This has been brewing for a long time. I think it is time for an upgrade. You were good to start out, but now I am ready for more. I need more than you can give me. I need something stronger, faster. I need options. I want something I can be proud of, not something old and dirty that I need to hide.

You used to be my comfort, but now you won't turn on for me anymore. I should have known you would fail me when I stole you from my sister. You just don't taste the same anymore.

A mere three days ago, my world had changed forever. My mom announced her decision to file for divorce. My dad claimed he wouldn't let it happen. He was convinced he would somehow change her mind. But it was done. This wasn't a sudden decision. Even if he couldn't see it, I could.

My father had, of course, reached out to his own mother for support. Today, my grandmother had shown up unannounced with old photo albums, depicting various points in time in my childhood. I pressed myself against my closed bedroom door, listening intently. I was desperate to know what was happening but afraid to be pulled into the fray. I could hear them talking as Grandma flipped through the albums.

"Look, here. You always looked so happy."

"But a picture never tells the whole story. Anyone can fake it for a picture. Like this one here, I specifically remember that day. I had the kids all gathered and waiting. He was refusing to show up, saying it was stupid to take the picture. He had wanted us to stay home that day. When he finally showed up and you asked where he had been, he blamed me in front of his whole family saying that I just sprung the picture on him and that he was always waiting for me. That was how it was every time. That's how it has been for 17 years."

She was right. The pictures only showed a brief moment in time. It didn't show the struggles leading up to it, or the fights on the way home. It didn't show that after the picture was taken, he drifted away again, leaving Mom to wrestle four kids into coats and herd them towards the car. It didn't show the uncomfortable ride home where he complained the whole time that going there was stupid. It didn't show that he complained that she had spent too much money on Christmas again that year. It didn't show that the while he complained about her Christmas purchases, he spent his time watching porn online instead of looking for a new job.

Each picture showed a lie. After the picture was done and the audience was gone, the story changed. There was always a fight in progress, an argument, a battle. In the picture of him smiling holding a new little baby, no one would know that he later told that baby's mother that he wouldn't give her money for diapers. She should have planned better for her maternity leave. The diapers were her expense. In the picture of us on vacation, no one would know that she had to save up all of her own money, while still paying for school supplies, lunches, and bills, while his money went into a separate account. No one would know that he left after the picture, basically spending our whole family vacation on his own.

They say that a picture is worth a thousand words, but how can that be when pictures are silent? Pictures can be faked, just like a happy marriage. Each picture showed something different, but they never told the whole story, the true story.

Can you truly judge a life based on a picture?

@AJAY9979

Warm little bodies curled up against mine

Wide, trusting eyes

Eager faces

Curiosity

Playfulness

It is easy to remember that this world still has glimmers of goodness, joy, and hope when you are loved by a dog.

I sit physically paralyzed by indecision

I tremble with worry

I can’t focus

It is all just too much

It never stops

Agonizing thoughts drag my all-too submissive brain along for the ride

They come pouring down without apology

I stand in the direct spout of a running faucet of all-consuming despair

Each droplet that hits my body stinging with self-criticism

The droplets rush so fast I am in danger of drowning

I try to pull myself out, try to refocus on something else

Instead I am now locked onto a train with no brakes

It rushes faster and faster

Running, running, running

Charging ahead towards an inevitable fall, for the bridge is out

The bridge is out and I cannot stop the train

It continues running with it’s own self-sustaining fuel

The bridge grows ever closer

I turn and try to run back through the train cars, away from the severed bridge

I run backwards thruogh a charging train making no progress

I can’t even sustain a pace to match the train so much that I should make no gains

No, instead I am pulled backwards

My running is for naught

I am running in the wrong direction

I am not strong enough to best the forces pulling me inevitably in the opposite direction

I near the bridge and the sink fills with water

I can’t run anymore

The house felt still and dark as she moved around completing menial tasks.She straightened a table cloth, dusted off a lamp, wiped down a picture frame, all in a feeble attempt to stay busy. As she moved past the sofa, her hand hovered briefly over a small crumpled blanket that draped over the back. It was a once oft-occupied spot that now lay vacant except for a few stray hairs. She let her hand drop.

Darkness slowly crept into the room arching it's back before stretching out to its full length and kneeding it’s way into every nook and crany. She didn’t turn on the light. The light would only reveal the lingering emptiness, the reminder of what was missing.

She moved into the kitchen. The setting sun still peeked through the window, casting a fading orange light over the little room. Ghostly vibrissae stretched across the table cloth from the spiny leaves of the plan in the window sill. She got out a cup and saucer. She replaced the saucer and, moving to the refrigerator, poured a cup of milk. It was a nightly routine.

