The Beautiful Imposter

Another doorway, another passage into the labyrinth Because it seems to be important now, I’m 40+ years old (as I continue, inexplicably, to get older, I’m not changing this till the next decade)

[beautifulimposter25]

In case you’re wondering, I reblog original writing so that other people can see it. That’s what I do. Sometimes my own stuff too. And sometimes pictures of foxes and semi-naked ladies. But mostly the writing thing.

[beautifulimposter25]

WIP PAGE: The Imposter Chronicles

Genre: Urban/Dark Fantasy

Intro:

There is the world we see, the one around us, every day. It is a world of the real, the mundane, of work and bills, rules and objective fact, and we think we have a pretty good handle on things. One young woman however is going to discover that nothing, absolutely nothing, is what it seems.

Main Story:

The Girl Who Saw

The One Who Was Seen

The Girl Waking Up

What Happened Next

What Happened Further

The First of Many Strange Days

Breaking The Surface

The Time Inbetween

Cleaning House

It’s A Kind of Magic

Over The River And Through The Woods, Part One

Over The River And Through The Woods, Part Two

Turning Wheels (content warning)

Breakfast In The Tower With The Imposter

Things Get Real™️

Extra Bits, Drabbles, and Other Oddities:

Hoarding

The Imposter Feeds The Birds

The Imposter Listening

The Imposter Seeks A Nightlight

What Holds Back The Darkness?

The Imposter Seeks A Nightlight: A Preformance

Consequences

The Imposter Steps Out

The Imposter Who Did Not Slay A Dragon

The Knight’s Day

A Gifting

The Imposter Chronicles: Characters

The Romantic Imposter

The Imposter Has Coffee

The Imposter Remembers

Found Imposterty

Until Morning Light

Heartstrings

The Imposter’s Great Black Coat™️

Safe

Succession

Imposter’ween

The Things One Does When No One Is Looking

Abby & Mags

‘Till The Wheels Come Off

An Old Crow On A Park Bench

Always A New Day

A Conversation With The Queen All In Red

Purpose

Lost and Found

Fun With Characters And Dialogue

[beautifulimposter25]

This too

[beautifulimposter25]

Signal Boost

I always feel like my prose stuff doesn’t get the limelight on here like my poetry does, so in a rather shameful act of self-promotion, I am linking several of my reblogged short pieces in this one post, hoping to get a few more reads…that is “reads” not just “likes”…I just hope it works, ‘cause every time I promote my own stuff I feel so dirty afterwards, lol

The Imposter Finds A Girlfriend: A Very Real Fairytale

Beautiful Trauma

Foundlings

Playing War

Love Is A Battlefield

Mud and Bones

Homecoming

Old Dog

Today Is A Good Day

A Tale Indeed

Yggdrasil

Please Allow Me To Introduce Myself

The Ideas Won’t Come Today

Grace

Marat Sayed

The Promise of Dawn

Strange Bedfellows

The Last Laugh

One Night At The Pub…

[beautifulimposter25]

All of this was an incredible waste of time and effort

[beautifulimposter25]

WIP PAGE: The Imposter Chronicles

Genre: Urban/Dark Fantasy

Intro:

There is the world we see, the one around us, every day. It is a world of the real, the mundane, of work and bills, rules and objective fact, and we think we have a pretty good handle on things. One young woman however is going to discover that nothing, absolutely nothing, is what it seems.

Main Story:

The Girl Who Saw

The One Who Was Seen

The Girl Waking Up

What Happened Next

What Happened Further

The First of Many Strange Days

Breaking The Surface

The Time Inbetween

Cleaning House

It’s A Kind of Magic

Over The River And Through The Woods, Part One

Over The River And Through The Woods, Part Two

Turning Wheels (content warning)

Breakfast In The Tower With The Imposter

Things Get Real™️

Extra Bits, Drabbles, and Other Oddities:

Hoarding

The Imposter Feeds The Birds

The Imposter Listening

The Imposter Seeks A Nightlight

What Holds Back The Darkness?

