Key in the Lock

Before him, there was nothing to run her teeth up against.  No ink, no metal, no razored skin.  No 31 flavors.  Just a lack of affection, bookended by a silence punctuated only by the sparest exchange of words.

And before him, those sparest of words were flat.  Nothing contained within any number of letters or syllables to electrify her senses.  And while the physics of sound remained unbent, so did the insignificance of that sound.

Before him, before the trinity of her was set afire, her life was a closed door. 

All before him. 

When he gave her passionate kisses.



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Common Ground

If only I could walk a mile in your shoes.

And if only you could walk a mile in mine. 

Look past muddled misunderstanding, and see true intentions.

But we stagger barefoot in the dark, tripping in circles, stepping on each other’s toes.

It’s time to bring out the combat boots.

Lace them up for the duration.

Lean on each other, and side by side,

Fight like hell to walk miles of us instead.

Image courtesy of wax115 on



There is an elemental quality to heartache.

Raw, intense, saturated.

Anything but smooth  or refined or gentle.

And in her world too prone of late to peaches and cream.

She’s done with muted pastels.

Embracing her heartache, like any emotion, as vivid color.


the rarest chords in the soul’s harmonics Are found in the minor strains of life.

E. Wheeler Wilcox. Life’s Harmonies




the rarest chords in the soul’s harmonics Are found in the minor strains of life.

E. Wheeler Wilcox. Life’s Harmonies

Battening Down


Sometime, before the end of summer, I will need to reinforce the buttons on my coat.

Ten anchors sewn against black wool, threads loosened by the wear and tear demands of last fall and winter.

And sometime, before the end of summer, I will need to reinforce my heart.

Ready it for the wear and tear demands of this fall, and winter, and seasons yet to come.

A  heart that will need its own anchor.


By way of explanation, my daughter is graduating from high school in two weeks.  Significant changes are afoot for me.


Lillie McFerrin Writes


Picture credit  here.

Next of Kin


Like a glass of water tipped into the ocean vanishes, our youthful shoulders touch only for a moment. 

A masquerade of closeness.

The golden hour light illuminates my smile, while the hurt of your indifference hides in the shadows, just beyond the edges of the frame.

A lifetime in black and white, spent chasing after your affection, comes down to this:

We are blood. 

And nothing more.


When it came to color, my preference was black.  You can’t go wrong with black.  And as for the promise of longer, fuller lashes, of course I wanted those. Hypoallergenic was a must.  Naturally, I would prefer that my brown eyes didn’t swell shut.  I’m already about as blind as a bat. And never tested on animals?  A guinea pig should only wear makeup if she wants to, and then only if she follows these same guidelines.

The only thing I forgot to consider when selecting new mascara, was whether or not it had ever been tested on crying mothers.


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A Pirate’s Life

1.  Drink rum.

2.  Wear a bandana, preferably black.

3. Wear lots of jewelry.  Hoop earrings a must.

4. Get a talking parrot.

5.  Find a ship and assemble a crew.

6.  Hoist the Jolly Roger.


It started with rum, but ended with the floor, and not in quite the way you might expect.

It’s just that it’s hard being held prisoner in an unwanted existence.  Hard to come to grips with the fact that you have everything, yet nothing.  Not even yourself.  And more important than how it  happened, or why, you find yourself wanting out in the worst way.  And some days, any way out will do.

In her case, a fifth of Captain Morgan’s rum.

That first afternoon, when she started keeping company with the Captain, started looking long and hard at the label on the bottle, she was more than a little startled to realize how attractive she found him to be.  How attractive she found the very notion of pirates to be, and her timbers-timbers she was soon going to realize she possessed-shivered at the thought.

By week’s end, so engaged was her skull and crossbone bandana-clad head in wondering about the merits of parrots as pets, and whether she looked better in gold or silver, and giving herself permission to order herself a pirate flag, that when a bewildered Frank (who said he did not know her anymore, and truthfully, never really did)  asked her what she planned to do about dinner, she muttered scurvy dog under her breath and felt her true self emerge.

And by the end of two weeks, looking over the How to be a Pirate requirement list she’d found on the internet, she was pleased to see that her situation was well in hand.  She didn’t have a crew yet, but they would come in time.  (Rum and cokes with friends would be fun.)  For now though, she would plan on sailing solo for awhile, and maybe, just maybe she might one day meet her pirate soul mate.


She looks at that flawless teak hardwood floor (the one the real estate agent had gushed on and on about-tremendous resale value and all) and she begins to build her dreams, seeing the potential for a ship, for escape-in each and every board.

Counter Attack

You can’t take words back. 

Once they’re out there. 

And as per usual, in my hurt, I withdraw inside myself, and you stare carelessly at me as though you haven’t a clue. 

As to what you’ve said. 

What you’ve done.

But you should know this.

There’s a spot, on the back of your neck, near the base of your skull.

That in my painfully defenseless moments, when you’ve struck me without cause, I picture.

And imagine what it would be like to strike back at you in the only place I can seem to find where you are truly vulnerable.


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Blue Paper

Contemplating the single sheet of stationery, she frets. It seems so insubstantial, so fragile, yet she has entrusted with it the full capacity of her heart.  And she wonders, should she add another row of hearts?  X’s and O’s? 

She adds two more rows of each, having to reduce the size of her handwriting in order to squeeze these new notations onto a page that is already so weighty with words she fears it may be too much for its matching envelope to bear.

Will it be enough, she worries?  The intensity of affection she has tried to convey?  The over-stated assurances of her hope for their future?   Will these be adequate in bridging the gaps of time and distance that separate him from her? 

She agonizes. About outside forces beyond her control that threaten to sabotage her mission.  Lost mail.  Acts of God.  The ferocity of the fighting where he is.

She’s signed her name, with love.  Tries to imagine the moment his eyes fall upon this letter-and she finds herself wishing once again that being with him was as easily accomplished as writing down words.

Still, for now, she would be the first to admit that she is happily, hopelessly held captive.

A prisoner.

Of blue paper.


Sometimes glass glitters more than diamonds because it has more to prove.

– Terry Pratchett