The edge of my bed is digging into the back of my thighs, and my neck aches where it meets my slouching shoulders. I deflate with a sigh. Defeat lowers himself down onto my rounded back and settles in, making his bulk comfortable. He’s heavy.
Tag Archives: Dysfunctional
How to Keep Writing When You Feel Like Giving Up
I get it. I feel you. The struggle is real. How to persevere as a writer when you feel like giving up? Here are ten suggestions. I hope some combination of these helps.
Love is Just One Side of a Two-Faced Coin
Midweek, we’d steal moments between classes, adjourning to his office, door bolted, to debrief each other. We came close to getting caught more times than I can count, but people didn’t want to see what they didn’t want to see and so we carried on.
The botched pursuit of a mate by adult males of the order Lepidoptera
It’s 2:00 am, and I’m bent over the sink, sucking mango off the stone, juice running down my forearms and dripping onto yesterday’s dirty dishes. Seventy-two moth carcasses fill the garbage can in their crumpled Kleenex shrouds.
I Am the Deafening Silence
I am the slow spurt of water, reluctant, always too hot and always too cold. I am three hairs stuck to the shower wall in different coloured shapes and lengths that are so far from home they’ll never be un-lost.
Folded Paper Must Begin to Fray
Even if I could unfold myself,
No amount of pressing could erase
These lines.
The Earth is Flat and Other Lies I Tell Myself
Morning comes the way it always does, harsh and sudden and unwelcome. I’ll just hit snooze one more time. I won’t be late again.
And Still the Planet Burns
We must evacuate alike; we all will suffer loss, equal now if only in our devastation. Our memories go up in smoke as we flee. What are we running to? There is no future.
Candy Floss Concerns
We make political statements with cupcakes
While half the world burns
They can’t rebuild their broken lives
With our candy floss concerns
There’s a Fist-Sized Hole in the Kitchen Window
It’s that kind of day where you pray for a whisper of a breeze to kiss the beads of sweat that sting your eyes. You don’t move a muscle, lying on the dock, fingers trailing in tepid water. The lump of a secret too huge to swallow grows in your throat until you think you’llContinue reading “There’s a Fist-Sized Hole in the Kitchen Window”
Aly Writes 