Life

Forward is forward

Your speed doesn’t matter, forward is forward

I like this saying. I think it’s natural to want to catapult your way to success or whatever achievement you’re after, but mine times out of ten, it takes time. So much time. And sometimes progress is so fleeting that it feels like you’re going backwards. 

I have a habit of standing still because it’s better than dealing with the disappointment but… I’m going to try and shake myself out of that rut. 

This is a response to: CatapultDaily Prompt

Life, Random Thoughts

Random Thoughts #15

I made #14 private because I was not thinking straight last week and everything I posted was a little too personal. I will leave the others up just in case they’re ever helpful to anybody but that one. Nope. I read through the previous Random Thoughts posts and I think they’re a nice chronological account and archive of my ongoing weirdness, lol! 
Anyway, today’s thought:

Genuine amusement! There’s a first time for everything.

My Instagram obsession (well, I don’t consider it an obsession but whatever, we’ll just go with that. Or what else can I call them? Bob? Let’s got with Bob) posted something to day that made me laugh IRL. 

Occasionally I check Bob’s posts. It was just whenever I had time but then his dog died and seriously his dog was the best part of everything. I was genuinely sad for him so now I watch his stories more? I don’t know how that works. I think I’m just bored now that I don’t have TV shows to watch. 

Unfortunately, he’s still a frequent provider of secondhand embarrassment but I find it interesting really. He’s more or less the most active person on my Instagram. I still follow less than 40 people, lol. 

My poor friend is always telling me that Bob isn’t that interesting and I’m just like… but he’s pretty? I’m that shallow. And I’m so bored that anything will do right now. I need to follow more blogs on here. I’m gonna go find a bunch of writing blogs right now. And work on honing my craft and not mocking Bob with my long suffering friend. 

By work I mean I’m probably going to keep watching them. 

I need an intervention. 

ETA: I think I just got one. Bob has irritated me immensely. It was so bad that I’m now flicking through ‘instagram is for attention seekers’ posts to kick-start the cool down period. 

We had a good run, Bob, but you’re not that pretty. 

writing

scorpion scar {flash fiction}

There’s a scar on my chin, right under the center, at the bottom. It looks like a scorpion and feels like a raised ridge. 
I tell everyone it makes me feel like a badass, but really it makes me feel like a battle axe. 

The story goes that I got into a bar fight.

Jim from the up the street was three shots of whiskey too far gone and putting his sweaty oversized paws on a woman that didn’t want nothing to do with him. 

I stood up, bold and sober and I demanded that Jim leave her alone. The ensuing fight involved all sorts, from broken chair legs, to broken glass to me slamming a cashew shell into Jim’s ruddy cheek.

The punchline always gets people; the part where Jim pissed himself and scuttled away in embarrassment. 

They laugh, buy me a drink and everybody’s happy.

Except, that’s not how it happened. 

I’m a writer and one thing writers do is embellish. Even in real life, writers are forever telling stories. If I can entrance someone just by telling them a story, I can make magic happen on paper. 

That’s how the story of my scar grows. 

The real story is that I fell asleep at my desk one day. I know what you’re thinking, how does that lead to a scorpion shaped scar? 

Now you’re wondering if the scar really is shaped that way. 

I know the answer but I’ll never tell.

What’s important is that I was sitting on a three legged chair and unfortunately, chairs are inanimate. They don’t think the way that we do, if they think at all. 

So when I startled awake, there was some kind of breakdown in communication between the three functional legs and I went down hard and knocked my chin against the hard pine. I tasted blood almost immediately and I knew that it was going to leave some kind of mark.

I didn’t know it would be scorpion shaped, but I’ll just take it as a blessing.

That story – the truth – isn’t as interesting as me being a hero. People might laugh at clumsiness, but heroics get you the golden points. A free beer, a free slice of pie, a questionable donut from an officer who probably knows that I’m full of shit.

Being a hero makes me feel like a king and I’m not a good enough person to walk away from that.

Is anybody?

People aren’t interested in the truth so I don’t bother to give it to them.

Life is all about the illusion and even I find myself playing along. Some days I live in that bar fight, play it over and over in my mind like it really happened.

In some ways, it did.

The setting just happens to be my imagination.

writing

crushed {flash fiction}

Why am I always writing about weddings or people who want to get married? I don’t want either of those things at the moment, lol. Unless my conscience is trying to tell me something! 😂

There’s a glint in the distance, gleaming bright. She creeps forward, her heart beginning to race with anticipation. It’s been three years and she’s hoped.
Wished.

Dreamed.

Even though he’s against it and changes the subject every time. People change their mind all the time, right? She just has to hope.

Wish.

Dream.

One more step and she comes face to face with the sparkling object.

Her heart sinks when she sees what it is.

It’s what now remains of the faux diamond earrings she lost last week.