When finished, she immediately washed, dried, and put away her cup before she realized that it didn't matter anymore. Now there was no reason to worry about keeping dishes out of the sink. Her knotted and bent hands petted the dishcloth as she stared out the little window. She would have to turn on a light soon.

Grudgingly, she turned on a little table lamp in the sitting room. That would be all. In the darkness, her toe hit a small purple ball. It rolled a way, the little bell inside tinkling familiarily. Without washing up or putting on a night dress, she laid down in her bed and watched the ceiling fan turn slowly. A shadowy tail flicked across her vision as her windsock blew in the night and passed through the beam of a street light. At her age, she had learned that all things must come to an end. In truth, she knew her own would likely not be far off. But for now, she could remember. She drifted off to sleep with dreams of comfort and companionship.

The creak of floorboards disrtupts the still of the night. A hunched figure lurches through the shadows.

Thump.

Scrape.

Moan.

She bursts through the door in the nick of time and collapses to the wooden floorboards. A vile surge of acid and regret erupts from her mouth.

Damn $3 margaritas.

Pushing open the door, Gabriella pulled her jacket snug around her as if making it tighter would help to keep out the chill of the wind. It was unseasonably cold and, for some reason, it seemed fitting. The sun was bright enough to offer a soft yellow tint to the gray haze of the day. From behind the shelter of the coffee shop window, it looked deceptively warm. The deception was what made it all the more fitting.

Making her way to the line at the front of the shop, she avoided eye contact with everyone around her. She had always liked coffee shops. They were the perfect place to be surrounded by people while also being perfectly alone. They mirrored the way she moved through life: surrounded by others, but never connected.

She didn’t know why she craved a caffeinated sugar-bomb, today of all days. Perhaps it was simply an attempt to cling to routine. As she placed her order, the cashier tried to tempt her with a baked sweet to pair with her drink. “Sure,” was all she managed. Why not. What was a few extra dollars or a couple hundred calories at this point?

Gabriella began to pull out her cash but was stopped by the barista. “Oh, it’s already taken care of.” She nodded to the gentleman who had placed his order before hers. “He asked to pay for the next customer in line, so congrats! Your order is free today.”

“Oh,” was all she could muster. She couldn’t return the barista’s smile, but felt a flicker of warmth in her chest. She hadn’t intended to keep her money, though. She didn’t need it anyway. “Um, well, take my money then. You can use it for the next customer or someone else who could use it.”

The barista again thanked her and cheerily moved on to the next customer. Gabriella went to wait for her order, standing next to the middle-age man who had paid for it. She let her eyes glance up briefly, acknowledging his presence, then immediately dropped them back down.

“That was a nice thing you did, paying it forward like that.”

Surprised at this sudden verbal exchange, she broke from her normal M.O. and found herself meeting his gaze. “It was nothing. You did the same for me.” There was something striking about his eyes. They were a light blue/grey color that bordered on lavender, and were made all the more striking by their contrast with his tanned skin.

“But you could have just accepted the free drink. Instead you chose to continue the good deed.”

Gabriella shrugged. Her voice remained distant and uninterested. “It doesn’t really matter.”

“Oh, it matters, Gabriella. It matters more than you know.” She felt a sudden life zip through her like a bolt of electricity, though it was gone nearly as fast as someone flipping a switch to turn off a light.

“I believe this is yours.” He handed her a cup. Her name, which had been given to the barista, was scrawled across the cup.

Gabriella turned to grab the bag which held the slice of pound cake she had splurged on. As she turned back around, the man was nowhere to be seen.

Gabriella left the shop, bracing herself against the wind. She clutched her treats close. The hot coffee warmed her hands through the cardboard sleeve, but the sensation seemed to go no deeper than her skin. The fleeting moments of feeling she had in the coffee shop, the flicker of warmth, the jolt of electricity, had again been extinguished. She took a sip from her cup, scorching her tongue in the process. Sometimes it seemed like these simple physical sensations were all that was left to remind her that she was alive instead of a background in someone else’ story or the ghost of a person who once was.

She rounded the corner of the shop, which blocked some of the wind. There, she stood against the wall and rested her head back on the bricks behind her. She watched the cars drive past without really seeing them and took a few more sips of her scalding coffee. Now that she had the pound cake, she really didn’t feel like eating it. There was no point in letting it go to waste, however. She would have to find someone else to give it to. There was already too much waste in the world.

