Thanks as always to Rochelle for Friday Fictioneers. Sorry I’m late; this time I have a real excuse 😉 .


PHOTO PROMPT © J Hardy Carroll


“What happened?” Continue reading


His and Hers #SoCS

Written for SoCS 2/17/2018

His and Hers

His day starts like any other, shower, fix cereal with berries, read the newspaper. Lately they don’t talk. That’s what 20 years will do for you. What is there new to learn? Continue reading

So Let’s Talk

I’ve started this post to you all several times now. I know that there are many of you out there who understand depression. For those of you who don’t, I was you. I’ve always been upbeat to the point of silliness. If something got me down, I would go exercise or read a book or dance like an idiot to Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic or Speed of Sound. But I always bounced back.

In March that stopped happening. If you all were around in March, you know that I disappeared for a week or so after an accident. I have’t bounced back, not to who I used to be. I have been feeling sad and easily overwhelmed as my body has just not healed as quickly as I would have liked and my brain either. If you know what it’s like to be in that situation, you also know that every little thing contributes and makes you feel weak.

I don’t share these things easily because I’m not used to it. I’d rather make you smile or laugh or roll your eyes. I’ve always felt that the world has so much pain already and I have never wanted to contribute.

But, I’ve found myself apologizing for not keeping up, for not getting the Mouse story to become routine, but if you know what it’s like to try to write humor, you know you have to feel something like humor in those moments and so Mouse becomes something I write when I feel that maybe I can grab a smile, internally.

I’m not going anywhere and I’m going to try to pull myself up out of this little crevice, but I’m not going to apologize any more for falling behind, for not striving to be the wonder woman who I wanted to be, and for feeling like I’ve let anyone down. Thanks for understanding.




Let’s Have Coffee (or Tea)! #amwriting #weekendcoffeeshare




Pull up a chair, have a cup of coffee, or tea. I’m having PG Tips right now and will be examining my caffeine intake. More on the reasons for that below. Continue reading

Visitations #amwriting

Carrot Ranch Flash Fiction Challenge. June 22, 2017 prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story that involves a dream. This action could have happened while awake, such as daydreaming, or make up a dream when asleep. Go where the prompt leads as it could be a nightmare or just fond memories or ambition.

This is #2 and fictional, although a very similar theme to the first.

dream image.jpg

©Sascha Darlington


I feel gentle fingertips caress my temple, wake to his brown eyes fastened on mine, concern etched in them. His breath, hot upon my cheek, once would have been enough.

“Are you getting up?” he asks, a whisper.

“I need a little more sleep,” I say. He nods, kisses my brow. I almost pull him to me, to have him close.

I’ve never told him that sometimes she appears in dreams and her laughter clutches me. I sleep hoping to dream of her.

I think I hear him say: “Please come back to me” before I slide into slumber.

end 6/23/2017

Sascha Darlington

Taking It All Too Hard


Taking It All Too Hard

The problem with experiencing life too deeply is at some point you reach the “fill to here” line and it just takes one more wayward sensation to jiggle the lever that pitches you down the jagged slope into emotional darkness.

end 2/26/2017

S. Darlington

A New Dream



The tree is lit, the house decorated, choral music fills the silent spaces. This Christmas she’s alone, her son at the in-laws sharing their bounty, and her ancient dog, who hung on out of pure stubbornness, could hold on no longer.

Her ex-husband made polite overtures, Christmas dinner shared with his new wife and family, but although they had a pleasant-enough relationship, she knows there are worse things than being alone. Except now, with Christmas Eve and the holiday looming empty and large, she isn’t so certain.

She isn’t dramatic or emotional, not normally. That had been an issue, before, but ageing, is changing her, making her susceptible to tearing over injustice and hate and Hallmark commercials. She sips pinot noir to anesthetize, but it’s not working this evening, numbness doesn’t consume.

Thirty years of memories cascade through her mind like moments caught on film, playing over and over, reminding her of all of the dreams she once had, all of the goals, the desires, the hopes. The years mock her. All of the instances she could have said, “I love you,” but chose self-protection instead, which culminates here.

Perhaps she could start with a phone call to her estranged brother, an apology, a step, a reminder of when they were children, of laughter and shared secrets; forget the broken promises, the grudges, the mistakes. For holding on so tightly to misery has permitted permeation.

Perhaps she could discover a new dream before it’s too late.

end 12/24/2016

S. Darlington







The first boy I loved dove into it

From a Boston bridge to embody a poem

written too young

an idealist, Van Gogh-obsessed

Wednesday before Thanksgiving.

Moons ago, organizer of ocean tides.

And you, sister, new friend of too many years

sank beneath its surface to escape

pain you’d tried to escape many, many times before

leaving pain in those who tried to keep you afloat, and

those who didn’t know you were no longer reaching out

or skimming the surface or treading, but sinking

fervent fingertips out of reach.


end 6/28/2016

©S. Darlington