This is written for dVerse.


When did the key turn, opening the door, baring expectations, dreams, memories, unfulfilled, like a hope chest barren? The spoils of living, she possesses none. On sunshiny days, life glittering gold, laughter spilling, she wanders, an uneasy adult-child, how, how did it slip away?

Sascha Darlington


OctPoWriMo Day 11, She Fell Through the Cracks

I am behind (hahaha, so what else is new?), but I will catch up!!!!

She Fell Through the Cracks

I lost myself in happiness until it died. Upon awakening, perspective altered. My soul ached. Where am I? What happened to the young woman I was?

Time transported me into a dire desert of aged pain.

My choice wavers between fighting and submerging.

My claws extend.


Sascha Darlington


OctPoWriMo Day #3, Specter


lost in the past, some halcyon, sepia-tinged fantasy days, cherub cheeked, chuckling, she felt lovable

now her life’s vintage, alone every move, love’s fleeting, mind dance of memories

his love cavorts away


Sascha Darlington

Going to Seed

Thank you to Rochelle for providing this prompt for Friday Fictioneers!

PHOTO PROMPT © Sandra Crook


Going to Seed

We sit under the maple in Adirondack chairs, sipping fruity rum drinks, your own invention, while a soft breeze stirs the humid air like a spoon in a cauldron. Continue reading

Holding a Lifetime

It’s been awhile since I’ve visited Sunday Photo Fiction. It’s nice to be back. Thank you, Alistair!


Holding a Lifetime

In those days the air was combustible, ions churning, light fragmenting into auroras that blazed through night’s boundless sky, laughter sweet, gentle like soft blossom petals falling. Continue reading

You Don’t Know

This post contains language that some may object to. You know who you are. 🙂 Don’t object if you read further.

You Don’t Know

She doesn’t recognize herself in the mirror, lines around her lips. She spends less time there now. She won’t give in to shots of botox or surgery. Men look at younger ones now. She has become invisible.

Sex hurts. The nympho in her curls inward. All of these years bitching about the fucking period and now, it hurts to be penetrated. What a cruel joke.

And the net result of online dating?

The man says he wants a woman from 45-60, but at the restaurant his eyes barely glance at her between sips of his vodka martini when there’s an under 40 around. He’s smart enough, funny enough, but his roaming eyes warn her.

At home, her dog jumps up, wags his tail. She sits on the tiled floor of the foyer, hugging this creature and his real, unconditional love, accepting his licks to her temple

Divorce kicked her ass. Aging now too. Her young officemates treat her like a fossil, even though she offers smart alternatives. She’s not even mid-fifties.

Her dog, though. He thinks she’s the best thing, although sometimes second to Greenies.

She thinks of going to Europe. More than once she’s heard that they respect middle-aged and even older women there. They even think they’re sexy. (Her nympho shines.)

In the United States, with its obsession with youth, she’s washed up, disrespected. Her brain disregarded.

It took just one last dissing. One man on a date staring at the firm ass of the waitress, ignoring her witty comeback to his stupid meandering about, well, Freddie Mercury and Queen. He thought Vanilla Ice invented the riff.

She almost hears a voulez-vous in her future.

She books a one way ticket for her and her dog to France.

end 2/4/2017

S. Darlington