I remember you were happy once.
Before the incoherent speech slurring wasted wishes that have long since passed. I remember when your eyes would glisten at the laughter of your children, before those eyes glazed over in a haze of smoke.
I remember when you would push me on the swings.
I would soar, we’d laugh, and I would sprout wings; the sky was so close, but not as close as us.
We were invincible. Unbreakable, undeniably inseparable. Years ago, or so it seemed.
But in spite of this idealistic reality, there were agonizing gaps; years in the span of my memory when you had disappeared. Years filled with constant mistakes, made by the hands of a fathers’ little girl.
And as time went on, our unbreakable bond began to wear thin.
I remember late nights staring at the sky, speckled with pin pricks of light.
“holes to heaven,” you would say, “for the angels.” And we would smile and make wishes on shooting stars. I seemed so small,
And heaven seemed so far… throughout the years, your little angels wings have crumpled and lost.
The cost of a cheap buzz was a better price to pay then being with me.
I remember days spent jumping in the sun on that black elastic. You would jump me so high, I could almost feel the mist of the clouds on my fingertips.
You were always trying to help me tough the sky.
I remember you were one of the only people I could count on and now, you can’t even count on yourself. Your smile has withered and took with it the sparkle in your eyes.
Time has taken its toll on you, or was it your pocket full of synthetic euphoria? Maybe the liquid courage tucked away in your jeans?
I remember you were happy once, or so I thought, because I also remember the stale stench of vodka as I listened to your whispered wishes of death.
I remember feeling my heart catch in my throat as they spoke of your soon demise with fear in their words and tears in their eyes. I remember the blur of those red and blue lights on that cold crimson night and thinking that I may never get to tell you goodbye.
I also remember when you walked back through that door, your wrists littered with stitches and scars, and you act as if nothing happened.
I remember we were happy once. Do you?
About the Creator
Lacy Walters
I'm a space case, which is convenient considering my home is among the stars. I'm a writer-of-all-trades. I always have been and I always will be.
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"An Orchestra of American Excellence"
In the core of the immense American spread, Where skies paint dreams with shades gigantic, There lies a vista, a sight divine, Where nature's beauty and workmanship join. In Yosemite's hug, the mountains take off, Their tough pinnacles, Grand from there, The sky is the limit, An orchestra of greens and gold’s, Where stories of old terrains unfurl. Through Fantastic Gorge's gap, Waterways wander, Cutting murmurs in stone, An old book, Layers of time revealed, Uncovered, in each cleft, a story forced. Along the shores of Acadia, waves dance, Their cadenced tides, a mesmerizing daze, Where bluffs meet ocean in quiet veneration, A work of art of seaside polish. In the core of Yellowstone's wild hug, Fountains emit, A heavenly elegance, Painting the sky with warm tones, A scene that eternity follows. From the moving slopes of Tuscany, California. To the blazing sparkle of Arizona's Sahara, America's vistas, each a material interesting, Welcome the spirit to meander and dare. So let us wander these terrains untamed, Where magnificence and marvel stay unchained, In each vista, a brief look at the heavenly, In the immortal scenes of the American line. In the core of the tremendous American region lies a perpetual embroidered artwork of magnificence, Woven with strings of miracle and painted with shades that oppose the creative mind. From the transcending pinnacles of the Rough Mountains to the peaceful shores of the Incomparable Lakes, Every vista murmurs privileged insights of the land, Welcoming investigation and consideration. In the hug of the Smoky Mountains, Fog grips to the valleys like a sweetheart's hug, Relaxing the rough edges of old pinnacles. Daylight channels through the overhang, Dappling the backwoods floor with brilliant kisses, While the tunes of birds weave songs that reverberation through the trees. Across the fields of the Midwest, Fields stretch to the skyline like an interwoven unique blanket, Sewed along with columns of corn and soybeans. The sky curves above, A huge territory of blue that appears to extend on everlastingly, Hindered simply by an intermittent surging cloud. In the deserts of the Southwest, The scene moves and changes like sand in the breeze, Etched by the hands of time into undulating rises and transcending plateaus. Here, the sun sets the sky burning with tints of orange and pink, Creating long shaded areas that dance across the desert floor. Furthermore, in the urban communities that ascent from the earth like landmarks to human resourcefulness, The lights of 1,000 windows sparkle like stars against the night sky. High rises go after the sky, Their glass exteriors mirroring the steadily changing horizon in a sparkling mosaic of steel and glass. In any case, maybe the genuine excellence of America lies in its scenes, However in the variety of its kin and societies. From the clamoring roads of New York City to the drowsy towns of the Profound South, Each side of this tremendous nation recounts an account of strength, imagination, and trust. So let us meander these scenes, both regular and man-made, With hearts open to the miracles that encompass us. For in each view, from the most noteworthy top to the humblest city intersection, There is magnificence to be found for those with eyes to see and hearts to feel.
By Nameless writer7 days ago in Poets
Whispering Woods Challenge Winners
Congratulations to Morgan Christy Rickards for their winning Whispering Woods story, Guardian at the Gate. Morgan has been a Vocal creator since February 2021, and this is their first time placing in Challenge — well done, starting with a win! Guardian at the Gate draws evocatively from Welsh tales of the Cantre'r Gwaelod, a lost sunken kingdom between the forest and the sea. Heledd’s dangerous adventure pulls her towards the water but her spirit is anchored in the woods: Morgan’s writing is atmospheric and exciting.
By Vocal Curation Team5 days ago in Resources
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