britewordworm

January 29, 2016

Word Sixty-Four: Multi-tasking

Phone in hand. She laughed at a text. One hand on the wheel, the other on her phone. The radio blasting her favorite song. Her best friend in the seat beside her, heading to the shore.

Windows down, wind tossing their long locks about. Summer’s heat warmed the leather back seat, where suitcases lay.

She showed the text to her best friend, who laughed and gave advice of how to reply.

A reply that was almost finished, and almost sent by a teenage girl whose hair was tossed about, who almost made it to the shore with her best friend.

 

 

January 25, 2016

Word Fifty-Eight: Kick in the Head

Two months passed.

I logged into Facebook, and admittedly, I did a little digging around. I know we fought a little- we couldn’t be real life friends, so how could we be superficial Facebook friends?

I dug around more. New photos came up- your smile so large, your eyes beaming with a renewed happiness. I saw, too, something else that was new in those photos.

Two months passed, and already a new “friend”.

My heart panged, my head sore.

One and one-half year. Eighteen months. Seventy-eight weeks. Five hundred and forty seven days.

And it all meant nothing to you.

January 21, 2016

Word Fifty-Five: Waiting

The dress hung on it’s hanger inside of the dry cleaner bag. The makeup spread out all over the counter. Nail polish to match, standing on the nightstand. A pearl necklace, along with pearl drop earrings in their cushioned jewelry box, set on the vanity. Hair products and bobby pins arranged beside the jewelry box. Shoes shined and lined up beside the bed.

In another room, a pressed tuxedo lay over the bed, with a tie to match lie beside it. Cologne sitting on top of the dresser, and hair gel nearby.

Days away, and anticipation building.

But until then…

Word Fifty-Four: Tower

Pain, stabbing and forceful, filled her chest. Cold seeping into her abdominal cavity, forcing life out of her with every breath. She kept her eyes squeezed shut, hoping to stop the tears from flowing. No matter how hard she tried, each memory with him returned, replaying like she was right there in that moment. Like that moment he held her hand…or brushed her hair…or kissed her cheek, so sweet, so tenderly.

Where was he now? Who would she turn to now?

She’d made in him a refuge, a strong tower, of which he proved unworthy.

It broke her.

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