"I think therefore I am." — Rene Descartes

27 | She/Her | Demetriou I'm not 100% sure what to say...other than I am a writer. I have been writing for as long as I can remember. Creating stories and never finishing them. I had stopped writing during the pandemic, being overwhelmed paired with high anxiety blocked my ability to write. But maybe being here, I can find my inspiration with it again. Only time will tell, I think.

[secretie]

Surprise surprise I love the derpy cat 💙 insta

[writing-prompt-s]

You work in a nursing facility where a cat inexplicably visits patients the night they pass. Tonight they won’t leave you alone.

[myhalfwrittenstory]

It had been a long, brutal week at Marrowridge General.

The kind of week that settled into your bones and refused to leave. Night shift blurred into morning, morning into dusk, and somewhere in between, the hospital lost more patients than it had in its eighty-year history. All natural causes, they said. Quiet deaths. No alarms. No codes. Just a steady stream of fading pulses and final exhales.

With the exception of the cat.

The halls felt both heavier and lighter when he was around. The flickering lights, usually erratic, seemed to steady in his presence, casting a soft, uninterrupted glow in his wake. His paws thudded gently against the linoleum, head held high like he owned the place. Even the fussiest patients calmed when he passed on by.

At first, they tried to shoo him out. No one knew where he came from. The first sighting was beside Abe Beckham — the meanest patient in Marrowridge. He lived to torment the nurses, hammering his call bell through the night like a war drum.

But that night, the bell was silent. His room echoed with laughter.

The 6 p.m. check-in nurse knocked, startled by the sound, and pushed the door open. She half expected to see the room filled with family members, sharing memories of a fonder Beckham. Instead, she found Beckham alone in bed, smiling — talking to a cat.

Not just any cat. He looked like a lion: massive, thick-furred, orange with white spots and snowy toes. He sat gracefully in the visitor’s chair, bright amber eyes locked onto Beckham, purring like a motor. It was truly a sight to behold. She gasped and moved to shoo him out.

“Stop that, woman! Can’t you see we’re in the middle of a conversation?” Beckham barked, then turned back to the cat, reminiscing about a time long since passed.

That very night, Beckham died.

The next evening, the cat laid out beside Darlene Lane, a 13-year-old girl in the final stages of life, suffering from stage 4 leukemia. Her body was sputtering, barely holding on. The end was near. But that day, she named him Raif and spent her last hours nestled against him. His purr was loud, almost as if he’d taken on the rhythm her body could no longer maintain.

When the end came, she tried to fight it. She wanted to live. Nurses and doctors stood almost helpless as Raif climbed onto her chest, his purr drowning out the monitors, the whispers, the grief. Soon, Darlene took her very last breath, her hand resting gently on the cat that wouldn’t leave. Her mother collapsed into the chair beside her, sobbing. Raif paused, then leapt gracefully into the chair next to her, pressing his body against hers — easing the weight of the loss she would feel for forever.

Every night since, it was the same.

The staff stopped questioning it. Families were quietly warned when Raif chose a room. After the fifteenth death, no one called him a stray anymore. He was the gentle reaper.

Now, the end of the week had come and the nurses watched, waiting to see which patient Raif would spend his day with when instead, he jumped onto the front desk and locked eyes at her.

She was typing, lost in her report, when her coworker gasped.

A mug shattered on the floor, breaking the silence in her head.

She looked up, locking eyes with Raif.

“Oh no… not tonight,” she whispered.

[bookishdiplodocus]

The Neurodivergent Writer’s Guide to Fun and Productivity

(Even when life beats you down)

Look, I’m a mom, I have ADHD, I’m a spoonie. To say that I don’t have heaps of energy to spare and I struggle with consistency is an understatement. For years, I tried to write consistently, but I couldn’t manage to keep up with habits I built and deadlines I set.

So fuck neurodivergent guides on building habits, fuck “eat the frog first”, fuck “it’s all in the grind”, and fuck “you just need time management”—here is how I manage to write often and a lot.

Focus on having fun, not on the outcome

This was the groundwork I had to lay before I could even start my streak. At an online writing conference, someone said: “If you push yourself and meet your goals, and you publish your book, but you haven’t enjoyed the process… What’s the point?” and hoo boy, that question hit me like a truck.

I was so caught up in the narrative of “You’ve got to show up for what’s important” and “Push through if you really want to get it done”. For a few years, I used to read all these productivity books about grinding your way to success, and along the way I started using the same language as they did. And I notice a lot of you do so, too.

But your brain doesn’t like to grind. No-one’s brain does, and especially no neurodivergent brain. If having to write gives you stress or if you put pressure on yourself for not writing (enough), your brain’s going to say: “Huh. Writing gives us stress, we’re going to try to avoid it in the future.”

