Brothers in Arms #amwriting

This post is a two-parter because first today is a solemn day not just set aside for barbecues and picnics. So I wanted to do a little tribute on this Memorial Day to all of those who have given their lives in service.

And below, a new installment of my Lucy Kilgore story, which has a theme somewhat pertinent today. Many thanks. Sascha Darlington

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Here Without You #amwriting

This is the second part of a short story/novella that you will find under categories as Lucy Kilgore. The first part is here. If I’m successful, for the most part each should hopefully be read as a standalone flash fiction. If I’m unsuccessful, it could be confusing. 🙂

I’m beat and the last thing I want to think about is going to a bar with Billy and his entourage. Ever since I got back from Afghanistan he’s been trying to get me to socialize more, date some of the cute nurses from General. Tonight he and his friends are going to Houlihans to hear some woman sing and play her guitar.

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Never Give Up #amwriting

You don’t know me, but you probably know women like me. Years ago we would have been called wallflowers and then a few years later painfully shy. These days we may fly under the flag of introvert, but ever since I saw these bubbly blondes on a morning news show call themselves “introverts” I’ve had to reconsider the appellation because those women and me are not the same at all. I could never get in front of a camera with a live audience  while also knowing that morning viewers were tuning in to watch me. The only way you might get me to do something like that is if I wasn’t me at all, which is exactly why several nights a week, I am not me.

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Linc and Annie re-dreamed.

I jerk awake. Morning sunshine streams through the windows. Next to me Ry Cooper snores the sound of motorcycles speeding up on a highway. I stare at him as if I am seeing a ghost. My lips form his name. I shake my head and squeeze my eyes shut and then look again. No, that crazy cute (philandering?) man is lying next to me with his broad chest on display and looking really, really alive.

Was it all a dream?

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Freedom’s Just Another Word #amwriting

The suburban noise proved her undoing. One little girl screamed every five minutes as if a hell-demon nipped at her $120 sneakers and then there were the lawn mowers constant growl, the car alarms, the woman shouting at her kids, and maybe worst of all the teenager next-door with his synthetic music.

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Can’t Write Scared

dVerse~ Poets Pub OpenLinkNight #196


Can’t Write Scared

At university

the stoned poet said

“you can’t write scared”–

I continued

each word precisely penned

attuned to imaginary readers

whose lips curled derisively

on occasional lapses

of censorship.

I was an egg

concealed in a flimsy shell

like another half-dozen

cosseted caricatures

playing writer

spinning trite phrases

of sweet sounding words

imaginings of pink packaged

saccharine sentiment

but then I succumbed

to non-consumption.


On rebirth I cried

“you can’t write scared”

and I didn’t, for a while

developed succinct style

of hewn craft on drafts

pinched words like pennies

wanted bennies, not

in my twenties anymore.

Fear pervades the core

bores into the brain

insane unremarkable drivel

pours through pores

I wrote scared

but scarred surfaces

surge upward

like polished wood

trampled on daily

til frailty exists no more.



Sascha Darlington

(oops. I had farce in there, but deleted it.)


Future Lives #amwriting

They went to the hayloft because there was nowhere else. He was shipping out in the morning. She was off to college.

Her palms cupped the sides of his face to study his eyes and he grinned down at her. All of these years of wanting saved for these precious moments of frantic clumsiness.

She had waited for him, for always.

Sharp needles of straw pinched their skin as they made love, him trying to be gentle, her needing him as part of herself.

She felt they were on the precipice of future lives with time as tenuous as gossamer.



Sascha Darlington