Writing Prompt

My heart is pounding, I can’t focus on anything. He can’t be gone, he just… can’t. I… I don’t understand. He was supposed to be invincible. He was supposed to beat it. All I can see is his body, right there, in a casket. I’m only fourteen. What am I going to do without him? This wasn’t how my life was supposed to go. He was supposed to teach me to drive, see me graduate, bring me to college, help me buy my first house, walk me down the isle.

He’s gone. He’s actually gone. My heart feels like it’s being torn to shreds. It hurts, so much. How can I live with this pain? I can barely keep standing right now. How am I going to go back to school next week? I knew this would happen, I’ve known it for six months. I’d accepted it. Hadn’t I? I thought I did, so why does it hurt so much? Why do I feel as though the world is ending, like time has stopped? Why does this hurt!? I can’t even feel all of the pain. It hurts so much, it’s numb.

“Lexi?” I turn around to see my friend looking at me, her face full of concern. “Are you okay?”

I take a deep breath before nodding. “Yah. I’ll be fine.” She nods, her expression soft and understanding.

As she walks away to talk to the rest of my family, I go the opposite direction. When I’m certain no one will hear me, I sink to the floor, hugging myself tightly as my body shakes with sobs.

I feel the rage building inside me, it’s like fire, threatening to overwhelm me. I grit my teeth, my nails digging into my sides. All the memories flooding my mind. I’ll never see him smile again, never hear his voice again, never feel the comfort of his hugs.

The waves of emotion threaten to overwhelm me as one thought reaches my mind. It’s not fair. I can’t contain it anymore and let myself scream. It’s full of agony and pain and sadness and anger and fury. It sounds heart wrenching, it sounds like my emotions.

My friend finds me sobbing on the floor in my black dress, she says nothing as she sits down and wraps her arms around me. I hug her tightly as I continue to sob. A few minutes later, I’m finally able to choke out a sentence. It’s extremely quiet and broken, but that’s exactly how I feel.

“It’s not fair.”

Sinking deeper into my mattress. Watching the blood drip don’t my wrist. In straight and uneven lines. Closing my eyes and wishing and praying for my death. Sinking lower and lower in to the pit of despair.

Pippa doesn’t even recognize herself.

In the mirror, she appears how she remembers. Black tangly hair. Deep brown eyes. Olive skin that is a bit pale at the moment. But if one studies further, they would see the tension in her body. The permanent downtick of her lips. The worry lines.

But if the mirror truly showed her insides, she bets that she wouldn’t recognize any part.

Without Salen, who is she?

She knows her best friend wouldn’t want her hero persona to do what she is about to do, but Ink Spill has to pay.

So she doesn’t go to her enemy/rival turned boyfriend, Cotton. He would hate her for going to this person.

Beacon goes to the most notorious villain, the water-based woman with extremely diverse power set, who just happens to be Cotton’s mother.

“Hello, Beacon. Hero life not going so well,” Flood teases in a sing song voice.

“Ink Spill. What do you know about her?” Pippa sees no reason to go through the formalities. This is Flood for god’s sake. They both know she isn’t there for tea and gossip.

Tapping her chin, Flood looks upwards like she’s thinking, but it’s just to irritate Pippa. Finally she stops and gives her a sly smile. “I think I’ve heard of her. Jot my memory, would you?”

Clenching her teeth so much it hurt her gums, Pippa attempts to take deep breathes through her nose. When her breathing is under control, she answers Flood, even though Flood already knows. The villain just wants her to repeat it. “Ink Spill kidnapped me, my mom, Cotton, and my best friend. She wanted me to choose someone for her to kill. And she killed my best friend,” she recounts, keeping the neutral mask on.

It’s amazing how her voice doesn’t shake and her eyes stay dry. Perhaps it’s the focus on being angry that is overtaking her grief. Either way, Flood looks mildly impressed with slightly raised eyebrows.

“You chose your best friend? So much for best friends forever,” she taunts.

If Pippa wasn’t already putting all her fury towards Ink Spill, she would be fuming at Flood.

But she can’t waste energy on her right now.

Crossing her arms and giving her best glare, she grumbles out, “I didn’t choose. She sacrificed herself.”

“And what? You want revenge?”

“Yes.”

That causes a laugh from Flood. Not one of joy but one that you let out when a child is being foolish and naive. Pippa hates it. Flood can barely contain herself. “Are you sure? Because I’ve been told once you go to the dark side, it’s hard to go back.”

“I’ll take my chances. So I’ll ask again. What do you know about Ink Spill?” She hates how this whole family doesn’t get to the point. While she cares for Cotton, they all have a way of circling and not making sense.

“She is very elusive. It took me years to find her,” Flood divulges, staring at her nails, disinterested.

