed...
What was I thinking?
Anyhooo... this is what I came up with.
Happy reading!
Left Drowning
©Sandra Fitzgerald April 2016
He’s all around me… over me… inside of me. He’s my everything… my only thing.
My bound legs are stiff, my back aches and the raw chaffing on my wrists burn, but none of it matters. He’s the only thing that’s essential – as air is to my lungs, he is to my life.
My heart beats heavy, painstaking thuds, each one more difficult than the last – each one more essential than any other.
Pins and needles attack my feet as a large hand engulfs my throat, causing my head to automatically tilt back welcomingly. His thumb caresses the ridges of my windpipe, pressing gently, but purposely. His warm breath feather’s across my face, his cologne, God… his scent… the one I love as much as him, sends my olfactory system into hysterics. I could breathe him in for an eternity and still never get enough.
I still desperately crave to wrap myself up inside of his much broader, stronger frame and relish the way he holds me, the way he allows me to believe I’m wanted, needed… desired. I yearn to press my mouth against his soft, full lips and kiss him deeply… to have him kiss me back. My pulse soars at the thought alone. The possibility of the reality leaves me in blank confusion; the idea is so fantastic, it’s completely beyond comprehension. I love this man beyond comprehension, beyond rationality.
I inhale an anguished, congested breath through my nose. The runny snot catches in my throat and causes me to choke out scratching coughs.
It causes him to tighten his grip to bruising. Suffocating. I don’t flinch away. Instead I try to lean in closer. I try… I’m tied too tightly to move more than a few centimeters.
My skin prickles and my eyes still manage to fill with heartbreaking, salty tears under the pressure of my forced darkness. We had so much together and now… now we have this. He’s everything to me, but I’m not to him. To him I’m so much more… and so much less…
He’s so close… so very close that I can feel the weight of his masculine body hover over me. He swallows my whispered gasp as the play of moist, air-light pressure trails from my left earlobe, along the span of my jaw, hovering torturously out of reach of my mouth, before continuing along the other side of my face. My thundering heart is not my own. It hasn’t been for the longest time. He owns it. He owns all of me. I would give him anything he asks, do anything he wants without question, without hesitation.
I’m a fool.
Sharpness spears under my chin as his thumbnail forces my head further back and my spine to arch. My lungs fill so deeply with the sudden injection of pain, I can taste his cologne. It sears my sinuses and scores my throat… God… my… God… I love the way he smells. It’s a high like no other, an addictively consuming need that annihilates me. That brings me to my knees every… single… time.
We all have our weaknesses…
I try to lift my torso higher, but no matter which way shift, how far I twist or curve, I can’t reach him. I’m secured too tightly, he made sure of that.
I’ll never be able to reach for him ever again.
He’ll make sure of that, too.
The topic was 'Perfume', but it came with an added challenge - we had to mix two genres. You know... horror and comedy or suspense and drama and so forth. I instantly wanted to write something lusty but suspenseful.
Lust and suspense...
...and perfume
...hmmm.
How to make perfume lusty with a side of suspense...?
Or suspenseful with a side of lust...
How indeed...
What was I thinking?
Anyhooo... this is what I came up with.
Happy reading!
Left Drowning
©Sandra Fitzgerald April 2016
He’s all around me… over me… inside of me. He’s my everything… my only thing.
My bound legs are stiff, my back aches and the raw chaffing on my wrists burn, but none of it matters. He’s the only thing that’s essential – as air is to my lungs, he is to my life.
My heart beats heavy, painstaking thuds, each one more difficult than the last – each one more essential than any other.
Pins and needles attack my feet as a large hand engulfs my throat, causing my head to automatically tilt back welcomingly. His thumb caresses the ridges of my windpipe, pressing gently, but purposely. His warm breath feather’s across my face, his cologne, God… his scent… the one I love as much as him, sends my olfactory system into hysterics. I could breathe him in for an eternity and still never get enough.
I still desperately crave to wrap myself up inside of his much broader, stronger frame and relish the way he holds me, the way he allows me to believe I’m wanted, needed… desired. I yearn to press my mouth against his soft, full lips and kiss him deeply… to have him kiss me back. My pulse soars at the thought alone. The possibility of the reality leaves me in blank confusion; the idea is so fantastic, it’s completely beyond comprehension. I love this man beyond comprehension, beyond rationality.
I inhale an anguished, congested breath through my nose. The runny snot catches in my throat and causes me to choke out scratching coughs.
It causes him to tighten his grip to bruising. Suffocating. I don’t flinch away. Instead I try to lean in closer. I try… I’m tied too tightly to move more than a few centimeters.
My skin prickles and my eyes still manage to fill with heartbreaking, salty tears under the pressure of my forced darkness. We had so much together and now… now we have this. He’s everything to me, but I’m not to him. To him I’m so much more… and so much less…
He’s so close… so very close that I can feel the weight of his masculine body hover over me. He swallows my whispered gasp as the play of moist, air-light pressure trails from my left earlobe, along the span of my jaw, hovering torturously out of reach of my mouth, before continuing along the other side of my face. My thundering heart is not my own. It hasn’t been for the longest time. He owns it. He owns all of me. I would give him anything he asks, do anything he wants without question, without hesitation.
I’m a fool.
Sharpness spears under my chin as his thumbnail forces my head further back and my spine to arch. My lungs fill so deeply with the sudden injection of pain, I can taste his cologne. It sears my sinuses and scores my throat… God… my… God… I love the way he smells. It’s a high like no other, an addictively consuming need that annihilates me. That brings me to my knees every… single… time.
We all have our weaknesses…
I try to lift my torso higher, but no matter which way shift, how far I twist or curve, I can’t reach him. I’m secured too tightly, he made sure of that.
I’ll never be able to reach for him ever again.
He’ll make sure of that, too.
May 3, 2016
April in May...
I'm a little late posting the monthly writing challenge this round... life and all that getting in the way stuff. Never mind.
The topic was 'Perfume', but it came with an added challenge - we had to mix two genres. You know... horror and comedy or suspense and drama and so forth. I instantly wanted to write something lusty but suspenseful.
Lust and suspense...
...and perfume
...hmmm.
How to make perfume lusty with a side of suspense...?
Or suspenseful with a side of lust...
How indeed...
What was I thinking?
Anyhooo... this is what I came up with.
Happy reading!
Left Drowning
©Sandra Fitzgerald April 2016
He’s all around me… over me… inside of me. He’s my everything… my only thing.
My bound legs are stiff, my back aches and the raw chaffing on my wrists burn, but none of it matters. He’s the only thing that’s essential – as air is to my lungs, he is to my life.
My heart beats heavy, painstaking thuds, each one more difficult than the last – each one more essential than any other.
Pins and needles attack my feet as a large hand engulfs my throat, causing my head to automatically tilt back welcomingly. His thumb caresses the ridges of my windpipe, pressing gently, but purposely. His warm breath feather’s across my face, his cologne, God… his scent… the one I love as much as him, sends my olfactory system into hysterics. I could breathe him in for an eternity and still never get enough.
I still desperately crave to wrap myself up inside of his much broader, stronger frame and relish the way he holds me, the way he allows me to believe I’m wanted, needed… desired. I yearn to press my mouth against his soft, full lips and kiss him deeply… to have him kiss me back. My pulse soars at the thought alone. The possibility of the reality leaves me in blank confusion; the idea is so fantastic, it’s completely beyond comprehension. I love this man beyond comprehension, beyond rationality.
I inhale an anguished, congested breath through my nose. The runny snot catches in my throat and causes me to choke out scratching coughs.
It causes him to tighten his grip to bruising. Suffocating. I don’t flinch away. Instead I try to lean in closer. I try… I’m tied too tightly to move more than a few centimeters.
My skin prickles and my eyes still manage to fill with heartbreaking, salty tears under the pressure of my forced darkness. We had so much together and now… now we have this. He’s everything to me, but I’m not to him. To him I’m so much more… and so much less…
He’s so close… so very close that I can feel the weight of his masculine body hover over me. He swallows my whispered gasp as the play of moist, air-light pressure trails from my left earlobe, along the span of my jaw, hovering torturously out of reach of my mouth, before continuing along the other side of my face. My thundering heart is not my own. It hasn’t been for the longest time. He owns it. He owns all of me. I would give him anything he asks, do anything he wants without question, without hesitation.
I’m a fool.
Sharpness spears under my chin as his thumbnail forces my head further back and my spine to arch. My lungs fill so deeply with the sudden injection of pain, I can taste his cologne. It sears my sinuses and scores my throat… God… my… God… I love the way he smells. It’s a high like no other, an addictively consuming need that annihilates me. That brings me to my knees every… single… time.