So before I could even try to write regularly, I needed to teach my brain once again that writing is fun. I switched from countable goals like words or time to non-countable goals like “fun” and “flow”.

Rewire my brain: writing is fun and I’m good at it

I used everything I knew about neuroscience, psychology, and social sciences. These are some of the things I did before and during a writing session. Usually not all at once, and after a while I didn’t need these strategies anymore, although I sometimes go back to them when necessary.

I journalled all the negative thoughts I had around writing and try to reason them away, using arguments I knew in my heart were true. (The last part is the crux.) Imagine being supportive to a writer friend with crippling insecurities, only the friend is you.

Not setting any goals didn’t work for me—I still nurtured unwanted expectations. So I did set goals, but made them non-countable, like “have fun”, “get in the flow”, or “write”. Did I write? Yes. Success! Your brain doesn’t actually care about how high the goal is, it cares about meeting whatever goal you set.

I didn’t even track how many words I wrote. Not relevant.

I set an alarm for a short time (like 10 minutes) and forbade myself to exceed that time. The idea was that if I write until I run out of mojo, my brain learns that writing drains the mojo. If I write for 10 minutes and have fun, my brain learns that writing is fun and wants to do it again.

Reinforce the fact that writing makes you happy by rewarding your brain immediately afterwards. You know what works best for you: a walk, a golden sticker, chocolate, cuddle your dog, whatever makes you happy.

I conditioned myself to associate writing with specific stimuli: that album, that smell, that tea, that place. Any stimulus can work, so pick one you like. I consciously chose several stimuli so I could switch them up, and the conditioning stays active as long as I don’t muddle it with other associations.

Use a ritual to signal to your brain that Writing Time is about to begin to get into the zone easier and faster. I guess this is a kind of conditioning as well? Meditation, music, lighting a candle… Pick your stimulus and stick with it.

Specifically for rewiring my brain, I started a new WIP that had no emotional connotations attached to it, nor any pressure to get finished or, heaven forbid, meet quality norms. I don’t think these techniques above would have worked as well if I had applied them on writing my novel.

It wasn’t until I could confidently say I enjoyed writing again, that I could start building up a consistent habit. No more pushing myself.

I lowered my definition for success

When I say that nowadays I write every day, that’s literally it. I don’t set out to write 1,000 or 500 or 10 words every day (tried it, failed to keep up with it every time)—the only marker for success when it comes to my streak is to write at least one word, even on the days when my brain goes “naaahhh”. On those days, it suffices to send myself a text with a few keywords or a snippet. It’s not “success on a technicality (derogatory)”, because most of those snippets and ideas get used in actual stories later. And if they don’t, they don’t. It’s still writing. No writing is ever wasted.

A side note on high expectations, imposter syndrome, and perfectionism

Obviously, “Setting a ridiculously low goal” isn’t something I invented. I actually got it from those productivity books, only I never got it to work. I used to tell myself: “It’s okay if I don’t write for an hour, because my goal is to write for 20 minutes and if I happen to keep going for, say, an hour, that’s a bonus.” Right? So I set the goal for 20 minutes, wrote for 35 minutes, and instead of feeling like I exceeded my goal, I felt disappointed because apparently I was still hoping for the bonus scenario to happen. I didn’t know how to set a goal so low and believe it.

I think the trick to making it work this time lies more in the groundwork of training my brain to enjoy writing again than in the fact that my daily goal is ridiculously low. I believe I’m a writer, because I prove it to myself every day. Every success I hit reinforces the idea that I’m a writer. It’s an extra ward against imposter syndrome.

Knowing that I can still come up with a few lines of dialogue on the Really Bad Days—days when I struggle to brush my teeth, the day when I had a panic attack in the supermarket, or the day my kid got hit by a car—teaches me that I can write on the mere Bad-ish Days.

The more I do it, the more I do it

The irony is that setting a ridiculously low goal almost immediately led to writing more and more often. The most difficult step is to start a new habit. After just a few weeks, I noticed that I needed less time and energy to get into the zone. I no longer needed all the strategies I listed above.

Another perk I noticed, was an increased writing speed. After just a few months of writing every day, my average speed went from 600 words per hour to 1,500 wph, regularly exceeding 2,000 wph without any loss of quality.

Talking about quality: I could see myself becoming a better writer with every passing month. Writing better dialogue, interiority, chemistry, humour, descriptions, whatever: they all improved noticeably, and I wasn’t a bad writer to begin with.

The increased speed means I get more done with the same amount of energy spent. I used to write around 2,000-5,000 words per month, some months none at all. Nowadays I effortlessly write 30,000 words per month. I didn’t set out to write more, it’s just a nice perk.

Look, I’m not saying you should write every day if it doesn’t work for you. My point is: the more often you write, the easier it will be.

