Explore Literature

Don’t ask a writer who's the one they’re writing about or what it is they’re writing about. Show humanity. And do not ask. Spare them from the repetition of torment they decided to name art. Spare them the ache of remembrance. They remember it too well anyway. Spare them, because they do not know how to spare themselves. And so they write. ... I know most about those who write, since I am one of those. You don’t have to spare me. You don’t even have to try. I never spare myself the ache this feeling brings me. And it is so constant in my mind and my soul that even if I write it down—when I write it down—it never seems to get easier. It only grows heavier on me. ... And I am a writer, I’ll dare say. My art... my pain, my suffering, my love, my religion, my belief, my feelings, my entire heart, my darkness... It is all so complex that even I lose track of where I’m standing with my own self at times. But then I pick up a pen and paper and draw this map that oftentimes keeps me on

"Damned writers block..." Sophia moaned to herself. Her finger tapping on the desk as she stared at the blank screen in front of her. The tick tock of the wall clock counting down the time. She'd been staring at her screen for what felt like eternity. Every time she thought she'd gotten an idea, it faded away just as quickly... "Come on...think. think. think..." Muttering to herself. Tapping her forehead as she attempted to force an idea out. All the while, something else was "bubbling up". An internal pressure starting to build in her midsection. Slowly pushing out as she sat there, hunched over the desk, her hands against her head... To Be Continued(Soon!)

The unknown visitor entered the room, the door shutting behind him with a tantalizing slowness, as if the very act of closing it was a ritual steeped in anticipation. Shadows danced across the walls, flickering in the dim light, casting an air of mystery that enveloped him like a cloak. He paused for a moment, allowing the weight of his presence to settle in the space, his gaze sweeping over the room as if assessing the very essence of its occupant. "I can't wait to witness what unfolds when your dreams become reality," he said, his voice dripping with an alluring calmness that seemed to wrap around her like silk. Each word was carefully chosen, laced with a promise that sent shivers down her spine. It was a voice that held power, a melody that resonated deep within her, stirring something primal and unquenchable. "When escape is impossible, and you belong to me completely," he continued, his eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that made her heart race. There was a predatory

Three months later, James had settled into a comfortable routine at El Corazón del Mar. His desserts had become the talk of the island, with tourists and locals alike flocking to the restaurant for a taste of his culinary genius. His days were spent experimenting with new flavors, his nights dancing with Rosalia under the stars, their bodies moving together with the same fluidity they had that first night.. James had moved in with Rosalia after a whirlwind trip to the mainland to collect his things. It had been a strange journey, one filled with a mix of excitement and sadness. Saying goodbye to his old life had been harder than he anticipated, but the thought of her warm embrace had made it all worth it. As he unpacked his suitcases, the reality of his decision settled upon him like a gentle blanket. He was here to stay, to explore this new chapter with her. The shack was a simple affair, a testament to her free spirit and minimalist lifestyle. The walls were adorned with her

red burning stars and sentinel trees a dance to the night; a desperate plea datura flowers and mycellium surround the altar of love, perched on the ground an open heart weeps beneath bloody moon come find your end here, not one moment too soon the deep velvet night is the bedchamber of peace- I come here to love; I come here to sleep

I peel off the skin of your fear burying myself into the core of your pain spreading it with heat of the night devouring your unease, drinking your discomfort filling your spine with molten gold [ glittering affection ] placating your demons with cold iron [ poison for the unseens horrors ] crushing the heart of your torment pouring the balm of my inner twilights into your aching veins let me admire you cutting the limbs of your anguish bleeding it on our mossy altars in our temples, deep in the abysmal green

Nights like these, I wouldn’t wish upon my worst enemy. I wouldn’t wish them upon myself. But I live them. These nights are never ending. Haunting. Dark. I know this—I must know by now... Insomnia... again... Countless hours spent staring at the ceiling and remembering...but only the worst. These hours need to be cut short. And so I leave the bed and open the window. Now, countless hours are spent staring at the sky. If the hours are countless, these stars are too. None of them are mine. None of them are my fate. None of them resemble me. But then I look at the moon, and things change. One moon. One woman staring at it. One mind full of countless thoughts. One sky full of countless stars. One night full of countless hours. If I told you that each star I saw resembled one of my thoughts, would you understand how complex it is inside my mind? These nights draw the life out of me. And there’s not much I can do but look at the moon and think. And think. And think. Think. The breeze sends

Weekly Writing Wednesdays #66 Creative Writing Degree There are many ways to learn how to write. No one path is absolute, but I can speak from my experience and share some tips about the route I took. I received a bachelor of arts degree in creative writing with a 4-year college program. It was difficult to find a program that had enough writing to meet my standards, and it was difficult (As it is for most students) to figure out how to pay for college as well! Today I am sharing what you should be on the lookout for when picking a writing program. Writing Degree VS English Degree When I started looking for a college degree in writing, there were only four colleges in Ohio (during 2013-2015) that had a writing major, versus schools with an English major and a writing focus or minor. Do you know what the difference is between these two? There are many pros and cons, depending on your needs! English Major: An English degree has a large focus on literature, research, and

Acta non verba. Since I have enough words for both of us, show—no need to tell. Yes, I’m in love with words. I am a writer, after all. But for that exact reason, I know all the meaning behind them. So do not waste your breath or the ink of your pen, for I won’t listen, and I won’t read. No, not this time. I will observe. The actions. They hold meaning most words could never express. Even if they could, I have decided—don’t you see? I’m going to observe. Hear me now. The way you look at me— Sincerity or deception in those eyes of yours? The way you hold my hand— Am I held hostage, or is my hand in yours safe, as if resting on a pile of cotton? The way you interpret this action of mine, still expressed in words— Will you question me, or will you simply understand that, more than ever, I need actions to prove the stability of words—or their inability to stand straight while you act? Acta non verba. For even a writer needs proof that his imagination was not running wild, but in fact, his

   Four days ago, I slammed him against the wall pinning him, demanding why. The unanswerable, boding, irritating question word between us for years. Why wouldn't he date me? Why haven't we tried friends with benefits yet? Why has he manipulated and used me for ten years? There was always a why and never a solid answer; only flimsy responses with changing facades.    But on this day-four evenings later- I was supposed to pick him up from work and bring him back to my house. Movie marathon and dinner was the plan. Foreboding enveloped me, reluctance of the evening, and doubt he would keep his word.    Despite the upbeat hip-hop from my computer while I finished dressing, my memories wandered back to the other evening.    /Her hand grabbed his, she called out his name; both to make him stop. He didn't pull away but barely looked over his shoulder at her.    Head hung, however, her hand tightly and firmly gripped his; she asked that looming question:    "Why have you treated me like shit