Reminiscing On Writing

Almost sent an email today to someone I used to know to see if he was still alive, then I didn’t. Instead I closed it and left it as a draft. I’m not sure why.

I guess it’s because I’ve been reminiscing and for a while that person was quite prominent in my life. I suppose if he wanted to get in touch, though, he’d email and use my new address, because I gave him it last time, even if I was cagey.

Things change, though, and sometimes it takes a lot of awkwardness before you get to a more comfortable footing.

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Late Night & Waking

I hate waking after a night out. The light hitting my eyes is filled with self-loathing and defeat, a thousand pains and what-ifs and whys. I hate waking to find my bed empty because you’re not there after dreams where we’re talking. We reminisce.

I hate waking with the wish that I hadn’t left the house, ruined myself with alcohol and guilt. But why do I feel guilty when you’re the one who did it? This guilt that I feel when every guy hits on me or people try to get me to let some nice fella buy me a drink or take me home. This horrible, revolting guilt… like I’m being unfaithful to you. And I never was.

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#Nightgale Flash Fiction 1 of 4

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“That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, And with thee fade away into the forest dim”
– Keats (Ode To A Nightingale)

Through Hemlock

The forest clamoured with ghostly light, filtered through the broken boughs and slinking in the phantom fog, whereupon he supped the bittersweet taste of darkened memory. White flowers clustered close to his dream dazed head, poisoned stars in his forest bed.

Barefoot in mirthful mind she danced, a figment of his stupor advanced.
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Flash Fiction No. 73

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Small Miracles

The splintered vision stared back at me in the slanted rain. Darkness crackled the too cruel sky as my true form shimmered in the broken glass. The rain should have been snow, but this was to be the bleakest Christmas I had ever known unless a miracle could be coaxed.

Ripples expanded from the lips of my shoes, skittering light in an exquisite dance.

I’d left the note by his bedside. He was sleeping and wouldn’t notice it until he awoke with nobody beside him, the imprint of my body cold and empty. This was only the second time my true self had been called to the fore.

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