As if this was about the weather. Not her friend’s killer.

If only Pippa could go to anyone else, but of course, with Beacon’s limited network of mostly heroes, Flood is her most viable option. Unfortunately.

Taking in what Flood stated, Pippa decided to ask a question of her own. “Why’d you want to find her?”

Did Ink Spill do something to Flood? Or vice versa?

“Doesn’t matter. What matters is that I know her real name. Where she lives,” Flood teases, a smile forming on her lips. It isn’t the motherly kind. Not soft and kind. No, all sharp and jagged edges.

“What about her powers? Her limits?” Pippa questions, pressing further. She has no idea how long Flood will talk, so she needs to milk as much information as she can.

“Her weaknesses you mean? And how does this involve your revenge?”

“Does it matter to you?” Pippa is tired of Flood and her constant questions that she is pretty sure Flood doesn’t care for the answers. She just revels in the gossip. Having one over her since the great teenage hero is stopping so low going to her.

She raises her shoulders slightly. “Sure it does. You are sort of like my daughter in law,” she jokes.

Pippa cringes at the use of daughter in law. For one, Flood would be a bear of a mother in law. Second, Pippa is a a teenager so marriage is the last thing on her mind. And lastly, Cotton probably won’t be with her after this.

“I doubt it. Especially now,” she lets slip out. She didn’t intend for that to be public knowledge, but her filter is faltering with Flood. She can’t keep going in this conversation with her for much longer.

“Oh,” she exclaims with so much glee. “My son doesn’t know about this little chit chat you’re having with little old me. How scandalous.”

Fatigue is setting in. Finding Flood took a bit more effort than Pippa would like to admit, especially without using Cotton for help. “Just tell me what you know.”

“You should know one thing about revenge. It comes from a dark place. Not sure if a sunny, little hero like yourself has it in you,” she taunts. Pippa rolls her eyes. She knows her perception and normally she’s fine with it, happy even.

Under any other circumstances, she would want to be that role model.

But it isn’t under any other circumstances.

“Would you like to exact my revenge?” She questions, annoyed at this prolonged conversation. It should be done by now.

“No, that would be too easy.”

“Then what are you saying?” If she pushes her an inch more, Pippa might cut her losses and find Ink Spill another way. (No she won’t).

Flood circles her like prey, an unsettling smile on her face. Like she knows more than Pippa. Which she does. She knows she has the upper hand. The ball is in her court.

Stopping in front of Pippa, her hand outstretches and takes a black curl of Pippa’s in her finger and twirls it. “You know what light creates? A shadow. Beacon may be your hero side, but Shadow is your villain side. You’ll need it for what comes next.”

So you guys are probably wondering why I’m not on a lot and I probably made some worry about my health especially in my writing “done with life”

My family and myself are going through a hard time right now last night at

4:30am my grandpa on my fathers side papaw ended up passing away last night

I have lost all motive and reasoning to write I feel detached and a shell of myself the grieve this weighing heavy on us right now

I don’t know if I will stop writing all together or if it’s just a writing block. I probably won’t be on until this blows over

But just to reassure everyone I am doing ok for now

-that’s all folks - Stormbound Dreams

Grief is a peculiar thing. The exact definition is ‘the anguish experienced after a significant loss, usually the death of a beloved person.’ That’s wrong though. Grief is crushing. It never leaves you, even after years. It sneaks up on you. You can never tell when it will break your heart and leave you breathless. 

My mind was numb. There was no noise, no taste, no smells. It was just me, sitting in the dark abyss that was my misery. It was happening again. That thing where I block the world out so I can’t feel anything. 

I’m thankful, for a while. But then I remember what it will be like when I get back to the surface. The pitiful stares, the red eyes. Anything but how it feels when I come across something of my mom's. 

I was struggling to breathe, I knew that. I also knew that somewhere, my best friend was trying to comfort me. It was no use. They should know that by now. 

I don’t know what brought this episode on. It could have been being in my mom's room with all of her stuff, it could have been that stuffed bear that she gave me when I sprained my ankle when I was five. Or it could have been the picture of my mom and dad when she was in college. 

Pain struck. It suffocated me, strangling my heart until I couldn’t breathe. It consumed me. Every fiber of my being. I gasped, drawing in a breath. I sighed and a memory of a playground on a Sunday morning.

All of my breath left me again.

The ashes lie heavy in his hands. Rough and dry, they spill through his fingers, into the urn. Men try to speak to him, to offer condolences, but he barely grants them a turn of his head. He cares not for what they might say; he cares not for anything. How can he, when the one he loved beyond all others, beyond his own life, is dead? How can one shriveled soul survive without its dearest friend?

He releases a battered cry.

