Guest post! I’ve been kindly allowed to share an InMon scribble today. 🙂
I used to do InMon weekly way back in the day when it very first started, so this is a fun little throwback for me. I don’t write very often anymore so I’m a little out of practice, and I’m not sure one could exactly classify this as a short story but…well it’s something akin to a scribble/poem. Anyway, hope you all enjoy!
I used to be a writer.
As a child, my world was a wonder. The stars glittered for me and danced in the night sky and whispered their stories to me. I would watch them until with heavy lids slowly drifting shut, I would finally find my own stories deep in the wispy reaches of my young mind.
I would wake each morning and jump from my bed, running over and grabbing crayons and crumpled notebooks to scribble out the stories from the night before.
Now I’m sitting here, wishing I could tell you my story. I used to be able to write the way I speak, and words flowed easily for me. I used to be able to speak the way I wrote and the letters that slipped out made sense.
You’re sitting there. Across from me at a table too large and staring so I feel like you’re too close. I can’t get the words out. They’re all gone. I don’t know what to say and the thoughts racing through my mind are everything I shouldn’t say.
This is my fault.
My prism sentences make no sense to you. They’re fragment thoughts. Half reasons and poor excuses. My heart is breaking in two, trying to force out the right words to somehow make you understand.
It’s not you. It isn’t your fault. All of this is because of me. Because I screwed up. And I’m so sorry. I should never have let this happen to you.
But the fragments only leave both of us bleeding, and finally you give up. I watch it in your eyes as I fumble for the wrong things to say. You give up, you shove your chair back, and you hug me the last time. Your lips brush my hair, and I want to fold into your arms and take it all back.
I watch you walk away and I wish I would cry but I’m not. The tears feel like they’re there. I can feel them in the back of my tight, frozen throat, suffocating me. But they don’t slip out. Like the rest of me, they’re trapped inside.
Then you’re gone, and I stand. I wish I was still a writer. I wish I didn’t speak in prism sentences. I wish things weren’t like this.