We all have our weaknesses…
I try to lift my torso higher, but no matter which way shift, how far I twist or curve, I can’t reach him. I’m secured too tightly, he made sure of that.
I’ll never be able to reach for him ever again.
He’ll make sure of that, too.
The topic was 'Perfume', but it came with an added challenge - we had to mix two genres. You know... horror and comedy or suspense and drama and so forth. I instantly wanted to write something lusty but suspenseful.
Lust and suspense...
...and perfume
...hmmm.
How to make perfume lusty with a side of suspense...?
Or suspenseful with a side of lust...
How indeed...
What was I thinking?
Anyhooo... this is what I came up with.
Happy reading!
Left Drowning
©Sandra Fitzgerald April 2016
He’s all around me… over me… inside of me. He’s my everything… my only thing.
My bound legs are stiff, my back aches and the raw chaffing on my wrists burn, but none of it matters. He’s the only thing that’s essential – as air is to my lungs, he is to my life.
My heart beats heavy, painstaking thuds, each one more difficult than the last – each one more essential than any other.
Pins and needles attack my feet as a large hand engulfs my throat, causing my head to automatically tilt back welcomingly. His thumb caresses the ridges of my windpipe, pressing gently, but purposely. His warm breath feather’s across my face, his cologne, God… his scent… the one I love as much as him, sends my olfactory system into hysterics. I could breathe him in for an eternity and still never get enough.
I still desperately crave to wrap myself up inside of his much broader, stronger frame and relish the way he holds me, the way he allows me to believe I’m wanted, needed… desired. I yearn to press my mouth against his soft, full lips and kiss him deeply… to have him kiss me back. My pulse soars at the thought alone. The possibility of the reality leaves me in blank confusion; the idea is so fantastic, it’s completely beyond comprehension. I love this man beyond comprehension, beyond rationality.
I inhale an anguished, congested breath through my nose. The runny snot catches in my throat and causes me to choke out scratching coughs.
It causes him to tighten his grip to bruising. Suffocating. I don’t flinch away. Instead I try to lean in closer. I try… I’m tied too tightly to move more than a few centimeters.
My skin prickles and my eyes still manage to fill with heartbreaking, salty tears under the pressure of my forced darkness. We had so much together and now… now we have this. He’s everything to me, but I’m not to him. To him I’m so much more… and so much less…
He’s so close… so very close that I can feel the weight of his masculine body hover over me. He swallows my whispered gasp as the play of moist, air-light pressure trails from my left earlobe, along the span of my jaw, hovering torturously out of reach of my mouth, before continuing along the other side of my face. My thundering heart is not my own. It hasn’t been for the longest time. He owns it. He owns all of me. I would give him anything he asks, do anything he wants without question, without hesitation.
I’m a fool.
Sharpness spears under my chin as his thumbnail forces my head further back and my spine to arch. My lungs fill so deeply with the sudden injection of pain, I can taste his cologne. It sears my sinuses and scores my throat… God… my… God… I love the way he smells. It’s a high like no other, an addictively consuming need that annihilates me. That brings me to my knees every… single… time.
We all have our weaknesses…
I try to lift my torso higher, but no matter which way shift, how far I twist or curve, I can’t reach him. I’m secured too tightly, he made sure of that.
I’ll never be able to reach for him ever again.
He’ll make sure of that, too.
March 25, 2016
March Wordy Challenge
Hello!
It's great to see you!!
Another month has disappeared with stealth-like finesse. The Easter Bunny is lurking in the shadows, patiently waiting to deliver all that chocolaty goodness. Summer is fighting to stay a little longer, but the days are still getting shorter, the nights cooler. We're on the turn of the season.
I'm going to miss summer.
This month my writing group challenge topic was 'Pandora's Box'. I'd heard of myth, but wasn't sure of the details, so I Googled...
According to Wikipedia,
'Pandora's box is an artifact in Greek mythology, taken from the myth of Pandora's creation in Hesiod's Works and Days. The "box" was actually a large jar given to Pandora which contained all the evils of the world. Pandora opened the jar and all the evils flew out, leaving only Hope inside once she had closed it again.
In classical Greek mythology, Pandora was the first woman on Earth. Zeus ordered Hephaestus to create her. So he did, using water and earth.The gods endowed her with many gifts: Athena clothed her, Aphrodite gave her beauty, Apollo gave her musical ability, and Hermes gave her speech.
According to Hesiod, when Prometheus stole fire from heaven, Zeus took vengeance by presenting Pandora to Prometheus' brother Epimetheus. Pandora opens a jar containing death and many other evils which were released into the world. She hastened to close the container, but the whole contents had escaped except for one thing that lay at the bottom – Elpis (usually translated "hope", though it could also mean "expectation")'.
Boy, did that get my mind turning... so many options... good and evil... struggle, anarchy, mayhem...
Sometimes, for me anyway, having a lot of different scenarios buzzing through my head makes it harder to lock onto one and run with it. I'm still struggling with finding my words, and to be absolutely honest with you, I've copped out on more than one occasion. It's much easier to find other things to do (even cleaning the toilet has held more appeal at times!) rather than force myself to sit down and get to work.
The writing group meeting date loomed closer. My thoughts, no less scrambled, didn't relent. My frustration continued to grown, and my usually easy found happy went into hiding. It seems even my happy wan't very happy with me.
I couldn't even blame it.
I wasn't very happy with me either.
The day before therapy - aka writing group - came, I became jaw-clenching annoyed with myself. I am not going to show up with nothing to offer. No. Not going to happen.
I checked my calendar and saw that I had a very important hairdressing appointment the following morning. A two hour period where I couldn't move... or clean the toilet. Hmmm...
So, armed with my trusty iPad, I went to my appointment the following morning. My hairdresser and I chatted for a bit, I got foiled up, tinted on (yes, I'm a natural blonde) and a cup of coffee made especially for me.
The timer was set: 30 minutes.
I had 30 minutes where I was left alone, save to be interrupted to ensure I was comfortable, with no excuses. I flipped the iPad cover over, touched the 'word' doc. for Apple app, drew a breath, closed my eyes and visualised. Not before long a sensation of confusion and disorder caused my skin to prickle. Wouldn't there be a flood of confusion, a flood of uncontrollable disorder and more if all the evil was let out into the world? Then I thought, what if its an internal struggle, a battle of will, instead of the more obvious external fight? What if it is a war within ones self...?
Huh.
So here it is, my very short, but hopefully engaging March contribution.
Thank for dropping by.
I hope your day is wonderous.
Sandra
xx
Pandora’s Box
A battle of love and hate
© Sandra Fitzgerald March 2016
I can't do this anymore.
I can't.
I can’t survive the lows after the overwhelming highs. Lows that leave me singed with sadness and my skin itching with regret.
My mind is a chaotic mess of doubt and indecision, glued by obsession and petrifaction.
If I speak my mind, say what's in my heart, will you hear me? Will you listen? Or will you say the words that will break me?
You're going to break me.
You are, and you'll never understand how or why because in your world you're entitled. You're entitled to be happy in the way you choose happiness. You're entitled to want in the way you choose to want, have when you choose to have.
You set the rules.
You also change them.
You're the manipulator, the controller, the master… and you're good at it. The best.
I like that you are.
I'm horrified that you are.
I love that you take control. I love that you dominate me, are stronger than me… I love that I let you. Over and over, I let you… because I love… it.
And hate you.
I'm afraid of you. You have all the power, hold all the hearts.
You're going to break me.
I feel you drifting. The intensity increasing, the desperation crippling… you're leaving...
A tsunami builds in my stomach, a storm confuses my thoughts.
You're going to break me.
My heart, it aches… your drifting… it’s subtle, calculating, smooth… of course it is. You're smart, you know your prey. You know how to play the game better than me. And I let you.
I'm addicted to you and you're going to ruin me… and I'm going to let you.
It's great to see you!!
Another month has disappeared with stealth-like finesse. The Easter Bunny is lurking in the shadows, patiently waiting to deliver all that chocolaty goodness. Summer is fighting to stay a little longer, but the days are still getting shorter, the nights cooler. We're on the turn of the season.
I'm going to miss summer.
This month my writing group challenge topic was 'Pandora's Box'. I'd heard of myth, but wasn't sure of the details, so I Googled...
According to Wikipedia,
'Pandora's box is an artifact in Greek mythology, taken from the myth of Pandora's creation in Hesiod's Works and Days. The "box" was actually a large jar given to Pandora which contained all the evils of the world. Pandora opened the jar and all the evils flew out, leaving only Hope inside once she had closed it again.
