Aramis' Workshop

Can You Still Feel the Butterflies?

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I wrote a short story for a creative writing class several years ago that I’d never really done anything with.
It was one of those things that means a lot to you as a writer, but doesn’t really have a place in the greater scheme of things.
I’ve thought about re-writing it several times in varying fashions, but each attempt seemed disingenuous.
Even if they were technically proficient, the drafts and revisions lacked the heart—the candor of the original.
Instead I decided to leave it as is.
Besides, sometimes it’s good to just get things out and let them go.

A Lesson from Elly is posted.

Every Story Must Grow Old

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“Ecce Romany”

She wrote a letter to her perpetually wasted youth, scoffing as if it could be done “right.”
The page lie lain with litanies of love, ballads and trysts too scandalous to exist beyond paper (but they did, once).
And oh that sweet boy, unaware and reckless with the charisma he couldn’t keep in.
The look of his eyes when he whispered, “I never understood why your mother didn’t name you Grace.”

Empty bottles, pill and alcohol alike, weathered as they’d been strewn across the floor.
The now bare walls seem discontent, mere shadows of her former elegance.
She sank within the warmth of him, the abhorrences of the world gently breezing by.
The frigid edges of reality bite harder at first, until they settle into a perpetual gnaw

If you’d only just met her she might be the most alive person you’ve ever known.
Her long-forgotten friends mourn who she’s allowed herself to become (when they’re being honest).
But her parents remain proud.
So long as she wants for little that she can’t find in stores.

Her gaze draws across the dirty carpet, lingering where drugs and sweaty, sticky sex used to be.
Her paramour kisses the back of her neck, congratulating her on yet another glorious achievement.
She sighs. She might kiss him back.
The you-shaped hole remains.

If You’re Still Bleeding, You’re the Lucky Ones

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I haven’t written anything since I started PA school two years ago.
I’ve made time for other things, but not the most important.
It’s too easy to forget ourselves for meaningless obligations.
No matter for whom your heart may beat, within you is where it will always happen.
Don’t forget (to love) yourself.

“Will I Wonder?”

I once thought I was paper, wicked and sharp to those who’d grown complacent with my care.
So easily overlain with all the images others wanted to see.
Never content with me just being me.

When I was a lover I welcomed any opportunity for pain.
Eager to brave hardships that would validate my resolve.
Because even though I meant it, saying those three words was never enough.

Haven’t stopped humming though the words faded long ago.
For some reason errands I’ll never remember seemed more important at the time.
I’d sing forever if I wasn’t late for work.

There are names my heart still beats to, even though they’ll scarcely wriggle from my tongue.
This damn brain box just keeps beating away.
As I get older the world gets smaller, and I’m curious if it’s the same for you.

Some day all too soon the fantasies will stop for good.
I can’t help but wonder if then I’ll see the world for the first time, or will it have been the last?