No pressure

Yes, I’m still working on my novel, but I’m not racing through it. I produce two or three chapters per month, and the rest of my time goes to short stories my brain keeps projecting on the inside of my eyelids when I’m trying to sleep. I might as well write them down, right?

These short stories started out as self-indulgence, and even now that I take them more seriously, they are still just for me. I don’t intend to ever publish them, no-one will ever read them, they can suck if they suck. The unintended consequence was that my short stories are some of my best writing, because there’s no pressure, it’s pure fun.

Does it make sense to spend, say, 90% of my output on stories no-one else will ever read? Wouldn’t it be better to spend all that creative energy and time on my novel? Well, yes. If you find the magic trick, let me know, because I haven’t found it yet. The short stories don’t cannibalize on the novel, because they require different mindsets. If I stopped writing the short stories, I wouldn’t produce more chapters. (I tried. Maybe in the future? Fingers crossed.)

Don’t wait for inspiration to hit

There’s a quote by Picasso: “Inspiration hits, but it has to find you working.” I strongly agree. Writing is not some mystical, muse-y gift, it’s a skill and inspiration does exist, but usually it’s brought on by doing the work. So just get started and inspiration will come to you.

Accountability and community

Having social factors in your toolbox is invaluable. I have an offline writing friend I take long walks with, I host a monthly writing club on Discord, and I have another group on Discord that holds me accountable every day. They all motivate me in different ways and it’s such a nice thing to share my successes with people who truly understand how hard it can be.

The productivity books taught me that if you want to make a big change in your life or attitude, surrounding yourself with people who already embody your ideal or your goal huuuugely helps. The fact that I have these productive people around me who also prioritize writing, makes it easier for me to stick to my own priorities.

Your toolbox

The idea is to have several techniques at your disposal to help you stay consistent. Don’t put all your eggs in one basket by focussing on just one technique. Keep all of them close, and if one stops working or doesn’t inspire you today, pivot and pick another one.

After a while, most “tools” run in the background once they are established. Things like surrounding myself with my writing friends, keeping up with my daily streak, and listening to the album I conditioned myself with don’t require any energy, and they still remain hugely beneficial.

Do you have any other techniques? I’d love to hear about them!

I hope this was useful. Happy writing!

[tokkibean]

i opened my doc, stared at it, switched tabs to tumblr, came back and closed my doc before realising i didnt actually get any writing done

is this the writing equivalent to walking into a room and then forgetting what you wanted to do and walking out

[myhalfwrittenstory]

Page 99 (Day 1 of writing)

Her wrists were tied tightly to the ____

It was a long day that slowly began to fade into evening. The shadows stretching across the unseen world. Nora didn't know how long she'd been out. Truthfully, she didn't remember anything past her standing outside of her house, looking up at the big, looming two story building she had been calling home. It felt more like a prison, when suddenly everything went black.

Now, she didn't know where she was, what had happened, or how long it's been since it started. Whatever it was. A thin cloth veiled her eyes, filtering what little light there was into a dull blur. Voices murmured around her, indistinct and circling, like predators waiting to strike.

Nora found that she couldn't move. She couldn't adjust her limbs out of the awkward position she was in. Contorted into a half-fold, arms bound tightly to her legs, spine bent unnaturally forward. There was something rigid placed against her back, inching lower each time she stirred — a cruel mechanism that punished resistance.

“Stop moving,” a voice rasped beside her ear, low and intimate. Male. His voice hummed as though he enjoyed the torment she was enduring. “You’ll only make it worse for yourself. You’re tied nice and tight, don’t worry about trying to escape, babes.”

The words made her flinch. She couldn’t recoil, couldn’t speak, she could barely breathe. The pressure increased, forcing her deeper into the fold, her knees crushing into her chest. Her wrists strained against the bindings, skin burning.

Every breath was a battle. Every twitch drove her closer to collapse.

How had she ended up here?

Why was she being punished?

[myhalfwrittenstory]

It's been a few years

Honestly it's been forever since I've written anything of any kind of substance. I've been trying to dip my toes back into writing slightly via RPG's. It's helped me get some of my creativity back, though not enough for me to feel like it's worth a damn.

Also I watched a movie, well started a movie, with Jenna Ortega and there was a line in the movie that resonated with me. "You're not a writer.-- It isn't that you can't write, it's that you don't."

I realized that while I still identify as a writer, I no longer write. What was once my ultimate passion has died down in the chaos of my motherhood. I've lost a part of who I once was and I've suffered greatly because of it.

I have grown tremendously and I have stayed exactly where I am or where I was. All because I haven't written a damn thing. My mind is filled to the brim with chaos and I can't stop the noise all around me anymore. So I'm back to bring myself back to who I once was. A writer who just loves to write. A writer who wants to get these words out of my head and onto paper. Hopefully you find something you like, even if it's bits of pieces of me.