In classical Greek mythology, Pandora was the first woman on Earth. Zeus ordered Hephaestus to create her. So he did, using water and earth.The gods endowed her with many gifts: Athena clothed her, Aphrodite gave her beauty, Apollo gave her musical ability, and Hermes gave her speech.
According to Hesiod, when Prometheus stole fire from heaven, Zeus took vengeance by presenting Pandora to Prometheus' brother Epimetheus. Pandora opens a jar containing death and many other evils which were released into the world. She hastened to close the container, but the whole contents had escaped except for one thing that lay at the bottom – Elpis (usually translated "hope", though it could also mean "expectation")'.
Boy, did that get my mind turning... so many options... good and evil... struggle, anarchy, mayhem...
Sometimes, for me anyway, having a lot of different scenarios buzzing through my head makes it harder to lock onto one and run with it. I'm still struggling with finding my words, and to be absolutely honest with you, I've copped out on more than one occasion. It's much easier to find other things to do (even cleaning the toilet has held more appeal at times!) rather than force myself to sit down and get to work.
The writing group meeting date loomed closer. My thoughts, no less scrambled, didn't relent. My frustration continued to grown, and my usually easy found happy went into hiding. It seems even my happy wan't very happy with me.
I couldn't even blame it.
I wasn't very happy with me either.
The day before therapy - aka writing group - came, I became jaw-clenching annoyed with myself. I am not going to show up with nothing to offer. No. Not going to happen.
I checked my calendar and saw that I had a very important hairdressing appointment the following morning. A two hour period where I couldn't move... or clean the toilet. Hmmm...
So, armed with my trusty iPad, I went to my appointment the following morning. My hairdresser and I chatted for a bit, I got foiled up, tinted on (yes, I'm a natural blonde) and a cup of coffee made especially for me.
The timer was set: 30 minutes.
I had 30 minutes where I was left alone, save to be interrupted to ensure I was comfortable, with no excuses. I flipped the iPad cover over, touched the 'word' doc. for Apple app, drew a breath, closed my eyes and visualised. Not before long a sensation of confusion and disorder caused my skin to prickle. Wouldn't there be a flood of confusion, a flood of uncontrollable disorder and more if all the evil was let out into the world? Then I thought, what if its an internal struggle, a battle of will, instead of the more obvious external fight? What if it is a war within ones self...?
Huh.
So here it is, my very short, but hopefully engaging March contribution.
Thank for dropping by.
I hope your day is wonderous.
Sandra
xx
Pandora’s Box
A battle of love and hate
© Sandra Fitzgerald March 2016
I can't do this anymore.
I can't.
I can’t survive the lows after the overwhelming highs. Lows that leave me singed with sadness and my skin itching with regret.
My mind is a chaotic mess of doubt and indecision, glued by obsession and petrifaction.
If I speak my mind, say what's in my heart, will you hear me? Will you listen? Or will you say the words that will break me?
You're going to break me.
You are, and you'll never understand how or why because in your world you're entitled. You're entitled to be happy in the way you choose happiness. You're entitled to want in the way you choose to want, have when you choose to have.
You set the rules.
You also change them.
You're the manipulator, the controller, the master… and you're good at it. The best.
I like that you are.
I'm horrified that you are.
I love that you take control. I love that you dominate me, are stronger than me… I love that I let you. Over and over, I let you… because I love… it.
And hate you.
I'm afraid of you. You have all the power, hold all the hearts.
You're going to break me.
I feel you drifting. The intensity increasing, the desperation crippling… you're leaving...
A tsunami builds in my stomach, a storm confuses my thoughts.
You're going to break me.
My heart, it aches… your drifting… it’s subtle, calculating, smooth… of course it is. You're smart, you know your prey. You know how to play the game better than me. And I let you.
I'm addicted to you and you're going to ruin me… and I'm going to let you.
March 24, 2016
March Wordy Challenge
Hello!
It's great to see you!!
Another month has disappeared with stealth-like finesse. The Easter Bunny is lurking in the shadows, patiently waiting to deliver all that chocolaty goodness. Summer is fighting to stay a little longer, but the days are still getting shorter, the nights cooler. We're on the turn of the season.
I'm going to miss summer.
This month my writing group challenge topic was 'Pandora's Box'. I'd heard of myth, but wasn't sure of the details, so I Googled...
According to Wikipedia,
'Pandora's box is an artifact in Greek mythology, taken from the myth of Pandora's creation in Hesiod's Works and Days. The "box" was actually a large jar given to Pandora which contained all the evils of the world. Pandora opened the jar and all the evils flew out, leaving only Hope inside once she had closed it again.
In classical Greek mythology, Pandora was the first woman on Earth. Zeus ordered Hephaestus to create her. So he did, using water and earth.The gods endowed her with many gifts: Athena clothed her, Aphrodite gave her beauty, Apollo gave her musical ability, and Hermes gave her speech.
According to Hesiod, when Prometheus stole fire from heaven, Zeus took vengeance by presenting Pandora to Prometheus' brother Epimetheus. Pandora opens a jar containing death and many other evils which were released into the world. She hastened to close the container, but the whole contents had escaped except for one thing that lay at the bottom – Elpis (usually translated "hope", though it could also mean "expectation")'.
Boy, did that get my mind turning... so many options... good and evil... struggle, anarchy, mayhem...
Sometimes, for me anyway, having a lot of different scenarios buzzing through my head makes it harder to lock onto one and run with it. I'm still struggling with finding my words, and to be absolutely honest with you, I've copped out on more than one occasion. It's much easier to find other things to do (even cleaning the toilet has held more appeal at times!) rather than force myself to sit down and get to work.
The writing group meeting date loomed closer. My thoughts, no less scrambled, didn't relent. My frustration continued to grown, and my usually easy found happy went into hiding. It seems even my happy wan't very happy with me.
I couldn't even blame it.
I wasn't very happy with me either.
The day before therapy - aka writing group - came, I became jaw-clenching annoyed with myself. I am not going to show up with nothing to offer. No. Not going to happen.
I checked my calendar and saw that I had a very important hairdressing appointment the following morning. A two hour period where I couldn't move... or clean the toilet. Hmmm...
So, armed with my trusty iPad, I went to my appointment the following morning. My hairdresser and I chatted for a bit, I got foiled up, tinted on (yes, I'm a natural blonde) and a cup of coffee made especially for me.
The timer was set: 30 minutes.
I had 30 minutes where I was left alone, save to be interrupted to ensure I was comfortable, with no excuses. I flipped the iPad cover over, touched the 'word' doc. for Apple app, drew a breath, closed my eyes and visualised. Not before long a sensation of confusion and disorder caused my skin to prickle. Wouldn't there be a flood of confusion, a flood of uncontrollable disorder and more if all the evil was let out into the world? Then I thought, what if its an internal struggle, a battle of will, instead of the more obvious external fight? What if it is a war within ones self...?
Huh.
So here it is, my very short, but hopefully engaging March contribution.
Thank for dropping by.
I hope your day is wonderous.
Sandra
xx
Pandora’s Box
A battle of love and hate
© Sandra Fitzgerald March 2016
I can't do this anymore.
I can't.
I can’t survive the lows after the overwhelming highs. Lows that leave me singed with sadness and my skin itching with regret.
My mind is a chaotic mess of doubt and indecision, glued by obsession and petrifaction.
If I speak my mind, say what's in my heart, will you hear me? Will you listen? Or will you say the words that will break me?
You're going to break me.
You are, and you'll never understand how or why because in your world you're entitled. You're entitled to be happy in the way you choose happiness. You're entitled to want in the way you choose to want, have when you choose to have.
You set the rules.
You also change them.
You're the manipulator, the controller, the master… and you're good at it. The best.
I like that you are.
I'm horrified that you are.
I love that you take control. I love that you dominate me, are stronger than me… I love that I let you. Over and over, I let you… because I love… it.
And hate you.
I'm afraid of you. You have all the power, hold all the hearts.
You're going to break me.
I feel you drifting. The intensity increasing, the desperation crippling… you're leaving...
A tsunami builds in my stomach, a storm confuses my thoughts.
You're going to break me.
My heart, it aches… your drifting… it’s subtle, calculating, smooth… of course it is. You're smart, you know your prey. You know how to play the game better than me. And I let you.
I'm addicted to you and you're going to ruin me… and I'm going to let you.
It's great to see you!!
Another month has disappeared with stealth-like finesse. The Easter Bunny is lurking in the shadows, patiently waiting to deliver all that chocolaty goodness. Summer is fighting to stay a little longer, but the days are still getting shorter, the nights cooler. We're on the turn of the season.
