Fiction Friday: At the Cliff's Edge

My legs dangled over the edge of the cliff. As far as I could see frothy peaks dotted the pulsing waters. Whispers skated on the wind all around me. I strained to hear them over the waves crashing below and the frenzied whip of my hair.

The sky, a marbled gray, vibrated with an angry energy and threatened to crack open. There was a connection. I was the sky. My exterior was merely the dam holding back everything I had held in for far too long. So much inside of me pounded against my sanity like the waves against the cliff. Relentless.

Sentences were impossible to make out, but the occasional word pushed its way through.


The words came softly, but pelted my skin like daggers. I had no illusion to why I was here. What I came to do. But the encouragement from familiar voices was a slap to the face. A chorus of the people I loved: my mom, my dad, my sister.

The wind picked up and snatched away my tears before they could travel down my cheeks. I stood up knowing that the wind would do most of the work. With my toes hung over the edge, I raised my arms, breathing in the salty spray of the water. So caught up in the moment, I barely even noticed the gust of wind that took me over.

With the ocean racing toward me, the voices screamed to be heard. Desperation and heartbreak underscored their need for me to hear the truth:

Don’t do it.

The words warmed me against the chill of the ocean. But clarity stung my heart. All I could be now was thankful that I had no time left for regret.  

Fiction Friday: [Frustrated Sympathy]

I found him in the shower.
His sobs mingled with the spray beating down on him
and escaped from between his knees
where his head was tucked.

He didn’t move when I turned the faucet off,
Didn’t flinch when I wrapped the towel around him. 

I sat on the edge of the tub.
Not saying a word.
Not because I didn’t know what to say,
but because I knew he wouldn’t want me to.

In an hour he’ll act like this never happened.
And I’ll play along as not to add to his embarrassment.

It was a tiring game.
A lesson yet to be learned.
That words were more freeing than tears.
But pride kept him tethered.

Pride, and believing the pain circled down the drain with his tears,
Erasing the memory of the time before.

And the time before. 

Fiction Friday: [Honey, I'm Home]

[I love to challenge myself. So, this I worked to write a complete story in exactly 100 words. Enjoy!]

The throaty rumble of the muffler drew closer. This particular sound was enough to close in the four walls that surrounded me. Suffocated me.

He was home.

The click of the lock would be followed by, Honey, I’m home. He knew those words churned the acid in my stomach. He didn’t care.

Heavy footsteps thudded solidly across the hardwood floor, stopping outside my room. A crack of light stretched across the floor as the door eased open. Sitting up, I tucked my knees under my chin to the grating tune of metal scraping concrete. The shackle biting into my ankle. 

Fiction Friday: [A Glimmer in the Gloom]


The key is in the lock and now he's home. I feel him in the room and my body screams.

Get up. Go to him.

But I don’t. I can’t. I hate myself for it.

Just add it to the list.

For the past week, this has been the ritual. Every single day. I wish it hadn’t been, but what can I do?

He comes home and I don’t acknowledge him. I don’t even look at him and as much as my heart is already broken I can feel it crack a little more each time.

I hear him take off his coat. Then his shoes. I close my eyes when I hear him walk over to me. I squeeze them tighter as he bends down to give me a kiss on the forehead.

I need him.

I need him.

I need him.

I want to tell him. Every molecule in my body screams for me to tell him, but I don’t. I can’t.

I can't look at him. I know that's all it will take to rip the stitches that are barely holding me together. The stitches that once removed will release more pain than I can handle. My mouth, my eyes, my heart—I have to keep them closed. It’s the only reason I haven’t been torn in two.

He whispers in my ear, tells me he loves me and I want to scream. I want to beg him not to say those words to me. To remind him that I don’t deserve them. How can he love me now? How can he be so kind and patient when I know he’s hurting, too?

These thoughts push on the stitches. I clutch at my belly to hold in the pain, but it only weakens me as I look down at my hands. They are folded, one on top of the other, over the spot that had been the source of overwhelming joy.

Just last week it was filled with life and hope. Our future.

Now its emptiness threatens to drag me into the darkness.

I feel the stitches slip. Eyes, mouth, heart—I shut them even tighter to fight against the ocean rising within. I know this is a losing fight. I know the time has come.

It starts as a whimper. Then I start to cry. And then I start to wail. I scream out against a pain greater than I have ever felt before. A pain that is mine. A pain that I deserve.

I don’t think I’ll ever stop. The tears fall in waves. Giant heart crushing waves. There’s no way I’ll ever stop.

Then, he’s here. He’s rocking me gently and telling me that it wasn’t my fault. Telling me that it will be okay. Telling me that he loves me.

He says it again. And again. And again.

He loves me.

He’s here.