Love, Written in Words

I usually write rather dark things – that’s just how my mind works – but today, my thoughts seemed to drift somewhere different. Do you ever just sit there and sigh to yourself as you think of what ultimate perfection and happiness would be? Well, this is the beautiful way I’ve always envisioned ideal love. Yes, it is quite possibly too utopian to be true, and so what I’ve written probably happens to very few. It reminds me of what you see in movies: who knows if it’ll ever happen. In any case though, I’m sure something similar to what I’ve written is bound to have happened to at least one couple in the past and present… right?  Without further ado, here’s my random writing segment. How do you feel? Do you think a perfect love is like this, too? How would you portray it?  Enjoy!

“Your hand, Mademoiselle,” he said with a mischievous little bow.  Plastered on his face was the happiest smile she’d ever seen.  Her own face sparkled with a delight she had never known. 

With a playful, flirty smile back, she offered her delicate hand to him and gazed into his blue, blue eyes with her own brown ones.  Together, they twirled down into the flower-filled meadows in beautifully dizzying circles, radiating more rays than the sun itself. 

Her orange dress billowed out like a picnic pinwheel on a windy day, and his brunette hair shone like copper under the sun from its perch in the endless sky. 

As each held the other tight, they rolled into the colorful tulips and daffodils, tumbling in laughter, never letting the other’s eyes go.  When it began to rain soon after, they just sat there in the dewy meadow, hair soaked and skin glowing, mesmerized by their own beauty and the power of their clasped hands.  Each drank deeply from the other’s luminous eyes. When lightning and thunder began to sound above, it didn’t matter; neither noticed when they were so lucky as to have the real marvel before them.

The storm raged on all around them, but neither moved.

After all, they’d each found what they’d been looking for.


~ Ruth



Saving Just Ryan

Life can be a scary thing, and I think we all realize that. It’s complicated by all the disappointments, the hurt, the pain, … the list goes on. Inevitably, all this burden and pain changes people and makes them suddenly understand why some people smoke their lives away. Sometimes this manifests as mental illness, which is pretty much hell and the plague mixed together and drawn out. Below is a segment I wrote randomly (surprised?) because I guess it was all subconsciously on my mind.

“Tell me how it feels,” she said as she gazed into his deep brown eyes.

He paused for a moment, staring at his knuckles. “I don’t know how to describe it.”

“Well, tell me the best you can.” She put her slender, smooth hand on top of his gnarled one and gave it a little squeeze. Her eyebrows creased in concern and framed her green eyes, which were alight with a curiosity to know what his brown ones had seen. They wanted to explore his world and its colors—or maybe its lack thereof.

“It’s… It’s as if you’re dying, as if something on this hell of an earth is off but you don’t know what it is… It’s like, you know that there’s something out there, that this something is just whispering to you that you shouldn’t have been put here at all… it’s almost—“

“No.  Don’t say that,” she interjected sharply.  “I would die if you weren’t put here. You’re here for a reason.”

Silence from him. He picked at a scab through the largest hole in his tattered jeans, waiting for something to take him away from that lonely stair step.

Then, “You’re my reason, you know,” she whispered. And a single tear clung to her inner eye, trying its hardest to climb back up from whence it came. She didn’t bother to bring her polish-tipped nail up to her eyes and clear it away.

He said nothing but continued to stare at the wooden floor board before him.  His long eyelashes brushed downward with each slow, reluctant blink, and his faded gray hoodie rose up and down with each unnoticed breath he took. Without thinking, his fingers traced the crease of the first floor board back and forth, pushing little specks of dirt into mini piles at the adjacent boards’ boundaries.

She watched each motion but barely registered her surroundings. She was thinking, contemplating. Curious. She wanted to help.

“I’m sorry, Ryan, for interrupting… Go on, tell me more. I mean, please just go on.”

Not a word escaped his lips. His shoulders tensed up, and his tousled brown hair shaded his eyes from the light.

