This is a piece that I wrote awhile ago.  I didn’t like it at the time but looking at it now I think it could be turned into something.  Anyways, thought you all might like to see it.


I recoil from the thought of his death, but I cannot escape it.  Every time I close my eyes his face flies through my mind.  That memory, the memory of his death, sends me reeling.  The scene consumes my every waking thought, but sleep is no refuge. No longer are my dreams a haven, instead they now offer only nightmares.

Regret threatens to consume me, as these memories haunt me.  I was not there.  I promised him I would make it.  But I was too late.  Too late to save the one I loved.  Instead I watched him die, leaving me with only the promise of madness, slow driven insanity as my regrets haunt me.   I have known all along that someday death would part us, that even with all the power in the world I could not stop it, but now?  When we are both only eighteen?  How in all the world can goodness exist when this can happen?  How can goodness exist when a broken promise, a death, leave a young woman in the iron grip of her remorse?  Forever I will remember the pain on his face as he died.  But the most haunting thing of all?  I know that he saw me in the crowd of watchers, I saw the glimmer of recognition in his eyes.  Yet even while he bore the pain of this torturous death I saw the same tender love there in his eyes that he always used with me.  Understanding, as if he knew I would fail in my quest, is clear on his face.  I know he did not blame me for the horrifying tortures he endured.

How does one pick up the pieces of a shattered life? Go on when there is nothing left to live for?  What small beauty the world held for me died with him, leaving me with nothing to hold onto, no hope whatsoever.  What is there left for me? In eighteen short years I’ve lived more than any other I’ve met.  I’ve gathered the experience of a lifetime, now perhaps that lifetime is ready to end, what is left to do?  I have had the romance of the ages, fought for the last of great causes.  And where others failed I have succeeded.  I will be remembered, so why should I take the rest of the pain that life has to offer?

Men came today, and begged me to let them bury his body, telling me that it will begin to rot soon and that I must not continue to deny what I have seen with my own eyes.  I curtly told them that I do not deny it, I simply refuse to allow my future to fade without proper mourning.  I do not tell them that I have already preserved his body and taken it to it’s final resting place.  Only I know of the place where time will not ravage him, only I will sit there with him for eternity.

Later that same day women of the village came, telling me the same thing the men did.  Their words hold a little bit more comfort in them though, some having lost their own lovers.  But none could understand what I go through now, none have experienced the passion on so many levels that I have.  They tell me to hold on to life, though I wish to die.  Though anguish has consumed me.

“What left have I to live for?” I snap.  They would like to reply but they cannot answer.  I am right, nothing exists that ties me to this life now he is gone.

They insist that it will grow easier with time.  I know it will not.

Another lifetime to live and I will be haunted the entire time? No I refuse to bear it.  Another lifetime is too long to be haunted.


The Dark is Afraid of Me

How did I come to this? I think as I walk through the door in chains.  How did I go from hero, to prisoner, to villain, in only two months? I do not know how, but here, as I face the door of death, I know I am about to find out.

There was a time, not so long ago, when I was helpless.  Helpless and desperate to not be so, desperate to be saved, or, even better, to be able to save myself.  If only I had known then the truth that now stares me in the face.  Perhaps I would still be the good guy, the hero of my story.  But every story needs a villain, and it seems that one will not be enough for this story.

I had hoped I was strong enough to write my tale, to be the hero my story needed.  For once in my life, I thought that perhaps, I would control my own choices, my own destiny.

Power was offered, and I took it, used it to become all I could be.  But the funny thing about power, it seems always to betray you at the moment when it is needed most.  And as I trained harder and harder to defeat the nightmare, I lost sight of the fact that in doing so, I was becoming a nightmare.  Power is not admirable, not in the hands of an imperfect one.  In power, there is beauty, but it is terrible beauty.  The elegance of power holds allure for all, but it is a vision of horror when it finally reveals itself for what it is.

I lost my grip on reality, my grip on right and wrong.  At each turn, I embraced my gift to its fullest, not realizing what it was taking from me.  Not comprehending that it was taking the very thing I had first striven for.  I allowed myself to become addicted to this horrible drug, this thing I call power.  And now, even the dark is afraid of me.

So while I walk through this door I know I go to the end, my end.  But the gift I so willingly took, it will endure.  I know that I do not go to face my killer and be martyred; rather, I go to be consumed.  Destroyed by the very thing that made me.  Power will be my executioner.


BeKindRewrite, once again your prompts have inspired me more than you could imagine.  I kind of want to do another with this same prompt!  lol


One Thing at a Time?

In the past I’ve often struggled with not starting too much at once, or else I drop what I’m working on and move on to the next project and never come back.  For quite some time, I would simply write down the inspiration and a general rough plot idea that I liked, planning to come back to it when I finished what I was working on.  That worked well, but eventually the temptation to write would get to big and I’d end up with my same problem all over again.

