Jealous Writer

Here I am. An aspiring writer. Never published and no prospective publishing, I don't even get heavy traffic on my short story blog website http://shortstoryblogaholic.blogspot.com , thank you! But that's the story of so many writers' lives. You never really know what's going to happen with your work unless, you get up enough “gusto” to show yourself, show off yourself, if you're any good. Then again, I've read some bad stories from questionable, yet privileged writers (a.k.a. Self Publisher) with enough pocket money and pull to get their penned abominations on Borders' bookshelves. That may be one day. Maybe. Maybe I'd rather be amazing and sell less then a horrible prominent writer. And yet, I'm jealous. Those jerks get to tour , take photos and give speeches about their trash. It's hilarious and maddening. And here I am writing about my jealousy for bad writers. Wondering if I am in that pool. I haven't even had the chance yet to be selected to be in that pool of arrogance. I've only just begun.

The Needle and Malaise

The high was so immaculate.  Amy put the needle into her arm.  It was her first time and because she’d heard so many different things, she didn’t know what to expect.  Friends bragged about how it made you forget things, the distress, hurt, regret, anger and rage-an immediate relief. 

            Her body felt lifted off the ground and she flew above herself.  She saw herself as a child, playing with dolls, swinging them in the air playfully, “Throw me, Amy” “Throw me up as high as you can,” one doll said.  Amy smiled and let out a lazy laugh.  She faded into her first piano recital…”marry had a little lamb.” “I hate that song! She said aloud to herself. “It’s a stupid song…” She smiled as she saw her parents racing through the auditorium door, they were always late, but they made it.  Her head tilted backwards on to the La-Z-boy reclining chair head rest.  Heaviness settled in her eyes and she saw darkness, nothingness.  She was alone, no memories, no thoughts now just herself, her existence which seemed to match the darkness she felt. For Amy, darkness wasn’t that nefarious occasion that religious people warned her about when she went away to summer camp before starting Junior High School. This darkness felt accepting, unbiased, loving in a sense. 

She has two parents that love her but are too busy to express that love.  Good food always graced the dinner table. It was always so good no one had time to discuss its richness. Christmas always bore the greatest gifts, so great everyone had to make phone calls to brag about their new coat or electronic devices. It’s a weird feeling to have your creators not have time for hugs, expressions of love or encouragement.

Amy sat alone in her college dorm room, high, unconcerned and free, in darkness and thoroughly acquainted with her pain although, her friends bragged a better tail.