I'm going to miss summer.
This month my writing group challenge topic was 'Pandora's Box'. I'd heard of myth, but wasn't sure of the details, so I Googled...
According to Wikipedia,
'Pandora's box is an artifact in Greek mythology, taken from the myth of Pandora's creation in Hesiod's Works and Days. The "box" was actually a large jar given to Pandora which contained all the evils of the world. Pandora opened the jar and all the evils flew out, leaving only Hope inside once she had closed it again.
In classical Greek mythology, Pandora was the first woman on Earth. Zeus ordered Hephaestus to create her. So he did, using water and earth.The gods endowed her with many gifts: Athena clothed her, Aphrodite gave her beauty, Apollo gave her musical ability, and Hermes gave her speech.
According to Hesiod, when Prometheus stole fire from heaven, Zeus took vengeance by presenting Pandora to Prometheus' brother Epimetheus. Pandora opens a jar containing death and many other evils which were released into the world. She hastened to close the container, but the whole contents had escaped except for one thing that lay at the bottom – Elpis (usually translated "hope", though it could also mean "expectation")'.
Boy, did that get my mind turning... so many options... good and evil... struggle, anarchy, mayhem...
Sometimes, for me anyway, having a lot of different scenarios buzzing through my head makes it harder to lock onto one and run with it. I'm still struggling with finding my words, and to be absolutely honest with you, I've copped out on more than one occasion. It's much easier to find other things to do (even cleaning the toilet has held more appeal at times!) rather than force myself to sit down and get to work.
The writing group meeting date loomed closer. My thoughts, no less scrambled, didn't relent. My frustration continued to grown, and my usually easy found happy went into hiding. It seems even my happy wan't very happy with me.
I couldn't even blame it.
I wasn't very happy with me either.
The day before therapy - aka writing group - came, I became jaw-clenching annoyed with myself. I am not going to show up with nothing to offer. No. Not going to happen.
I checked my calendar and saw that I had a very important hairdressing appointment the following morning. A two hour period where I couldn't move... or clean the toilet. Hmmm...
So, armed with my trusty iPad, I went to my appointment the following morning. My hairdresser and I chatted for a bit, I got foiled up, tinted on (yes, I'm a natural blonde) and a cup of coffee made especially for me.
The timer was set: 30 minutes.
I had 30 minutes where I was left alone, save to be interrupted to ensure I was comfortable, with no excuses. I flipped the iPad cover over, touched the 'word' doc. for Apple app, drew a breath, closed my eyes and visualised. Not before long a sensation of confusion and disorder caused my skin to prickle. Wouldn't there be a flood of confusion, a flood of uncontrollable disorder and more if all the evil was let out into the world? Then I thought, what if its an internal struggle, a battle of will, instead of the more obvious external fight? What if it is a war within ones self...?
Huh.
So here it is, my very short, but hopefully engaging March contribution.
Thank for dropping by.
I hope your day is wonderous.
Sandra
xx
Pandora’s Box
A battle of love and hate
© Sandra Fitzgerald March 2016
I can't do this anymore.
I can't.
I can’t survive the lows after the overwhelming highs. Lows that leave me singed with sadness and my skin itching with regret.
My mind is a chaotic mess of doubt and indecision, glued by obsession and petrifaction.
If I speak my mind, say what's in my heart, will you hear me? Will you listen? Or will you say the words that will break me?
You're going to break me.
You are, and you'll never understand how or why because in your world you're entitled. You're entitled to be happy in the way you choose happiness. You're entitled to want in the way you choose to want, have when you choose to have.
You set the rules.
You also change them.
You're the manipulator, the controller, the master… and you're good at it. The best.
I like that you are.
I'm horrified that you are.
I love that you take control. I love that you dominate me, are stronger than me… I love that I let you. Over and over, I let you… because I love… it.
And hate you.
I'm afraid of you. You have all the power, hold all the hearts.
You're going to break me.
I feel you drifting. The intensity increasing, the desperation crippling… you're leaving...
A tsunami builds in my stomach, a storm confuses my thoughts.
You're going to break me.
My heart, it aches… your drifting… it’s subtle, calculating, smooth… of course it is. You're smart, you know your prey. You know how to play the game better than me. And I let you.
I'm addicted to you and you're going to ruin me… and I'm going to let you.
February 28, 2016
Writing Challenges can be Challenging.
Hello and thanks for stopping by!
As per usual, my writing group set a writing challenge last month: The Cycle. Now, Some of you may know that I've been a little... blocked of late. (I was going to say backed up, but that wouldn't be very appropriate and incredibly immature. ;p)
Truth is, I haven't managed to string a half decent sentence together since November, which is a long time for me.
Oh, I've tried and tried, and became even more... blocked, and frustrated. Angry even. There may have been the odd growl here and there.
I read books on writers block, searched the web, spokes to my fellow wordies, all to no avail. So in the end, albeit right or wrong, I decided to give the words a break. Take a hiatus, if you will.
It's a scary thing to do. To stop completely, knowing full well - according to the majority of the info I found - that I'm probably digging myself into a deeper hole, rather than working harder to get out of the rut. But it's what I dig- did.
Anyway, I hung up my laptop... in its bag... because you can't hang up a laptop. It doesn't have any handles... and the bag does.
Right! Moving on.
I set the pressure aside and picked up my beloved eReader, sat back in my comfy seat with my feet up and pillows in place. The sun shining in from the side, coffee to my right on the small table. Is this heaven I'm in? I powered up my eReader and began to scour the pages.
Okay, that book's not doing it for me. No worries, I'll go back to it another day.
Next book. Page one... page two... three... three and a half... Nope, not doing it for me either. No problem, I love this author, I'll go back after I finish my next read.
Next book? I just couldn't find the flow. Okay, it happens. I set it aside with the intention to get back to it later.
The next book? Nope. Couldn't do it.
And the next?
OMG! Actually, not the time for abbreviations! This is far to colossal! Oh My God!
In bold italics!
No! No! No!
I'd lost my mojo for reading too! NOTHING - Not a single thing held my attention. Not even the latest Target catalogue. I stared up morosely at the big black screen on the other side of the room... is this what it's come to? Day time television? Is Days of Our Lives still running, or is it up to Dr Phil to drag me out of the hell I'm in?
Yes, perhaps a little counseling would be helpful. Or a walk.
I opted for a walk.
And so this went on for a while... a few months or so... me walking out the frustration. I began to garden - I've never been much of a gardener - I even painted the eves on the outside of our house. The cars got washed regularly. Everything was looking all sparkly and happy, and then came the email: Writing Group Monthly Challenge.
Initially I shied away - it's was my new thing after all, but deep down - okay, not that deep, but it was down...ish - I knew it was time. With a surge of new-found determination, I reached up onto my toes and got that laptop bag down. Plugged in the charger, turned on the coffee machine and pressed the go button on my computer... and the coffee maker from the Gods.
I will do this challenge!
It was harder than I'd like to admit too, and the writing's not as good as I'd like it to be, but it's a start... and with all great beginnings there are and endings. Not all good and where they should be, admittedly, but still...
So here it is, The Challenge of the Month!
The Umbrella Stand
©Sandra Fitzgerald 2016
The umbrella stands proud, tightly compacted amongst more of its kind. They are all typically alike, tall, sturdy, bound tight by their Velcro constraints, yet this one is different, unique in its own insufferable way. They have been set to the side, long forgotten by the old, bearded man and his mangy, matted dog.
People jostle past, squinting and sheltering their eyes from the blinding, watery sun, their elbows knock and half-hearted apologies made in their haste to get to where ever they desperately need to go on yet, another busy workday.
The young woman’s long, auburn hair lifts slightly in the light breeze. She pauses with a shiver as the sudden chill prickles her fair skin, then resets her slipping handbag and continues on her way.
The young man fills his lungs with cool air and briefly closes his eyes, slowing his steps with relief. He tightens his grip on the thick handle of his computer bag, regaining his pace as he continues along the footpath.
A distant thunderclap startles the aging, thinning dog. The bearded man bends and scratches behind his beloved pup’s ear, mumbling words of comfort.
Daylight blinks into muted tones before returning to full brightness. The pedestrians continue in their rush and pass the bearded man un-noticed as he stands next to his stall of trinkets and he arches his stiff back, massaging the sore spot on his spine.
Light cottonwool clouds are suddenly overcome by angry, dirty cumulus. They fill their cores, puffing out their chests, while they steal the light from the sky.
The young woman slows and looks up in concern, consciously smoothing out her long coifed hair.
The young man stumbles when a faceless stranger darts unexpectedly into his path and accidently knocks into the young woman.
She gasps.
