Words.

Sorry I’ve been so quiet lately, guys. I’ve been writing quite a bit, but it’s all been on paper or for class (I’m in Adv. Creative Writing this semester, and I just turned in my first story to workshop. I’m nervous.)

I’ll post on here soon, for those few people that actually follow me. (By the way, thanks to everyone who does follow me. It really means a lot.) 

Come back to me,
my unfaithful lover,
I beg,
I plead,
as I toss and turn
in these cold empty sheets.

I know others are 
relishing in your sweet presence,
while I am left to wonder
why you have forsaken me again,
given to others what you had
promised to me.

Nights pass.
Weeks pass.

I try to call you back to me
with pills
and mind games.
I run miles but can
never quite catch you.
I’ve almost given up
on ever slipping back into you.

You return.
You come
back to love me
more passionately than before—
Then quickly departing,
leaving me,
smile pinned upon my face,
to wait for your return,
alone. 

This one’s already been published, but I’d still appreciate feedback! Drop a comment in my ask.

Enid flitted behind the Adelsons’ gravestone again. Heavy footsteps in heels tread their way up the cemetery hill; their daughter was here to visit again. The occasional curse floated up to her as the daughters’ heels sank in the soggy ground or she twisted an ankle on a rock. She waited until she heard a match light up a cigarette to poke her head—if you could call it that—out from behind the headstone. The daughter, in a huff, was taking a long, slow drag from her cigarette. She was careful, though, to hold it away from her designer clothes, lest her husband smell it when she got back to the car.

Enid was used to this charade. The daughter forced herself to come up here, every birthday, deathday, or Mother’s or Father’s Day.  Today was their deathday, but Enid doubted whether the daughter knew or cared. She never threw a glance at the lavish headstone she paid for out of her inheritance, or spoke to her parents’ souls, though Enid knew they were not here to hear, anyway. Despite the charade, and their selfish daughter, and the awful way they died, Enid couldn’t help but envy the Adelsons. At first, haunting seemed a novel idea. Scare people, see what people really thought and did when no one was around. She didn’t realize she’d be stuck haunting a boring graveyard for centuries, watching pretentious girls for entertainment. Haunting had been on the “pro” side of her list when she was contemplating life and death. Haunting had been the last thing she thought, as she breathed in deeply, her head in the oven, her best dress on. And now she wished—well, she just wished, she wasn’t here to hear, either.

Comment in my ask, please.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Her pencil eraser bounced back from the paper each time she dropped it. She’d never experienced such a stasis in all her life, including the five years she’d spent with Marty, for whom she’d felt contempt, if she’d felt anything at all. But this, this was unbearable. The pale yellow page stared blankly up at her, just as blankly as she stared at it. She’d never had this problem before, she thought, like a man, slightly embarrassed, tells the woman, “This has never happened to me before.” And the woman would smile coyly, saying that it happens to everyone, but secretly wondering if she might not be as pretty as she thought, or as pretty as she’d been told, because those are two very different things to women. So which was she, the woman or the man? Was the blank page the man, failing her and filling her not with pleasure but with self-doubt? Or was she the one who just couldn’t perform anymore? Tap. Tap. Tap.

Drop a comment in my ask.

closed-universe asked: Impatient Patients:
I'm intrigued, you write really well, I liked it. :)

Thanks! I can’t decide if I like that one yet or not—I wrote it in a hurry at the park and it wasn’t the greatest atmosphere—loud little kids and all that jazz. Thanks for taking the time to read it, though, I really appreciate it!  :]

Scarlett sighed, and popped another bubble with her gum. “Listen,” she said, “Iknow your daughter is sick, but you have to wait your turn like everyone else.” She gestured to the waiting room, full of disgruntled and impatient sick people. The woman, who had an unfortunate shade of red hair and more freckles than translucently pale skin, looked as if she was going to scream for a split second. She screwed up her freckled face and turned abruptly around to join her red-haired daughter in the waiting room.

 Scarlett’s eyes followed the woman for a moment before returning to her hobby of watching the occupants of the waiting room.A few chairs over from the mother and daughter sat an older gentleman. He didn’t appear to notice or even care that he was in the waiting room; he did not wear the customary scowl with which Scarlett was so familiar. He hadn’t come up to her desk to demand to be seen or sighed deeply while making a show of looking at his watch.

Scarlett moved her eyes about the room again, noticing a huffy-looking business man and his son, who she was pretty sure just had a stomach ache and an incompetent father. There was also an older lady, steadily applying more and more makeup, perhaps as a nervous habit. Despite the myriad of distractions Scarlett could focus on, she instead looked back at the old man repeatedly. As the hour hand neared two a.m., most of the other patients had been seen and even released. Still the old man sat, looking at nothing in particular and continuing to look serene.

Scarlett flipped through the last few charts she had, but none of them seemed to belong to the old man. After another half-hour passed by, Scarlett got up from the nurses’ station and approached the older man. “Sir,” she began. “Have you filled out a chart yet? Do you need help?” The old man just shook his head, though she wasn’t sure which question he was attempting to answer. She tried again, “Why are you here?”

The gentleman raised his head to look straight in her eyes and responded, “I could ask you the same thing.” He stood up and walked out of the waiting room.

Comment on the story in my ask, anon or not. Pleaseeeee? Here’s a kitteh to convince you:

Nipa sat and watched as the rain approached her. First it attacked the valley where her village slept. She could hear the raindrops pounding down on the buildings with tin roofs, and she could see the drops glisten in the starlight. There was no moon tonight.

The clouds were moving swiftly, and soon she could feel the cooling breeze that comes just before a rain. She raised her chin and looked south towards the river, which was sloshing angrily. The town would soon flood.

As the storm neared, Nipa stood to meet it. The rain washed her skin clean in a single moment. Lightning struck trees in the forest, and the thunder rumbled its belated warning. Nobody would miss Nipa.

She stood and ran, not towards the town to warn them, but away, as far away as she could hope to run. She left the village that had forsaken her, ignored her, labeled her as a witch. She felt no guilt. 

One of my flash fiction pieces. Please read and comment (Just reply, or drop me a message in my ask, anonymously if you’d like.)

She lay on top of his grave and tried, like always, to sink through the soft soil into his silent sleep. The clouds galloped overhead, bringing with them a cool wind and the sweet smell of rain. If only she were the Wicked Witch, and the rain would melt her, right down through the earth. If only, she sighed. The trees bent, the willows thrashed their leaves, and birds sang sad songs to their lost lovers. The rain came, and still she moved not. Let it wash me clean, she wished. Her white dress, complete with red flowers, was quickly muddied. But she felt cleaner than she had in years. 

Here’s my ask.

The light dims, gets brighter, dims again. I can’t work like this. 

The air kicks on, rumbling cool air into the stuffy sealed room. How does anyone expect me to work like this?

A bird chirps outside the window, bragging about its right to fly, its ability to be free, and not stuck in a cubicle. Will someone shut that godforsaken thing up?

She put her fingers on the keys. The words just won’t come anymore.

She stares blankly at the screen. Didn’t this used to be easy?

She grabbed the mouse, opened a new screen, found music. Music is inspiring, right?

She took off the headphones. It’s just noise. Nasally voiced, loud noise.

A deep breath, closed eyes, fingers tap the keys, lightly, forcefully, with purpose. This is shit.

She swam through aisles of books and never looked back. “Keep me entrenched,” she pleaded wordlessly with the spines flashing by her face. Sprawled across a patterned couch, a musty book inches from her face, she sighed into the book and lost reality in stories never meant to be, in places too fantastical to imagine.