[ellatholmes]

i'd like to report a crime

[myhalfwrittenstory]

Page 77 - Bottom Half

A room with fading wallpaper.

I was raised always hearing about my birth. How everything was planned to a T with how my mother wanted my birth to be. Hell, my mother even planned out my conception as well. 

“I always knew I would have a girl first.” She would always start off. “I had wanted a boy, but I knew deep down inside me, that my first child would be a girl.” I always thought she was disappointed that she ended up with me.

“I knew what your name would be. I knew when I would have you.” she would always say. Always staring far away from me as she spoke.

Her voice would sound so feathery-light, soft and warm. She would have this small smile on her lips as she spoke about the first time she made love to my father. How it was magical and right then and there, she realised that they were supposed to be together forever. Even if forever was just a night.

“You know baby” she’d call out to me. “Things never go as planned.” the smile would leave her lips and in its place came a frown. So deep it almost didn’t look real, how a frown so cruel could be placed on such beauty.

My mother ended up pregnant from that one night of magic. Her forever shattered as she sat, waiting for the test to come back negative, only to prove her wrong with a positive response. She was only sixteen and he was nowhere to be found.

“Sometimes, you plan out life so well.” She looked up at me and held out her hand. I gave her mine, instantly. “Then life laughs at you and shakes it up.”

My dad decided that he didn’t want to be a part of my life, from the moment he bedded my mom, he knew. He knew the gift he left her with and he knew he didn’t care. It was a tie to him, he wanted to be forgotten and lost out at sea.

Mom was resilient and strong. She did everything she needed to do to care for the growing bean in her belly. For me. That, she always reminded me. I am me because of her. She is her because of me. 

“I thought my life was over.” She said. “I always heard some quotes, saying that just because I had you young meant I could love you longer. I didn’t believe in that. I did believe that it was a new chapter. One I could either do some good with or some bad.”

She viewed everything as logically as she could. Moved forward with a plan in hand. And after me, she always had multiple plans. She was a planner after all.

“I planned you out. Your birth I mean.” She didn’t mean just my birth. She meant me as well. I’ve come to accept that. She had a plan and I stick to that plan...even if I don’t want too.

“I wanted to be in a hospital but in the tub. For you to come out after a few minutes in the water.” She looked at me. “I had also planned that I would be there for a while trying to bring you into the world.”

This would be the part when she smiled widely, her green eyes would shine bright as she remembered how she brought a life on Earth. A child into her world. She ran a hand through her curly black hair, pulling it back from her face all while laughing lightly. 

“Oh baby, nothing ever goes to plan.” She would tell me. At this point, she’d cup my face in her hand and lightly rub my cheek with her thumb.

“We had just moved into this tiny little cottage, it was wayyy in the back of this town. Real small town too, not a whole lot there but it was perfect. It had two rooms and a bathroom, the outside painted a worn yellow with white trim. An old rocking chair that sat out front and would creak when you sit in it.” She smiled, remembering more.

“The inside had old wood all over and a kitchen with a sink, oven/stove, and the fridge. Not much counter space there. We had an old couch someone was throwing away.” Here is where she would pause and place a hand on her stomach, like she could almost feel me there again, kicking and begging to be freed.

“I had dragged that thing back here myself. But I couldn’t get it inside. That’s when he came and he helped bring it inside. Gave me his sister's old crib for you, a twin bed for me, and a radio. So we could listen to something.” 

Mom got up and wandered over to the kitchen. Reaching into a drawer she pulled out a small black radio. “I’ve kept it all these years.” she looked back at me blushing, like she’s letting me in on a deep dark secret I shouldn’t know.

“That night I went into labor. I wasn’t supposed to go for another three weeks. I panicked and went to the tub, not knowing what to do.” Mom began pacing back and forth as she retold this story for the tenth time. “I was scared and alone. No one to call so I sat in the tub. And soon my body told me to push and I did. Oh! How I did baby.” 

Now she’s in front of me, holding my face, forehead against forehead. “I pushed three times and you were here. In my tub and in my arms. I did my best to clean you up and what I could. I wrapped you up and took you to your room. It was a small room and the wallpaper was fading. But it was yours and I had gotten it.”

Again she walked away from me and back to the kitchen. She pulled out a piece of paper and handed it to me. It was the faded wallpaper from my room.

“It’s a part of me. I can’t let it go.” 

My mother died some time later and in her arms where the radio and fading wallpaper. Her last words were hanging from her lips.

“I can’t let it go.”

[myhalfwrittenstory]

If only, it would.

Their name rolls off my tongue, leaving a bitter aftertaste stuck in my mouth. Sometimes I go to speak and their name begins to exit before I choke on it.