The Imposter Seeks A Nightlight: A Preformance

Consequences

The Imposter Steps Out

The Imposter Who Did Not Slay A Dragon

The Knight’s Day

A Gifting

The Imposter Chronicles: Characters

The Romantic Imposter

The Imposter Has Coffee

The Imposter Remembers

Found Imposterty

Until Morning Light

Heartstrings

The Imposter’s Great Black Coat™️

Safe

Succession

Imposter’ween

The Things One Does When No One Is Looking

Abby & Mags

‘Till The Wheels Come Off

An Old Crow On A Park Bench

Always A New Day

A Conversation With The Queen All In Red

Purpose

Lost and Found

Fun With Characters And Dialogue

[beautifulimposter25]

This too

[beautifulimposter25]

Signal Boost

I always feel like my prose stuff doesn’t get the limelight on here like my poetry does, so in a rather shameful act of self-promotion, I am linking several of my reblogged short pieces in this one post, hoping to get a few more reads…that is “reads” not just “likes”…I just hope it works, ‘cause every time I promote my own stuff I feel so dirty afterwards, lol

The Imposter Finds A Girlfriend: A Very Real Fairytale

Beautiful Trauma

Foundlings

Playing War

Love Is A Battlefield

Mud and Bones

Homecoming

Old Dog

Today Is A Good Day

A Tale Indeed

Yggdrasil

Please Allow Me To Introduce Myself

The Ideas Won’t Come Today

Grace

Marat Sayed

The Promise of Dawn

Strange Bedfellows

The Last Laugh

One Night At The Pub…

[beautifulimposter25]

All of this was an incredible waste of time and effort

[beautifulimposter25]

A Fragment

I haven't written anything in a long, long while, and what follows is an attempt to get back into practice. It isn't much, but it is a start of...something. Let me know what you think of it, if anyone cares to.

They say the Black Hill Country has a long memory, that the rich dark soil after which the region earns its name holds on to all that has passed, the good and the evil. The region itself is ill-defined, a wild country of thick forests clinging to the sides of steep hills, filling shadowy valleys, overhanging the banks of mist-covered rivers whose waters run like dark veins down from the higher crags into the lowlands below. Over time it has been claimed by many lords or kings or emperors but truly none have ever ruled here, or even wished to beyond claiming their borders included this particularly wild and desolate place. The last of these, the High Kingdom of Athanor, had nominally ruled over the few scattered settlements, lending legitimacy to the claims of the petty nobility and some strength to their authority but in truth the region very much ruled itself with the High Kingdom being only a distant presence at best, until even it fell to be replaced by the Morthandi Empire but even this machine of war and conquest gave the Black Hills little thought and so little changed at all for the people here. Little ever did, with the hardy folk of the country eking out their living beneath the bootheels of this baron or that, unconcerned with the petty squabbling of their betters beyond when it came with fire and naked swords and even then, once the flames had died and the steel had drank enough blood, things went back to how they had been before, only perhaps a little harder, with just a little less for the rebuilding. The land still brooded beneath its trees, muttered to itself in the winds that blew down from the higher mountains to the north and east to flow cold and swift through the deep vales. The land remembered all, the comings and goings of the tribes of mankind, the light tread of the Sidhe before them, the tromp of the Builderfolk, the Dwarves far beneath the dark soil…it remembered all of these to the times before, when darkness welled up from the black earth and dripped down from the uncaring stars above and wicked things roamed boldly through the wild places, gathering for dark rites and sacrifice, feeding the soil and bones of the earth with rivers of blood…the land remembered all, and even after the passage of centuries, these deep, dark rememberings would bear fruit. Once, perhaps twice in a generation a child might be born showing heritage of this darkness, whose blood and flesh were knitted not solely of mother and father but of something older, something foul, tainted by the dreaming dark memories of the Black Hills. It is of one such child, touched by darkness, abandoned upon the steps of an isolated abby, that this tale will tell.

[beautifulimposter25]

A Fragment

I haven't written anything in a long, long while, and what follows is an attempt to get back into practice. It isn't much, but it is a start of...something. Let me know what you think of it, if anyone cares to.

