My Soul in the Locket

Why my stories are always dark

Image by Jacky on Morgefile

I came to a realization a few days ago. Few of my stories have happy endings. I searched through the files in my mind, and couldn’t seem to find a story with light-hearted dialogue or a promising conclusion.

I think it’s true, what they say, that your most promising work is completed by the banks of the River Styx, and your best poetry is woven while sitting beside the skeleton of Poe himself. It’s true, huh?

The locket was cold against my sweaty palm. Painted black with intricate curls and floral patterns, it was magnificent and dark. It was mine. I pictured my own heart to look about the same.

See, such darkness underneath my tapping fingers.

That boy that died back in 94 gave this locket to me. And, I am not going to let it go. Despite how much my writing reflects my blistered heart, I will not relent my reverie living in the past.

I will lounge on that loveseat in the old apartment for the remainder of my life, dreaming beneath his long prickly locks. My lungs will inhale the truth of the cannabis-filled air. I will never leave. He’s stuck, so I am stuck too. The end made a deal and a pact with how that would go, you know.

The locket shimmered in the light of my reading lamp. I closed my hand.

I felt the burning even though it wasn’t real. It screamed, the locket did. Opening my hand once more, I shuffled my hands around so I could open the little trinket.

Inside were two faded images. My own and the devil that changed me forever. His smile beamed through decades and transported me to that little waterfall, down the old back road, in a small southern town that didn’t even care anymore. Did anyone else live in his past with me?

Closing the locket, I laid it gently on my nightstand and started tapping the keys on my laptop once more.

You know, I realized the other day that I never write anything with a happy ending. I’ve cataloged all my work on a hard drive and even have so much of it within my head. It’s dark and it’s regretful soup. And it stings the heart of whoever reads it.

I really try, you know. I try to write about love and how goodness prevails. I think it’s my fault too. After years of trying to bring things back that probably don’t even want to return, I’ve gotten stuck in the mud.

And that blasted locket watches me, every night and every day. It begs me not to go on that trip because when I return, it will be too late.

It’s been 28 years

Oh yeah, flowers, beautiful blue skies, laughter, beauty, peace, tranquility

There’s your happy ending, love.

If you might consider my poetry, it tends to be quite dark as well.

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