Posted in life and reflection, Perhaps...I'll Let You In, random, Writing

For That I Am Sorry

There’s something she didn’t give you

Affection,

attention?

Whatever it was it wasn’t enough

She wasn’t scarred enough,

Didn’t understand your demons

She didn’t laugh enough, live

But what she provided was stability,

Loyalty, all the boring words one looks for

Beyond adventure and fun

Yet, she failed. In a sense, you failed each other

You sought solace in dark places,

Hell and shot glasses

She swept broken pieces,

Only to hurt herself in the end

And you’ll never honestly say,

This is why you couldn’t save me

And she’ll never really know

What you needed saving from

 

*

 

sms aka whatevertheyaint

3/2017

 

 

 

 

 

Posted in life and reflection, poetry, Writing

January, Untitled

Without you, my days would consist of web surfing and naps
Too much quiet, too much time for melancholy
Miles would remind me I’m Kind of Blue
And I’d drink Merlot for breakfast
And lunch. And dinner, too
You’d ask if I’m falling apart;
I’d answer,The Merlot is gone
Too much time. Too much time without you
You ask if I’m falling apart. I think how empty life would be

 

sms aka whatevertheyaint

Jan 25 2017

Posted in drafts/jewelsintherough, Prompts for Writers, Writer's Prompts, Writing, Writing and all its cousins

Flash Fiction, Week One

The following exercise is inspired by a writing prompt from, Flash 52: 52 Writing Prompts for a Year of Writing by Jamie DeBree

Richard pours tea and we raise our cups in a celebratory manner. This is our quintet—well, sextet considering Richard. Basically, it’s a group of stressed out writers looking to profit more than gas money from words.

“How’s it going? Any new ideas, progress?” Richard asks.

Sheila’s hand shoots up first. “I don’t know how I did it,” she beams, “but this week,  I managed 50k in between the twins’ naps.”

Another hand goes up. 10K. 6K. More cheers and tea.

“Karen?”

That’s me; it’s my turn. I clutch my yellow notebook to my chest. The notepad is as blank as when I opened it to its first college-ruled page, two weeks ago. How would they know if I did 50K or zero? It isn’t as though we inspect each other’s drafts, at least not during the first part of the month.

“I’m still outlining,” I say, which is neither truth nor lie.

An uncomfortable silence ensues. And then a collective murmur of well, that’s a start.

Sheila’s eyes scan the group. “I’ve been hiding something,” she says.

Let me guess, she isn’t human? She hired a ghostwriter? She hasn’t typed one alphabet but instead fibbed to make herself feel better?

As if sensing my skepticism, she plops a copy of her manuscript onto the table and then retrieves a small, plastic bag from her purse.

Are those…poppy seeds? No, poppy seeds are smaller. And darker.

“Okay, I know certain things improve brain function, and that’s why we drink  tea and  meet twice a month and share our thoughts. But these babies,” she continues, grabbing a handful of the seeds and dropping them into a cup, “are like…bees to flowers, bubbles to baths, syrup to waffles. This is brain food!”

Within minutes of sipping from a teacup, she’s reciting passages of Spoon River Anthology.

“Amazing!” Richard says.

“I’ve retained four plays, three anthologies, every word of Ethan Frome and created my draft in two weeks—all with the help of these Z seeds.”

Suddenly, I’m reminded of a time I came home sporting a nose ring and red hair. Ma took one look and admonished, “If the entire class jumped off a bridge, would you do it, too?”

Would I?  Am I seriously considering Sheila’s claim?

I imagine four to five completed novels a year, a new car, a full-tank of gas instead of the fumes I’ve driven on the majority of the day. Surely similar thoughts are running through the other’s mind.

Would you be silly enough to do it, too?

And so it begins…

*

Shonte Sanders aka Whatevertheyaint

1/27/17

* I didn’t follow the premise to a fault, but I did keep the basics as far as setting and characters. The original prompt calls for a man in his thirties, a folding table in a huge parking lot, an electric kettle, a teapot and teacups, and five women approaching. Feel free to continue to add to this piece by sharing (300 words or less) in the comments section. Ready? Let’s Go! Have fun 🙂

Posted in Writing

6 Reasons Why Writing is the Best Therapy (2 min read) — Millionaire’s Digest

Written By Millionaire’s Digest Team Member: Annmarie McQueen Founder & Owner of: Annmarie McQueen Millionaire’s Digest Team, Contributor, Travel & Writing Writer 1. It lets you get the feelings out without having to get anyone else involved. Let’s face it; getting emotional in front of people is always an embarrassing process, no matter how close you are […]

via 6 Reasons Why Writing is the Best Therapy (2 min read) — Millionaire’s Digest

Posted in everyday living, life and reflection, Perhaps...I'll Let You In, poetry, random, Writing

Untitled, September 2016

this is a comfortable life,
the repeating of words
did you brush your teeth?
please pick up your shoes
the toilet’s still broken
please, pick up your shoes!
tasks and outcomes
faucet still leaking
more piles to pick up
it’s fine, really
we take on titles
our names irrelevant
with each metamorphosis

this is a satisfying life,
the repeating of words
why don’t you buy a wallet?
please fix the gazebo
the wipers are broken
seriously! pick up your shoes
plausible outcomes
brake-fluid still leaking
more hats to pile on
we take on roles
our names irrelevant
with each version
of ourselves

SmS aka Whatevertheyaint 9-2016

Posted in drafts/jewelsintherough, Writer's Prompts, Writing

From the Prompt: The Beautiful Voice

THE PREMISEREAD HERE  Thanks WritersDigest and Brian A. Klems for the weekly inspiration.

My Take on the Prompt:

555-555-5555

If those digits were people, she’d have poked out several eyes with the fury of her index finger.

“Seriously, you don’t have to press that hard,” her sister said, peering over her shoulder.

“It’s the principle, Bianca. I didn’t create this bill. Besides, why would I order two cases of Moroccan oil from an infomercial?”

Soft rock from an era long before all night television and identity theft floated across the line as Connie’s blood pressure rose. “As soon as they answer this phone, I’m going to—“

“Manes Incorporated.” A deep voice cut through her rant.

For the second time in a week she stated her complaint; however, there was something about this guy’s voice Continue reading “From the Prompt: The Beautiful Voice”