It’s crushed, with the diamond part hanging limply, as if it’s given up on life, on being whole.

It’s like looking into a mirror; she realises that she’s just deluding herself.

There’s no hope.

There are no fulfiled wishes.

Dreams are just dreams, pockets of imagination that aren’t supposed to be unleashed.

She takes a step back and ignores the way her heart continues to sink with disappointment.

She’s been on this train for three years, but this isn’t her stop. This isn’t the end of the road.

She’s only halfway through the ride, and not ready to give up just yet.

One day, she may regret her decision but one day isn’t today. It won’t be tomorrow either.

It never is.

Awkward Situations, Bitchin', Life

5 Unexpected Life Lessons

Well, they’re not unexpected but it made for a catchier title. Sorry*.

1. Apologies don’t really mean much. 
(*I wasn’t sorry.)

Look, I’ll be the first to admit that I have warped views on apologies. I’m sensitive in certain situations and I know that what I feel is wrong might be okay to someone else. That’s because they’re an idiot and I’m civilised, but whatever, I’m not sweating on that.  That being said, people forcing me to apologize or forcing someone to apologize doesn’t sit right with me. It’s false and doesn’t hold much weight. I learnt this when I realised that someone’s apology meant little to me because of how they reacted after the incident. An apology should be a formality and not a battle. A simple acceptance that wrong has been committed and not I’m sorry that you felt way. Approximately one year ago, my good friend said something that I’ll probably never truly forgive her for. I’m over it, but for myself. I used to think that I caused the situation but meh. I didn’t.  Continue reading “5 Unexpected Life Lessons”

writing

Trapped

This is a short story I wrote yesterday after my friend told me to. Yes, I do as I’m told. Sometimes.  

Her prompt was: It’s raining here – write about a spirit trapped in the fountain at the center of the Plaza breaking loose.

~

I’m not sure who I am or what I am, but I do know that I’ve been trapped in this fountain at the center of the Plaza for a long time. I’ve seen people come ago, I’ve seen fashion trends that overstayed their welcome. I’ve even seen Hollywood’s latest starlet puking her guts up. For the most part, I observe. Occasionally I wonder if I have a moral compass. I snicker whenever I see someone trip over some wayward pebbles and commiserate whenever another jackass picks this fountain as their breakup spot. 

It’s never really been an issue because I’m trapped here. I’ve never really considered what it would like to be free. 

Would I wreak havoc on those that deserve it or would I drift through streets and try to explore what’s out there. I may see a lot from my fountain, but my view is narrow. Perhaps that means that I never see the full picture. Again, that’s something that’s never piqued my interest until now.

Now, I’m free.

I don’t know how it happened. One minute the fountain was spluttering violently, raindrops crashing into the water in a staccato beat. The next, I was transcending above it. It was surreal to say the least.

I’m not sure what abilities I have if any, but I try my luck in directing the rain towards a woman feeling from the downpour. The water crashes into her and sends her skidding into a huge puddle. She stops and turns around with an accusatory expression but she’s forced to carried on when there’s no one there. I let out a whoop of glee, although it sounds more like a hoarse whistle.

I begin to glide through the streets, passing numerous shop windows.

I have no sense of time but I guess that it’s around mid afternoon. The stores are beginning to get busy, either with patrons escaping the poor weather or college students with nothing better to do.

It’s then that the thought hits me. What if there was a way that I could experience that. Life. Not as whatever I was but as a human. I wasn’t sure how that would be possible, but I wasn’t going to change my mind either. I just had to choose a vessel to occupy.

I continue to venture down the street and by some miracle, the rain subsidss. I wait momentarily to see if I will suddenly re-emerge in the fountain, but nothing happens. Within the hour people begin to stream back outside. There are young mothers with their screaming toddlers, giggling teenagers who seem to possess more energy than everyone else combined, and their wearier parent. There are hipster millennials who had an affinity for flower garlands, the young men who are adorned in baseball caps and tight jeans. And one ghastly individual with a fedora,but none of them catch my eye.

At least not until I came across a gentleman who seemed to be posing for the same shot repeatedly. I paused, suddenly fascinated by both the vanity and technology. My spot in the fountain exposed me to countless types, from the Polaroid to the digital camera and the flip phones. However, I wasn’t as prominently featured in images before the rise of smartphones. The bright shiny object that this gentlemen was poring over now.

A woman walks past and mutters something along the lines of, “There goes another narcisstic selfie.” She trundles away with a disgruntled sigh and I turn back to the gentleman. He’s posing for another shot, but I’m not entirely sure what he’s trying to capture. The surroundings or himself.

Even so, I’m intrigued. I decide that this will be my vessel. I close my (figurative) eyes and take a (yet another figurative) breath before I launch myself forward and hope for the best.