I can't break free. The blanket. The covers. The overall band-aid of emotions I'm trying to rid myself of. All because of this one person. Or two persons. I can't speak without the bile rising in my throat. They taste of poison. 

So I'll poison myself nightly.

Thinking of them. Whispering their name so softly into the night, hoping that at that moment, the wind caresses their skin for me.

I won't let the poison consume me. Not entirely. Just enough to remind myself of the hurt they caused. Yet, all I feel is love towards 'em. 

If I could touch them. Kiss them. I would. Every fiber of my being aches for them. They are the one. Yet, I can't. Not again. Not anymore. 

What was once ...is now no more.

It's the unfortunate truth of the thing. That love isn't always sunshine and roses.

The stars can't always kiss you goodnight while the moon watches over. Sometimes… sometimes love is a starless sky. While you watch them blossom and bloom under a sky so bright, its mistaken for the sun. You have to watch their sun rise and hope it never fades.

But god, how you want them to suffer. To break into pieces, to know the hurt that you know. To eat it for breakfast, to bathe in it...to drown in it. Just like you.

Yet, you know it would kill you to see that.

You cover yourself with the blankets of another. Fake emotions, going through the motions. Hoping that spark you try to make will catch on fire.

If only it would.

[myhalfwrittenstory]

I’m thinking (and currently trying it) about writing a small mini series on here. Trying to find the correct words to use for this so it makes sense.

It’s hard as I haven’t written anything really in months and trying to make myself self is taking a lot longer then it used too. I can barely type like I used too. All my words come out in a mix that no longer makes sense.

I am not sure what to do about it other then to keep it going. I love writing. Now it feels like a chore. But it’s one I don’t mind doing. I think. I am honestly not sure anymore.

Anyways, I’ll keep it going. I am not going to post the story on here just yet until I have at least the first two chapters of it done. I think. It might take a while. Once I have something of it going, I’ll start to post it and try to make it a thing.

I will also add a tag for it as well. Eventually I’ll have a page where all my tags for stories go, but for now, it will be in the sides. Hopefully it comes out as good as I am thinking it could be. Might have been done before but I want to try it out regardless.

I don’t have a name for it yet. But I’ve started on the beginning of it.

[myhalfwrittenstory]

Page 51

I thought that nothing could be worse than opening a duffel bag filled with angry bees. I was wrong.

It’s funny, you’d think that by now, I’d be used to the gifts I tend to get. Yeah, I call them gifts...but that’s not really what they are. They are miniature bombs. Maybe not psychically explosive bombs...but emotional bombs. They explode into your mind and begin a war. One that you can never win.

I’ve tried moving. Out of town, state, and even country. New names, identity...truly anything I could think of to make myself as invisible as possible. It never worked though. The gifts always found a way to my door steps.

The first gift I received was a dead bird. It was in a small bag and it looked like it had been dead for some time. It scared the hell out of me and no one knew how it came to my door. I cried for eight days.

The second gift I got was a bigger bag and in it laid a cat. A big black one...eyes wide open. I didn’t understand it. Why I was getting the gifts in the first place. Never any names or addresses to it and never packed away in a box. Only in bags that gradually got bigger. This time, I cried for a month.

Each time I received a gift it tore me apart less and less. I became desensitized to it. To the fact that sometimes, my bag would have a dead cat or pup in it. They sometimes they were fresh and floppy. Other times they were into far stages of decomposing. 

I set cameras and video up, trying to catch whoever did this. Only, I never was able to do so. They just happened to appear on my door step or on top of my car or in my mailbox. Whatever was more convenient for them, I suppose.

But then it started to get worse. One day, I opened a bag, a large white duffle bag that was filled with bees. Angry bees. They followed me and attacked me and stung me to hell. Thankfully I am not allergic to bees...or I could have died. I did have to spend a day in the hospital though.

I really did think that nothing could have been worse then opening a duffle bag full of angry bees. Oh, how wrong was I.

It was the largest bag yet and it was sitting in my back porch, on the floor. Next to the door. I guess it might have sat there for a few days, as I was out of town that week. When I walked into my home, I noticed a smell so strong I almost vomited right then and there. 

As I walked further into my home, I realised it was getting stronger as I walked toward the back door and figured it might have been a gift. I wasn’t prepared for what I saw. I couldn’t have been.

The bag was black and large and sat in a puddle of liquid. The smell was horrifying. It was the smell of death. I had figured it was a few dead cats in there, maybe on top of a large dog or something. I mean, it’s happened before.

I remembered sighing and rolling my eyes. “I wish this shit would just stop” I called out. Truly just speaking to myself. I opened the bag and held in a scream. It wasn’t a cat in the bag. It wasn’t even a dog.