He clutches her elbow to stop her from falling.
Their eyes lock.
Her breath is lost. His mouth drops open.
The thickening, rolling cloud-cover goes unnoticed, as do the thunderous claps vying for attention. The loss of light serves only to allow the young man to step closer to the young woman.
He’s still hasn’t to let go of her elbow.
She’s still hasn’t exhaled.
Angrier still, the blackened sky roars and calls for the wind to wreak havoc among the tree-lined street. The bearded man rubs at his hip as he reaches for the tall bucket, dragging it closer to the front of his stand. He spies his faithful pet, gives him a knowing smirk and a wink. The dog barks once with the rumble of what’s to come from above and wags his tail in glee.
The umbrellas jounce against each other, their excitement building as hand after hand reach in as thick drops begin to fall, slowly, methodically at first... a few here... a few there. Then there are more than few and then more still, until there are far too many to be considered a few. The black umbrellas are the first to go – the certain favourite among the public. Then the blue are all taken, the green and the red, until there is one lone umbrella in the canister.
Hand after hand grips the wooden handle and lifts the slender form with promise, until they discover its shame and let it tumble back down, the metal spike clanks on the bottom of its confinement before it finally lolls aimlessly from side to side until even momentum no longer has use for it.
The young man grins with all of his teeth. The young woman smiles and tucks her chin shyly.
The young man gently places his cold fingers on the young woman’s jaw so she’ll look back up look at him again. He cups his hand and holds it out to catch the falling rain, his smile returning to full force. The young woman eyes sparkle, her lips part and curve, a breathy plume passes between them on her silent chuckle.
The young man hoots boisterously. He takes a step to the side and reaches to retrieve the last remaining umbrella. The young woman laughs out loud, blinking the water from her thick lashes.
The young man holds the tall umbrella like an offering and takes a small bow. The young lady blushes and tries to contain her joy as she takes the very last umbrella from the kind young man and opens it above both of them.
“Yellow,” she says, “my favourite colour,” just as the rains stops and the howling gale disappears as abruptly as it came, the cumulus part and the never ending blue returns, allowing the watery sun to glisten down upon them again.
Thanks for reading.
Sandra xx
As per usual, my writing group set a writing challenge last month: The Cycle. Now, Some of you may know that I've been a little... blocked of late. (I was going to say backed up, but that wouldn't be very appropriate and incredibly immature. ;p)
Truth is, I haven't managed to string a half decent sentence together since November, which is a long time for me.
Oh, I've tried and tried, and became even more... blocked, and frustrated. Angry even. There may have been the odd growl here and there.
I read books on writers block, searched the web, spokes to my fellow wordies, all to no avail. So in the end, albeit right or wrong, I decided to give the words a break. Take a hiatus, if you will.
It's a scary thing to do. To stop completely, knowing full well - according to the majority of the info I found - that I'm probably digging myself into a deeper hole, rather than working harder to get out of the rut. But it's what I dig- did.
Anyway, I hung up my laptop... in its bag... because you can't hang up a laptop. It doesn't have any handles... and the bag does.
Right! Moving on.
I set the pressure aside and picked up my beloved eReader, sat back in my comfy seat with my feet up and pillows in place. The sun shining in from the side, coffee to my right on the small table. Is this heaven I'm in? I powered up my eReader and began to scour the pages.
Okay, that book's not doing it for me. No worries, I'll go back to it another day.
Next book. Page one... page two... three... three and a half... Nope, not doing it for me either. No problem, I love this author, I'll go back after I finish my next read.
Next book? I just couldn't find the flow. Okay, it happens. I set it aside with the intention to get back to it later.
The next book? Nope. Couldn't do it.
And the next?
OMG! Actually, not the time for abbreviations! This is far to colossal! Oh My God!
In bold italics!
No! No! No!
I'd lost my mojo for reading too! NOTHING - Not a single thing held my attention. Not even the latest Target catalogue. I stared up morosely at the big black screen on the other side of the room... is this what it's come to? Day time television? Is Days of Our Lives still running, or is it up to Dr Phil to drag me out of the hell I'm in?
Yes, perhaps a little counseling would be helpful. Or a walk.
I opted for a walk.
And so this went on for a while... a few months or so... me walking out the frustration. I began to garden - I've never been much of a gardener - I even painted the eves on the outside of our house. The cars got washed regularly. Everything was looking all sparkly and happy, and then came the email: Writing Group Monthly Challenge.
Initially I shied away - it's was my new thing after all, but deep down - okay, not that deep, but it was down...ish - I knew it was time. With a surge of new-found determination, I reached up onto my toes and got that laptop bag down. Plugged in the charger, turned on the coffee machine and pressed the go button on my computer... and the coffee maker from the Gods.
I will do this challenge!
It was harder than I'd like to admit too, and the writing's not as good as I'd like it to be, but it's a start... and with all great beginnings there are and endings. Not all good and where they should be, admittedly, but still...
So here it is, The Challenge of the Month!
The Umbrella Stand
©Sandra Fitzgerald 2016
The umbrella stands proud, tightly compacted amongst more of its kind. They are all typically alike, tall, sturdy, bound tight by their Velcro constraints, yet this one is different, unique in its own insufferable way. They have been set to the side, long forgotten by the old, bearded man and his mangy, matted dog.
People jostle past, squinting and sheltering their eyes from the blinding, watery sun, their elbows knock and half-hearted apologies made in their haste to get to where ever they desperately need to go on yet, another busy workday.
The young woman’s long, auburn hair lifts slightly in the light breeze. She pauses with a shiver as the sudden chill prickles her fair skin, then resets her slipping handbag and continues on her way.
The young man fills his lungs with cool air and briefly closes his eyes, slowing his steps with relief. He tightens his grip on the thick handle of his computer bag, regaining his pace as he continues along the footpath.
A distant thunderclap startles the aging, thinning dog. The bearded man bends and scratches behind his beloved pup’s ear, mumbling words of comfort.
Daylight blinks into muted tones before returning to full brightness. The pedestrians continue in their rush and pass the bearded man un-noticed as he stands next to his stall of trinkets and he arches his stiff back, massaging the sore spot on his spine.
Light cottonwool clouds are suddenly overcome by angry, dirty cumulus. They fill their cores, puffing out their chests, while they steal the light from the sky.
The young woman slows and looks up in concern, consciously smoothing out her long coifed hair.
The young man stumbles when a faceless stranger darts unexpectedly into his path and accidently knocks into the young woman.
She gasps.
He clutches her elbow to stop her from falling.
Their eyes lock.
Her breath is lost. His mouth drops open.
The thickening, rolling cloud-cover goes unnoticed, as do the thunderous claps vying for attention. The loss of light serves only to allow the young man to step closer to the young woman.
He’s still hasn’t to let go of her elbow.
She’s still hasn’t exhaled.
Angrier still, the blackened sky roars and calls for the wind to wreak havoc among the tree-lined street. The bearded man rubs at his hip as he reaches for the tall bucket, dragging it closer to the front of his stand. He spies his faithful pet, gives him a knowing smirk and a wink. The dog barks once with the rumble of what’s to come from above and wags his tail in glee.
The umbrellas jounce against each other, their excitement building as hand after hand reach in as thick drops begin to fall, slowly, methodically at first... a few here... a few there. Then there are more than few and then more still, until there are far too many to be considered a few. The black umbrellas are the first to go – the certain favourite among the public. Then the blue are all taken, the green and the red, until there is one lone umbrella in the canister.
Hand after hand grips the wooden handle and lifts the slender form with promise, until they discover its shame and let it tumble back down, the metal spike clanks on the bottom of its confinement before it finally lolls aimlessly from side to side until even momentum no longer has use for it.
The young man grins with all of his teeth. The young woman smiles and tucks her chin shyly.
The young man gently places his cold fingers on the young woman’s jaw so she’ll look back up look at him again. He cups his hand and holds it out to catch the falling rain, his smile returning to full force. The young woman eyes sparkle, her lips part and curve, a breathy plume passes between them on her silent chuckle.
The young man hoots boisterously. He takes a step to the side and reaches to retrieve the last remaining umbrella. The young woman laughs out loud, blinking the water from her thick lashes.
The young man holds the tall umbrella like an offering and takes a small bow. The young lady blushes and tries to contain her joy as she takes the very last umbrella from the kind young man and opens it above both of them.
“Yellow,” she says, “my favourite colour,” just as the rains stops and the howling gale disappears as abruptly as it came, the cumulus part and the never ending blue returns, allowing the watery sun to glisten down upon them again.
Thanks for reading.
Sandra xx
February 25, 2016
Writing Challenges can be Challenging.