They say the Black Hill Country has a long memory, that the rich dark soil after which the region earns its name holds on to all that has passed, the good and the evil. The region itself is ill-defined, a wild country of thick forests clinging to the sides of steep hills, filling shadowy valleys, overhanging the banks of mist-covered rivers whose waters run like dark veins down from the higher crags into the lowlands below. Over time it has been claimed by many lords or kings or emperors but truly none have ever ruled here, or even wished to beyond claiming their borders included this particularly wild and desolate place. The last of these, the High Kingdom of Athanor, had nominally ruled over the few scattered settlements, lending legitimacy to the claims of the petty nobility and some strength to their authority but in truth the region very much ruled itself with the High Kingdom being only a distant presence at best, until even it fell to be replaced by the Morthandi Empire but even this machine of war and conquest gave the Black Hills little thought and so little changed at all for the people here. Little ever did, with the hardy folk of the country eking out their living beneath the bootheels of this baron or that, unconcerned with the petty squabbling of their betters beyond when it came with fire and naked swords and even then, once the flames had died and the steel had drank enough blood, things went back to how they had been before, only perhaps a little harder, with just a little less for the rebuilding. The land still brooded beneath its trees, muttered to itself in the winds that blew down from the higher mountains to the north and east to flow cold and swift through the deep vales. The land remembered all, the comings and goings of the tribes of mankind, the light tread of the Sidhe before them, the tromp of the Builderfolk, the Dwarves far beneath the dark soil…it remembered all of these to the times before, when darkness welled up from the black earth and dripped down from the uncaring stars above and wicked things roamed boldly through the wild places, gathering for dark rites and sacrifice, feeding the soil and bones of the earth with rivers of blood…the land remembered all, and even after the passage of centuries, these deep, dark rememberings would bear fruit. Once, perhaps twice in a generation a child might be born showing heritage of this darkness, whose blood and flesh were knitted not solely of mother and father but of something older, something foul, tainted by the dreaming dark memories of the Black Hills. It is of one such child, touched by darkness, abandoned upon the steps of an isolated abby, that this tale will tell.

[beautifulimposter25]

A Fragment

I haven't written anything in a long, long while, and what follows is an attempt to get back into practice. It isn't much, but it is a start of...something. Let me know what you think of it, if anyone cares to.

They say the Black Hill Country has a long memory, that the rich dark soil after which the region earns its name holds on to all that has passed, the good and the evil. The region itself is ill-defined, a wild country of thick forests clinging to the sides of steep hills, filling shadowy valleys, overhanging the banks of mist-covered rivers whose waters run like dark veins down from the higher crags into the lowlands below. Over time it has been claimed by many lords or kings or emperors but truly none have ever ruled here, or even wished to beyond claiming their borders included this particularly wild and desolate place. The last of these, the High Kingdom of Athanor, had nominally ruled over the few scattered settlements, lending legitimacy to the claims of the petty nobility and some strength to their authority but in truth the region very much ruled itself with the High Kingdom being only a distant presence at best, until even it fell to be replaced by the Morthandi Empire but even this machine of war and conquest gave the Black Hills little thought and so little changed at all for the people here. Little ever did, with the hardy folk of the country eking out their living beneath the bootheels of this baron or that, unconcerned with the petty squabbling of their betters beyond when it came with fire and naked swords and even then, once the flames had died and the steel had drank enough blood, things went back to how they had been before, only perhaps a little harder, with just a little less for the rebuilding. The land still brooded beneath its trees, muttered to itself in the winds that blew down from the higher mountains to the north and east to flow cold and swift through the deep vales. The land remembered all, the comings and goings of the tribes of mankind, the light tread of the Sidhe before them, the tromp of the Builderfolk, the Dwarves far beneath the dark soil…it remembered all of these to the times before, when darkness welled up from the black earth and dripped down from the uncaring stars above and wicked things roamed boldly through the wild places, gathering for dark rites and sacrifice, feeding the soil and bones of the earth with rivers of blood…the land remembered all, and even after the passage of centuries, these deep, dark rememberings would bear fruit. Once, perhaps twice in a generation a child might be born showing heritage of this darkness, whose blood and flesh were knitted not solely of mother and father but of something older, something foul, tainted by the dreaming dark memories of the Black Hills. It is of one such child, touched by darkness, abandoned upon the steps of an isolated abby, that this tale will tell.

[beautifulimposter25]

A Fragment

I haven't written anything in a long, long while, and what follows is an attempt to get back into practice. It isn't much, but it is a start of...something. Let me know what you think of it, if anyone cares to.