As she wandered the streets, she came across a man sitting near a bus stop. His clothes were worn and he sat next to a rolled up sleeping bag. A lumpy trash bag sat to his other side, which he was rummaging through. A cardboard sign rested against his sleeping bag.

“Excuse me,” the man started as Gabriella came closer. He looked up at her in surprise. “I don’t mean to bother you, but I bought this pound cake a little earlier. It sounded good with my coffee, but I am really not hungry. I’d rather it not go to waste. Would you like it?”

“Uh, yes. Thank you, miss. That is very kind.” As he eagerly reached up for the bag, their eyes met. It was only a moment before they both looked away, but Gabriella could have sworn he had almost the same strange blue/gray/lavender eyes as the man in the coffee shop. “Many blessings.”

A chill not associated with the wind crawled up Gabriella’s spine. Of course, the words were common enough, but she hadn’t heard anyone use them as an expression of gratitude in over ten years. Her grandfather had carried over the phrase from his mother. Gabriella had continued its use until it led to teasing in school. The last time she heard someone say, “Many blessings” was as a send-off to her grandfather at his funeral.

Gabriella rushed away from the man without looking back.

Gabriella wandered down the streets, taking turns and crosswalks with no real aim or intention. Rounding a corner, she nearly walked into a group of college-age students outside of a trendy frozen yogurt café. They all held signs offering “Free Hugs” and to “Share the Love”. Gabriella made a move to cross to the vacant sidewalk opposite the café, but one of the students spotted her.

“Hey! You, there! Free hugs! You know you want one!” The young man nearest her was grinning with his arms open wide.

Gabriella sighed and moved to allow him to wrap her in an unreciprocated hug. Just before he closed in, she caught a flash of silver around his neck. Gabriella stiffened. She felt as though her veins had been injected with ice. Hung around the man’s neck had been a rather unremarkable silver cross. The pendant, however, was suspended by a braid of three interwoven rainbow cords. It was nearly identical to the one her brother used to wear. As the man released her from his hug, Gabriella turned and bolted across the street and around the corner.

She hadn’t cried in months, yet no sooner were the college students out of sight than the tears began streaming down her face. She felt a consuming emptiness begin to eat up her insides. Unlike the typical lack of connection or feeling that accompanied most of her waking moments, the emptiness was heavy and engulfing. Yet, somehow there was a calm that began to settle over her. Gabriella wiped away her tears and straightened up. Her brother had made his decision almost a year ago. Now it was her turn. At least neither of them would be alone anymore.

She needed to be done wandering. Gabriella made her way to a parking garage and climbed to the top. She stood at the edge, looking down 4 levels to alley below. She wasn’t sure if it would be high enough. How many floors was enough for what she needed? It didn’t matter. Not much did anymore.

“Nice view?” Gabriella hadn’t even heard anyone walk up behind her. Glancing around, she noticed a woman not ten feet from her. She seemed somehow familiar.

“Uh, yeah,” she lied. It was not a nice view.

“Uh-huh. I think there is a better one from that end of the garage.” The woman gestured with her hand. Why did she look familiar?

“There are more people over there.”

“That is exactly why I come up here to do some people-watching.” Gabriella felt a small smile on her lips despite herself. Her mom had always liked to go somewhere where she could just watch other people when she needed to get her mind off of something. She had done this most frequently when Gabriella’s grandfather was ill. After he passed, she ended up working more to try to pay back all of the medical bills and keep up with the new debts without his income. She hadn’t had time for people watching to distract her from her troubles anymore. After Gabriella’s brother’s death, her mother seemed to shut off all emotions or interests except for worry. His college debts had become another burden for her to bear, and nothing Gabriella did ever seemed to be enough. They had drifted far apart from the days her mom would take her to go people-watching at parks, malls, or small street cafés.

“Well, are you coming?” The woman’s voice pulled Gabriella back from her reverie.

She hesitated. “Sure,” she said reluctantly. She could just wait for this lady to leave, then be left in peace.

As she followed her parking garage companion, a realization set in. “Were you behind me at the coffee shop?”

The woman flashed her a smile. “I was. Thank you for the free snacks.” As she came to the edge of the garage, she motioned towards the street below, significantly more populated than the alley on the other side. “Now, isn’t that a better view?”

“It is more interesting.” Gabriella allowed.

“Not better?”

“I find it kind of lonely, if I am honest. Despite watching all those people, I know I am not a part of them. They pass by and would never know whether or not I existed.” Gabriella said this softly, but surprised even herself by what followed in barely a whisper. “Perhaps that makes them the lucky ones.”

