Mr. Badger liked his bed. Of course, he loved his wife, but his bed was what he loved the most. He had a long-lived affair with his bed. Who could blame him? He dedicated sixty years of his life towards the creative arts and child welfare. When he wore his Salvation Army uniform for the last time, he envisioned a quiet life by the countryside.
Closure is defined as bringing things to an end or conclusion. That at times is easier said than done especially in this day and age. Most people crave closure in cases of relationships ending or failing, losing friends, or even the death of loved ones. Understandably obtaining closure is a lot easier acquired in the situation of a loved one passing simply for the fact that everyone wants and desires to make peace with those they have mistreated in their final moments. However, that doesn't always make it easy or simple to handle.
I don't want to hate you. I don't want to pull away because it's the only way I know how to save myself from you. But I have also reached the point in my life where if I take much more, I will break. I will break and I will burst and I will flow like ocean waves in a storm. I will pour like hurricane rains and flood like tsunami waters in the depths of my soul. I will tear apart my old self and I will burst forth, not as a butterfly but something more. I will come out wearing every scar from every painful memory I have ever endured. I will explode with the sonic boom of a jet crashing through the sound barrier. I will lament for what once was and what could be. I will shout my sins to the mountains and let you see the blood rush from these once stitched together wounds.
It was about two years from the time that Sherlock Holmes jumped off the roof at Bart's Hospital. I decided it was time to go back to Bart's and revisit, to put my nightmares to rest.
Sinister night crept into the room’s open blinds; a piercing black that seemed to come alive with all the nite-owls and day-absent freaks. Warm and cozy in his queen-sized pillow-top bed, sleep still clinging to him, he rolled over slightly and smiled, then rolled back over. He felt the endearing loose embrace of his lover, his woman from behind. She stirred for only a second when he turned then he felt her cheek rest lightly on his shoulder, her sweet breath tickling his ear and back of his neck every so often.
On Bastille Day, Adèle rose late. When she awoke, she noticed that Charles had already gotten up. The white curtains on the large window had been pushed back and there was a tray of coffee and pastries on the pouffe in front of the large round mirror.
I wish I could tell you that this story ends a different way. I wish I could tell you that it ends better than it does. But it doesn't. This isn't a happy ending... this is a tragedy.
We met when we were kids, 6 and 9 year-olds running around the courtyard outside the school. The intensity in his eyes reminded me of my grandfather before he died. He looked past the girls playing hopscotch and ignored the boys foot-racing. It was his first week at Laurent Lowell Academy, a posh estate-turned-school for the families that could afford such luxury, and he hadn’t said a word to anyone. In fact, I only knew his name was Huyat because of his announced arrival days before. He was an orphan, and we were to treat him like we treated every other kid. To the others that meant he was poor and invisible. He had been left alone sitting Indian-style in the far left of the courtyard, under the shade of dark green leaves.
The rest of the night seemed to be quiet; Darrell woke up a few times as he heard me tossing and turning, along with a few murmuring of words that he only just made out. He scribbled them down before he could forget what they were, but one name was really bothering him. He only knew a little bit about him but it was his duty to protect me.
I never understood the whole hype about finding “the one”—and I still think I don’t understand. I mean, I still cannot seem to pin-point how a girl can pensively think "Who is he? What does he do? When will we meet? Where will we meet? Why hasn’t he appeared? How will we meet?” Does that make me unknowledgeable of modern day relationships? I would like to think not.
You were the only exception that you would make me happy; made my world go around, I gave you my world but all you wanted to everything from me. Why did you lie to me? Your abusive words hurt, you couldn't be trusted. You never could never change; if you had changed you would have been here with me; the only exception was that I wanted you to do was to be with me, knowing that you were going to be here looking out for me.
Writing is my best form of expression. I found writing during my elementary school years. It started with me writing short stories and became journal writing. I found that physically writing out my experiences or my issues allowed me to release anything I was holding onto or felt I couldn't get rid of. Writing has become my saving grace. Have you found yours?