Tag Archive: Short Story

A Chance Meeting

Another little short….

The Muse & Her Demons

“Shit; this place is packed.”

“I’m not surprised, DeeDee. I mean, it is a Friday night.”

“Yeah, but… I thought you said this would be a low-key deal. You know that I hate crowds.”

“Nah; don’t worry about it. We’ll be off to the side in the other room, not in the bar.”

“Ugh, fine. But, seriously, Beccs, if I get manhandled, I’m coming after you.”


The girls made their way to the side room of the bar, the kind of room reserved for large parties and fundraisers.
There were several small tables set up so that everyone could see the guest speakers talk about whatever it was they were there for.

“Why are we here, by the way?”

“Look, sweetie, I’m a HUGE fan of this guy’s work. I want to meet him. See? I even have a picture for him to sign.”

“We’re over 30. Aren’t you…

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A few changes.

I’ve been writing a lot lately, which was (sort of) the whole point of starting a blog.

I needed a place to vent, to find myself and my purpose. I don’ know that I have found either, yet, but I feel like I’m on a pretty good track.

My writing technique has suffered from neglect. I’m not quite happy with what comes out, because it isn’t coming out how it sounds in my head. But I can feel the rusty joints moving and am confident that some things will come back to me.
At this moment, though, I still feel like what I have been writing is coming out as a bit contrived, juvenile, and predictable. I think that’s probably normal, and I have to push through it.

A lot of the things I write are a bit depressing – death, losing love, depression – because those are the things that push me to write. They are things I know, or think I know, and the words fall fairly easily onto the keyboard. Not everything I write is from experience, though, but I can create scenarios in my head that make sense, if only in that over-romanticized Hollywood manner.

I enjoy writing (or, typing, in most cases), because it gets a lot of images out of my brain that I can’t stand to have stuck in there anymore. Some things are traumatic, gruesome, and just plain sad, and I don’t want them filling up the space anymore. Most ideas get started, but never finished. Or I start them, leave them, and come back later when I feel like I can clean it up.
Some things will NEVER be published to the internet, because they aren’t for you, but need to get thrown out of my skull before I stab someone in the throat with a rusty spoon.

I dream.
A lot.

Most nights, I don’t remember more than little snippets. And those are usually pretty basic, weird, dreamy things that mean nothing to me.
Other nights, I feel like I am being told a story. It’s not really a precognition thing (though, I do experience deja vu often), but it’s more like… I don’t even know what it is; it’s not always clear.

And some nights, like the one I had two days ago, are awful.
I sleep, but it isn’t a good sleep.
I dream, but the dreams are terrible.

That night, it was like the horror-version of Groundhog Day.
I died, many times, only to wake up and do it again.

I was stabbed, beaten, shot, drowned, suffocated, attacked by a shark (which actually ended in drowning, since the shark didn’t kill me quick enough). I was buried alive, hit by a train, blown up by a vest-bomb, and poisoned. There were probably more in there, but I lost some of them in the ether of my memory. It’s for the best, really.

The whole next day, I felt uneasy and sick.
I couldn’t shake the feeling that something big was going to happen.
As of right now, nothing is going on, and I am okay with that.

Anyway… the writing.
I know the shorts I write aren’t that good.
Honestly, I don’t really care.

I take that back.
I care a little. There are a select few people in my life whose opinions mean so much to me, that I would be mortified if they read my b.s.
I’m not going to tell them that they can’t read it; and if they wanted to comment on it, I would take the criticism. But I would also be really, really disappointed in myself. But I am aware that I am not that good at this.

It isn’t about content.
it’s about getting the monsters out of my head.

Another dream-inspired short story for you all.

The Muse & Her Demons

It was just the two of them, if only for a short while, and they sat under the willow tree by the lake watching the sun rise over the water.

They would have this whole day together, alone.

There was a chill in the air, and dew hung on the grass and the leaves. Whenever the wind blew, the cool droplets rained down in a mist.
She shivered, and he wrapped a blanket around her shoulders and pulled her closer to him.
He was so warm and strong. She felt safe in his arms, protected from all the evils in the world.

But evil would come, and she had to be ready.
Just…. not yet.

She wanted to take this last day to be with him, her love.
She never thought she could feel so strongly about anyone, and yet, there he was, resting his chin on her shoulder and…

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Some Day

Inspired by a recent dream… about a trip to a museum that happened over a decade ago.

The Muse & Her Demons

She watched the men and women around her staring, judging, taking in the museum’s many pieces.

The paintings and statues, photos and furniture; it all had to mean something. They were looking for that hidden thing, whatever the artists was feeling when they created it. Some of them were smug, thinking that they had uncovered some conspiracy or another, and lording over the poor masses that couldn’t see it.

She never got it… whatever “it” was. Some things were just pretty, and that was enough.

The Degas exhibit was extraordinary. The detail in the lack of detail. Rough brush strokes and vibrant colors. She was particularly fond of the nude portraits. They were full of life and warmth.

While everyone else swarmed around the bronze ballerina – which she did find quite beautiful – she stayed back, watching them.

Oh, how they ogled and fawned over the little girl. And how…

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Shady Business

Just a little something I threw together….

The Muse & Her Demons

She woke up to the sound of rain on the window.
The pounding in her head (from the copious amounts of booze at last night’s party) and the churning in her stomach were enough to make her swear off drinking – again.

It was a good party, though.
All the pretty people were there – actors, singers, poets, politicians, brokers and dealers. If you were “it”, you were there.

On the day she got the invitation, she thought she has finally made it.
All her hard work.
All the backroom deals, and shady business.
Finally, someone recognized her talent.

She spent weeks trying to find the perfect dress.
Black with lace at the shoulders. If was light and flowy; she had no need for the body-hugging leather that many others in her profession chose to wear.
She felt it was unbecoming and, frankly, a bit cliche.

She strolled between conversations…

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