Dearest friend, great-hearted lover, gentle companion. Those titles don’t matter anymore—not to him. The body they once belonged to is gone. Reduced to ashes and dust and charred bones. And for what? Gold, glory, gods? The worthless things he once so desired? Oh, how he hates, truly hates, them all now. Stabbing pain throbs beneath his veins with each heartbeat, as if his blood were not blood at all, but rather poison. An unbearable stinging weight pools in his chest as he crumples to his knees, tears at his hair, whispers the name of his beloved like a prayer.

He stays like this, bent over himself, screaming, beating the ground with his fists. Each minute passes slowly, and yet they all remain a blur. His mind rings, unable to think of anything but the one he lost. Bubbling anguish seethes under his skin as he remembers each broken promise, each wrong choice, each time he turned away, and one terrible truth emerges.

This death is the result of his own actions.

His brow sets as he finally stands, cold, glassy eyes glaring at the reddish horizon without mercy. Harsh tears crawl down his cheeks; he pays them no notice. There will be more ashes to collect come sunrise. He should only hope that he may be among the lucky ones.

“All these years of work…wasted!” His anguished roars bellowed through the shack, and surrounding forest, as he lifted her viles and bottles deliberately smashing each one to the earthen floor. Losing his balance in this forceful act, he fell in a heap on the broken bottles. He stood dripping small bits of blood as he walked towards their bedroom. He screeched while he wildly clawed at the linens, ripping his nails back in the process. He welcomed the pain, it felt better than the pain in his chest where his heart was once whole. All at once, the rage took over. Flames launched around the room from his body. He held his quaking hands before him, watching the fresh beads of blood sizzling from the heat of his skin. He wished he could feel the flames scorch his skin, but instead thought of the cool touch of her skin. One last howl thundered into the night, as he collapsed under the weight of his overwhelming sorrow.
Fighting off the desire to let himself cry, rain tore the sky open flooding the last remaining flickers of fire. His skin also cooled in the rainfall, steam rising from his crumpled form. His rage had fully succumbed to despair. He had allowed himself to love her so fully that he left himself vulnerable. A mistake he would never make again. His home, his love and his future were gone. He stood and vowed that, like their love, her and her lover’s future…would end in ashes.

Hummmmmmmmmm

A hummingbird appeared in the courtyard, when my aunt Keri was about to die. It landed on each of us and Then flew inside.

Hummmmmmmmmmm

Keri was pure and kind. She loved grapefruits. She loved how sweet they were. How ironic.

Hummmmmmmmmmm

They don’t tell you how when You have a close extended Family you feel the weight Of a loss in ripples. Their grief pulses and collides and amplifies in your chest. Theirs becomes yours too. Fast and frantic and Unseen like a hummingbird’s wings.

Hummmmmmmmmmmmm

I am sad but Do I feel as sad as them? Do I feel as bad as them? I grieve a mother figure but I don’t grieve a mother like them. A sister like them. A spouse like them. A daughter like them. So I grieve for them but Where do I sit in the hierarchy? Am I allowed to be sad too?

Hummmmmmmmmmmmm

My grief skips rocks but They grieve in boulders.

Hummmmmmmmmmmmm

Why didn’t they include me, When they scattered her ashes at The grapefruit tree?

When they see pink flowers, Why don’t they think of me?

If we don’t share the weight of this loss equally, Are we still a family?

Hummmmmmmmmmmmm

Seriously Don’t they know that Since she’s been gone I’ve never cried so hysterically?

Hummmmmmmmmmmmm

But she’s their mom so I make munchies and charcuterie in her name. I eagerly listen and try To say the right thing, bring Her up and when needed I Change the channel for them Searching for a show not about Loss or cancer or mothers and daughters. A surprisingly difficult Task considering our insatiable Craving for death. I listen to my cousin’s grief podcast. I write this poem and feel guilty. I speak at the service Careful in my speech not to exaggerate our closeness.

Hummmmmmmmmmmmm

My grief can only exist in crevices. I am wine poured into a jar of sand.

(School has started so I won’t be as active, but anyways, I present to you part three, continuation of ‘The Letter!’)

The day that Cloeanne died was the quietest day in the history of the Hallings’ home. Uncle Finn wandered around aimlessly, still wearing the same clothes from the night she died and still feeling that horrible aching tug at his stomach. He could not bear to look at the girls. The tiny, innocent things who didn’t understand the weight of it all. It had taken nearly a day for Finn to come to terms with what had happened. She had died that morning, and the sun was beginning to set when Finn horrifyingly snapped to reality and realized he was the only adult left in the house to bury her. At that moment, he felt as if some giant, grotesque bird had sunk its talons into his chest and ripped it in two.

He was all they had left.

