Currently working on a new short story! Hoping to send it out to some competitions this spring!
She sat in the lukewarm water for going on the second hour, and kept her eyes closed, not wanting to accidentally catch her reflection in the mirror opposite. She used to fit in this tiny bathtub much more easily, but she had stopped paying attention to what she ate at least six months ago; maybe longer, she couldn’t be sure anymore. The bath salts had settled under her legs and bum, the bubbles long since popped, leaving a milky, white film on the surface of the water. That deep sense of aching, that had been permeating her stomach and chest for hours was still there, sinking her further down onto the white ceramic, until she felt absorbed by the cool material. She never knew where this sadness came from, but when it hit, it felt like being stuck in a room as you watch the walls slowly be consumed with fire, and you’re waiting for the inevitable explosion. The heat of the flames sounded good right now, she mused. Reaching the tap to add hot water to the tub would be simple, but she couldn’t muster the energy to rise up and reach out for it, so instead, she sank further, until her head dipped below the surface of the water, and she could taste the manufactured lavender scent against her tongue. She didn’t know how long she was going to stay under there.
Original Work: Kelsey H. 1.23.17
The following content belongs to me, the author. Opening scene from my short story, titled, Wild Horses
“She traced the freckles on his back with her fingertips. His eyelashes fluttered. She pressed her lips to his left shoulder blade. His lips puckered involuntarily. She felt the warmth of his skin, as the burning light poured into the quiet bedroom. Layla stood up from the comfort of their bed, wrapping the white sheet around her body. She loved his house. Mid-century modern in the Hollywood Hills, full of tall windows and endless natural light. It was Southern California. She loved the high quality white bedding, and framed replicas of work by Pollock, Kandinsky, and Rothko, which adorned the walls. Everything was modern, contemporary, and him. It was Alfie.
The bedside table was stacked with the stuff that made up his busy life. His notebook for his lyrics, a book of poetry by Cocteau he bought in Paris once upon a tour. His worn copy of South of the Border West of the Sun by Murakami; It was a gift from her. She picked it up in Manhattan at a book store in Soho, shortly after they met.”
Original Work: Kelsey H. Written in Autumn 2015, in Manchester, England.