She continued: “…I want to know what it’s like, how it feels. I want to understand it all.”

He looked up at her and then quickly averted her gaze. His clear eyes, affixed to the stair banister, did not flicker as he adjusted himself in his position on the first stair step.

She could sense his discomfort, and she sensed that she wouldn’t be able to get another word out of him for today.

It’s time for a well-needed hug, she thought as she prepared to enclose him in her warm embrace, safe from the outside world.

But then: “It…” he started.

Stunned. “It what?”

“It feels like suicide.”


And she listened. And she heard.  With those words, she burst forward, her arms around him in milliseconds. In that instant, she knew that no amount of hugging, no number of pills, no god would be able to bring the old Ryan back.


~ Ruth


At the Mercy of Criminals

Do you ever hear the news and suddenly wish you didn’t have to live on this planet? Me too! I remember one time, when I was in about fourth grade, I saw this news story about a local rockstar’s entire family being murdered in their basement; maybe, subconsciously, this is where the idea for this prompt came to me. (Only mine is more sci-fi [?] I suppose – I guess that’s up to you to decide.) Anyways, I was on the airplane home when the idea for the story below occurred to me. Still, I had to jot things down! Before I knew it, the pilot announces “In 10 minutes, we’ll be on the ground.” Wow, time really does fly when you’re typing stories on your phone – pun not intended.

Let me know how you feel about the story: What do you think? How do you think it all ended?

“Please don’t do this, please, please…” she begged as her shoulders shook. Her sobs echoed throughout the desolate room and rippled with her torn black dress. 

“Oh, but darling, you look so beautiful with that painted face of yours all stressed out!” drawled Criminal as he traced the dripping black mascara all over her wildly red, swollen face. 

There was something purely unnerving about his voice. When he spoke with excitement, it was as if he were mustering the collective power of every muscle and nerve in his body to evoke emotion. It was as if he were laboring, trying far too hard, to sound like a soul, like a young boy trying desperately to behave during the five days before Christmas. But one earful later and you just knew there was no emotion whatsoever in his voice. Not a flicker of humanity. Zero.

The two little boys stood off to the side, enthralled by the scene before them. They looked on as this strange-looking man drew a line across his neck in the air in front of Mommy. Oh? An invisible line? How fascinating! One little boy, Aiden, sucked his thumb curiously and held onto his handmade taupe sandals, his blue eyes widening to take in all this great new learning experience. At his feet lay his younger brother, Owen, who was still learning to stand. Owen’s brunette curls bounced with each slight motion of his head. It was quite odd really, how both were so calm and content. And somehow, in spite of their many bumps and bruises and freshly scratched wounds, neither boy cried. Each bruise blended perfectly into the rest of the brown, splotchy basement.

As she continued groveling, Criminal went through the motions; everything was clear as day. 

And now, silence—save for the barely audible whimpers of the woman. Neither child gave any semblance of being alarmed as each looked on.

This time, utter silence. The dim lights flickered as if intentionally placed there for dramatic effect.

And then, breaking the silence: “Well, darling. It looks like I have to do this after all. Very unfortunate, I must say.”

Her livid eyes widened with a crazed kind of animal fear. “No, no, … please no, no… I beg you with all my heart and and all and all the bones in my body I will give you anything, anything, anything just let my sons – anything – and me, and.. I mean, just please let my sons and me, and me, and- P- p- p- p-…”

Her torn fingernails left red streaks on the ground in front of her as she continued clawing at him for mercy.

“Oh shut up darling, I only said it because I love to hear you beg and grovel. Anyways, we all know that I need you for one more thing before you go,” he hissed in her ear through smiling, white teeth.

Her crumpled form writhed but then slowly stilled itself with calm. Then, like a rushing river, crazed joy pulsed through her veins with astonishing speed; what had once been a nearly motionless shell was now frantically grabbing for his ankles and feet and shins to kiss them in rejoice, in bliss, in acknowledgment of another night to live. 

