aspiringwritersanonymous

[aspiringwritersanonymous]

TW: Mental Health Issues; Depression

Something a little different today. They say write what you know and I know poor mental health very well. I have been suffering with OCD and anxiety for the best part of a decade and more recently depression. I know that things will get better and I'm working through it in therapy but sometimes these things are just shit. Not every day is perfect and today I was feeling a little low and writing about it felt cathartic to me. Please, if you are experiencing difficulties in your mental health seek out support, things do get better but it is a process; acknowledging the low points means that you can also experience the good ones.

...

I could lie here forever. Melt into the soft fabric of the sheets, my skin putrefying, rotting, liquefying until there is nothing left. Until the thick dough of my flesh has dwindled and my thoughts are gone. Until I am gone. I want to hide away. I want to sleep. For in dreams I am who I used to be and who I will never be again.

There is something beautiful in the decay. In the overwhelming sadness. A melancholy from which I fear I will never wake. It is a joy to be forlorn- or it would be if I could still feel joy like I used to. Now I don’t know where I end and the sadness begins. I know I ought to get up, peel myself away from my stupor but I can’t bring myself to.

It wasn’t always this way. There was light once, before the darkness began to sink in around the edges. I was the one who fought back the shadows that my friends were fighting; maybe it was losing myself that let in this disease. This rot.

It infected me slowly, twisting what once was pure; making my mind the demon I was fighting. It turned me inside out and against myself until I was a woman alone.

I am not myself any more. This disease has twisted my youth and left me a husk, it has wrung out the good and I am not sure who the monster is any more. Maybe it’s me. Maybe it was me all along. I look in the mirror and I see the sadness personified, the fear, the darkness which ate my soul now clings to my bones. I try to hide it, I smile but inside I am lost. My thoughts churning and writhing and falling and failing. And if I slip my executioner for a while, he returns with crueller torture, with stronger poison.

I have not yet let the darkness consume me completely, there is still a small blade of light for I hope this cannot continue forever. I know nothing is certain and that things can change but some days it is easier to just lie still, and give up and sink a little deeper. I yearn for brighter days and the knowledge that I know deep down. I am not this disease. I am worthwhile. I can change. For after all, even from rot, seeds can grow and a new flower can bloom, maybe a little different from before but alive still.

ET

[aspiringwritersanonymous]

The Queue

I cannot exactly remember when I joined the queue.

I don’t think I’ve been here long, maybe a minute or two. But my feet are beginning to hurt.

Maybe it’s been a little longer. I don’t know. I’ve had a long day… I think.

Yes, I did. That’s right. I’ve had a long day. Come to think of it I’m not actually sure what I did this morning but I’m certain I was busy.

I shift my weight from one foot to the other. I’m sweating a little. It’s hot; midday and midsummer. The person in front of me looks hot too. I see a bead of sweat running down his neck from under his white-brimmed hat. He looks important, a banker or something, and he’s carrying a large orange-red leather bag in his right hand. It looks heavy but I don’t think he’s set it down yet.

He’s very still.

The queue seems to stretch a long way ahead of him. The people there are still too.

I don’t want to stick out too much so I plant my feet firmly as I turn to look behind. I am no longer the last person in the queue. Two women and a man stand in each other’s shadows. They don’t say anything and I turn back. They had been still too.

…

It is time later when the queue moves forward. A couple of paces, then it stops again. How long has it been now? I’m not normally this patient but it will be worth the wait, I guess.

“Mmmh!”

There’s a noise, quiet but louder than the background of the street. It seems a long way off and is muffled.

“Mmmh!”

I hear it again.

I look around at the others in the queue. Maybe they heard it too- but no one moves.

Maybe it was in my head.

…

I am only aware of how much time has passed by the way the light has shifted. The sun is hanging lower in the sky, bathing half of me in a pallid shade. I feel cold now but it can’t be too much longer to the front. I will wait a while longer.

…

“Hello? Can you hear me?”

I’m startled. A woman with a shock of red hair is gripping my shoulders. My voice catches and she shakes me again.