In the bag had a shaved head, a torso cut right under the breast, with an arm and a leg. The eyes of the head were open and staring right into my soul. I couldn’t take my eyes off them. It felt as though my soul was being ripped right from my body. I didn’t know what to do other then scream and continue screaming.

Who was in the bag in pieces, you ask?

Me.

[jericosilvers]

instagram.com/jericosilvers

[myhalfwrittenstory]

What Are You Left With?

Long after the sun's gone down, she sits still. Alone. Relishing in the silence that is now her home.

Peace.

Something she's wished for. Ached for. Craved. For such a time. She can't even begin to remember a time when she didn't actively long for this.

It's dark in her room. The blinds pulled tightly together, blocking out any leaks of light that could possibly break free into her space. It's peaceful. In the dark. She takes a deep breath in.

She shudders as she exhales. Her mind explodes in colour. Bright, disgusting, destructive colours. They run rampant through her mind. Newly free and ready to destroy. They paint a picture, a bright beautiful picture of a boy.

A boy with a beauty that would put the Gods to shame but with a heart like ice.

He wore his beauty like a golden crown. Something to be marveled at. Something to be in awe of. He wanted to shine bright like the sun, yet welded his rays like blades. Cutting everything in his path. Destroying everything in his way.

Those that didn't bow down to his feet, they were killed. For what was a little (or a lot) bit of bloodshed when the respect you demanded wasn't present, in your face?

What was a little bit of bloodshed for what you deemed acceptable?

What was the loss of life of those below you when there's not a soul on this planet who cannot rise above you!

"What fools!" He cried! The paint became faster and faster. Throwing itself harder against the walls, painting a picture she desperately wanted to forget.

"What weakly, little creatures who could never rise above what shall be mine! What should be mine!" He roared loudly! Spilling his drink as he slammed his fists against the table. "You shall NEVER BE ABOVE ME!"

the walls began to wiggle in place, the floor beneath her feet began to rumble. Her life was beginning to fall apart and there wasn't a thing she could do about it.

"WHERE IS MY RESPECT!" the voice boomed louder and louder. He stood, suddenly ten feet tall. The roof broke above his head. "HOW DO I DESERVE THIS!" he cried as he became taller and taller, screaming louder and louder.

Back in the dark room, she curled herself into a ball. Her hands clutching at the sides of her head, pulling tightly against her hair. She could feel the strands of hair being slowly ripped out.

She tried to put the colours back into its jar. This use to be her sanctuary. The colours used to be her home. Yet now, here, they taunted her. Laughed at her. They spilled their gorgeous colors all over the floors and walls. Painting pictures of a life she so desperately tried to escape. With everything she had in her. She wanted the blank walls. The white walls that were bare with nothing.

She cried softly, wanting nothing more than his voice to stop echoing in her head. He was nothing more then a bad dream. A nightmarish whisper in the wind. A reminder of a life she lived for many years, in fear. Lost out at sea.

Though she had made it through the other side. So they say. It wasn't without its marks. Its reminders. No, he never touched her skin. He never gripped her arm too tightly during an outing. No, he never slammed her against the walls he made shake with his booming voice.

No. He never even yelled at her. Raised his voice in her direction.

It wasn't the fact that the bright colours in her mind represented the violent acts he made her way. They painted the pictures of how much easier it would have been if only that were true.

No. There were no physical marks left on her body. Proof that the violent nature of his was real and there for others justification of why she flinched at another man's touch.

No, his voice became an octave lower, deeper, darker. His words sliced through her like his sharpest knife. He aimed to kill and with his words he did. Over and over again.

He cut her into small pieces. Then apologized for doing so. Kissed her softly after she gathered the pieces of her soul off the ground and worked to tape it back.

Using glue was no use. It didn't matter when faced with the devil. They say even the devil was beautiful, because he fell from grace. Yet here, in front of her...was a broken man from a broken home that broke everything he touched.

"You want me to change." He would say. "But what do you give me to change?" He would ask. "What am I given, when I give you everything? What do you give me? When I give you the sun, the moon, and all of the stars?" He pleaded.

"Put down the bottle? For this? I pay for my sins" he would claim. As though that gave him the right to break the women in front of him. "I pay for my actions!" He would again repeat. "But why am I to pay for yours?" A question she had no answer for.

Well played, my love, well played. The thought formed into her head. Turn the tables on me. Make me the bad guy in your film. They both knew what was up. Yet there she stood. Feeling guilty for her own actions.

Maybe...maybe I should have cleaned up..but darling you asked for help and received nothing.

Maybe…maybe I should have put our-his- clothes away..but love, he's grown. He should know how to out his own away.

