We danced through the riffs and chords that made up the melody of our night. I watched the lines of your neck and the little smile on your face, and I knew I was home. So in love with your beautiful, luminous skin, and ocean-kissed eyes. All I ever need is right here with you.
I am from late night moonlit bedrooms, filled with fear, pain, and guilt. I am from constant reminders of my worthlessness, inadequacies, and ugliness. I am from resilience, defiance, and the belief that good will always win. Despite everything, ink still flows through my veins and with every beat, my heart echoes, “survivor.”
Twenty-five years ago, one of my nightmares came to life, and it haunted me ever since. I remembered hearing about the people, falling from the sky. Plummeting to their deaths. My disbelieving eyes couldn’t look away. But, the nightmare continued.
It seemed like everything fell from the skies that day.
I remembered the shock and the numbness that lingered for weeks, along with brief glimpses of panic that didn’t fully manifest until fifteen years ago when the rest of my nightmares turned out to be true.
But none of it compared to five years ago, when everything fell from the sky. Five years ago, when everyone died, except for me.
For the #PiccadillyPrompts challenge
I’m hosting on Instagram,
based on prompts in their prompt journals.
This one is from 300 Writing Prompts,
which they were kind enough to let me share:
“Write a journal entry ten years in the future.”
If I could take it all back, all the wrong things I ever said, all at the wrong time, those unexpected moments where I bared my soul, I would. In those moments, I was vulnerable, hypnotized by your gaze as it locked with mine. At the time it was exhilarating, to feel you and how those deep eyes saw right through me. But now, I wish I could rewind and stop you from knocking down my defenses and shield myself from the pain of losing you. But I can’t. And I’m haunted by your memory. Haunted by all we were, all we could have been, and everything we lost.
My friend F-K from fkregieblog came back with another glowing review. This time for Home, my third novel. I’m on cloud nine that the love is still strong for the series as a whole. But more than that, the depth of understanding that F-K shows in the underlying themes is almost uncanny.
Any writing must explain itself or you wonder what the reason was for writing it. As you read any writing, it is only natural therefore that you try to find answers to the questions in your head (raised by what you are reading) – fictional works included. As such, as I read Sarah Doughty’s Home several questions were bounding around in my head: How can someone with a crisis of identity and a sense of displacement become a home for restless souls?Is race and kind only a human construct; can animals be racist – towards humans?What is the true meaning of home? These questions, and the answers Doughty provides to them will form the premise of my review of Sarah Doughty’s Home.
Home is the gripping tale of the becoming of Angela Ines Williams, a young African-American Librarian and Guardian…
My friend F-K from fkregieblog came back with another glowing review. This time for Focus, my Second novel. I’m on cloud nine that the love is still strong for the main series. But more than that, the depth of understanding that F-K shows in the underlying themes is almost uncanny.
In Sarah Doughty’s Focus all hell is (metaphorically and literally) let loose. This is not your typical novel, due mainly to how the story is told – it is nobody’s tale as several narrators tell it. This is not your typical novel because the first-person (omniscient) narrators have more than one level of point-of-view (POV) in the observation of self and situations. This is not your typical novel because Sarah Doughty is more than a narrator, she is a great storyteller – period. Usually, narration is a clinical and dry way of stating a series of events – a flow of events connected to a theme. Usually, narration is a method and means of constructing the events of a story into a plot, which concerns itself with the sequence of the events, the medium on which they are told, and the way…
My dreams were crushed and incinerated, leaving behind an infinity of darkness. After so long, I see it. A little glimmer of hope. A diamond in the roughened distance. Perhaps it’s a mirage. Maybe I can find a way to reach it. But until then, I’m trapped in this oblivion of misery. Do I choose to feel? To let in all the pain and hurt? To acknowledge that my heart was ripped from me. That every last drop of ink was siphoned from it. And then I watched as it was tossed to the side like trash. With every breath I take — inhale, exhale — I am doing all I can to keep from crumbling into a million pieces of my broken soul.
My friend F-K from fkregieblog came back with another glowing review. This time for Just Breathe, my first novel. I’m on cloud nine that the love has continued into the main series. But more than that, the depth of understanding that F-K shows in the underlying themes is almost uncanny. To see the reviews of Zoe and Dream Spell, click here and here. Read on for an in-depth review.
I treated Sarah Doughty’s Just Breathe the way I treat any book that holds my fascination – if books could speak the Holy Bible and Webster’s Advanced Dictionary wouldn’t want me near them. First, I read the novel three times, put it down for a couple of days, returned to it, reread it, put it down again, and returned to it today, reread it, and now I am ready to review it. I do this when I want to carry a book around in my head, as a source of reference – this novel is that good. Plus, after what I have put it through in one week I didn’t feel the book wanted me near it – I feel Sarah Doughty’s novel needs to just breathe.
What fascinates me about the novel is Doughty’s knowledge of witches. Through my second reading I realized this has to be some sort…
I was standing in an alley lit by that same eerie sepia light. Like the sun was permanently at the cusp of twilight, just setting over the horizon. Deep shadows cast over everything and even the bits of trash that littered the dirty street looked devoid of most of their color.