“Now what would make you say that, Gabriella?”

“About a year ago my brother...passed away. Since then, I can’t help but feel that it should have been me. He was always better about cheering everyone up. He held our family together. He was smart. I just...I can’t make up for it. He could have fixed things. I cannot.” Gabriella barely questioned why she was saying all of this to a complete stranger.

“You know that is not true. I’m sure your mother wouldn’t agree.”

Gabriella found herself glancing down at her phone. She had missed a call from her mother about an hour ago. Her mother had left a message,then followed up with a text.

I am sorry I have been so busy lately. I just wanted to let you know that I love you and that I have been thinking. We need to have a girl’s day. Just you and me. Call me when you can. Love you.

Gabriella didn’t notice the tears streaming down her face until one dropped on the screen of her phone.

She looked up to find the woman watching her with the same light gray/lavender eyes as the man from the coffee shop and the homeless man. It struck her that had she not run immediately away, the college student wearing the cross probably had been looking down at her with those same strange eyes.

Gabriella barely registered the woman putting her arm around her as she slid to the floor. She felt a strange sense of calm come over her as the woman in front of her seemed to shine with a radiant light.

“You are not alone, Gabriella. You never have been. We have always been with you.” For the first time in a very long time, Gabriella did not feel alone.

I heard it today. Your song. How is it fair that it still makes me think of you? Why does a small part of my heart still ache? I have him. I don’t need you. I am better off.

But still...

With that song, comes the rush of a first love and the giddy feelings of being wanted for the first time. It brings that unending desire to make every moment last. It recalls the fear that it would end, yet also the comfort that I felt in your arms.

That song is bitter-sweet, as is every memory of you. I remember the pounding in my chest as we leaned in for our first kiss. When you slid your arm around me for the first time, my body filled with a warmth that reached every tip of every finger, without providing any real protection from the cold. It felt so perfect, like a movie being played, while we lay entertwined and skin to skin. My breathing caught in my throat when you said it back, “I love you too,” for the very first time.

Love has been frequently compared to a drug, but it can be a fitting comparision. I felt a constant need to have you in my life. That need only became stronger and more pervasive as you began to slip away. The less I got of you, the more I needed. You began to fill my every waking hour, if not in the front of my mind, always lingering just enough to be present. You tinted every moment, filling my life with a heavy fog, weighing me down and preventing me from clearly seeing the life around me. Those weeks felt like years.

Your song brings back so many emotions, but I have to remember that it is not your only song. The other song is a warning, a reminder to keep memories of you at bay. You let me down, too. I needed you. You were there offering support, and suddenly pulled the branch out of my hands, leaving me to slip into the pit of quicksand. But I got out. Friends began to offer twigs, but they weren’t strong enough on their own. A fake knight rolled up and carried me off into seven months of delusion. Yet somehow, you were always there.

I have a real knight now. With every day, his armor shines brighter. He is every love song on the radio. And I know without you, I may never have stumbled down the path into his arms. I have no ill will against you. I hope you worked through the demons that tore us apart. While he is my love, my future, my partner, my life, a part of me will always love you.

I heard your song today.

What do you do when you are feeling discouraged? This is question for my fellow writers out there.

I know that getting recognized takes time. I know that developing work that is worthy of recognition takes even more. Yet, knowing doesn't make the sting of repeated rejection any softer.

I want to keep writing, but I feel that I have nothing left to say. I have nothing to contribute to my half-finished works. I have no words to start putting the ideas into solid work. I have ideas, but they sit stuck in idea form. They are locked away and I can't break the seal or the lock even enough to get a trickle of creativity to start coming through. The pages lay blank. My shoulders slump. My brow furrows. I sigh.

I feel stuck, and I know it is stemming from feeling discouraged. I know this because, when I go to write, a little voice in the back of my head is saying, "are you sure this one will be good enough? Is it even worth it?"

My friends keep trying to remind me that everyone takes awhile to get published. How many publishers rejected Harry Potter before it was accepted? While they have a point, I know the truth. I am not J.K. Rowling. I am not Tamora Pierce, Agatha Christie, Tolkien, or any of the other writing titans out there that I so admire.

My work is no Harry Potter. Try as I might, it never seems to be enough. Even the pieces that I feel are my best, I still find to be lacking. As such, I look at the challenges, the prompts, the calls for submissions. I have nothing to say.

My fellow authors, how do you manage when you feel discouraged? How do you keep going? How do you find confidence and purpose in your writing again?