- You wrote it.
- You didn’t care if you received 1 or 100 likes.
- You sat and bled just as Hem said to do and it makes perfect fucking sense to you.
- You read your work the next day and squirmed. You’re onto it. Keep going.
- You haven’t any choice but to write so you do. And you do. And you do.
- A family member read one of your pieces and said nothing. Instead they cried.
- You love yourself enough to write. So fucking write.
when no one’s there to pour a sonnet down your throat
easing your expressions of pain as your scorching metallic rage
sets itself against its blade-
shiver first with an angle and propel thy teeth against a hue from the heavens
It’s simple really.
See, I’ve lived the majority of my life with myself.
So, when someone asks me in earnest, ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
As though they would have somehow helped-
I think to myself,
Would you like to know how my breakfast cereal tasted this morning verses yesterday morning?
Or, would you like to know the moment I remember, with absolutely clarity, events that happened a decade ago while coaching baseball concerning a fan spilling ketchup on their blue jeans and missing their sons at bat because they busied themselves with napkins to fix their accidental spillage that could easily have been avoided by not having put so much ketchup on the end of their hot dog? No. They missed their sons at bat. They missed the hit and they missed the run scored which won the game.
They had things to do.
I wasn’t able to help the child rework the happening to create a better memory of being watched.
It doesn’t work that way.
And I chose freely to not tell how my breakfast tastes on a daily basis because it changes and that’s for me to enjoy. Along with the arrival of the sun and the fact that it comes up every morning slightly differently- even though we live in a world that will try and tell you it’s all been done before.
No. It hasn’t.
So enjoy your questioning questions with a smile and a nod of understanding that not all things will be and not all things will be.
Thanks for reading. I don’t know what this is either.
Oh- certainly we saw you
hunched shoulders, laboring, tears streaming
We raged through the streets
demanding your sacrifice
So much so that you became lost
It’s been too long now
your metamorphosis of thought,
beautifully etched into the frame of a wooden windowsill
is waiting to be read
your tears stained History-
what have we done
copyright 2017. If you like it, share it.
We remember you speaking. The yard wasn’t green. The Sun wasn’t yet too large. We wanted to imply nicely that your words weren’t much. We’d seen your last step. So our look, is a look, and a word isn’t said. Now, let us tell you, the sun did go down. We found ourselves a book. In the book were the words you’d been looking for.
A Short Story
Written by -M. Taggart
Don’t Watch Her Cry
It hurt to watch her cry. She convulsed. Her head shook up and down. I wanted to put my arms around her. She was hating me. Maybe, though she needed it. It was my fault. I didn’t know my words damaged her this badly. Now though, I could see what each of them had done. Her hair was down and I couldn’t see her face. I only saw tears dropping near her feet.
Another me had raised my arms and put them around her shoulders. I fought the mind game I placed on myself. If she hates me, let her rot. Let her rot in Hell. My arms pulled her head to my chest. I could feel my heart beat. I hate my heart beating.
‘Don’t. It’s O.K. I Love you.’
She convulsed and my heart now hated me.
‘I don’t know. I don’t want this. Listen, I love you. You don’t believe me, but, I do. I don’t want what I said. I’m sorry.’
Her neck smelled so nice. Her tears too. My thoughts struggled.
She didn’t push away. I pulled her closer. Maybe it wasn’t over. ‘I just want to have you back.’ her throat full, ‘You use to be so amazing. You were, incredible.’ she had huffed the words through.
I was. I were. I am not. I am nothing. I hate myself. My heart can now stop completely.
My other self rubbed her back and told her I loved her and that it would be O.K.
She stood. Not ripping from me, but leaving me. ‘I don’t know how it can be again.’ tears streamed down her beautiful face, dripping from her chin. ‘But I think it will be.’
‘There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.’ – Hemingway
‘The world breaks everyone, and afterward, some are strong at the broken places.- Hemingway
“The most painful thing is losing yourself in the process of loving someone too much, and forgetting that you are special too.” –Hemingway
Enjoy your day. Especially if you are writing today.
A Short Story
‘A Simple Truth’
Fiction- Written by -M. Taggart
Warning- Adult Material.
She use to wash my feet, he thought. The water from the shower would land on her breasts and he’d watch the beads of water collect and trickle down her stomach, to her naval, and then the tub. She’d take her time and scrub one foot at a time. He didn’t know why she did this. He had taken it for granted, he thought.
Now he sat on the couch, looking at his feet, and wondered why she’d ever cared enough to touch them. He opened a can of beer. It made a suction sound. Bits of beer flew up and out of the can. Some sprinkled onto the coffee table.
