Wednesday, September 11, 2013


The single most impossible thing, I think, for a writer to capture is a clear perspective of his or her own words. We often become entangled in heavily weeded sections of the story and lose sight of the larger landscape. This being a nagging reality, and one that I'm certain many writers are plagued with, I have painfully edited the living shit out of this piece of prose yet again. Bowing to the beast that is the ever growing, never fully satisfied need to create, here is a piece on freedom. How's that for irony? :)

The long. tired row of grey days has stomped all over summer. Trees hang like lazy green question marks. Lawns are all but forgotten, the weather having dampened everyone's will to cooperate with nature. Cars take to the streets out of necessity. Swimming pools are lonely. Children hide inside and huddle at Playstation's altar, building their pixelated empires, rebuilding, arranging, owning, disowning and commanding at will. If only real life were that way. 

I sip my first Folgers and blend happily into the neutral non-light that fills my room. Space that life was once occupied, that children filled and lovers spilled their fornication fluids within is beautifully blurred today and solely mine to roam without any deep thought or 
purpose. Nothing will be required of me. I'll occupy these forgotten rooms sans clothing, boasting my lizard skin. My inner chameleon is a happy creature. I can hide in open view. I belong to the monochrome. 

The big empty adorns me like a loose, friendly quilt...a patchwork of lovers, leavers, triumph and tragedy, unblemished youth and taxed age. The wine was poured, the music was played, young heat burned primal. I promised much to many, a white horse hero. I violated every vow, a hungry roaming pirate never satisfied. I pillaged my world, taking all that I found...hoarding, sorting, scrapping, ever searching for more. The fruits of desire hung like 
healthy vines always at arm's reach. Days were disposable. Time was forgotten but realized alas, when it had taken me too far to retrace my clumsy steps. I finally cursed and cried out at the disappearance of my dreams. Fueled by intoxicating instinct, I was burned by a bigger reality. Now Sheri, true home of my heart, falls from my careless hands and runs from my vacant 

Time, however, has a way of forgiving a man and smoothing his soul over, subtly eroding even the hardest, sharpest of stones. Now the mediation between heart and mind seems to have concluded as a strange, soothing silence hangs over my being. Beyond my window rain clouds move in like schoolyard bullies. I smile though, knowing now that their authority is a delusion. 
What a lovely shade of grey! 

I am George Orwell's Winston; the rats have proven their power. Fear has found me and given me a strange new courage. Resistance is futile but equally undesirable. Old ways will no longer do. My will is invalid currency. My vault is sealed, my economy dried up. Streams of salt, Winston's joy, flow from my eyes. I am free at last.

Tuesday, September 10, 2013

Featured Writer, September

LillithFaraday comes to us from The U.S.A. She's an active and excellent writer. The piece below is titled "Solitary Sam". It's a well crafted snapshot of friendship, and the roadblocks that so often jump out at us as we journey life's road with those we "trust". It's something we can all relate to in some respect, gals and guys! Check out her personal page here. Enjoy!

In reality, Sam had learned to enjoy her solitude. 

She thought that she would miss the daily texts with invites to the most mundane of social gatherings, but she was actually perfectly content to sit on the window cushions, mindlessly stroking her cat as the hours passed, and continued to pass. 

Her friends had abandoned her due to some quite unjust social indecencies, but that no longer bothered her. “Hypocrisy runs rampant in that town”, she thought to herself as she gazed out her window. 

She thought about her friend Meg, and how she had always wished that Meg would finally take that step and free herself from the self-imposed restraints of motherhood and her relationship with convenience born out of sheer desperation, and if Sam was being perfectly honest, pure laziness. 

Meg’s idea of breaking free had been as of recent, her sordid weekend affairs with that Boy. Sam snorted in disdain at the thought of “that boy”, startling the cat. 

“I can’t help that the Boy is nothing but an overgrown man-child with a severe mommy complex", she explained to her cat as he gave her a look of concern that only a cat could possibly muster and walked away. 