But maybe...maybe I should have been better to him? Well what more could you give? You've given him your heart, your love, your soul. You gave him your skies full of stars to fill his night sky. But what are you left with?

What are you left with?

The colours stopped their painting. They slowed down their movements. They cleaned up their destruction and painted the night sky.

There were no stars in this sky. Only darkness.

There was no moon to brighten up the blankness that filled up her mind.

What were you left with, darling? The question plagued her mind with the answer in front of her face.

Nothing. She was left with nothing. Not a single star to brighten her sky. He kept them. Held them close. Put them in a jar and on top of a shelf with the others.

"One day I'll find the one." He said. Sitting in his chair. The flames began to rise around him. "I'll find the one whose sins I don't have to pay for." He said again.

All the while, she lay, broken in her room. Trying to find some peace amongst the chaos. Picking up pieces of her former self, realizing they no longer fit the person she is now.

Soon her tears dry. The colours cease all movements. The dark walls become gray and worn. Showing years of wear and tear on a soul that's just beginning to blossom.

Up she stands, arms stretched out a deep sigh falls from her lips.

She opens her mouth to speak. Her voice horse from not being used. She smiles. Though it feels foreign. She tried to relax her face.

A deep inhale, she holds. A slow exhale as she falls into bed.

[wordsforpower]

There are humans who have captured the secrets of the universe, there are people that are made of stardust and genius and I do not want any of them. I could walk the earth for millenia and not find another like her.

-my poem

[weltenwellen]

Mary Oliver, “The World I Live In”, Felicity

[writing-prompt-s]

As opposed to getting rid of the creepy dolls in the attic, you decide to clean them and fix them up. This made the little ghost girl very happy.

[myhalfwrittenstory]

They lived in an old house off a dirt road. It just happened to be the only house left there. All the others had been burnt to ashes in a fire that touched every acre on this land. All but this one.

This house stood tall on broken bones. The very foundation it lay on cracked and weakened. The ground around it dead and dying even after all the years that have passed. The only untouched spot happened to be the attic. Firm and solid with no signs of a fire anywhere inside and filled to the brim with boxes covered in cobwebs.

There happened to be a small space, in the middle of the attic where the sun shined, there laid four broken porcelain dolls. The dolls have been worn out to pieces, hair tangled, eyes missing, an arm and leg ripped out.

Sam saw the dolls when he finally made his way to the attic. It was colder here then in the rest of the house. He knew that could only mean one thing. Ghosts.

Salt gun held in hand, he finished his climb into the attic and stood up as tall as he could. He looked down and saw a perfect circle clear of dust around the dolls, shaking his head he muttered. “Creepy.” 

“Hello?” he called out softly, he had heard the stories in town of this house being haunted by a child spirit. There had also been a few accidents that resulted in the death of a teenage boy and his father. Though mostly everyone said the little girl doesn’t bother them. 

“It sounded to me, that she’s playing. With what though? I’m not sure. I walked into the house at around midnight and heard laughter. The ceiling shook like she could have been jumping?” A man informed Sam. “I walked up the stairs and to the attic. I asked if there was someone there and it all stopped. I left after that.”

Sam had heard similar stories just like that. So what went wrong with boy and his father? As far as Sam could tell, they where the only ones who had gotten into the attic. The dad had said his boy picked up a doll and went to chuck it out the window when he was pushed out instead. The dad got spooked and fell down the latter, dying in the hospital five days later.

He knelt next to the dolls and picked one up, turning it over in his hands. “This is the doll?”

“Give. It. Back.” a voice spoke, soft and quiet but powerful.

Sam looked up in front of him and saw a little girl. She had curly black hair to her shoulders, her skin a rich brown that caught the light as it shined through her. She wore a blue and white dress and black shoes.

“Hey.” Sam said to her.

“Give it back.” She demanded. “It’s my doll.” 

The air around Sam got colder and the hair on the back of his neck stood up and he placed the doll down, right back where he found it.

“The doll is yours?”

“Yes. Do not touch it.” staring into his eyes, she added “please.”

He nodded and looked at them again. “Do you play with them?” 

She nodded her head again.

“I’m Sam and I won’t touch them without your permission. How long have you been here?”

“My name is Otelia. I have been here since 1895.”

“Oh...so you-”

“Yes, I am aware I am dead.” she looked down. “Those are my dolls. I would like them back please.”

Sam looked at her, she went to take a step closer when she noticed the gun in his hand. “Do you look to kill me again?” She questioned him, the air around him stood still.

“No. It’s just for my safety. I walked in here thinking you would harm me. I’m not going to use it.” Placing the salt gun down on the ground, he pushed it towards the back, behind him.

Otelia watched him with her large brown eyes. “Thank you, but why are you here?” she picked up a doll whose hair was almost gone. “No one ever comes here.”