Right now I’m working on a short story that seems to be turning into a book, a trilogy that somewhat relates to that short story, and I’m writing another book just as an exercise and practice.  The issue?  I find it very easy to get caught up in one and quit the others for weeks on end.  Of course there’s an obvious bonus too.  I never have problems with writer’s block holding me up on all three at once, so I always have something to work on.  However, I’m not sure if that outweighs the bad.

So my question is, is it a good or bad thing to allow yourself to work on more that 1-2 things at a time?

Inspiration Monday IV

Inspiration Monday again!  It’s become my favorite night of the week, these Monday nights.

BeKindRewrite thanks for the wonderful prompts.

The Scientist

The scientist was simply the sort of man who did not laugh.  Few words ever left his mouth beside lab instructions, and even those he usually wrote down instead.  He rarely, if ever, left his lab.  Even to eat–if he became hungry enough that he couldn’t work–he would simply order food for delivery and continue working.  After he fell asleep during an important experiment a cot was ordered for his lab.  This helped him, occasionally he would get a couple of hours sleep.

Then one day, the scientist suddenly stopped work and stepped back.  “It’s finished!”  He exclaimed.  And the scientist laughed.  Then he collapsed, finished with his life’s work, what had he left to live for?  But in that last minute before he died, the scientist laughed.


The Girl With the Teardrop Tattoo

Isabelle Myra James, the girl with the teardrop tattoo.  It was her scarlet letter, the blacklisting feature she had that would last beyond her currently swollen belly.  It wasn’t a badly done tattoo, in fact it was done very nicely, but between both her pregnancy and the tattoo beside her right eye, there were very few places that Isabelle fit in.  Very few jobs, very few foster homes, and no one to turn to.

So for Isa there was really no other option but to give the baby up or have an abortion.  Her first choice had been an abortion, she’d nearly gone through with it, but somehow, sitting in that clinic, she couldn’t bring herself to sign off her baby’s life.  How could she when sixteen years ago her mother had chosen not to do the same to her?  So the girl with the teardrop tattoo left the clinic still pregnant and went instead to an adoption agency.

The child was born 5 months later, July 1, 2008, and the girl with the teardrop tattoo handed her newborn daughter to the couple she’d chosen to give her baby to.  And for the last time, Isa let her tears escape.

A week later, she called the family and asked them the name of her daughter.  They told her they had named the girl Lyla Isabelle.  The next day she had a teardrop tattooed on her hip.  In it she wrote the baby’s name and birthday, a permanent reminder of the last time she would ever cry.


Goin’ Dancin’

A short scribble.  Mostly a flunked short story, but I like this part.


Music blares from the speakers of my old radio as I stand in front of the mirror in my room, dancing and singing loud–and very off key–Taylor Swift songs.  With a final twirl I spin around and grab a tube of lipstick.  A moment later a crimson-rose smear of it has appeared on my mouth.  My long black lashes are covered with a light coat of mascara and I am wearing my favorite dress, I’m goin’ dancin’.

Inspiration Monday iii

It’s inspiration Monday again!  Anyways.  I’ll probably post again with more of these wonderful prompts.  This was just the first to catch my eye.  Thank-you to bekindrewrite for the wonderful prompts.



I’m not crazy.

I’ve been asked before.  In fact, I get asked so much I’ve started introducing myself, ‘My name is Charlie, I’m an average, everyday seventeen year old girl, and I’m not crazy.’

Forget the stares my statement usually draws.  I am simply saying the truth before the accusations come flying at me.  Admittedly I’m eccentric.  However, it should be remembered, you would be too, in my position.  If you had watched your best friend die, you would be ‘eccentric’ too.  If you didn’t know who, or what you were, would you be entirely sane?

Awhile ago, I wrote down a list of all the things that just make me happy.  Someone told me it would help, because at least then, I’d have a little bit of something to look forward to in the world.  At least I would if I did the things I wrote.  I think they wanted me to remember that I’ve got a reason to live.  At first I couldn’t think of anything.  It took me a really long time.  Finally the person who told me to do it in the first place told me to write it to someone.  That was easy.  I would write to you.  After that it was a matter of finding enough paper.  The first thing I wrote led to the second and after that it was all I could do to stop.  It was the happiest I’ve been in forever.

The first thing I wrote down on that list was the smell of peaches, on a late summer day, right after an afternoon thunder storm.  The rain has just cleaned the world again, and somehow, it seems like evil is just gone.  And then I wrote, ‘ice skating at midnight with my wool red scarf flying behind me while I race after you.’  I remember the sound of our laughter.  The memory made me think of the next thing I love.  I love the sound of crickets on pre-dawn fishing trips.  The way I squealed when you showed me how to bait a hook the first time; and when I all out screamed when a little later you reeled in a fish and plopped it on my lap.  I remember jumping up and ripping my new turquoise hoody off like a snake bit me and then I threw the fish back into the creek like it was a bomb.  My shrieks of laughter scared off every fish for miles, but it didn’t matter, you were laughing too.  I loved–and still do love–that day, because it defied the world.  Rebelled against all that wished unhappiness.  And the best part of that day?  It was the way your eyes sparkled with mischief when you dropped that slime-covered fish in  my lap.

