Every night, she read the same book.
It became her nightly escape; dancing into the world that she encountered on the crisp pages.
Until tragedy struck one stormy night.
Her dingy bedsit caught fire.
Everything was destroyed, except for a book of fairy tales that lay on the charred remains of the bed.
Pages scorched; it lay open as if it had just been read.
Except that, no body was ever found.
There is beauty in the broken,
and the old.
Memories of other lives;
They need their stories told.
Can you hear them?
They only speak to those who
What happens to a woman
between being born as
and spending the rest of her life
peeling away the layers of her body,
and eviscerating her soul
in order to be considered
Dear Fellow Writer,
Can you not see just how exquisite the story within you is?
It has been given to you because nobody else can tell it exactly the way that you can.
Every single experience you have been through, from the deep despair that nearly broke your spirit, to the rapturous that carried you to the brink of ecstasy, and all the mundane shades of every-day life in between; they have all left a memory within your cells.
Their very imprint remains on your skin.
Write about them.
Ignore the pain. Fight the hurt that threatens to strangle you in memories.
Give them life.
Somewhere, somebody is waiting to hear, no, needs to hear, the story within you.
Your story is calling to you.