Sylvia Lorraine
Bio
Writing inspired by heartbreak, healing, and hope.
Stories (9)
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Words, Just Words
There’s something provocatively intimate about exposing your hopes, thoughts, and darkest confessions. Spelled out in seemingly harmless black and white, words become more than just letters arranged in a systematic phonetic order. There, in cohesive and unifying fragments, words are given the voice that speaks their truth into existence. Those words then have the power to encourage, to heal, to entertain, to educate, to control, to hurt. Words, innocent as they may appear, are quite the contrary. I should know. I’m a survivor of words.
By Sylvia Lorraine about a year ago in Fiction
A Decade Spent in Silence . Content Warning.
Another mile passes, and with every word not said, the distance between us grows farther and farther. The steady hum of the motor drowns out the silence as we travel down familiar roads - same twists and turns, same potholes, same signs. The peace I used to find in repeating the same trip over and over again and in knowing all the warning signs and hazards ahead now seems like the world is closing in on me. This is an endless journey to nowhere. There will be no marvelous sights to see, no unexpected grand adventure, no momentous landmarks along the way. Instead, worn out wheels roll comfortably forward in the same direction as before. My eyes numbly follow the mile markers, and I catch a glimpse of my discarded heart, littered on the side of the road.
By Sylvia Lorraine about a year ago in Fiction
Love on a Chain. Content Warning.
Do you know what it’s like to be ignored? I’m not talking like trying to flag down a busy bartender when you clearly have had too much to drink and should probably be shut off. I mean intentionally, maliciously ignored. When your existence is only valid when it’s fulfilling a need for someone else. I’ve spent most of my marriage waiting for affection, for attention, for acceptance. I am the forgotten dog that is chained to a weathered dog box in the backyard. I spend my days tethered to my own thoughts - quiet, small, and invisible. I have been reduced to waiting for scraps to be thrown my way or my bowl to be filled. Occasionally I get the luxury of being freed from my prison, but it’s only when I can be of use - like a dog putting up gamebirds for his shotgun toting master or providing some company when he is feeling lonely. Those small glimmers break up the monotony and silence that fill most of my days, but when my purpose has been served, it’s back to my forgotten enclosure I go.
By Sylvia Lorraine about a year ago in Fiction
Day Dreams and Caffeine . Content Warning.
“My imagination has saved my life,” she said, watching her spoon wistfully dance in her coffee mug. Why people torture themselves drinking coffee black was beyond her. Life was bitter enough as it was, the least she could do was start her day with the pleasures of sweet cream.
By Sylvia Lorraine about a year ago in Confessions
Whiskey and Wisdom. Content Warning.
“A flower can only bloom when it is planted in a stable environment and given what it needs to thrive. Otherwise, it shrivels up amongst the weeds, a withered ghost of what could have been. So without your soul and heart ever being properly tended to, you just become one of the thorns. Sharp to the touch and always ready to defend.”
By Sylvia Lorraine about a year ago in Humans