My next favorite thing is the way fireworks crackle, just before they go off.  It reminds me of all those times we sat together, hand in hand, watching the night sky in all of its spectacular glory.    I love the feel of your fingers, entwined with mind.  Rebelliously telling the world that I was yours and you would not let go.  But even you could not hold on forever.  And for that betrayal I cannot help but hate you–though I’ve found that love is a far stronger emotion.

I love the way my fingers would get stuck together, on the days we would buy fudge bars to share, and see how far we could run before we had to eat them because they were melting, or already melted.  Sometimes I think that the things you and I would come up with on summer days could rival the most extensively planned military operation.  I always laugh when I think about how we would plan out route right before we bought the ice cream, so carefully planning each step, then race to see if we could finish it.

The crackle of leaves as we rolled through them in the fall came to me next.  I have no trouble remembering that.  I remember how happy we were.  We were wearing our “‘ol blue jeans” and you had given me your Letterman jacket.  I remember how proud you were when you got that jacket, you told me that you wanted to see me wear it for you and I didn’t understand, but now I do.  You wanted me to be wearing your colors, and everyone else we knew to know that I was your girl.  I wish I could still be your girl now.

After I got started, the list of things I love was easy.  But the last thing I wrote on that list, was the thing I hate.  I hate the world.  They took you from me.  He took you from me.  The day you were murdered.  So yes, I’m strange, a little off maybe, but there’s a reason why. Because you’re gone.  I will never do a single one of my favorite things with you again.

A Shot At Working With Prompts

BeKindRewrite has been posting prompts so I thought I’d try my hand at using a few of them.


Everyday Villain

Every line of the man spelled ‘villain’.  From his dark hair, slicked back and combed all too perfectly, to the black dress shirt and pants over black patent leather shoes, even the black cape with its crimson lining.  The lingering scent of blood surrounded him.  Somehow I think he tried to cover it with some sort of perfume, but the two strong scents simply produced a choking smell that made me want to throw up.  But even more chilling?  The dark flash in his eyes as he surveyed us, my sister and I, while his henchmen held us still.

We struggled, kicked, bit, everything we could manage; but it did us no good.  Finally, one of the men got fed up with us.

“What d’ ya want us to do with ’em boss?”  He asked the dark man.

The man’s eyebrows raised in a haunting expression.  I will never forget the moment he said, “Put them in room nineteen.  You know what to do.”

I shake my head, clearing it of the memories that have suddenly chosen to surface.  Why my worst memories have chosen today to haunt me I do not know.   I know only that they are not welcome.

Rising from my chair I pick up my cape and stand by the door, mentally I run through the list of things I will be doing today.  While I think, I spray perfume on my clothing, trying to hide the scent of my crimes.  I force my mind not to wander back to the past.  Why is it that today, today of all days, I had to be reminded that I have become the very man I hate?


Time Capsule from the Future

“Hurry Alli, hurry.”

“I’m trying to hurry Jack.”  A small voice called after the boy.  “But it’s so dark, I can’t see!”

“It’s okay, we’re almost there.”

“Where are we going Jack?”

“To the cave,” The boy called. “The one just below Beggar’s Point.”

“But why?”

“Alli,” The boy’s voice held a hidden sigh laced in it.  “I already told you.  We’re burying a time capsule.”

“Like the one that the town council got dug up?”

“Sort of.”

“Is it so we can come dig it up when we’re grown ups?”

“No Alli.  This time capsule is going to be from the future.”

“How’s it going to be from the future, Jack?  Did you invent a time machine?”

“No silly.  I–its…oh, never mind.  You’ll understand someday.”

“If you say s–ow!”

“Alli?  Alli, what’s wrong?”

“I slipped and cut my hand on a really sharp rock.”  The girl said in a brave tone, “It hurts Jack.”

“It’s okay Alli.  We’re there now and you don’t have to do any of the digging.  You can just sit and watch.  Okay?”

“Okay.  Just let me get up there.  It’s just…one more….ah!….hand ho–aahhh!!!” Her high pitched scream of terror filled the night suddenly. A moment later, she hit the ground, forty feet below the terrified boy who was her companion.

He rushed down to her, trying to drown out the horrible sounds of her agonized yells.  “Alli!  No, no, Alli.  No, you can’t die, Alli.  We were gonna grow up together!  An–and when we was big I was gonna take ya to fancy parties, and someday I’d throw ya a big fancy wedding and marry ya!  And we were gonna have twelve kids and you was gonna be their mama.  An’ even though I’d have to work real hard, we were gonna live happily ever after and get real old together, cause I was gonna love ya.  Cause I do love ya.  Yo–you can’t die Alli.”

The girl looked at him through pain clouded eyes.  “I loved you too, Jack.”  She whispered with her final breath.