Sam felt a moment of sadness when she thought about Meg and the Boy, and how their perceived love for each other would certainly not last the year. She couldn't linger on her friend’s mistakes though; she had learned that you couldn't protect people from themselves, especially when they were so adamant about bringing everyone around them down to their level of misery. 

They had tried to bring her down, under the guise of friendship and support, but they had failed and disappeared back to their lives. Confrontation had never been an issue in the group before, but Sam had always hoped that Meg at the very least would have been honest about her motives. 

She could feel the anger of betrayal simmering under her calm surface again. 

It was true that she had fallen in love with someone, and yes, she probably shouldn't have left so messily and abruptly. 

But Sam had been under the impression that her friends were adults, and judging by their own indiscretions, the fact that hers paled by comparison should have been enough to grant her a little support. Even judgmental support would have been better than what she had actually received, which was nothing more than a cool, indifferent shunning. 

No, her friends were far too civilized to say anything. Females are fickle; they let their men do the public shaming. Or in Meg’s case, her Boy. 

Sam frowned at the clouds outside her window and decided it was time to get over it. 

She had lost her friends, but it was time for her to stop questioning her choices and the events leading up to this realization. 
She hoped that someday, the girls would find some sort of inner dialogue that prevented them from continuing the path of pretense and honor that they were so desperately holding onto, and that eventually that town would learn what loyalty actually meant. 

Sam sat in her solitude and planned her future. 

But first, the cat needed to be fed.

Wednesday, September 4, 2013


Take me back to that place, Mother...that place of empty bottles and broken furniture, of divided home and split lips, of tired hope and shattered dreams. I was but a child who saw very little through the safety of your shroud. One quick look around the landscape, I’ll take a snapshot and never ask you again. Perhaps I’m being harsh, but will it kill you to go there one more time? And if it does, is it not better to know that you faced the years that aged you far too soon than to end your days running from them?

I must see it for myself; she runs, Mother, just as you do. I never raised my father's fist, but she cowers from me now. I never came home as dad did, smelling of odd perfume at unholy hours, but she'll never again grace the marital mattress. The weight of her world, the poison of her plight, the apple that was ripped from her eye, it’s all of my making it seems...all mine. Is it really all mine?

I slam down the phone as her words ignite me. Our anniversary approaches:

“You should just go to work; you need the money." She mutters with stinging indifference. "I'll be stuck with the kids anyhow...
ho hum...but I'll see."

She sees nothing. 

Tell me, Mother, how a woman's heart breaks. Take me to where the road meets the ugly turn down that dark path. Read me the chapter in the romance novel where the plot betrays the reader and Cinderella is left crying on some curb, her dress a mess, cursing the night sky that collapses all around her, swearing herself to solitude for evermore 

Tell me why my wife can’t find a fragment of hope as I lie in pieces at her feet, a sad author offering to rewrite the final scene. You won’t tell me. You can’t. You're afraid to read your own dark fairy tale. Brave one gaze upon the years you left behind; you painted them over with gold but now the true color bleeds through and the picture is blurred beyond recognition. Could you have fixed it? Now time will not afford your effort to be whitewashed and begun anew. Now the gallery empties out, the patrons confused.

She’s on your path; I can see her off in the distance far behind your heavy steps. She’ll catch up. I can’t stop her. I can’t convince her that it’s not too late to take a chance on the narrow road back. She'll not hear me as I call to her now. 

There’s really very little left to say; you both want it this way. 

I’m defeated, though I fought well. I mapped out long impossible routes to rescue a dream. My spirit is extinguished. My feet fail me. My vision is blurred from sleepless nights. I cradle the dream while it bleeds out in my arms. I arrived too late. I hoped for the hopeless. I threw my only penny into the well. I wished upon the last star that fell from the sky and blacked out the night. I chased you, I chased her. I ran this race alone. I’m calling it a day. Sorry to have disturbed you both. I thank you for your time taken in reviewing my resume of resurrection.