“I heard a boy and his father died. I wanted to find out why.”

“The boy wanted to toss my dolls out the window. He said they were gross and mangled.” She held the doll close to her chest, rocking it slowly. “But she isn’t gross...she’s been here a long time. Like I have.”

“Can you leave here? Are you stuck?”

“I am stuck. I can never leave this place. This is my home and these are my friends.” 

Sam looked around the attic and back at Otelia. Only now, he wasn’t thinking of how to get rid of this ghost, but on how to make her more comfortable in her forever. Maybe if he could make her comfortable, she could move on and no longer be stuck.

“Otelia, would you mind if I cleaned up in here? No harm is coming to your dolls.”

She shrugged and disappeared after laying the doll on the ground. Same took this as a sign she didn’t mind and after a few minutes the room began to warm up.

Sam set to work cleaning the attic. He arranged the boxes in a way that it started to look like a little room. He found sheets in one of the boxes and lay them over, to give the illusion of a bed, couch, chair.

After about three hours, he finished. The attic was now clear of dust and cobwebs and there was more room to walk around. The only thing left happened to be her dolls. 

While cleaning the room he had found some paint, eyes, fake hair, and some clothes. He left the house to get a towel and some water, coming back to the attic he saw that Otelia hadn’t return. He picked up one doll, the one that looked most like a doll and got to work cleaning her up.

Sam scrubbed the doll clean, washed and detangled the hair, repainted the features and changed the broken right eye to make the left. He dressed her doll in a green dress he found. Right when he finished dressing her, Otelia reappeared.

“Oh!” She squeaked, “There’s so much room!” she ran around the room, touching the makeshift bed and couches. She stopped when she came to the center of the room and noticed her three dolls, instead of the four.

Instantly she became enraged. The air became still as she began to float off the ground. “WHERE. IS. LUCY?” She demanded, she turned to Sam, ready to end his life right here and now.

“WHERE. IS. MY. DOLL? YOU SAID YOU WOULDN’T TOUCH THEM!”

He held his hand up, with the doll. “Is this one Lucy?” he asked softly as he handed the doll back to her. “I didn’t know if you wanted the dolls fixed...so I fixed this one...the one that didn’t need a lot of work done to it.”

She reached for the doll, snatching it from his hand and examined Lucy. After a moment she stopped and her feet touched the ground. Her voice went back to normal.

“You fixed her!”

“Is she okay?”

“Can you fix Sarah?” She picked up the most reangled doll and handed it to Sam. “She used to look like me, but not anymore. She’s really broken now. Oh! How beautiful you made, Lucy!”

Sam took Sarah and turned her over. This doll happened to be missing both eyes, left arm and right leg. He started off by first washing her and toweling her off. Otelia handed him the arm and leg and he began sewing them back on. He found two brown eyes that matched Otelia and then started on the hair. He tried detangling it, but that wasn’t working. So he cut it out and found a patch of curly hair to glue onto the doll. He added a hat to her and a makeshift blue and white dress to match.

Finally he finished and began on the last two dolls. He washed them, fixed them up, and dressed them as nice as he could. He added their features he noticed had faded and made them a shelf to sit on.

Once he had finished with them, he called Otelia, who had decided to go away, to come back. She appeared into the room skipping.

“Hello!” She said, spinning around in a circle and stopping when she saw the dolls.

“Do you like them?” Sam asked, watching her as she took Sarah down.

“These are wonderful! So wonderfully wonderful! Oh thank you thank you thank you Sam!” She held Sarah close to her.

She smiled and placed her back onto the shelf, “No one has ever been this nice to me. In life or death.”

Sam shook his head. “I’m sorry that happened to you.”

“No one has ever apologized to me for it either.” she looked at the dolls once more before grabbing the doll Sarah one more time. “I think it’s time for me to go.”

“Why now?” 

“I’m so happy Sammy! You brought Sarah back to life for me. It’s all I wanted.”

She flashed one last brilliant smile at Sam before fading away, doll in hand. As she faded, Sam heard her laugh and one last.

“Thank you so much Sam!”

[myhalfwrittenstory]

Touched.

I’ve touched the sun and wasn’t burnt. 

It nearly killed me the way I raced toward it.

I couldn’t help the rush of emotions that ran throughout my blood.

It wasn’t something I knew how to control.

I’ve touched the sun and wasn’t burnt.

I didn’t die when I reached the surface.

I came alive with the heat.

If only you knew the damage you’ve caused.

I’ve touched the sun and wasn’t burnt.

The heat on my skin turned into blisters.

Your love wasn’t kind.

It wasn’t soft and sweet.

It was harsh and rough.

Dragging me under the waves of the sea.

Burning me with the heat of the sun.

I’ve touched the sun and wasn’t burnt.

But was left with scars.