They say the Black Hill Country has a long memory, that the rich dark soil after which the region earns its name holds on to all that has passed, the good and the evil. The region itself is ill-defined, a wild country of thick forests clinging to the sides of steep hills, filling shadowy valleys, overhanging the banks of mist-covered rivers whose waters run like dark veins down from the higher crags into the lowlands below. Over time it has been claimed by many lords or kings or emperors but truly none have ever ruled here, or even wished to beyond claiming their borders included this particularly wild and desolate place. The last of these, the High Kingdom of Athanor, had nominally ruled over the few scattered settlements, lending legitimacy to the claims of the petty nobility and some strength to their authority but in truth the region very much ruled itself with the High Kingdom being only a distant presence at best, until even it fell to be replaced by the Morthandi Empire but even this machine of war and conquest gave the Black Hills little thought and so little changed at all for the people here. Little ever did, with the hardy folk of the country eking out their living beneath the bootheels of this baron or that, unconcerned with the petty squabbling of their betters beyond when it came with fire and naked swords and even then, once the flames had died and the steel had drank enough blood, things went back to how they had been before, only perhaps a little harder, with just a little less for the rebuilding. The land still brooded beneath its trees, muttered to itself in the winds that blew down from the higher mountains to the north and east to flow cold and swift through the deep vales. The land remembered all, the comings and goings of the tribes of mankind, the light tread of the Sidhe before them, the tromp of the Builderfolk, the Dwarves far beneath the dark soil…it remembered all of these to the times before, when darkness welled up from the black earth and dripped down from the uncaring stars above and wicked things roamed boldly through the wild places, gathering for dark rites and sacrifice, feeding the soil and bones of the earth with rivers of blood…the land remembered all, and even after the passage of centuries, these deep, dark rememberings would bear fruit. Once, perhaps twice in a generation a child might be born showing heritage of this darkness, whose blood and flesh were knitted not solely of mother and father but of something older, something foul, tainted by the dreaming dark memories of the Black Hills. It is of one such child, touched by darkness, abandoned upon the steps of an isolated abby, that this tale will tell.

[beautifulimposter25]

A Fragment

I haven't written anything in a long, long while, and what follows is an attempt to get back into practice. It isn't much, but it is a start of...something. Let me know what you think of it, if anyone cares to.

They say the Black Hill Country has a long memory, that the rich dark soil after which the region earns its name holds on to all that has passed, the good and the evil. The region itself is ill-defined, a wild country of thick forests clinging to the sides of steep hills, filling shadowy valleys, overhanging the banks of mist-covered rivers whose waters run like dark veins down from the higher crags into the lowlands below. Over time it has been claimed by many lords or kings or emperors but truly none have ever ruled here, or even wished to beyond claiming their borders included this particularly wild and desolate place. The last of these, the High Kingdom of Athanor, had nominally ruled over the few scattered settlements, lending legitimacy to the claims of the petty nobility and some strength to their authority but in truth the region very much ruled itself with the High Kingdom being only a distant presence at best, until even it fell to be replaced by the Morthandi Empire but even this machine of war and conquest gave the Black Hills little thought and so little changed at all for the people here. Little ever did, with the hardy folk of the country eking out their living beneath the bootheels of this baron or that, unconcerned with the petty squabbling of their betters beyond when it came with fire and naked swords and even then, once the flames had died and the steel had drank enough blood, things went back to how they had been before, only perhaps a little harder, with just a little less for the rebuilding. The land still brooded beneath its trees, muttered to itself in the winds that blew down from the higher mountains to the north and east to flow cold and swift through the deep vales. The land remembered all, the comings and goings of the tribes of mankind, the light tread of the Sidhe before them, the tromp of the Builderfolk, the Dwarves far beneath the dark soil…it remembered all of these to the times before, when darkness welled up from the black earth and dripped down from the uncaring stars above and wicked things roamed boldly through the wild places, gathering for dark rites and sacrifice, feeding the soil and bones of the earth with rivers of blood…the land remembered all, and even after the passage of centuries, these deep, dark rememberings would bear fruit. Once, perhaps twice in a generation a child might be born showing heritage of this darkness, whose blood and flesh were knitted not solely of mother and father but of something older, something foul, tainted by the dreaming dark memories of the Black Hills. It is of one such child, touched by darkness, abandoned upon the steps of an isolated abby, that this tale will tell.

