A Goddess By 30
I thought being a Goddess would involve throngs of men at my side and a Beyonce-level hair game. Instead, I regularly find myself in fields full of sheep with shit on my shoes.
“Forty Meters Down and Counting”
“Forty meters down and counting,” the staticky voice of one of the ground team operators hissed and crackled into my earpiece.
“Copy that, Ground Unit Two, standing by,” the surveyor replied over similar static to all units. Even at forty meters down into the chasm, we were drenched in darkness, and only when the floodlights of the industrial elevator flashed on with a loud whoosh were the close stone walls of the cavern barely visible.
Pain is a tool. That’s what I’ve learned in my fifteen-almost-sixteen years on this earth. You can wield it like a knife, or use it like a hammer to nail your life back together.
Or you can use it as a shovel, to dig your own grave.
In the Beginning...
Brimstone, what an odd name for a small city residing within the midwestern state of Minnesota. If one were to ask a local why it is named as such they would likely answer that on the hottest summer days and on the coldest winter nights this place feels a little like hell. Sounds a bit overdramatic to any outsider.
I have always loved the eulogies. I have no clue why, I suppose it is something in my childhood, when I never felt like getting enough attention and esteem, even though it was a decent time, with its ups and downs, and my parents led a usual life, not poor, nor too rich, just a middle-class family from New York.
In my teenage, I decided to be an actor, and so went through a lot of hardships until finally making it, forcing my way into this cruel industry, starting as an extra on the sets in NYC, realizing soon that it will be a better option to move to L. Angeles and to get near Hollywood, around which my youthful, candid imagination would build fantastic dreams of success and wealth, all being set in the famous Hollywood Hills, where I would happily live a marital life with a charming, tender wife and a couple of lovely children, with whom I would stroll around and maybe show them with infinite pride and admiration the villa of Marlon Brando, the actor whom we used to idealise and ape in the ’90s, even if he was not anymore on the apex of his fame and beauty, yet still terrifically charismatic and not giving a fuck about popularity and acting.
Here is my opening sentence :)
Is it worse not talking or this pretending to talk like friends? I’m afraid if we go on like this, you will reduce me to just that - your friend.
P.s. sorry for the typo in the challenge description :))
There is blood everywhere, its covering the walls, my clothes, even a curl that fell in my hair is dripping with the offending red liquid. But yet, I’m not dead. The man across from me holding a knife equally coated in blood seemed just as surprised as me; since when does a knife to the heart not kill someone?
Dancing on the Moon
Sinatra floated in the air, pausing only when the vinyl needed to be flipped. Her arms wrapped around me, and mine around her. The only light was the moon shining through the windows, as it was soon to slip away, and the sun was to come up.
This is the working title btw.
Waves slammed against the windswept shore, smashing the remnants of the ship to pieces. Chunks of flotsam littered the cresting waves as they made their ceaseless push towards the rocky cliffs. The sky was ablaze with iridescent flashes of lightning and the crash and roll of thunder reverberated off the bluffs, the roaring voice of some ancient god of the sea.
How To Survive Your Late Twenties
I travelled for four hours. Four hours I gazed through the bus window: I took that gazing as a quest, as something that was necessary, as a mission that had to be done no matter the price and I did that so stubbornly that I didn’t question the purpose of it. But like a thousand times before, all I saw was the same towns, same roads, same landscapes, sometimes the same cars and the same people inside...