‘Want to go for a walk?’ He asked her.
‘No. It’s too cold out.’ she replied.
It was 50 degrees. The sun was shining. It was November.
‘We could bundle up. You have that L.L. Bean wool jacket.’
‘I don’t like it. It itches my skin. Besides, I brought it back.’
He took a long pull from the beer. It foamed in his throat. Soon he would need to spit. The sun looked graceful. He wanted to be in it. Walking. Anywhere. He knew if he left for a walk she would become angry. If he sat and made conversation, she would pick it apart. If he sat and said nothing and drank more beer she might ignore him and that was the best plan.
The shower almost always ended with her giving him a hang job. He would be close to sleeping. She would message his calf. Then his quads. Eventually she’d start to tug. How to get back to the shower and the washing of the feet?
‘Do you want to take a shower?’
‘I’ll take one later.’
‘I mean the way we use to. But this time I’ll wash your feet. And you can lay back and sleep if you want to. Let the hot water land on you, I won’t need it.’
‘All you think about is fucking.’
Often, yes. He thought. But that wasn’t what he’d been thinking about. He wanted to repay her and find a way to go back. Fix all the middle ground he and she had trampled on. He was confused about it, but knew somewhere in there was truth.
‘I don’t want to fight.’
‘Have another beer.’ she said.
The best plan was to have another beer and not talk. Not talking was nice because he could still talk in his head. Fuck, he could write an entire novel in his head and forget it all by evening. He might even sit down and write a chapter. Or, he’d tap into some whiskey and relax into a nice long conversation he’ll never have with the one he loved most because he wasn’t sure how to start without chaos following.
‘Want me to grab you something from the kitchen?’ he asked her. He had finished his beer.
‘Can’t I sit here in peace? Why do you constantly pick at me. What’s with all of your questions?’
The words slipped out before he could stop them. Now it was too late.
‘Maybe if you weren’t such a self-centered bitch who can’t realize how hard I’m trying and how difficult it is to communicate with you, maybe then, you’d fucking get me. But until then it’s more beer and a big Fuck You.’
She got up and grabbed her jacket. He heard the keys in her hand. The sounds of self-served abandonment. He knew it well. ‘Keep being you. You drunk.’ The door slammed shut.
He needed to spit badly now. The beer foam had gathered in his lower throat and was becoming a ball of fucked up saliva. He felt the tension from the fight gathering in the pit of his stomach and rush toward his chest and he spit the wad from his mouth and watched in spin in the air. Parts of mucus broke off and went in its own direction. The bulk of the wad landed near the TV, on the carpet. It clung to the carpet looking disgusting. He’d never done that. He wished he hadn’t. He hated himself because he knew the same emotion which enabled him to cause this mess was the exact same that caused him to destroy his relationship.
Fuck myself, he thought. Then he got up, went to the fridge, opened a new beer and grabbed a towel.
copyright -M. Taggart 2016
Want to read more of my writing? Try my self published short story, ‘Don’t Be A Sally’ found via the link below.
‘The Way It Is’ was the first short story I published on WordPress. Fiction: The story is much about the confusion that comes along with any relationship. It’s one of my favorites. Read on. It’s good for the brain.
‘He heard the door open and close and her feet on the stairs and he thought, I must get her to go on a trip. I must figure out some way to do it. I have to think up something practical. I’ve got this now for the rest of my life and I must figure out ways not to destroy her life and ruin her with it. She has been so good and she was not built to be good. I mean this sort of good. I mean good every day and dull good.’
‘Then why do we have to talk about me going away? I know I’m not good at looking after you but I can do things other people can’t do and we do love each other. You love me and you know it and we know things nobody else knows.’
-Ernest Hemingway. ‘Get A Seeing – Eyed Dog.’
I find these pieces powerful. There’s a third just as nicely done if you’d like to find the story. Hemingway’s writing opens thought patterns for me when I read his work. This happens nearly instantaneously. For me he is the single most influential writer I have ever read.
If you notice, Hemingway has hidden a portion of humanity in a secret for only the two speaking to one another. Of course the secret is also open to the reader. If the reader is reading to comprehend.
Lately I haven’t had time to write in depth pieces to share on here. My priorities are family, work and writing for submission. I steal moments here and there to write short poems or Odd Walking Thoughts to publish on WP. I enjoy doing so. Sometimes I’ll sit Gavin on my lap and he’ll try to slam the keyboard with his tiny hands while I write a three line poem. Gavin sees me typing. He wants to type also. Since he’s only five months old his typing is more like smashing. He’s clever at shutting programs down.
I hope you find writing that moves you. Writing that burrows into you and changes you instantly for the rest of your life.