“Can you hear me?”

“I- yes.”

The woman looks some way behind her but the middle-distance is hazy. She turns back.

“Do you remember your name?”

Do I remember my name? What kind of question is that? And what an odd thing to say.

“Of course I do it’s-“

I blank for a second.

“Heh- it’s. Um. It’s.”

It’s right on the tip of my tongue.

“I-“.

I can’t quite remember.

“How long have you been queueing?”

Ah well this I know.

“A while.”

“How long exactly?”

“Well, I its hard to say. A few hours maybe?”

I shift uncomfortably.

“But you couldn’t say exactly?” The woman presses.

“Well no, I-.”

“What are you queueing for, Alice?”

Alice?

A shiver runs through me. Like someone has walked over my grave. My blood runs cold. How does she know that. How does she- I.

I shake my head with a smile. Feeling passed.  

“What am I queueing for?”

I repeat the question politely.

“Yes, what are you queueing for?”

“What am I queuing for? “

My smile catches.

What am I queuing for?

Unexplainable panic is beginning to rise within me.

What am I queueing for?

I turn to look around, to see if other people are being questioned too. If other people see this woman. The lady behind me is expressionless, staring ahead. Eyes dry, almost dead.

I turn back. The red hair is too bright. There’s something about it that scares me. What am I queueing for? It’s right there. I know it. I definitely know it. I must be queueing for something I want right? Or something I need? It’ll come to me. Nothing’s coming to me. Oh god. I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know! I don’t know! “I don’t know!”

There’s shouting now. Who’s shouting? Am I shouting?

The woman’s fingertips pinch me. Pulling me back. She speaks clearly.

“Alice you have to get out of here. You have to leave this queue.”

There’s someone pulling her now. She grips me tighter. The calm façade beginning to slip; her face now panicked.

“Alice you have to run.”

“Run!” She shouts.

Run? I have to run? Why?

She is gone and I sigh.

But something in her voice has unnerved me.

Why did she call me Alice? Do I know her?

Why did her questions scare me so?

And then a greater question. “Why am I in this queue?”

…

“Is everything alright ma’am?”

A man in black has approached me. He seems authoritative and I feel…

Calmer.

“Yes I’m alright.”

“Sorry for the bother ma’am. We have removed that woman, don’t you worry.”

“I’m not worried.” I smile… but something’s not right.

Woman? What woman.

But the man has gone…

…

The sun is much higher now and my feet are numb. I don’t remember how but suddenly only the man in the hat is ahead of me. He’s still carrying his bag and we’re both still perspiring. I get the sense its been just him ahead for a while now. There is an air of anticipation. Time passes until he is ushered forward.

Now I am at the front of the queue. So I wait.

And I wait.

I am waiting.

So I wait.

And wait.

And wait

And wait

And wait

And wait

And wait

Now it is my turn.

[aspiringwritersanonymous]

The Beach

Prompt from NotherCaucasianGary in r/writing: A sad woman is walking on the beach. She has a handgun in her purse.

The Beach

A woman is walking along the beach. She has a handgun in her purse and in 20 minutes she will be dead.

She cuts a slim figure against the grey expanse of sea and sand; her clothes battered flush against the jutting bones of her hips. Her hair, a dark torrent, is blown high from the gaunt skin that clings to her temples, crowning her sleepless eyes which squint from purple rings. The woman’s pace is steady but her hands, which clutch the loaded purse, shake. One strong gust of wind and she too might blow away.

It is silent, the crash of wind and waves faded to white noise, save for the slow, metronomic crunch of sand against bare feet.

I see another figure at the end of the beach. It is a long way off. I know it is unarmed but I cannot make out the face.

It takes 18 minutes for the woman with the gun to reach it.

They too must hear the crunch of feet on sand close by, but they do not move. They do not move when the other woman stops behind them.  When the purse hits the ground with a soft thud. They do not run. Perhaps they know what is coming.