[beautifulimposter25]

A Fragment

I haven't written anything in a long, long while, and what follows is an attempt to get back into practice. It isn't much, but it is a start of...something. Let me know what you think of it, if anyone cares to.

They say the Black Hill Country has a long memory, that the rich dark soil after which the region earns its name holds on to all that has passed, the good and the evil. The region itself is ill-defined, a wild country of thick forests clinging to the sides of steep hills, filling shadowy valleys, overhanging the banks of mist-covered rivers whose waters run like dark veins down from the higher crags into the lowlands below. Over time it has been claimed by many lords or kings or emperors but truly none have ever ruled here, or even wished to beyond claiming their borders included this particularly wild and desolate place. The last of these, the High Kingdom of Athanor, had nominally ruled over the few scattered settlements, lending legitimacy to the claims of the petty nobility and some strength to their authority but in truth the region very much ruled itself with the High Kingdom being only a distant presence at best, until even it fell to be replaced by the Morthandi Empire but even this machine of war and conquest gave the Black Hills little thought and so little changed at all for the people here. Little ever did, with the hardy folk of the country eking out their living beneath the bootheels of this baron or that, unconcerned with the petty squabbling of their betters beyond when it came with fire and naked swords and even then, once the flames had died and the steel had drank enough blood, things went back to how they had been before, only perhaps a little harder, with just a little less for the rebuilding. The land still brooded beneath its trees, muttered to itself in the winds that blew down from the higher mountains to the north and east to flow cold and swift through the deep vales. The land remembered all, the comings and goings of the tribes of mankind, the light tread of the Sidhe before them, the tromp of the Builderfolk, the Dwarves far beneath the dark soil…it remembered all of these to the times before, when darkness welled up from the black earth and dripped down from the uncaring stars above and wicked things roamed boldly through the wild places, gathering for dark rites and sacrifice, feeding the soil and bones of the earth with rivers of blood…the land remembered all, and even after the passage of centuries, these deep, dark rememberings would bear fruit. Once, perhaps twice in a generation a child might be born showing heritage of this darkness, whose blood and flesh were knitted not solely of mother and father but of something older, something foul, tainted by the dreaming dark memories of the Black Hills. It is of one such child, touched by darkness, abandoned upon the steps of an isolated abby, that this tale will tell.

[beautifulimposter25]

A Fragment

I haven't written anything in a long, long while, and what follows is an attempt to get back into practice. It isn't much, but it is a start of...something. Let me know what you think of it, if anyone cares to.

They say the Black Hill Country has a long memory, that the rich dark soil after which the region earns its name holds on to all that has passed, the good and the evil. The region itself is ill-defined, a wild country of thick forests clinging to the sides of steep hills, filling shadowy valleys, overhanging the banks of mist-covered rivers whose waters run like dark veins down from the higher crags into the lowlands below. Over time it has been claimed by many lords or kings or emperors but truly none have ever ruled here, or even wished to beyond claiming their borders included this particularly wild and desolate place. The last of these, the High Kingdom of Athanor, had nominally ruled over the few scattered settlements, lending legitimacy to the claims of the petty nobility and some strength to their authority but in truth the region very much ruled itself with the High Kingdom being only a distant presence at best, until even it fell to be replaced by the Morthandi Empire but even this machine of war and conquest gave the Black Hills little thought and so little changed at all for the people here. Little ever did, with the hardy folk of the country eking out their living beneath the bootheels of this baron or that, unconcerned with the petty squabbling of their betters beyond when it came with fire and naked swords and even then, once the flames had died and the steel had drank enough blood, things went back to how they had been before, only perhaps a little harder, with just a little less for the rebuilding. The land still brooded beneath its trees, muttered to itself in the winds that blew down from the higher mountains to the north and east to flow cold and swift through the deep vales. The land remembered all, the comings and goings of the tribes of mankind, the light tread of the Sidhe before them, the tromp of the Builderfolk, the Dwarves far beneath the dark soil…it remembered all of these to the times before, when darkness welled up from the black earth and dripped down from the uncaring stars above and wicked things roamed boldly through the wild places, gathering for dark rites and sacrifice, feeding the soil and bones of the earth with rivers of blood…the land remembered all, and even after the passage of centuries, these deep, dark rememberings would bear fruit. Once, perhaps twice in a generation a child might be born showing heritage of this darkness, whose blood and flesh were knitted not solely of mother and father but of something older, something foul, tainted by the dreaming dark memories of the Black Hills. It is of one such child, touched by darkness, abandoned upon the steps of an isolated abby, that this tale will tell.

