Sundays are for Writing Vol. 001

Every Sunday, I’ll post some of my writing. It will either be a short story, a poem, or a gang of haiku. I’ll add a place for you to leave feedback, because I want to better myself as a writer and would love to hear thoughts or suggestion to make these pieces better.


This short story is called Girl’s House

I woke up in this girls house. My head was pounding as I walked through the halls of her house, trying to find a way out. As I stumbled about, I almost threw up on the Persian rug so I ducked in a room. Thank God for the garbage can near the door. I wipe the late night off my mouth and have a look around the room. It looks like a teenage hippie – wanna be – hipster lives in it. I look at a photo on the nightstand and see it belongs to the girl who invited me to the party. The room is empty, the golden morning illuminating the walls. I creep silently through the room, trying not to be noticed. I touch her dresser and run my fingers along the drapes. I look the posters on the wall filled with our fallen idols; Marley, Joplin, Hendrix, Lennon. I look into their eyes and wonder if they see me, see my failure. I glide across the room and feel her energy. I lie on her floor; its smells like weed and baby powder. I see a pale yellow and pink book under the bed. I grab it and open it; it’s her diary. I read the words of her life. Her old crushes and her issues with her mom. The guys who took advantage and the ones she took advantage of. Photos fall out. I look at the photos. Her smiling face in different places. The fun captured in those photographs adds to my morning nausea. I hold her life in my hands and I become envious. I want what she has. I want smiley memories and people to love me and guys to take advantage of. I want the pain she felt when her grandma died and the hurt she felt when the guy shed been dating fucked her father. I want those blurry photos on a camping trip and the happiness at the water park. I lay there, tears running down my face, wanting everything she’s had in her 21 years on this earth. My heart is hurting from the loneliness, cocaine and heavy drinking as I hear the handle turn. I push the book back under the bed and try to look asleep or dead which isn’t hard for me. I see it’s my roommate; he was looking for me so we can leave. I get up and walk down the long dark hall with him. We get outside and the sun burns my eyes and spirit. I tell him about the book. “Could have stolen it, used it against her on Facebook. She’s such a bitch but throws amazing parties.” I try to shake off the sad vibes for the ride home but it still lingers in my head.



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