That’s when I screamed as loud as I could. So loud that a photographer dropped her camera. I curled into a ball and grabbed my knees. “Please stop talking. Please stop talking.” I repeated like a madman.An excerpt from The Plummet
Today I launched my monthly newsletter and a free ebook for new subscribers.
I’ve wanted to launch this newsletter since the moment I created my blog. Email lists are pivotal for authors / aspiring authors to not only gain some creative freedom and control over their careers, but to build closer connections to those who actually love their work.
I plan to turn this author thing into something I can be proud of. However, that requires me to grow beyond the limitations other platforms place on me.
So why should you subscribe?
With my monthly newsletter you’ll…
- be the first to know about anything going on
- get first dibs on preorders, deals, ARCs, and giveaways
- get Musings from Rock Bottom as a special thank you
- and so much more!
What’s this about a free ebook?
Musings from Rock Bottom is a newsletter exclusive ebook gifted to new subscribers. It’s a collection of select poems and flash fictions from the blog. ALSO the ebook features two exclusive pieces including my short story, The Plummet.
Check out these beautiful pages (plus another except of The Plummet):
If I’ve piqued your interest, I would be super super super duper duper happy if you joined my mailing list. In return you’ll receive exclusive monthly content, priority updates, and an exclusive ebook!
Success! You're on the list.
Whoops! There was an error and we couldn't process your subscription. Please reload the page and try again.
There was nothing like it. Their first kiss. The way they’d fallen in love. The loneliness that existed before and the salvation he brought. She could see a life with him: a house, a little dog, and maybe a child.
She dragged her knife against rigid metal, grating its edge to a sharp point. Well, she thought, turning to her victim subdued in the kitchen chair. His new girlfriend is welcomed to my leftovers.
Continue reading “Leftovers”
Photo:Knife Kitchen Block by Congerdesign via Pixabay.
I can feel her beside me when I close my eyes. If I focus hard enough, I can almost smell her shampoo each time our rotary fan turns its gaze her way.
I try my best not to disturb my lucid dream of her.
She doesn’t need to leave on that commute again…the one from two months ago when her car flipped and she—the real she—was taken from me.
If I stay silent, she’ll always be asleep beside me.
Photo: Sunlight inside bed by Becca Schultz via Unsplash.
I still tasted the last of the toothpaste. The minty feeling reminding me I’d have to replenish both bathrooms if there was anything left between bills and food. Hell, my family might have to go a week with stinky breath. That ought to be fun.
I shifted in my recliner. A torn, ragged thing I found at a thrift store that’s now even more fucked up since crossing my threshold. My kids—did I school them today? — have picked at the old fabric until stuffing jutted out like skin through ripped jeans.
I made a last futile attempt at comfortability, then settled in, ignoring the serrated leather cutting into my flabby thighs.
I fixed on my reading glasses and snapped open my magazine. For a moment I brood over not buying one of those tablet things that Renee has when I had the money, but soon think better of it. She could barely go two taps without Big Brother trying to sell her some shit she looked at two days ago.
But… I’d take the ads any day.
It’s better than this unexplainable dread that fills me as I leaf through the streaky magazine paper. Every page detailing how the world is falling apart. Hell, how it might even die before my own little shits come of age. I let the pages slip between my thumbs, fast forwarding through all the bullshit.
I just want a happy fucking ending.
We agreed to sign the papers. No more trying to heal us. Fixed on our poker faces and met at his house. By nightfall, we were wrapped in each other’s arms.
Picture: Couple hugging by Kevin Laminto via Unsplash
Prompt: Weekend Writing Prompt #140 – Anew by Sammi Cox, Sammi Scribbles
It takes a special person to be the failure of one’s lineage. To not only be the disappoint of ones current family, but also that of one’s distant ancestors.
Gregor would have to face all of them at the arcanum. He’ll have to stand there and let their digitalized minds know that the business they’d erected in the late 3000s and carried for a century, was going to die.
The particle wall to his office hummed to life as his robot assistant rolled in. The whirl of its inner parts were deafening. “They’re waiting for you sir,” it said.
“Here we go,” he breathed to himself.
The lights haven’t been on for weeks. A hot meal and central heating were privileges we couldn’t afford. We considered our small TV, sitting on top of a box labeled “shoes” in our empty living room, an exotic item.
It stared blank faced at the two of us.
His body protected me from the cold. Rough carpet rubbed against my exposed skin. We were a tangled mess of heat and pleasure under a single, tattered blanket.
Outside the wind screamed and rain pelted the roof as if upset we could find joy—delicious joy—in a time meant to break us. A time we’re supposed to want more.
… is enough.
Picture: Kissing silhouetted couple by Hoang Loc via Pexels
Her headphones spilled music into her.
She closed her eyes and watched her thoughts shoot across the blackness of her mind, but the music stood in their path like a slab of concrete. They shattered against it, exploding into shiny bits and fading as if never there.
Picture: Shattered Glass by 412designs via Pixabay
“We’re in paradise,” they said. “Unhappiness doesn’t exist here.”
As they smiled and ruffled my hair,
I felt darkness overtake
The last bastions of light
In my soul.
“Yes,” I said. “We’re in paradise.”
Picture by: Gerald Friedrich
There was the flap of wings and then a thud on the bench beside him. “It’s been a while,” a voice said.
Viz shrugged. “Only a few centuries, brother.”
“Because you do your job poorly,” his brother snapped. “Speaking of which, where is your ward?”
He gestured towards the woman he’d been staring at. She was sitting at a ragged park table, crying. “There.”
His brother scoffed. “At least it’s alive this time. Do you know how annoying it was to wait—what was it again—a few centuries for it to reincarnate?”
A man approach his ward. She wiped her face and stood, mumbling an apology. The man embraced her. “It’s all right,” Viz heard him say. His ward went rigid. Then, sobbed on the man’s shoulder.
His brother groaned. “Well, that’s finally done.”
“Yes. Yes, it is.”
Written for: Priceless Joy’s FFfAW Challenge – 199th, Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers
Picture by: Jodi McKinney