Sadly, in real life happily-ever-after isn't forever: One or the other is left to "remember when?" alone.
Remember When
Author: The Abject Muse
Susan Marie Shuman is an author, freelance writer and editor who currently resides in the wilds of Birmingham, AL. She shares her life with four spoiled cats, several friends (not all of them imaginary) and one husband. When she's not working, Susan enjoys horseback riding, reading, taking her cats for a spin in their pet stroller, and taking naps.
An ex-bartender, recovering crash test dummy and all-around late bloomer, Susan graduated from the University of South Alabama in 2004 with a BA in English. She minored in Russian.
Long-range goals include visiting Israel, the Czech Republic and Liechtenstein. Susan is also planning to launch a micronation which would be called either Suzannistan or Eastern Suzanorovia.
Trails
Found this fabulous piece by M. A Morris on Hearing the Mermaids Sing.
Set out years ago
Dropped breadcrumbs
Some no bigger than dust particles
Of the soul
Along the roads and paths
Thought I’d find my way back,
There’d be time
There’d be years
Be months
Weeks
Days
Seconds
Left before the sand
Absconded with the hourglass
To find the trail of dust and crumbs
Sweep and pour them
Back into the soul
Add a few ingredients
Create once more
From the beginning
But birds and squirrels
Feasted on the leavings
And I’ve no desire
To return to where I started.
The Porch
Women who run with wolves never look back at the (safety?) of the patriarchal porch with its invisible boundaries that zap them like a whip if they wander too close to freedom and to themselves. No, they never look back. But they remember.
Chasya & Samar
On her knees and white-knuckling the porcelain bowl, Samar awaited the next surge of morning sickness to spew forth. In the kitchen, Abdul was shrieking at one of his buddies on the prepaid cell phone she’d purchased for him at Wal-Mart yesterday. “Pray God my baby isn’t a boy,” she implored and wretched the remainder [...]
My Death Is a Great Red Pen, Correcting-Kindra M. Austin
I just had to share this phenomenal piece by Kindra M. Austin.
What you want, I ain’t got; and
goddamn,
I have the sinking feeling that it’s happening
again,
as night is falling down upon me. I submerge,
accordingly—
await my death.
My death eradicates mistakes I’ve made,
and saves.
My death is a great red pen, correcting—
according to
Vodka,
on top of Fibromyalgia,
on top of Anxiety,
on top of Depression,
on top of Rx medication.
*
Two years dead,
and I’m still fucking seeking
mother’s affection.
I beat my breast,
claw my throat,
shake my insignificant
fists.
I cry confessionals ‘til Hell won’t have ‘em.
*
I have the sinking feeling that it’s happening
again,
as night is falling down upon me. I submerge,
accordingly—
await another death.
Each one eradicates mistakes I’ve made,
and saves.
I am pain,
and all my deaths
are a great red pen, correcting—
according to the spiders spinning webs
within the folds…
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