This weeks HNT is inspired by a post I came across recently.

I spend most of my days infront of the computer, designing and creating and sometimes writing stories and such.

But …  it isn’t where I ‘write’.  I start off with a trusty pen and a piece of paper.

I have a drawer full of scribbled notes and musings.

It isn’t here at my desk, where my muse comes out to play.

I have a special place … there is something very cathartic about keeping it simple.

(clicky)

It is in the stillness of her arms I find solace.
Her web of blackness descends and it is here I can disappear into myself.
Insomnia whispers her lurid tunes and I write.
It is here Pan comes forth with his music and devours me whole.
I write.
Words dispose themselves on countless sheets of paper.
Emotions run like torrents of rain and pour from my fingertips.
It is here I find myself.
Alone.
My solitude, my medicine.
I write & create because without it cannot breathe.

Remittance Girl says …

Claudia D. Christian, writer of ‘deliciously miserable love stories’  is documenting where writers write.

Writers often spend hours perfecting their craft in solitude. When I came across the article “21 Designer Workspaces” I found myself wondering where other writers spend the majority of their time creating. So my call is for all writers, regardless of genre, to please submit a picture of where you write at cdc@claudiadchristian.com.

So if you write, and you have a space where you do it regularly, please invite her into your lair and let her see where your creativity takes form…

You and me.

We’ve seen each other at our worst and out best. We’ve cried tears of joy and sadness. We’ve picked each other up when we’re down.  We’ve buried friends. We’ve given life. We know each other inside and out and we see each other through new eyes.

Today you made me proud of you.

Today you decided to face the demons that have haunted you for years. Today you opened up. Through the tears we discovered something. You have more strength than you’ve ever given yourself credit for.

Today you thanked me. You apologised for taking me on that ride with you. No need. That what friends do. They are there when the rest of the world walks out. It goes both ways my dear. You are one of my pack. You always will be. My own chosen family.

You helped me when I was down. You held me when I was racked with sorrow. When I’d lost myself you were there. You watched me build myself up and all the way you were by my side. Now it’s my turn to return the favour.

You were a victim of abuse. I’ve sat back and seen the scars he left you. The beatings, the injuries, the loss of friends and family. The internal scars he’s left behind. Your fear of being alone in the dark at night. Turning your house into fort knox. Always living in fear. Me worrying that one day you would end up dead. I’ve seen the fear you lived with. I’ve seen your heart breaking. But it’s time not to be a victim anymore. Eight years have past since you finally got free but the scars remain. Too painful you hide from it and pretending it never existed.

No more hiding away from the past. Together we are going to burn those demons and I will be walking beside you every step of the way.

Today you made me proud of you.

Today you made my heart sing.

Time to heal those scars my friend.

I am here, always.

… till uni starts.

I just popped over to the website to check my classes again and fuck me. It’s changed. Now I have four full days of classes.

Two mornings start at 8am. Mondays and Thursdays. Aaaak.

The little dude is going to have an adjustment phase.

And I shall stress as I do.

But thank fuck, right now according to my timetable Fridays are free.

Well no needing to be at uni but I’ll have a fuckload more stuff to deal with as well. Like design work and house wench shit. All crammed into one day of the week.

Lucky I’m an insomniac huh?

If my posts become a little erratic over the next month it’s because I’m adjusting to being a workaholic.

I’m about to jump down the rabbit hole …

“Imagine”, he said. Tracing my naked skin with his finger. I could see the far away look in his eyes.

“Imagine a house adorned with human furniture. Silent yet functional assets to the home. I think I might have to explore this a little more”, he mused out loud.

He placed his glass on the now frozen arch of my back. The glass cool on my skin. I could feel the droplets of water that had run down the side of the glass pooling into a puddle that was about to slide  down my side. I wanted to wiggle but I dared not. He picked his glass up after a few minutes and replaced it with his shoes. Switched the television on and proceeded to watch the game. There was something about being a piece of furniture available for his use that made my cunt wet.

“Good girl”, he smiled.

Maybe he’d use his foot stool for something else later on…

Human Furniture ~ David Blazquez