[beautifulimposter25]

A Fragment

I haven't written anything in a long, long while, and what follows is an attempt to get back into practice. It isn't much, but it is a start of...something. Let me know what you think of it, if anyone cares to.

They say the Black Hill Country has a long memory, that the rich dark soil after which the region earns its name holds on to all that has passed, the good and the evil. The region itself is ill-defined, a wild country of thick forests clinging to the sides of steep hills, filling shadowy valleys, overhanging the banks of mist-covered rivers whose waters run like dark veins down from the higher crags into the lowlands below. Over time it has been claimed by many lords or kings or emperors but truly none have ever ruled here, or even wished to beyond claiming their borders included this particularly wild and desolate place. The last of these, the High Kingdom of Athanor, had nominally ruled over the few scattered settlements, lending legitimacy to the claims of the petty nobility and some strength to their authority but in truth the region very much ruled itself with the High Kingdom being only a distant presence at best, until even it fell to be replaced by the Morthandi Empire but even this machine of war and conquest gave the Black Hills little thought and so little changed at all for the people here. Little ever did, with the hardy folk of the country eking out their living beneath the bootheels of this baron or that, unconcerned with the petty squabbling of their betters beyond when it came with fire and naked swords and even then, once the flames had died and the steel had drank enough blood, things went back to how they had been before, only perhaps a little harder, with just a little less for the rebuilding. The land still brooded beneath its trees, muttered to itself in the winds that blew down from the higher mountains to the north and east to flow cold and swift through the deep vales. The land remembered all, the comings and goings of the tribes of mankind, the light tread of the Sidhe before them, the tromp of the Builderfolk, the Dwarves far beneath the dark soil…it remembered all of these to the times before, when darkness welled up from the black earth and dripped down from the uncaring stars above and wicked things roamed boldly through the wild places, gathering for dark rites and sacrifice, feeding the soil and bones of the earth with rivers of blood…the land remembered all, and even after the passage of centuries, these deep, dark rememberings would bear fruit. Once, perhaps twice in a generation a child might be born showing heritage of this darkness, whose blood and flesh were knitted not solely of mother and father but of something older, something foul, tainted by the dreaming dark memories of the Black Hills. It is of one such child, touched by darkness, abandoned upon the steps of an isolated abby, that this tale will tell.

[beautifulimposter25]

WIP PAGE: The Imposter Chronicles

Genre: Urban/Dark Fantasy

Intro:

There is the world we see, the one around us, every day. It is a world of the real, the mundane, of work and bills, rules and objective fact, and we think we have a pretty good handle on things. One young woman however is going to discover that nothing, absolutely nothing, is what it seems.

Main Story:

The Girl Who Saw

The One Who Was Seen

The Girl Waking Up

What Happened Next

What Happened Further

The First of Many Strange Days

Breaking The Surface

The Time Inbetween

Cleaning House

It’s A Kind of Magic

Over The River And Through The Woods, Part One

Over The River And Through The Woods, Part Two

Turning Wheels (content warning)

Breakfast In The Tower With The Imposter

Things Get Real™️

Extra Bits, Drabbles, and Other Oddities:

Hoarding

The Imposter Feeds The Birds

The Imposter Listening

The Imposter Seeks A Nightlight

What Holds Back The Darkness?

