Written-Imagination

For years I have stood under the sands of time, while the lines lined my face and the passages rhyme, and past ages aged me hastily and maybe I fell down to the ground as a nubile baby, but I have learned that every second that has passed before is a second chance to enhance the melodies of your score more befitting of the person that you were always meant to be, at least that's my revelation that I hope you see. Now I am weary after I've gone against the grain. The pain wasn't worth it but I've tried to maintain a breakneck speed, though I needed a reprieve, to hopefully exceed all the hurdles before me. Much like an hourglass my years have accumulated memories like energies perpetually ruminated, hated in my darkest moments my flaws assail me, my mistaken safe places as my fail-safes fail me. The silence is as golden as the dunes of the desert whenever weather is weathered and untethered it's better you're toughened by the roughness like a swatch of smooth leather and you can

Sprawled face down on the couch, Sandra traced circles on the carpet with the half-empty wine bottle in her hand. Bed hair shielded part of her face. Her usual elegant, diva appearance had been ditched for an oversized tee and baggy yoga pants. In front of her, the television droned on, injecting some semblance of liveliness into the living room. Through half-lidded eyes, she watched a couple bicker on the flat screen but their shouts did little to penetrate her mind. Her gaze floated to the Steinway piano by the window. Its empty seat yearned for her to sit at the instrument and run her fingers over the ivory keys to make it sing. She closed her eyes, blocking it from her vision. After the afternoon’s events, she had no room in her heart for music right now. Only room for more booze. Her fingers closed over the neck of the bottle and she lifted it to her lips. The liquid burned its way down her throat, bringing a soothing warmth to her body and a lightness to her mind. She

Soft pings punctuated the conversation between Marsha and Harry, each time distracting the young man whose eyes flitted to the screen of his mobile phone. While he scanned the contents of the newly sent message, he hummed in response to Marsha’s continued jabber before turning his attention back to her after swiftly typing out a reply. By the eleventh message, the older woman scrunched her nose and slapped her palm on the steering wheel. “Can you stop that infernal noise? I doubt you listened to anything I said.” “Sorry, sorry.” Harry scrambled to say as his fingers darted over the screen. “One last message, I swear.” Huffing, Marsha took her eyes off the road for a second. She eyed Harry as he shoved the phone back down in the pocket of his uniform. Curious, she asked, “Who’s that anyway?” “Luna. She’s venting about her colleagues.” Marsha’s eyebrows lifted in question. “What did they say now? Or should I just ask your sister that later over lunch?” “I don’t know.” Harry