Belated entries and a bottle of whipped cream

So, we've entered 2010. This year is now a month and 15 days old.


I don't celebrate new years. It's never been my thing to sit around and applaud a year gone by and a year closer to being dead. It's morbid. Why don't people EVER realize how morbid it is?

On a lighter note. I have a job I love. I have coworkers I actually like being around (I did at my last job too but this job is also more active and I get to move around.). Peaches right? Not really. Due to things that aren't anyones fault, hours have been scaled back dramatically until a new system begins rolling. It's not necessarily something that we can control so I have to be tuff stuff and hold on tight until things get better.

One of the things swimming around my head is that, while I've progressed greatly with my novels, lately I haven't been writing very much. My head feels tired and swollen from thinking too much and I haven't had any creative juices flowing. Topping off this feeling is the desperation of wondering whether or not I will ever be a published writer. That is a very hefty thought when you consider how easy it is to be rejected and how difficult it is to be accepted in anything.


Sometimes it feels like my writing is so far out of left field that if I were to try and get it published I would probably end up like the kid in gym who always gets picked last for basketball. It's not a good feeling and the idea of rejection is probably causing me to slow down a lot on my writing. I know the advice "just write and deal with the rest later" but when I can't see the excitement in someones face while reading, or hear it in their voice, I get disillusioned easily. What can I say? There are still some new things I'm growing into, like self confidence in my work.


So, as a way to motivate myself I wrote something recently. A short short story per se. Hopefully just having it on here might make me feel motivated enough to continue writing my OTHER stories.


So here it is:

All the pretty things will hurt
copyrighted 2010

Laying my hot tired body on the cold black marbled floor, I stare at the shattered glass around me. Like some disarrayed formation of glittering broken stars glowing with moonlight surrounding me they beg me to touch them. My finger glides across the nearest one and my eyes feel sore at the sight of the intense red blood now flowing down the length of my fingers. I part my lips to whisper "it's warm" in surprise, but my lungs have collapsed and there is no air to push out the words. They die in my throat. 'So this is what it feels like to be truly alone. Even the pretty things can hurt." Tearing a soft white sheet of silk from my skirt, I wrap my finger and attempt to get up. The pain in my stomach forces me to collapse again, and I can already feel the bruising spread. The only thing left to do is lie there and wait. The cold floor is inviting, the pain is numbing, and my lungs are barely letting me breathe. 'Wouldn't it be simpler to just die here?' I wonder as I stare up at the wires sparking electricity from the ceiling. 'No one is waiting for me anyway.' My hand reaches for the golden shell shaped purse I had saved for this particular occasion, a party celebrating myself. Once it's inside my grasp I pry it open and take out the pocket watch with the black birds on it. The time is 3:10 in the morning. The sky is pitch black outside the windows, and the sound of the violins floats upward, hinting that no one has even missed the hostess. 'All that's pretty will hurt.. what have I even done to deserve such a party? I can't even remember the last time I did something kind just for the sake of being kind.' My lipstick is smeared from so much nervous tugging at my lips. It's a horrible habit. When I get nervous and cry, I rub my lips with my fingers until it hurts. I never knew why. The blood on the silk is now blended in with the crimson lipstick and I stare at the mirror across from me. The glass shards of the now broken chandelier reflect against its smooth surface, like diamonds surrounding me. I wonder if the accident is a form of karma. Getting killed by a beautiful thing after spending so many years pursuing beauty myself. 'Have I disregarded... everything? Have I forgotten what it was like to feel insecure and without power?' Even after accomplishing so much, I kept doing nice things for others but somewhere along the way it stopped being out of generosity. I began to do it for the pictures, for the smile and nod of approval from others, and I began resenting doing those nice things. 'Why didn't I think to turn on a light when I came in here. Surely someone would have noticed then... I think.' I lie there silently and wait for my lungs to stop hurting. Events from the past come flooding in front of my eyelids and I understand why so many people say they see their life flash before them when they are close to dying... but I'm not dying. 'Someone will find me.' My head tilts to the side and I feel like I'm asleep, but I see myself. I'm not sleeping. I see myself and I try to touch my face but the amount of space between me and myself seems endless. I hear laughter in the distance and watch so anxiously for my breathing. The lungs have stopped. The glass around me all over the floor sparkles from the moonlight, winking in little beats. I wonder why I focused so much on my lungs and forgot all about my heart. What was it doing all this time, I can't remember.
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I hope everyone enjoys it and that it sparks something in my readers.

Always,
Plutonia