Like a paper cut that won’t stop bleeding—this internal wound bound with tape and glue rips open like a stitch freed by a scalpel…
The red warm liquid surges through his system like a bolt of lightning strikes a tree in the depths of a treacherous storm.
Every buried and avoided emotion evoked by the wave of electricity tearing through the surface—the rawness almost excruciating.
In these times, peace becomes a foreign concept to the mind, body and soul—
Ejected from reality, torn from the safety of the present and viciously thrashed into the dark abyss that is the past.
How his heart does not erupt in that exact moment is a miracle.
His brain strays to the role he plays, the hero or the villain—yet I suppose this lies in the perspective of the characters of his achingly complex past.
A battle lies ahead, not just a plan of attack and escape from these thoughts of dread, doom and despair—a steel barrier in the mansion plagued with the poltergeists rooted in the graveyard of his past life.
He approaches the crumbling, faded stone building engulfed with vines of eternal loneliness.
Upon entrance, he is struck with the fierce vibrations of the emotions he has returned to succumb to.
Lifted in a haze of smoke to the heights of the stained Victorian glass windows that lace the ceilings.
A true iconic symbol of fragility.
Irony lies in the solace he feels upon his expulsion from his physical being.
Thrust into serenity—to a place where the lines of forbidden love are invisible, where the obstacles of such evocative emotion drift away with the clouds—taunting them—darkening them with the stain of heartache—only to rain down upon those remaining in Earths physical plane of existence.
**Note: We had to do a personal exercise on narration and using quoted conversation for my Creative Writing MFA…I thought I would share my first and most raw and inexperienced attempt (as my writing is usually within the Poetry genre)
She waits, sitting her now very bony bottom on the cold, steel box that houses the packages for the building when the bald, lazy old man who owns the place isn’t around to pick them up, which was most of the time. This was made apparent by the note that she viciously shook from her black, battered Wal-Mart sneakers that read: ‘Box too full, call post office for packages. — UPS.” The fragile state of her escalation became rather apparent as she realized that this small inconvenience was all it took to spark the threatening ball of emotion that now rose in her throat alongside the salty sting of unwelcome puddles welling in her marbled blue eyes. The tears continue to obscure her vision and fog her faux turtle shell glasses as she checks the time on her phone yet again, with each minute feeling like a wrathful eternity. She blinks away the obscurity, bringing her vision back to the reality of the empty parking lot before her; littered with the soft pastel pink pedals of velvet as the perimeter of the school’s lot entrance is encompassed by the now fruitful trees of Spring.
As she clears the smudge from her progressively thickening lenses and replaces them on her freckled face, his car comes into view, idly making its way into the lot. The rising ball of emotion erupts yet fades all at once in the same twisted rotation of events that had become her life lately. She gathered her things from the concrete, lifted her shrinking frame from the steel box and sauntered her way almost hesitantly to the silver, rusting Ford Taurus grumbling before her. She threw herself in, ready to pick this battle.
“Hi, sorry”, he said lazily.
“What could you possibly have been doing that would warrant you being thirty minutes late to pick me up?!…Again!” she retorted.
He sighed and she was almost sure she saw him roll his eyes.
“I just lost track of time.”
His response held back any hesitations she had about digging her claws into him this time because by the skunks smell that enveloped the car, she knew why he was late.
“I’d just appreciate to be your priority for once.”
Her anger interrupted by the pang in her stomach reminding her of her feeble lunch.
“What do you want to do for dinner?” she asked blandly as she turned her stiff, aching neck, looking out the window just in time to see her favorite little Tiny House on the corner of the road that the two normally take their Sunday morning ‘Country Burn Cruises.’
“I don’t know, I don’t have any money so it’s up to you”, he said as he turned the wheel with nothing but his elongated index finger, currently with the nail nibbled as low as possible without drawing a constant blood flow.
“Fine. I’ll just make us Mac n’ again and I think we might have some hot dogs left”, she said.
“Three nights in a row, this has got to be a record”, he retorted as he sparked up a perfectly rolled joint.
Her anger blasted to the surface with a new vengeance.
“I’m sorry, if you’d like to order something for yourself you are more than welcome to….oh, wait…you have no fucking money…wonder why…and regardless of the fact that I am working fifty hours a week and babysitting for about a thousand families, neither do I! I forgot that you’re too good for Mac n’ cheese and hot dogs and calling the temp agency is beneath you because you sure as hell didn’t do that today cause I’m going to guess that’s not your first today.”
“Are you fucking kidding me? You’re the one who wants to eat out every damn night, not me. I told you, it’s all going to pay off in the end. But you need to look in the mirror, too.” he snapped as he took his last puff, tossed it out the window and sped down the narrow road that lead to their apartment; per usual it was layered with your typical Mainer Tacoma trucks and now lined with the yellow glow of sneeze enduring pollen.
As she saw the small explosion of burning embers as the joint hit the concrete in her rear view mirror, hives began to spread like lava flowing from an erupting volcano over her chest.
“Ever stop to think about the fact that it’s because I’m too tired to cook dinner after working all day long, knowing I have to come home to do
School work? You could at least care enough to remember why your alarm
Is going off…it’s embarrassing to have to wait for you, and frustrating when
I very well know why. I’m your partner in this, not your enemy.” She said with an achingly raw honesty.
His voice low and defeated, he replied, “Well it’s not like I can cook dinner before you get home considering I have to pick you up every day…I just get caught up in my own dark little world, sorry.”
Exhausted and spent, she sunk her frame into the leather seats, stuffed her feet past the growing piles of Dunkin Donut’s cups and bags and whispered
My apologies for going radio silent on you for a while. Most of my creative writing energies have been focused on my first project for my MFA program. ✍️ Taking a classic (my absolute favorite classical Gothic narrative “Wuthering Heights” by Emily Brontë 📚) and a contemporary novel (“The Little Stranger” by Sarah Waters 📚) & focusing your on reading comparatively through the lens of a writer seeking out literary themes, techniques and conventions. •
Feeling completely engulfed and positively overwhelmed with the culture shock that this MFA program has already provided me. Taking on this challenge with diligence, pride & gratitude 🤘🏼 •
Needless to say I am feeling very inspired on this fine Sunday…so keep your eyes peeled for a new piece this week!
Send it far beyond the southern depths that even flocks of birds in the dead of winter have never seen.
Moving on means utilizing the strength to choose the happiness over the hurt.
Moving on means taking the standing up from the dark, dirt ridden floors of despair to the illuminated promise of greener pastures.
Greener pastures that represent what it means to find serenity within ones self, within the process of becoming the being we so achingly strive and desire to be.
The protective barriers of these pastures do not allow for the sorrow of burning memories filled with holistic confusion and pure pain,
But only for the realistic memories worthy of who we chose to be in those times of the past and who we are destined to become.
The reality isn’t always a step forward into the light, but a civil war that leaves you crawling on your hands and knees on the dirt floor of despair, fighting with all that’s left just to find salvation.
Salvation is the moment you choose the path planted with the seeds of self growth,
The moment you find the balance between selfishness and empathy.
When equilibrium sets in, salvation is immensely attainable. Finally.
In these times we must rely on the power of these greener pastures that gently call to the mind, singing the melody of this healing promise.
Grasp onto the notion that moving on allows the mind to become susceptible to this bellowing call of potential joy.
A new siren’s song that leads you into the arms of a broken, yet lovely and healing masked figure you will inevitably uncover to be yourself.
This joy is the key to the door that leads to self discovery, to a world with no regret or distain,
But to a world engulfed with nothing but the healing bliss of greener pastures.