Day 94 Ruminating And Writing

Curdle

She fought against the pain in her chest, trying to ignore the pressure around her that made her blood curdle. It was a familiar pressure. It had been there since she was a child. She could remember it following her around. It was never pleasant. It wasn’t malicious. It was just nasty and hungry like a depression.

She didn’t want to be back here at her childhood home. But her father had died, and it was her duty to go over his things. She had almost been able to forget the pressure, the nightmares, the terror of the house in her own home far from here, yet everything came back, flooding with the fears from her childhood.

She gasped for breath and faced the narrow corridor to her childhood bedroom. The dark wooden door next to it looked menacing, as if whoever’s heart had infested the house was buried there. That thing which had taken her father into his early grave. It wanted her. It needed to feed on someone else’s desperation.

It would not be her. She stared at the door down, willing it to open and close, waiting for it to creak. It was about to open. She could sense it. Like she had done as a kid. The pressure wanted to engulf her.

“That’s enough! You don’t belong here. This is mine. Leave!” she screamed.

The door stood there, waiting to be opened.

“I said, you don’t belong here. Leave this place now,” she screamed again and yanked the door open.

The small back door entrance was empty. She could feel the residual hunger there. But the worst of the pressure was gone.

Smoking

If I call on you,
I have to admit my fault
If you call on me,
You have to accept your frailty
We speak of nothing
We stand there smoking
Father and daughter

Eyes

This is a prompt about eye colors and dystopia, where eye color determines one’s position in society. I don’t have the stamina to write this one.

The Prompts are from the book A Year of Creative Writing Prompts.

The perfectionist in me is quite annoyed. I dislike when I skip days of things I have set out to do. It’s the same with writing and exercises. I feel guilty, like I have let myself down. I skipped writing the prompts yesterday. I worked on the sci-fi book before work, but I never got around to writing the prompts. Instead, I took a nap after work and went swimming outdoors. I’m partly glad I acted so, but the perfectionist in me isn’t. The inner critic I carry with me is annoying. As a therapist, I know that there needs to be a balance between that inner critic and the best friend you carry with you, but sometimes it feels like that critic makes me work harder for things I love and want to do than my best friend does. I wonder if it is so important to be a happy, balanced person? Do happy, balanced people write?

Thank you for reading! I hope you have a wonderful summer day ❤