The Imposter Seeks A Nightlight: A Preformance

Consequences

The Imposter Steps Out

The Imposter Who Did Not Slay A Dragon

The Knight’s Day

A Gifting

The Imposter Chronicles: Characters

The Romantic Imposter

The Imposter Has Coffee

The Imposter Remembers

Found Imposterty

Until Morning Light

Heartstrings

The Imposter’s Great Black Coat™️

Safe

Succession

Imposter’ween

The Things One Does When No One Is Looking

Abby & Mags

‘Till The Wheels Come Off

An Old Crow On A Park Bench

Always A New Day

A Conversation With The Queen All In Red

Purpose

Lost and Found

Fun With Characters And Dialogue

[beautifulimposter25]

This too

[beautifulimposter25]

Signal Boost

I always feel like my prose stuff doesn’t get the limelight on here like my poetry does, so in a rather shameful act of self-promotion, I am linking several of my reblogged short pieces in this one post, hoping to get a few more reads…that is “reads” not just “likes”…I just hope it works, ‘cause every time I promote my own stuff I feel so dirty afterwards, lol

The Imposter Finds A Girlfriend: A Very Real Fairytale

Beautiful Trauma

Foundlings

Playing War

Love Is A Battlefield

Mud and Bones

Homecoming

Old Dog

Today Is A Good Day

A Tale Indeed

Yggdrasil

Please Allow Me To Introduce Myself

The Ideas Won’t Come Today

Grace

Marat Sayed

The Promise of Dawn

Strange Bedfellows

The Last Laugh

One Night At The Pub…

[beautifulimposter25]

All of this was an incredible waste of time and effort

[beautifulimposter25]

Poem?

fragments, disjointed, inarticulate marionette strings cut voice static barometric pressure low eyes precipitate the same that can't meet the stranger in the mirror The Other, the one you hate, the one I hate back Is it dissociation or is there someone else The failure or the success or does it matter Either way the scorn is real The dead things inside peep out, but not dead because dead means stop and it just keeps going like repeating the word banana over and over till all meaning is lost nothing's coherent and its never what was meant or maybe it was but between lips and teeth and tongue it gets mangled something bloody and amputated stumps of thoughts strung together in vague ideas of shapes half thoughts and maybe memories mixed with tape, bound round with magnetic bias some collage of what is, or how it could have been if I was better if I was well if I wasn't this

[beautifulimposter25]

One Night At The Pub...

“Saved your seat for you.”

Matt returned Jessie’s grin as he hung up his coat, shaking the raindrops from the dark wool as he put it on the third hook in, just like every Saturday evening. The pub was at its usual dull roar, fifty or so voices tumbling over and under each other as he wound his way up to the bar, settling into his favorite stool, scarred hands resting on the scarred wood. Jessie was a flurry of movement behind the bar, pulling pints, pouring out measures tumblers of this or that, loading trays, and Matt just watched her move. She finished with the last round of drinks and made her way down to his end, grabbing the brimming pint glass she’d had ready and setting it down in front of him.

“How’ve you been luv?”

“Well enough, you know how it is.”

She gave him another smile, leaning against her side of the bar, her cheeks a bright, rosy red from the heat and the business, catching her breath. She’d always teased him, saying chatting with him was her only break. They began the weekly news, how her mum still wasn’t doing so well and having to give her dad a hand, what with him just pottering aimlessly round the house with his missus up in hospital.

“He just seems so lost lately, you know? He was always one to be doing something, the kind of guy to fix whatever needed fixing, but ever since mum got sick, it’s like he just wanders, like he can’t fix this and doesn’t know what to do.”

“I know the feeling”

Matt took a deep pull, swallowed, and the chat went on, he’d had a call from his girls the other day, the eldest was starting Uni, and him and her mum couldn’t be prouder. It had been hard years since he had come back, since his ex had realized the man she’d loved had been left somewhere in an obscure patch of desert. He’d never blamed her though, they’d both just been very sad and mourned what they had and went their separate ways and done the best they could with the girls.

“You did your best luv” Jessie patted Matt’s hand, her fingers giving his a comforting squeeze. He just nodded and gave her another smile and hoped it didn’t look as bitter as it felt.

And so the night went, she’d trot off to fill more orders, their conversation ebbing and flowing between. He’d watch her, fascinated by the little crinkles around her eyes, the corners of her lips, smiling at the regulars, trading banter, laughing at bad jokes and even worse flirting. The skirt of her dress twirled around her legs as she spun between the taps, like she was dancing and he couldn’t take his eyes from her, even if he’d wanted to, which he didn’t. For the year or so since he’d started coming to the pub all he’d ever done was watch, wistfully, from his end of the bar, but really, that’s all he wanted. Every day was just the thing he had to get through till Saturday night and a few hours where he didn’t feel so lonely and she was smiling.

