Defeated, Jeremy choked out, “I can’t do this with you anymore. I don’t want to fight with you anymore.” Tears in his eyes, he stares at Amy.
“I’m pregnant,” Amy replies without emotion.
“I’m so done that your being pregnant changes nothing.”
“You’d leave your child! What kind of monster are you?”
“Monster, this is the third time you’ve claimed to be pregnant! I’m not leaving my child. I am leaving you.”
“You can’t leave me. I won’t let you! I won’t let you!” shrieking and screaming, Amy moves in, shaking both her fists in his face.
“I’m done.”
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More stories from Yvonne Glanville and writers in Fiction and other communities.
Dream Guide
Sleeping had become a problem for her. She kept waking up terrified at around 3 am never sure where she was. Night after night she'd spring from a deep sleep, feeling like her body was being sucked through an old-timey keyhole. Each time this happened she’d do a quick survey of the room her eyes scouring the walls, grasping to recognize anything in the blackness. Her eyes always adjusted slowly adding to the terror. She'd suddenly snap back into reality and she’d recognize her room. The walls were bare except for a dream catcher her father had received in the mail from an indigenous tribe out west as thanks for his donation. She thought it was supposed to stop the scary dreams. Each time this played out she felt that she’d been on some journey through space. She couldn’t figure out where she’d been or why she was so terrified but she knew she wasn’t getting a good night’s sleep and 5 o’clock was around the corner. She’d have a long day at a job that was becoming more difficult by the minute. Actually, the job itself wasn’t difficult it was the feeling that she wasn’t doing what she was supposed to be doing that was difficult. It paid the bills and she did the job well. She was respected by her colleagues and she had made friends at work but the nagging feeling that she was supposed to be doing something more or different played out regularly in her non-travel dreams.
By Yvonne Glanville4 years ago in Fiction
Part of Me
My love and I have been trapped inside of our respective houses like rats in a cage ever since the start of the pandemic. An ocean separates us, but distance is no challenge to our love. Text messaging, email- these things are so impersonal and cold. She and I are old souls both, and prefer the method of the old-fashioned letter. It takes longer, but the heart grows fonder with delayed gratification, to put a new spin on an old, tired phrase. I've certainly found it true in any case.
By Raistlin Allen2 days ago in Fiction
Foot Bindings
I asked my grandmother how she knew she'd fallen in love. I am not sure I ever did love him, she said. This was before I met my husband. I was naive, a naked spring, a raw nerve of a thing. That cannot ever be me, I knew. Sadness swept in gently like a Moscow thaw. It is no simple thing, looking into a woman's vast soul and seeing its foot bindings. Now, in Italy divorced with my skin singed off, when I say I don't love him mean: I have succeeded at feeling nothing most days and it mostly works. Do you want the comfort of Nothing? Do you want Nothing, too? Be warned: you'll never be free, even when you are nothing. Here is what doesn't work: Accepting the stages of grief. Talking about it. Sitting with the feeling. Missing him—no, the person you were when you believed in death do us part. Writing poetry. That, too. When I say I don't love him I mean: I feel capsized in an endless, starved tide. What sometimes works: selective memory. You must forget ripe tomatoes and his beard and feeling perfectly sheltered in a big blue world. Forget coffee in bed, laughter watching TV, blowing out the candles on the birthday cake and the quiet all-encompassing knowledge that you are chosen. Remember only how love turned to a banal everyday survival act, a trapeze act unsure whether he will catch you, how the warmth stagnated and became sour, remember the foot bindings and remember the resentment boiling in your veins as you stick it out for the kids. Six-hour Netflix binges help, too. A man's fingers tracing your spine. Frozen pizza at 2 a.m. Random trips to the museum just to stand near things that last a while. The realization that crying won’t change anything. Seeing that life is just a dream, and refusing to participate in your own suffering. Bite your fist. Walk on eggshells around joy. When I say I don't love him, I mean he didn’t break my heart, he just stopped touching it and it forgot how to beat right.
By Ella Bogdanova7 days ago in Poets
Comments (1)
Thanks so much!!!