Latest Fiction Post

  • Rock Bottom September 11, 2018

    Droplets of water clung to the window screen, suspended in a row like mini planets. The rumbling of thunder from the retreating storm was faint, more of an echo. Outside, yellow police tape marked off the edge of the trees. I couldn’t see her body from my bedroom, but less than a yard away were the tread marks from the gurney. The police found her too late. Hell, maybe the Amber Alert was too late.

    Cause of death: Suicide. Not self-induced asphyxiation. Too personal. Don’t want to give other teenagers ideas. But I saw the police carry the rope to the car. It was yellow, the kind you’d use to hang a kid’s swing. It looked ordinary.

    We’d graduated high school together only a month ago, survived teenage torment. I hadn’t lived it yet, but somehow real life seemed worse. No safety nets, only rock bottom. We were baby birds jumping out of the nest praying to God we wouldn’t fall. Not hard to imagine how someone would crack under the pressure. If we all die, why endure the struggle?

    ***

    I asked my parents for black-out blinds. I stopped looking out the window, avoided all windows actually. Each day I passed the police tape. The investigation closed quickly. The tape had been abandoned, forgotten. Maybe they left it up as a deterrent, so kids wouldn’t go in the woods. Maybe no one wanted to remove it.

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Latest Poetry Post

  • Hair Loss November 15, 2018

    Dark brown clumps of hair paint the shower walls.

    They slide down

    to clog the drain.

    Stress. Stress can do this.

    But so can disease and genes.

    Stress. I stress too much.

    Maybe it’s all in my head, each hair clinging

    to my skin, snaking around my arms and legs.

    I ignore it.

     

    More hair wraps around my fingers as I slip conditioner through the tangles.

    This is real.

    I swap out my shampoo.

    I take up yoga.

     

    My friends notice.

    They stop telling me that it’s stress.

    Scalp peeks through no matter where I flip the part,

    no matter how carefully I pull the strands back.

    I see the doctor,

    receive a diagnosis,

    pop pills.

     

    Strands keep falling from the follicle;

    they break in half.

    I count each individual hair,

    measure the circumference of my ponytail,

    measure my worth.

     

    Type “bald” into Google.

    Find men or cancer.

    Type “beauty” into Google.

    Find hair.

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About

WedbushWrite is the official website of Sydney Wedbush the fantasy and speculative fiction author. Here you will find her fiction and poetry posts as well as updates on her writing projects and articles from her study abroad in London. Learn more about her on the About page.