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 3/12/2018











She remembers sitting at a desk, listening, only partially, to the professor’s lecture while her thoughts stole onto more important topics, although those, she doesn’t recall. Continue reading

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



I am disparate from who I was, but your eyes fail to perceive as outwardly I look the same. My voice murmurs and you hear the same voice, think I am the same person, but you don’t listen to my words. The actions I undertake are altered ones, less self-indulging, more forgiving, open to learning and to achieving wisdom, yet your eyes sweep over the familiar, conclude nothing’s transformed.

I hasten away, dust rising in my wake. I could stay, demand your open mind, but experience acknowledges pleas from the familiar frequently are shunned, ignored, swept aside.

We entertain no revision in those we know.

All that I have become would crumble with you.

So I trod upon this path, leading away, to unfamiliar landscapes with autumn leaves and chill air, a passage beckoning me to further growth, an awakened mind receiving new awareness, my heart channeling expansion, opening, like the purple morning glory at sun’s burst, but continuing through each hour, ever seeking even into the still of fragrant, transporting night.

end 9/24/2016

S. Darlington