Hello and thanks for stopping by!
As per usual, my writing group set a writing challenge last month: The Cycle. Now, Some of you may know that I've been a little... blocked of late. (I was going to say backed up, but that wouldn't be very appropriate and incredibly immature. ;p)
Truth is, I haven't managed to string a half decent sentence together since November, which is a long time for me.
Oh, I've tried and tried, and became even more... blocked, and frustrated. Angry even. There may have been the odd growl here and there.
I read books on writers block, searched the web, spokes to my fellow wordies, all to no avail. So in the end, albeit right or wrong, I decided to give the words a break. Take a hiatus, if you will.
It's a scary thing to do. To stop completely, knowing full well - according to the majority of the info I found - that I'm probably digging myself into a deeper hole, rather than working harder to get out of the rut. But it's what I dig- did.
Anyway, I hung up my laptop... in its bag... because you can't hang up a laptop. It doesn't have any handles... and the bag does.
Right! Moving on.
I set the pressure aside and picked up my beloved eReader, sat back in my comfy seat with my feet up and pillows in place. The sun shining in from the side, coffee to my right on the small table. Is this heaven I'm in? I powered up my eReader and began to scour the pages.
Okay, that book's not doing it for me. No worries, I'll go back to it another day.
Next book. Page one... page two... three... three and a half... Nope, not doing it for me either. No problem, I love this author, I'll go back after I finish my next read.
Next book? I just couldn't find the flow. Okay, it happens. I set it aside with the intention to get back to it later.
The next book? Nope. Couldn't do it.
And the next?
OMG! Actually, not the time for abbreviations! This is far to colossal! Oh My God!
In bold italics!
No! No! No!
I'd lost my mojo for reading too! NOTHING - Not a single thing held my attention. Not even the latest Target catalogue. I stared up morosely at the big black screen on the other side of the room... is this what it's come to? Day time television? Is Days of Our Lives still running, or is it up to Dr Phil to drag me out of the hell I'm in?
Yes, perhaps a little counseling would be helpful. Or a walk.
I opted for a walk.
And so this went on for a while... a few months or so... me walking out the frustration. I began to garden - I've never been much of a gardener - I even painted the eves on the outside of our house. The cars got washed regularly. Everything was looking all sparkly and happy, and then came the email: Writing Group Monthly Challenge.
Initially I shied away - it's was my new thing after all, but deep down - okay, not that deep, but it was down...ish - I knew it was time. With a surge of new-found determination, I reached up onto my toes and got that laptop bag down. Plugged in the charger, turned on the coffee machine and pressed the go button on my computer... and the coffee maker from the Gods.
I will do this challenge!
It was harder than I'd like to admit too, and the writing's not as good as I'd like it to be, but it's a start... and with all great beginnings there are and endings. Not all good and where they should be, admittedly, but still...
So here it is, The Challenge of the Month!
The Umbrella Stand
©Sandra Fitzgerald 2016
The umbrella stands proud, tightly compacted amongst more of its kind. They are all typically alike, tall, sturdy, bound tight by their Velcro constraints, yet this one is different, unique in its own insufferable way. They have been set to the side, long forgotten by the old, bearded man and his mangy, matted dog.
People jostle past, squinting and sheltering their eyes from the blinding, watery sun, their elbows knock and half-hearted apologies made in their haste to get to where ever they desperately need to go on yet, another busy workday.
The young woman’s long, auburn hair lifts slightly in the light breeze. She pauses with a shiver as the sudden chill prickles her fair skin, then resets her slipping handbag and continues on her way.
The young man fills his lungs with cool air and briefly closes his eyes, slowing his steps with relief. He tightens his grip on the thick handle of his computer bag, regaining his pace as he continues along the footpath.
A distant thunderclap startles the aging, thinning dog. The bearded man bends and scratches behind his beloved pup’s ear, mumbling words of comfort.
Daylight blinks into muted tones before returning to full brightness. The pedestrians continue in their rush and pass the bearded man un-noticed as he stands next to his stall of trinkets and he arches his stiff back, massaging the sore spot on his spine.
Light cottonwool clouds are suddenly overcome by angry, dirty cumulus. They fill their cores, puffing out their chests, while they steal the light from the sky.
The young woman slows and looks up in concern, consciously smoothing out her long coifed hair.
The young man stumbles when a faceless stranger darts unexpectedly into his path and accidently knocks into the young woman.
She gasps.
He clutches her elbow to stop her from falling.
Their eyes lock.
Her breath is lost. His mouth drops open.
The thickening, rolling cloud-cover goes unnoticed, as do the thunderous claps vying for attention. The loss of light serves only to allow the young man to step closer to the young woman.
He’s still hasn’t to let go of her elbow.
She’s still hasn’t exhaled.
Angrier still, the blackened sky roars and calls for the wind to wreak havoc among the tree-lined street. The bearded man rubs at his hip as he reaches for the tall bucket, dragging it closer to the front of his stand. He spies his faithful pet, gives him a knowing smirk and a wink. The dog barks once with the rumble of what’s to come from above and wags his tail in glee.
The umbrellas jounce against each other, their excitement building as hand after hand reach in as thick drops begin to fall, slowly, methodically at first... a few here... a few there. Then there are more than few and then more still, until there are far too many to be considered a few. The black umbrellas are the first to go – the certain favourite among the public. Then the blue are all taken, the green and the red, until there is one lone umbrella in the canister.
Hand after hand grips the wooden handle and lifts the slender form with promise, until they discover its shame and let it tumble back down, the metal spike clanks on the bottom of its confinement before it finally lolls aimlessly from side to side until even momentum no longer has use for it.
The young man grins with all of his teeth. The young woman smiles and tucks her chin shyly.
The young man gently places his cold fingers on the young woman’s jaw so she’ll look back up look at him again. He cups his hand and holds it out to catch the falling rain, his smile returning to full force. The young woman eyes sparkle, her lips part and curve, a breathy plume passes between them on her silent chuckle.
The young man hoots boisterously. He takes a step to the side and reaches to retrieve the last remaining umbrella. The young woman laughs out loud, blinking the water from her thick lashes.
The young man holds the tall umbrella like an offering and takes a small bow. The young lady blushes and tries to contain her joy as she takes the very last umbrella from the kind young man and opens it above both of them.
“Yellow,” she says, “my favourite colour,” just as the rains stops and the howling gale disappears as abruptly as it came, the cumulus part and the never ending blue returns, allowing the watery sun to glisten down upon them again.
Thanks for reading.
Sandra xx
As per usual, my writing group set a writing challenge last month: The Cycle. Now, Some of you may know that I've been a little... blocked of late. (I was going to say backed up, but that wouldn't be very appropriate and incredibly immature. ;p)
Truth is, I haven't managed to string a half decent sentence together since November, which is a long time for me.
Oh, I've tried and tried, and became even more... blocked, and frustrated. Angry even. There may have been the odd growl here and there.
I read books on writers block, searched the web, spokes to my fellow wordies, all to no avail. So in the end, albeit right or wrong, I decided to give the words a break. Take a hiatus, if you will.
It's a scary thing to do. To stop completely, knowing full well - according to the majority of the info I found - that I'm probably digging myself into a deeper hole, rather than working harder to get out of the rut. But it's what I dig- did.
Anyway, I hung up my laptop... in its bag... because you can't hang up a laptop. It doesn't have any handles... and the bag does.
Right! Moving on.
I set the pressure aside and picked up my beloved eReader, sat back in my comfy seat with my feet up and pillows in place. The sun shining in from the side, coffee to my right on the small table. Is this heaven I'm in? I powered up my eReader and began to scour the pages.
Okay, that book's not doing it for me. No worries, I'll go back to it another day.
Next book. Page one... page two... three... three and a half... Nope, not doing it for me either. No problem, I love this author, I'll go back after I finish my next read.
Next book? I just couldn't find the flow. Okay, it happens. I set it aside with the intention to get back to it later.
The next book? Nope. Couldn't do it.
And the next?
OMG! Actually, not the time for abbreviations! This is far to colossal! Oh My God!
In bold italics!
No! No! No!
I'd lost my mojo for reading too! NOTHING - Not a single thing held my attention. Not even the latest Target catalogue. I stared up morosely at the big black screen on the other side of the room... is this what it's come to? Day time television? Is Days of Our Lives still running, or is it up to Dr Phil to drag me out of the hell I'm in?
Yes, perhaps a little counseling would be helpful. Or a walk.
I opted for a walk.
And so this went on for a while... a few months or so... me walking out the frustration. I began to garden - I've never been much of a gardener - I even painted the eves on the outside of our house. The cars got washed regularly. Everything was looking all sparkly and happy, and then came the email: Writing Group Monthly Challenge.