The handgun is exposed now. I see the light glint off it. A flash of silver against the grey.

I see the arm extend. The sweaty fingers on the trigger guard.

I see the left hand shake as it clicks the safety off. It joins the other on the gun, steadying hands and nerves.

I see the inhale of breath as fingers squeeze the trigger.

Then the other moves. Death comes speeding towards her and she turns to look it in the eyes.

The same eyes.

Her dark hair billows behind her as the bullet meets its target and for a second they are a perfect mirror of each other.

The moment holds for a second and I wonder what she sees in those dark ringed eyes.

Then the other falls, red bleeding into sand.

I turn away for a moment, and that’s when I see it. A woman is walking along the beach. She has a handgun in her purse.

20/04/2025 ET anon.

[aspiringwritersanonymous]

The diadem

I tried using the following prompt from Writer's Digest for a fun writing exercise and was immediately struck with the idea of writing from the POV of an artefact, particularly some wearable item. A quick google search and I found this item at the British Museum.

Despite where my writing lead me, I am not entirely against museums but there is much to be said in the debate on ownership, particularly of stolen artefacts, which has been articulated much better by far more people then me.

Anyway I hope you enjoy.

PROMPT- 9. Museum Artefacts. Take a look around a museum or recall your favorite pieces in a museum. Imagine what the past lives of these artifacts look like. Alternatively, you may imagine what the everyday objects in our lives might look like in a museum and what stories future generations will tell about them.

The Diadem:

My case smells of stale air and mothballs. It does little to drown out the sound of the small army of visitors that march through these halls. Day in, day out, the children shriek, playing peekaboo betwixt artefacts that are centuries old. They half listen as their parents or a dusty volunteer orate our historical context, pressing their faces up to the glass. Their attention may be caught for a second by the story of a vicious battle, or an unfortunate Queen, or six, but soon they clamour to move on. The adults are little better, eyes glazed at the sheer number of items or glued to a screen. Every once in a while, a scholar might visit me, or an artist preserve me in their etchings of charcoal, but they don’t stay long. Most just wander past.

If they read my label, they’d know that I used to adorn the head of a king.

I miss the smell of the peat the most. Smokey rooms and the crackle of fire. The warm silence as the women hushed their babies and the men sat to listen to my King talk. I was a thing of beauty then, my copper polished bright. An object of power.

I miss the silence too, of the earth as they buried me beside my King. The deep sleep of shared entombment and a job well done. I allowed myself to decay as my King did, over the centuries returning to dust. I did not expect to be thrust back, unceremoniously, into the sun.

They moved me from my resting place into a world changed. They reassembled me the best they could, but my days are long gone now, and I miss my master. I should not be here, far from the place where I was forged. I ache for the hills where my King still lies.

There is no dignity in this graveyard of broken things. So few who read our labels, who listen to our tales of things long past. No respect for that which came before them. We are empty things, stolen things, tired things. Our stories are done.

Let us sleep, let us return to the earth and the deep quiet. I miss my master and the  long dream where I still smell fires of peat.

18/4/2025

ET anon.

[aspiringwritersanonymous]

So I guess I'm on Tumblr now

Hello world,

Okay so for someone who is trying to write, I am actually struggling to think of what to say. I guess a bit about me. I am a writer, in my 20s, from the UK, currently studying to be a scientist. The anti-arts and humanities agenda really got to me what can I say. To date, I have one complete work, a one act musical, which I now kind of hate and many, many half-abandoned side projects.

I am good at beginnings but really struggle to finish anything- the fact that I finished writing and staged my show was genuinely a miracle. I guess I find it hard to write things that I haven't experienced, which tbh is a lot. So now I am turning to the internet to hold myself accountable to keep writing.

So this is the blog. I hope that eventually it will become something of a set of instalments of chapters as I write- a kind of modern day literary magazine if you will. But for now, I will be content to just write short, excerpts, poems or thoughts. I'd be grateful for any feedback.

This feels very stupid but practice makes perfect I guess.

I hope you enjoy my work.

ET anon.