Addicted

She became a habit that was hard to shake. A thought that became clearer and clearer until he needed to have his fix every day. More and more. There was nothing he could do. He became addicted to her mind. He was addicted to the little oddities and eccentricities. It had to be her. Every day he needed a little piece of her. She was a habit that was hard to shake.

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It feels as if too many thoughts were wasted and faded into thin air. Time keeps running, and we try catching up. What if he was right? I am running out of breath to deny that none of this mattered. There is only one way out of this tattered dream. But I also feel the sunlight on my skin. Something is hiding deep down within.

Gentle.

Patient.

Lost. Found.

Love.

A long way from home

Fighting, struggling. It is a battle turning into an internal war. Everything hurts. The inside. The outside. It’s invisible. No one will know that he is choking on his thoughts. Restricted throat. Burning lungs. No air. He cannot wake up from the nightmare keeping him paralyzed every day. Silent screams. A smile for those who see. Too much to feel. Nothing to feel at all. It’s invisible. The outside. The inside. Everything hurts. And the war that used to be a battle turns into something bigger. Tired from struggling. A lost cause. Lost fight. A long way from home.

Silhouette

Silver thoughts reflect her silhouette
In the flickering light of the screen.
Lovers in the moonlight
Hidden beneath willow trees.
Old flames heating cold hearts
Unable to resist the pull and spark.
Everlasting fantasies seem real;
Too many romance novels read
Too many dreams were never met.
Everything she sees reminds her of her twin
flame’s silhouette.

A Life in Frames

A Life in Frames is my most accessible and versatile publication to date.

In this book, you can find many short stories as well as flash fiction and one or two poems. The stories are about life and death, love and joy, darkness and sadness. They are moments in the life of the characters who often stay nameless. For me, it showcases my writing abilities best because this collection is not prose and not lyric… It is an eclectic mix of both.

About the cover: as always with my books, I took the picture myself. It is a street lamp shot in the dark. Enhanced by a couple of filters.

About the title: A Life in Frames sounds a bit off or weird at first glance, but it makes sense. We like to take pictures of moments in our lives and put them in an album or hang them on our walls. These are moments like that, just in written form.

As most often, every piece of writing in A Life in Frames is fiction. But there are always little hints and pieces of me in every word I write.

If you are interested in a paperback copy of the book you should know this: I ship worldwide. The price is set at $18 (15€, £13) shipping and handling is included – no hidden or additional costs.

How can you go about purchasing a copy of this absolutely brilliant anthology? Well, there are a couple of ways:

  1. the Amazon is the easiest put least personal
  2. Use this very blog. There is a purchase button if you scroll all the way down on mobile or desktop version of WordPress. You will receive a signed copy with a handwritten note
  3. Send the money via Pay Pal to cathy@boom.lu, mention which book you want and verify that your name and address are correct.

Easy as cake, right?

What are you waiting for?

Remember! You matter; you are loved.

Cathy

Fly, Lady Butterfly!

Her bare-naked soul is burning in the remnants of the glowing ember that ceased to heat her midnight dreams. Rootless trees and wilted flowers taint her reflections in the mirror. Nothing is left of the woman she once was. It hurts to shed her outgrown skin; she fights and struggles and cries, but she does not give in. Battle scars adorn her abandoned and rejected body. Rushing brooks cleanse her overflowing mind. At long last, she is free from the oppressing shackles of the past. Open your eyes and see: it is time to become who you were always destined to be!

Take me home tonight

He intended to leave with grace, but he is unable to forget her face
The feel of her skin against his fingers, it is a memory that still lingers
He walks down the empty street; head bowed down in defeat
She is an explosion in his emotions, tears in neverending oceans
He wants to hold her one more time and see her light shine
And there she is, under a streetlight, illuminated by the night 
He remembers the smell of her hair, and strolls over there
Their eyes meet, and he wants to run. What if she is done?
But she is not; she holds out her hand as if there had never been an end
That slight touch makes everything right, and they walk off into the midnight.
Together, at last, he is glad that life without her is in the past.

Sunday Scribblings #69 late

You felt it, too, the moment when I needed you. But you were far away. And it was already too late. The hands of time were moving on, not waiting for us to come along. Too late. The sun awoke and went back to sleep; the moon played hide and seek. And we were too late. Too late to understand, too late to grab each other’s hand. You faded like a shooting star, like the last chord played on the guitar. And it was too late. Too late to bring you back to me, but I know, you see? I felt it, too, the moment when you missed me out of the blue.

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Every Wednesday, Aaron shares a prompt over on his blog. This week’s prompt was late. Make sure to take a look at his blog; he shares interesting stuff. I haven’t written for the Sunday Scribblings in a while, and the above was very impulsive and, indeed, late. I hope you still enjoy it. And now, visit Aaron in the confusing middle.

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