Initially I shied away - it's was my new thing after all, but deep down - okay, not that deep, but it was down...ish - I knew it was time. With a surge of new-found determination, I reached up onto my toes and got that laptop bag down. Plugged in the charger, turned on the coffee machine and pressed the go button on my computer... and the coffee maker from the Gods.
I will do this challenge!
It was harder than I'd like to admit too, and the writing's not as good as I'd like it to be, but it's a start... and with all great beginnings there are and endings. Not all good and where they should be, admittedly, but still...
So here it is, The Challenge of the Month!
The Umbrella Stand
©Sandra Fitzgerald 2016
The umbrella stands proud, tightly compacted amongst more of its kind. They are all typically alike, tall, sturdy, bound tight by their Velcro constraints, yet this one is different, unique in its own insufferable way. They have been set to the side, long forgotten by the old, bearded man and his mangy, matted dog.
People jostle past, squinting and sheltering their eyes from the blinding, watery sun, their elbows knock and half-hearted apologies made in their haste to get to where ever they desperately need to go on yet, another busy workday.
The young woman’s long, auburn hair lifts slightly in the light breeze. She pauses with a shiver as the sudden chill prickles her fair skin, then resets her slipping handbag and continues on her way.
The young man fills his lungs with cool air and briefly closes his eyes, slowing his steps with relief. He tightens his grip on the thick handle of his computer bag, regaining his pace as he continues along the footpath.
A distant thunderclap startles the aging, thinning dog. The bearded man bends and scratches behind his beloved pup’s ear, mumbling words of comfort.
Daylight blinks into muted tones before returning to full brightness. The pedestrians continue in their rush and pass the bearded man un-noticed as he stands next to his stall of trinkets and he arches his stiff back, massaging the sore spot on his spine.
Light cottonwool clouds are suddenly overcome by angry, dirty cumulus. They fill their cores, puffing out their chests, while they steal the light from the sky.
The young woman slows and looks up in concern, consciously smoothing out her long coifed hair.
The young man stumbles when a faceless stranger darts unexpectedly into his path and accidently knocks into the young woman.
She gasps.
He clutches her elbow to stop her from falling.
Their eyes lock.
Her breath is lost. His mouth drops open.
The thickening, rolling cloud-cover goes unnoticed, as do the thunderous claps vying for attention. The loss of light serves only to allow the young man to step closer to the young woman.
He’s still hasn’t to let go of her elbow.
She’s still hasn’t exhaled.
Angrier still, the blackened sky roars and calls for the wind to wreak havoc among the tree-lined street. The bearded man rubs at his hip as he reaches for the tall bucket, dragging it closer to the front of his stand. He spies his faithful pet, gives him a knowing smirk and a wink. The dog barks once with the rumble of what’s to come from above and wags his tail in glee.
The umbrellas jounce against each other, their excitement building as hand after hand reach in as thick drops begin to fall, slowly, methodically at first... a few here... a few there. Then there are more than few and then more still, until there are far too many to be considered a few. The black umbrellas are the first to go – the certain favourite among the public. Then the blue are all taken, the green and the red, until there is one lone umbrella in the canister.
Hand after hand grips the wooden handle and lifts the slender form with promise, until they discover its shame and let it tumble back down, the metal spike clanks on the bottom of its confinement before it finally lolls aimlessly from side to side until even momentum no longer has use for it.
The young man grins with all of his teeth. The young woman smiles and tucks her chin shyly.
The young man gently places his cold fingers on the young woman’s jaw so she’ll look back up look at him again. He cups his hand and holds it out to catch the falling rain, his smile returning to full force. The young woman eyes sparkle, her lips part and curve, a breathy plume passes between them on her silent chuckle.
The young man hoots boisterously. He takes a step to the side and reaches to retrieve the last remaining umbrella. The young woman laughs out loud, blinking the water from her thick lashes.
The young man holds the tall umbrella like an offering and takes a small bow. The young lady blushes and tries to contain her joy as she takes the very last umbrella from the kind young man and opens it above both of them.
“Yellow,” she says, “my favourite colour,” just as the rains stops and the howling gale disappears as abruptly as it came, the cumulus part and the never ending blue returns, allowing the watery sun to glisten down upon them again.
Thanks for reading.
Sandra xx
November 24, 2015
Lost Words
I’ve lost my words.
They were here and now... they’re not.
I feel empty, yet solid, found and yet lost. I’m here... but I’m not.
I’m told to persist, to keep going even though I don’t feel I have anything worth saying, even though I don’t think anything will come out anyway, I’m told to just keep writing.
But what happens if they’re gone?
Really gone.
What happens if there are no words left for me to write? No place of me to disappear, to imagine, to create, to become someone else... even if it’s only for a short while...
What happens to me then?
If this is part of me, if writing is part of who I am, and if I’ve lost a part of who I am, then who do I become?
Someone else?
Another version of myself?
Another ordinary character that exists in real time? An acceptable creation that appears to be me– someone real, physical and true to themselves... but in actuality is only true in part? A portion of whom I’m meant to be.
Who am I, if I’m not the real me?
Some may rejoice and feel satisfaction from my loss.
Some may suggest that what I wrote wasn’t peaceful or tactful or just or right... some may even go so far as to suggest that it’s rubbish anyway... no great loss...
Some might suggest that karma has had a hand in my suffering, that I’m deserving... that I reap what I sow...
Some might suggest these things...
I’m proud of my words. I’m proud of my effort. I’m proud of myself for taking a chance, for finding the confidence to step out of the shadows, a place many would never have the courage to leave.
I am proud of who I am.
A wife.
A mother.
An aunt, a sister, a cousin, a daughter.
I am proud of me.
Some people write about murder and crime, about clowns that hide... it doesn’t mean that this is who they are. It doesn’t mean they wear brightly coloured shirts and poker dotted pants or hide down drains seeking out children.
Others write about abseiling down narrow cave crevices, running from poison darts, being chased by molten lava... drowning in a submarine. None of these imaginary things mean that this is their factual life; that these things really happened to them – outside of their imagination.
Someone wrote about subtle manipulation and lust, of whips and chains and red satin sheets. Of bondage and encasement, about heart racing moments that leave you wanting more... it doesn’t mean that that is who they are. That these things are for them. It means they stepped out of their comfort zone and researched. They studied and learned, then had the courage and the support to put their work out there, to allow themselves to be judged and criticised... after all it, comes with the territory, doesn’t it?
Judgement is easy. Words are easy.
And both are extremely powerful.
They have the strength to build you up to the highest of highs, to make you shine, to blossom and bloom...
And have equally as much potential to harm. To strip away confidence, to cripple and break, cause so much damage and hurt.
Words are a wondrous gift, a precious thing that should be treated with kindness and respect. They are a blessing of time, a display of evolution, of development and maturing.
Aren’t people all of these things also?
Aren’t people wondrous, and precious? Shouldn’t they be treated with respect and kindness? Be allow to develop and evolve without judgment or criticism? Have the freedom to express what they feel and be themselves? Especially when they’re not causing harm... not real harm.
Maybe my words aren’t gone, but are in hiding. Scared to offend, to cause angst and offend. To hurt those I considered friends, people I think highly of, whom I thought, thought the same of me.
Possibly I was mistaken, after all appearances aren’t always as they seem.
Perhaps the sentences I’m struggling to produce are sitting quietly in the dark, studying and learning, gaining the strength and the courage they need to start over.
Or maybe they’re waiting for me to remember that it’s okay for me, to be me.
They were here and now... they’re not.
I feel empty, yet solid, found and yet lost. I’m here... but I’m not.
I’m told to persist, to keep going even though I don’t feel I have anything worth saying, even though I don’t think anything will come out anyway, I’m told to just keep writing.
But what happens if they’re gone?
Really gone.
What happens if there are no words left for me to write? No place of me to disappear, to imagine, to create, to become someone else... even if it’s only for a short while...
What happens to me then?
If this is part of me, if writing is part of who I am, and if I’ve lost a part of who I am, then who do I become?
Someone else?
Another version of myself?
Another ordinary character that exists in real time? An acceptable creation that appears to be me– someone real, physical and true to themselves... but in actuality is only true in part? A portion of whom I’m meant to be.
Who am I, if I’m not the real me?
Some may rejoice and feel satisfaction from my loss.
Some may suggest that what I wrote wasn’t peaceful or tactful or just or right... some may even go so far as to suggest that it’s rubbish anyway... no great loss...
Some might suggest that karma has had a hand in my suffering, that I’m deserving... that I reap what I sow...