His hands slithered through his greasy, greying hair, locking around several tufts. He would’ve ripped them out, too, if it hadn’t been for him to suddenly see himself through Warrick’s eyes, watching him break down. Warrick would’ve dragged him up by the collar to his feet and barked at him for falling apart like this. Finn needed someone like that. But there was no one. He released his steel grip on his hair and let his hands drop languidly onto his knees as he bent over and cried.

That was why it was nearly midnight when he buried her in the pouring rain on the cliff over the ocean, the gray waves crashing onto the rocks morbidly below him. He scooped piles upon piles of the dirt, quickly turning to mud as he tossed it behind him. He took Cloeannne’s body, wrapped in many white sheets that, now soaked, clung translucently to her body and made her appear as a ghoul headed to its grave. He lowered her into the ground gently into the uneven grave his tremouring hands had created.

He couldn’t afford a casket, didn’t have the skills or patience to make one, or the camaraderie’s to find someone who would do it for free. People like Cloeanne could’ve found a casket if she wasn’t being lowered into the ground.

People naturally fell in love with Cloeanne. She had tried her best to be a farm wife, someone who could take care of her kids and her small business at the same time. People admired her determination when they saw her entering a blacksmith shop she had never dared to enter before looking for nails to repair her barn while holding the only currency she had in a small little worn sackcloth that had been patched over with multiple fabrics. People liked her resilience, her spunk, the way she pulled her sunkissed curls into a bun and rolled up her sleeves when she was ready for work. They liked bringing her gifts: apples, cookies, chairs, anything to keep the young lass whose husband was always away smiling. It made them feel warm inside to know that they could be supporting someone whose spouse was Captain War himself. But when they had heard that she was sick, again, they suddenly became aware that Cloeanne was a real person, that her girls were real, and that she was going to die.

But they didn’t know she was dead yet, did they? Finn couldn’t bear to be the one to lower his hat and tell the townsfolk the news. Townsfolk who would certainly ask, because Cloeanne was always an easy topic to bring up when chatting with a nervewreck like Finn.

_You work hard all your life, you’re the wife of a hero, you’re Tavan’s favorite, and then you’re buried like a dog. _

It was pitiful as Finn shoveled the mud back over Cloeann’es body, feeling the rain mixed with the vile mist from the ocean pound down on him in punches. He looked down, far down over the cliff , where the waves were swollen and dark. Cloeanne had always liked the view from here. It was a deadly drop, but it was a nice place to watch a sunset and say, I may not be rich, but at least I have this. Yes, Finn was not decent enough to find Cloeanne a casket, but he was decent enough to bury her in a spot she liked.

Finn patted down the dirt with the flat side of the shovel, trying to make it look presentable for when the girls asked, Where’s Mama?

He didn’t have a stone or anything on him to mark the grave, so he told himself that the next morning he would put in the effort to put together something. Yes, Warrick would’ve wanted that. But if Warrick had been here, the grave would’ve already been marked, wouldn’t it? Warrick would’ve found the strength, marched through the pounding rain, and with his determined hands created something beautiful out of nothing. Warrick was always a natural craftsman. He was the one who made the girl’s toys in time for GoldenTine. Stuffed animals out of potato sacks and buttons, with perfect little lashes and dimpled smiles, little ships crafted out of wood, and balls made from the bladder of a pig were just some examples of Warrick’s scrappy creativity.

But why was he thinking so small? Warrick was that way because he was a sailor. The captain of his own ship, someone who could keep a whole crew calm and under his control while his mind weaved through solutions.

Yes, Warrick would’ve found the strength to mark Cloeanne’s grave on this miserably grey, stormy night. But he was not Warrick, he was Finn. And Finn Hallings did not have his brother’s strength.

~Congrats if you read the whole thing, you guys keep me going! 💕🫶~

~Do you relate to Finn in any way? I know I do. We often compare ourselves to other’s best strengths, blindingly missing our own. But I know there’s that little something you love to do. Pursue it! Don’t deny your gift!~

_~Part 4? Anything you’d change/love to see happen? I’m up for constructive criticism!~ _

The muffled voices, silent screaming the undertone to it all. Invisible hands reach up from the ground. Invisible tears and blood form an invisible sea that closes in above my head. Smiles invoke a dark, unbridled fury. A Titan shifts behind me, plucking away the good and peeling back my invisble mask. My silent begging as my life pours through the cracks is unheeded. What people see is someone who knows the path of life, who knows where it leads, who is ready, what I am is someone who held the map upside down but pretended it was right, clinging to the notion, someone whose destination, whose AONB, whose perfect moment is behind them and who believes if they run toward it fast enough they’ll bring it back. I’m the person who got to the top of Everest and forgot to take a picture.