Let Go

Let go

Their path
Is not your path
Living life in their footsteps
Will not make you happy

***

Let go

Of the empty promises
You made yourself and others
If they tear at the fabric of your soul
Maybe they were never yours to keep

***

Let go

Of what no longer sets you on fire
Let it die gracefully
Rather than trying to rekindle
What is already ash

***

Let go

Of the dreams
That were never yours
To begin with

And let magic breathe life
Into what is left
And what is yet to be

In the spaces between

Mr Wrong, Mr Right

J and I arrive first.

We sit, chatting, in a neat little flat on a dozy warm day in May.

I don’t remember who arrives next.

 

I do remember my first impressions.

Mr Right: Love at first sight.

Mr Wrong: “What a dick.”

Mr Right immediately brightens any room with his presence.

Mr Wrong just gets on everyone’s nerves.

Mr Wrong tells me his sob story.

 

Arrogantly, I decide to save him.

***

After our first cotton-candy sweet kiss after a day at the fair, I come home, collapse on the floor and cry.

Everything feels wrong.

Still.

For two and a half years I fight a fight I never wanted to win.

A fight to keep a relationship alive that was dead before it began.

***

Post-weekend: Relief.

Five days to convince myself I’m happy.

Saturday: Pitching back into despair.

***

Two and a half years of trying to stop thinking about him. Trying to forget someone I deeply care about for someone I alternately loathe and pity.

Sobbing “I’m happy” as my life falls to pieces.

I cheat. An innocent brush of the lips on a sleep warm cheek after a silly, sweaty, breathless tickle fight.

And against everything I believe, that wrong makes everything so right.

 

===

This piece was written during Week 1 of Laura Jane Williams’ fabulous writing course “Don’t Be a Writer, Be a Storyteller”. Laura really helped me get over myself and just start writing, as well as providing a fantastic toolkit for improving my work. I would not be posting this stuff without her. #srsummerschool

Insignificant Detail

They saw one another from across the park.

A hesitant smile of almost-recognition, before like ghosts from different worlds, memories from different times, they passed one another by, continuing on their way.

He, engaged in conversation with a friend, roared with laughter at something and looked away.

She, distracted by a friendly dog, turned with all the joy of a small child to hold out her hand for it to sniff before it scampered on its way across the grass with a wave of its tail.

Across the vast expanse of grass, a shiver passed between them, of all that could, that should, that would have been. Paths crossing, fates interweaving, lives interlocking.

Except.

Several mornings ago, in an uncharacteristic hurry, his mother had left the house without reading her morning paper, had not seen the small advertisement for the youth exchange to Japan that might have interested her travel-hungry son.

He had scanned it briefly over his mug of hot chocolate, but it hadn’t really piqued the curiosity of his morning-muddled mind. Without his mother there to prod him, the tiny, insignificant scrap of writing was quickly dismissed from memory.

After a long day at work, his father read the paper, then threw it in the trash.

That Wednesday, she hadn’t gone to her karate session. This was highly unusual, normally she wouldn’t miss her training for the world. She was dedicated, and she was stubborn. Even when she felt unwell, she would sit on the sidelines, soaking in the atmosphere, the techniques, storing them away in her mind for next time.

Their babysitter had cancelled that morning.

This one Wednesday she had relented, unwillingly, but she had relented, to stay home and babysit her younger brother so her parents could visit a concert.

She had fidgeted all evening, her body knowing it had somewhere else to be, running through the kata forms in her mind.

Had she gone, she would not have been given the sheet of paper detailing that very same exchange, for on that very day, the co-trainer had split his knuckles while vigorously pounding them against his garage wall to “toughen them up”. Everyone else knew those open, nicotine-calloused wounds were more for show than for anything else. He thought himself very manly as he observed his ruined hands.

As he drove himself to the doctor, the piece of paper lay forgotten in the back seat.

They saw one another from across the park, and as they passed one another by, divided by green grass, laughing children and a scattering of insignificant details, they quivered with the cry of something that wanted, more than anything, to be.

Momentarily confused, he turned to look.

She did not.

***

A different, far away day, a mother opens a paper and nags her son, a girl stays stubborn and goes to training.

Just like any other Wednesday.

That weekend, they do not go to the park.

She locks her bike outside the flat where the informational evening is hosted, before ringing the bell. A few minutes later, his mother’s car pulls up outside.

===

This piece was created during Week 2 of Laura Jane Williams’ fabulous writing course “Don’t Be a Writer, Be a Storyteller”. Laura really helped me get over myself and just start writing, as well as providing a fantastic toolkit for improving my work. I would not be posting this stuff without her. #srsummerschool

Between

Birdsong weaves itself between the beats as I don my headphones and start walking.

A giant maple arches its branches towards the sky, its leaves glow green against the blue. Sprinkled between are the beginnings of reds and yellows.

A little further.

Through the little patch of forest. The air is cooler here, and damp. Dead leaves crunching underfoot. Many are still fresh and golden, not trodden down into the soggy, compost-scented mush they will soon become.

A promise of that scent hangs in the air.

The lawn ahead is soaked with sunlight, incandescent against the gloom. Leaves flutter from the trees, flecks of golden fire as they catch the sunlight. Twirling. Falling.

I stop to pick up the first whole conker I have seen this year. Its fellows lie nearby, floury corpses mashed into the tarmac of the road. I turn it over and over, its greasy brown skin pockmarked and pitted with marks of lighter brown where it struck the road. Grains of sand hide an otherwise perfect smoothness.

I brush them away, flicking my fingers and rubbing them together to remove the grit, enjoying that smoothness, the place where the texture changes, becomes drier and rougher and white.

I pocket it. My feet beat the pavement in time to “Let’s Dance” from Lady Gaga.

Roses, death-defying, a bold display of crumpling petals that still glow a translucent, almost supernatural pink.

Other roses long gone without a trace, their branches heavy with rose hips.

I stop by a butterfly bush. What’s left of its panicles is darkened and dry, dashed here and there with some last specks of purple. A butterfly alights, wings working.

It flits momentarily harder as my shadow falls across it, stays put, uncertain, the next movement of mine sends it tumbling away all a-flutter, all powdered paper wings and soft, soft hairs.

I brush my hands along a bush in passing. Leaves resisting their death, clinging to their branches like stubborn old men to knobbly walking sticks. Tough, hardened, no memory remaining of the soft green fuzz, the delicate growth of spring that dreamed of life.

A stray cobweb tickles my nose. I sneeze.

A tiny yellow leaf, spinning, spinning, trapped in the strands of a web.

A fat spider. Watching. Waiting.

Nature at once dying and full of colour. Naked branches scratch the sky. Late bloomers brighten the roadside, a nearby bush hangs heavy with ripe red berries.

A strange time. Not summer. Not yet autumn.

The watered down sun warms the hazy air.

Sweat beads on my skin beneath my jumper, without it I know I’d be bordering on too cold.

My heart clenches.

I want to capture every single instant of this between, this beginning and this ending, this dying, this becoming.

My heart would explode if I could.

I smirk. Nod my head in time to the music. Winter is coming.

The year is trapped somewhere between the seasons.

I feel as if I’m stepping out on the other side.

===

Hi, I’m Ffion. Welcome to my little writing playground.

Right now, it feels like that “Between” stage I’ve been stuck in for quite some time is finally becoming something new.

Not quite yet a writer.

No longer not a writer.

I started this blog in order to explore personal writing projects, hone my writing skills, muse about life and creativity and just have fun.

You can also find me over on Instagram, where I post about monsters, tea, books and travelling.

Join me for a chat over a cup of tea?