Some might suggest these things...
I’m proud of my words. I’m proud of my effort. I’m proud of myself for taking a chance, for finding the confidence to step out of the shadows, a place many would never have the courage to leave.
I am proud of who I am.
A wife.
A mother.
An aunt, a sister, a cousin, a daughter.
I am proud of me.
Some people write about murder and crime, about clowns that hide... it doesn’t mean that this is who they are. It doesn’t mean they wear brightly coloured shirts and poker dotted pants or hide down drains seeking out children.
Others write about abseiling down narrow cave crevices, running from poison darts, being chased by molten lava... drowning in a submarine. None of these imaginary things mean that this is their factual life; that these things really happened to them – outside of their imagination.
Someone wrote about subtle manipulation and lust, of whips and chains and red satin sheets. Of bondage and encasement, about heart racing moments that leave you wanting more... it doesn’t mean that that is who they are. That these things are for them. It means they stepped out of their comfort zone and researched. They studied and learned, then had the courage and the support to put their work out there, to allow themselves to be judged and criticised... after all it, comes with the territory, doesn’t it?
Judgement is easy. Words are easy.
And both are extremely powerful.
They have the strength to build you up to the highest of highs, to make you shine, to blossom and bloom...
And have equally as much potential to harm. To strip away confidence, to cripple and break, cause so much damage and hurt.
Words are a wondrous gift, a precious thing that should be treated with kindness and respect. They are a blessing of time, a display of evolution, of development and maturing.
Aren’t people all of these things also?
Aren’t people wondrous, and precious? Shouldn’t they be treated with respect and kindness? Be allow to develop and evolve without judgment or criticism? Have the freedom to express what they feel and be themselves? Especially when they’re not causing harm... not real harm.
Maybe my words aren’t gone, but are in hiding. Scared to offend, to cause angst and offend. To hurt those I considered friends, people I think highly of, whom I thought, thought the same of me.
Possibly I was mistaken, after all appearances aren’t always as they seem.
Perhaps the sentences I’m struggling to produce are sitting quietly in the dark, studying and learning, gaining the strength and the courage they need to start over.
Or maybe they’re waiting for me to remember that it’s okay for me, to be me.
November 23, 2015
Lost Words
I’ve lost my words.
They were here and now... they’re not.
I feel empty, yet solid, found and yet lost. I’m here... but I’m not.
I’m told to persist, to keep going even though I don’t feel I have anything worth saying, even though I don’t think anything will come out anyway, I’m told to just keep writing.
But what happens if they’re gone?
Really gone.
What happens if there are no words left for me to write? No place of me to disappear, to imagine, to create, to become someone else... even if it’s only for a short while...
What happens to me then?
If this is part of me, if writing is part of who I am, and if I’ve lost a part of who I am, then who do I become?
Someone else?
Another version of myself?
Another ordinary character that exists in real time? An acceptable creation that appears to be me– someone real, physical and true to themselves... but in actuality is only true in part? A portion of whom I’m meant to be.
Who am I, if I’m not the real me?
Some may rejoice and feel satisfaction from my loss.
Some may suggest that what I wrote wasn’t peaceful or tactful or just or right... some may even go so far as to suggest that it’s rubbish anyway... no great loss...
Some might suggest that karma has had a hand in my suffering, that I’m deserving... that I reap what I sow...
Some might suggest these things...
I’m proud of my words. I’m proud of my effort. I’m proud of myself for taking a chance, for finding the confidence to step out of the shadows, a place many would never have the courage to leave.
I am proud of who I am.
A wife.
A mother.
An aunt, a sister, a cousin, a daughter.
I am proud of me.
Some people write about murder and crime, about clowns that hide... it doesn’t mean that this is who they are. It doesn’t mean they wear brightly coloured shirts and poker dotted pants or hide down drains seeking out children.
Others write about abseiling down narrow cave crevices, running from poison darts, being chased by molten lava... drowning in a submarine. None of these imaginary things mean that this is their factual life; that these things really happened to them – outside of their imagination.
Someone wrote about subtle manipulation and lust, of whips and chains and red satin sheets. Of bondage and encasement, about heart racing moments that leave you wanting more... it doesn’t mean that that is who they are. That these things are for them. It means they stepped out of their comfort zone and researched. They studied and learned, then had the courage and the support to put their work out there, to allow themselves to be judged and criticised... after all it, comes with the territory, doesn’t it?
Judgement is easy. Words are easy.
And both are extremely powerful.
They have the strength to build you up to the highest of highs, to make you shine, to blossom and bloom...
And have equally as much potential to harm. To strip away confidence, to cripple and break, cause so much damage and hurt.
Words are a wondrous gift, a precious thing that should be treated with kindness and respect. They are a blessing of time, a display of evolution, of development and maturing.
Aren’t people all of these things also?
Aren’t people wondrous, and precious? Shouldn’t they be treated with respect and kindness? Be allow to develop and evolve without judgment or criticism? Have the freedom to express what they feel and be themselves? Especially when they’re not causing harm... not real harm.
Maybe my words aren’t gone, but are in hiding. Scared to offend, to cause angst and offend. To hurt those I considered friends, people I think highly of, whom I thought, thought the same of me.
Possibly I was mistaken, after all appearances aren’t always as they seem.
Perhaps the sentences I’m struggling to produce are sitting quietly in the dark, studying and learning, gaining the strength and the courage they need to start over.
Or maybe they’re waiting for me to remember that it’s okay for me, to be me.
They were here and now... they’re not.
I feel empty, yet solid, found and yet lost. I’m here... but I’m not.
I’m told to persist, to keep going even though I don’t feel I have anything worth saying, even though I don’t think anything will come out anyway, I’m told to just keep writing.
But what happens if they’re gone?
Really gone.
What happens if there are no words left for me to write? No place of me to disappear, to imagine, to create, to become someone else... even if it’s only for a short while...
What happens to me then?
If this is part of me, if writing is part of who I am, and if I’ve lost a part of who I am, then who do I become?
Someone else?
Another version of myself?
Another ordinary character that exists in real time? An acceptable creation that appears to be me– someone real, physical and true to themselves... but in actuality is only true in part? A portion of whom I’m meant to be.
Who am I, if I’m not the real me?
Some may rejoice and feel satisfaction from my loss.
Some may suggest that what I wrote wasn’t peaceful or tactful or just or right... some may even go so far as to suggest that it’s rubbish anyway... no great loss...
Some might suggest that karma has had a hand in my suffering, that I’m deserving... that I reap what I sow...
Some might suggest these things...
I’m proud of my words. I’m proud of my effort. I’m proud of myself for taking a chance, for finding the confidence to step out of the shadows, a place many would never have the courage to leave.
I am proud of who I am.
A wife.
A mother.
An aunt, a sister, a cousin, a daughter.
I am proud of me.
Some people write about murder and crime, about clowns that hide... it doesn’t mean that this is who they are. It doesn’t mean they wear brightly coloured shirts and poker dotted pants or hide down drains seeking out children.
Others write about abseiling down narrow cave crevices, running from poison darts, being chased by molten lava... drowning in a submarine. None of these imaginary things mean that this is their factual life; that these things really happened to them – outside of their imagination.
Someone wrote about subtle manipulation and lust, of whips and chains and red satin sheets. Of bondage and encasement, about heart racing moments that leave you wanting more... it doesn’t mean that that is who they are. That these things are for them. It means they stepped out of their comfort zone and researched. They studied and learned, then had the courage and the support to put their work out there, to allow themselves to be judged and criticised... after all it, comes with the territory, doesn’t it?
Judgement is easy. Words are easy.
And both are extremely powerful.
They have the strength to build you up to the highest of highs, to make you shine, to blossom and bloom...
And have equally as much potential to harm. To strip away confidence, to cripple and break, cause so much damage and hurt.
Words are a wondrous gift, a precious thing that should be treated with kindness and respect. They are a blessing of time, a display of evolution, of development and maturing.
Aren’t people all of these things also?
Aren’t people wondrous, and precious? Shouldn’t they be treated with respect and kindness? Be allow to develop and evolve without judgment or criticism? Have the freedom to express what they feel and be themselves? Especially when they’re not causing harm... not real harm.
Maybe my words aren’t gone, but are in hiding. Scared to offend, to cause angst and offend. To hurt those I considered friends, people I think highly of, whom I thought, thought the same of me.
Possibly I was mistaken, after all appearances aren’t always as they seem.
Perhaps the sentences I’m struggling to produce are sitting quietly in the dark, studying and learning, gaining the strength and the courage they need to start over.
Or maybe they’re waiting for me to remember that it’s okay for me, to be me.