“You look a treat tonight Jess, got a fella waiting on you tonight?” She was walking back down to his end and she gave a little twirl. The dress wasn’t her usual work attire, and neither was the touch of makeup on her eyes and lips. Her hair was a bit different too, swept up a bit at the back and not it’s usual riot of loose curls. Matt felt a small twinge of jealousy somewhere deep down and tried to play it off by taking a drink.

“Yup, and his name is ‘Toby’ and he’ll be waitin’ at the door for me, tail wagging” Jess gave a giggle, leaning toward him, close enough that he could smell a heady mix of perfume, whatever she used on her hair, and underneath the scent of sweat and skin. Matt’s mouth felt dry of a sudden and he took another long pull of dark, bitter beer. “He’s the only man for me too.”

Matt felt relief at that, then felt stupid for feeling relieved and just fumbled with his words for a moment, twiddling the half empty pint glass between is hands, the heavy bottom rattling against the bartop. He would never understand why she didn’t have the lads all at her beck and call, but at the same time he was glad she didn’t have a fella in her life. Any time he felt too guilty about that, he’d shove it down with the thought that she’d just not had much luck there in the past and was happy on her own. Maybe that was the truth too.

The night wound on, the crowd thinned out, last call was made and bills got settled. Matt was still sitting there, not wanting to move but knowing the inevitable walk back to his little flat was looming ahead of him. The staff were putting up the chairs, glancing at him and he got up to leave.

“Give is a hand luv, help me get these stools up.” Matt gave a nod, thanking Jess in his head for giving him an excuse to linger. He took his sweet time putting the barstools up, but even that task can only be stretched so far. Soon, everyone was gathering their coats, the landlord’s keys jingling eagerly in his hand as they all gathered by the door. Matt grabbed his peacoat, let it settle around his shoulders as Jess pulled her coat on, hands pulling her hair up and over the collar.

“Walk me home Matt?”

“Aye, no problem Jess”

She called her goodbyes as the little knot of people parted ways, the late night village streets gleaming with the soft drizzle that had been falling all evening. The two of them turned up the lane, side by side, his boots scraping along, her heels clocking out a swifter tattoo against the pavements to keep up with his stride. He slowed his pace and they bumped hips. She didn’t live too far off and he wanted this trip to last as long as it could. Of course, that meant he blinked and they were standing outside her little cottage.

“This is me” she smiled, her hair damp from the rain, glowing in the sodium yellow lamplight. “Thanks for taking the time, it’s not far but I do feel better with a big lad like you.”

“No worry luv, on my way and all, and what kind of gentleman could I call myself if I let you go alone?”

There was a pregnant pause, she looked back at her door, then to him, he suddenly found his boots very interesting indeed.

“Well, I guess I’ll see you next Saturday then.” There seemed to be maybe a hint of reproach in her voice, but Matt wouldn’t let himself hear it.

“Aye, I’ll be there with bells on...it’s the best part of my week” the first bit was louder, the last Matt let his voice trail off, as if admitting even this much affection might be unwanted and rebuked.

Jess turned, and he caught what he thought was a bit of a frown and his heart sank a little. He watched her up the steps, was about to turn to go himself, his steps reluctant but resigned. He was already a few steps away when he caught a faint “ughhh, stupid man!!!”

Matt turned to find Jess, hands on her hips, looking down at him from the top of her stoop, a kind of weary half smile on her lips, shaking her head slightly side to side in exasperation.

“Take me to bed Matt.”

He stood there for a moment, like a pole axed ox, blinking, a long, slow, foolish grin spreading across his face, feeling like he was back in school and awkward and slightly lost. He closed the distance between then though, muttering “don’t have to ask me twice” as he lept up the steps. The brightness of her giggle echoed into the sleepy lane and Jess turned to let them in, the two of them slipping inside and the door latching firmly behind them.

What followed was soft, and sweet, and is absolutely none of your business.