She used to write of broken hearts, infidelity, festering hurts. These days she thinks only to write of her body’s boundless betrayals.


Sascha Darlington


Cherry Picking Season


Cherry Picking Season

There was something primal in the meandering way he gazed at her. Like she was a bowl of cherries, and he could never have just one.


Sascha Darlington






To Love You Into Reality

It’s the not being alone, hearing even the whisper of a snore, the presence of someone who loves or loved you, the quickening of breathing, the feeling of warmth even without touching, the knowing, the sense of contact, because so much time you spend alone that you want that one person who once understood you to love you into reality.

end 3/1/2017

S. 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

Almost Lovers #November Notes

Writing Notes: November Challenge hosted by Sarah Doughty and A Reading Writer.

In the summer, cold sheets didn’t bother me but now the chill pervades and sliding between them reminds me of you (but then most things do) because I thought you’d be here to keep me warm, your arms enfolding me, your breath, lips, hot, ardent against my neck, like August’s humid heat embracing us. The constant traffic thunders like the ocean. In its voice our summer love songs throb, the soundtrack to the sepia-toned slideshow of us: almost lovers.


end 11/1/2016

S. Darlington





I’m stranded in Romney, West Virginia and maybe it’s no coincidence. You’re the only one I know in four hundred miles. Autumn’s tugging at me, stirring memories I thought forgotten. The Lost River cabin where we pledged love, hiking along that murky river, smelling wood smoke and bacon, drinking coffee from chipped mugs.

What we fought about? I don’t know. You said we should agree to disagree, but me, well, I’d argue until I was blue in the face, bellowing at your disappearing back, the green flannel of your shirt melding with the red cedars.

The last time there were tears and anger tamping down vestiges of love. Wounds stretching deeper, paining further. Angry words scratched, festering lacerations. We let each other go, like releasing the string on a helium balloon, never witnessing its demise under pressure.

I kept your number. Transferred it to each phone. Touched your name. Used that picture of you from when you shaved your beard and looked about twelve. Said your name late at night when the wind roared and the skies were steel. I said your name once, when making love with someone else.

I’m stranded here in Romney with no one else to call.

end 9/28/2016

S. Darlington