a story I can’t write, a battle I can’t fight

This week for the Indy Ink Writers Challenge I was challenged by Mean Girl Garage. Her prompt, suited me to a tee and for that, I thank her. Her prompt was “She realized she was alone….

sassy irish lassie, pain, I hate Kate

She turned around and realized she was alone. Left with her thoughts…. left with the voices. Voices that were reminding her that she failed, again. She thought she had been methodical, planning everything down to the smallest of details. Her heart twanged with that oh so familiar feeling – pain. This constant affliction on her soul was taking its toll. Pain had been her faithful companion throughout the years, one she had longed to escape.

Escape. What a tantalizing thought that was. Her dreams of escaping the never-ending torment, the constant battles and failures consumed her. Yet the voices reminded her that she was worthless, that no one really loved her anyway.

As she contemplated her decision, she traced the handle of the hunting knife. She had snuck it out of his room the day before, knowing he would never miss it. The house was quiet as everyone slept. The thought of not waking up in the morning gave her solace and comfort. She knew she would not have to live this painful nightmare much longer. A battle that she just couldn’t fight. Her soul longed for freedom, it longed for peace.

The blade slid across her wrist, slightly tugging her skin as she went, leaving a beautiful path of crimson. The cut was deep and long, long enough to do its job. She laid down, pulled the covers over her and fell asleep. For the first time in years, she was at peace.

lifting the veil

A bunch of crazy talented writers meet up for a little challenge every week over at the Indy Ink Writers Challenge. Here is my response to this week’s challenge. Enjoy!


The building was tall and stoic. Its massive stone structure had survived the ages and after yesterday, it was all that was left standing. The group of people huddled together at the base of the stairs were also all that were left standing. We had each been given a numbered ID badge – no longer a name, just a number. Silently we lined up and waited. We were the few, the select, the remaining.

I silently flicked the corner of my tag, #276, trying to appear impatient in an attempt to hide my anxiety. After numerous check points we were gathered in a room with four rows of folding chairs, strategically placed facing a podium and tattered American flag. As we filed in to take our seats, the reality of the moment struck me – we are all that were left, we were the chosen ones.

I picked a seat on the end and silently scoped out the other members of the room. We were a motley crew, tossed in a room based on a number. What about those whose number did not get called? What could I have to offer to their cause?

A sturdy woman approached the podium. She monotonically stated the rules of the day which basically boiled down to one rule: you may not, under any circumstance, leave the room, unless of course your number was called.

Uniformed men routinely came in and out of our room, barely glancing our way, as if we weren’t even worth their time. Occasionally the stout woman would call out numbers from the podium. Everyone held their breath, wondering if their number was going to be called and if it was – what exactly that meant.

While I tried to bide the time, the less than comfortable chair did little to ease the anxiety associated with the day. The gentleman next to me began to bite nervously at his nails. “What do you think they’ll ask us in the other room?”

Looking off through the dark and dusty window, I stared at the empty street below – wondering if being spared was such a good thing after all.

This week Nathan of PhilosYphia gave me the following challenge: “Write an account of yesterday’s activities in your life, but from the perspective of a post-apocalyptic world.” Ironically I was scheduled for jury duty all week, thanks Nathan!

forbidden

This week’s Indy Ink writing challenge comes from Jan at When Things Don’t Make Sense or Do They?

The picture on the mantle was nothing special, just a man and a woman smiling. But you know that people would pay a lot more attention to that picture, if they knew the story behind it. Write about the extraordinary story behind the seemingly normal picture.

mantleWhat would people do if they knew? Their life had always been meticulously planned. Years had been spent cultivating their story. Every detail of their past had been carefully orchestrated, hashed and rehashed to the tiniest detail, until they had a flawless background. They had rehearsed their story so many times that there were often days when even she thought it was the truth.

Their large photo was perfectly perched in the center of their mantle. Everyone always raved about how beautiful they looked, like they were made for each other. It was from their honeymoon to South Africa, her favorite trip so far. They loved the freedom of being in a country where there was no chance of someone recognizing them. So far from their home. So far from their secret.

It began just over two decades ago after their mother’s third divorce. They were ten and eight and from her first and second marriages. Over the next five years they moved from city to city, often leaving without warning in the middle of the night. As their mother moved from boyfriend to boyfriend, they were often left alone to fend for themselves. They would imagine what it was like to have a mother and a father, to have a family.  They would play house at dinner, mimicking the TV shows they would watch. She would cook dinner while he would joke about his day. It became their routine. Their escape. Till that one night…

They were watching television like they always did. The winter air crept into the poorly insulated apartment. He noticed her shivering on the other end of the couch and offered to share the blanket. When she snuggled up against him it felt so right. Did he feel it too?

WHAT?! How can you think that, she queried. How could she have just had that thought? But as she snuggled into him, he also snuggled into her. Maybe her thoughts weren’t that far off. Their night time rituals continued and their love grew. It was easy to hide because their mother was never home. They would talk for hours about their plans to get out of that dingy apartment and have their own life – together.

When he turned 18 they left and never turned back. And the rest? The rest is history, a very carefully orchestrated history.

 

 

ode to winter

This week’s Indy Ink Writing Challenge comes from runaway sentence:

write about the coming spring from the perspective of someone who loves the winter

indy ink writing challenge

The change begins to gradually appear as the vast pureness of winter is forced to slowly melt away. Its stark beauty is quickly replaced with a forboding sense of dismal rebirth. Gone are the days of untainted purity. Lost are the quiet mornings after the storm. Oh how I long for wool sweaters, flannel socks and the roar of an open fire. The smells of hearty stews that warm the soul are nothing more than a memory now as winter foods are stashed in the back of the pantry for another year.

And you dear Spring, what do you have to offer? Bleak skies, indecisive temperatures and a dreariness that is hard to shake. Stop trying to pry me from the safety of my cocoon. Leave me snuggled in my layers of complacency. As I pull the layers closer, the warmth envelopes me and I begin to dreamily drift off.

Silently snowflakes drift from the heavens and instantly instills a sense of tranquility. I drink in the snowy peacefulness hoping this hibernation doesn’t have to end. If I can just hang on to this moment for a little bit more….