But he lied. As do many criminals.

Without another word or pause, Criminal’s hand arced gracefully over to the wicked-looking lever.

One small pull? But of course! They’d be right on their way, her and those adorable little bastards. Almost brings a tear to my eye.

A nice buzzing sound. Then, 1, 2, 3, pop! 

And they were all right back to where they belonged.

~ Ruth


Hey guys, I’m back again! This right here is just a little random snippet I found in my files on my laptop. There must be so many of these somewhere… I imagine that a great many of these segments I’ve written could be recycled and used in a grander work of mine, but for now, this is what I’ve penned.

And it was getting so late that she just looked him in the eyes, said the magic words, and knew that she couldn’t ever find what she was looking for. After all, that was right before her. It was putting on its coat and heading out again into the storm, leaving her alone once again.

This was feeling.

But fuck feeling, she thought. If there’s anything she’d ever wanted to have in life, it was to not feel. To turn around. To leave with no pain—to be so unbreakable that she no longer needed to know how to smile.

So ironically, as she stood there with an agonizing hot dampness growing along her cheeks and collarbones, a smile grew to her face.

“Pathetic,” she muttered. She was so human it hurt.


~ Ruth


Little Girl of Pink

I was so sick of studying for my math test, and before I knew it, I’d opened another Word document to type something random. Here’s the product of that; what are your thoughts on it?

The little girl just sat there sobbing in her pink overalls.

It was broken.

It was no longer, the little music box in her hands. The melody refused to come out of hiding and sing. The little ballerina on top refused to twirl and dance in front of the sharp shards of remaining mirror. The knob still turned, but nothing inside worked anymore.

She balled her fists up and braced her knees as she rocked back and forth. Her blond frizzy bangs swung along, executing their useless wrath against her soaking face.

Her soaking face…

If you had sat by her side on that leaf-covered autumn ground, you might’ve seen her red-streaked face, frozen in time, within the razor mirrors. And there, in the shards of mirror, you might have also seen the effects of her accidental poppy mascara—custom-made just for her. Scarlet swiped angrily, as it often did, back and forth on her face and lips. Her little fists and wrists were littered with gooey annoyance, pain, and devious sparkles. How peculiar it is, the sparkle of glinting mirror shards…

If you had sat by her side on that colorful concrete, you would’ve seen right away that it was broken.

Not the music box, not her skin, but her wonder.


~ Ruth

The Difference is that They Were Allowed to Dream…

A few days ago, I wrote this passage while doing homework for math/science courses.  I realized that its entire essence… kinda fit me.  Without further ado, you’ll find the random passage I wrote below; I was editing it when I first came up with the idea for this blog.

The difference is that they were allowed to dream, and I wasn’t.

Every time I found myself knocking hands with a stranger’s, scuffing my shoe along the burgundy carpet, catching my jacket on backpack zippers, I felt my fists clenching at my sides.

How dare they think that this was a given right, that they were put in this goddamned place to live out their wishes in bliss. It was torture to pick at my pencil eraser listlessly, chew on the pink nub, and stare with glassy fog at the projector screen of useless figures and digits.

No! You were placed here to force your way through. You were placed here to get rich. Weren’t you? Weren’t you… Sam?  Sam? 

“Sam? Are you paying attention, Sam? Eyes on the blackboard.”

Gravity pulled me down through the clouds again. All around me were laughing eyes, and stern eyes, and clueless eyes, like mine. I focused my foggy ones on the shoe of a fidgety kid nearby and then turned back to the board, determined to make it through the day without another word. It was back to the pencil chewing and glass staring and… torture.

Can we fall apart any faster?


~ Ruth

My First Writing Blog; Welcome!

Hm, my first writing blog. I like it. 

Writing right now is pretty much just a hobby for me, but I’d like to make something of it in the future. That and music are the two things I absolutely want to do something with in life, but… here I am, a math major. (College is a struggle, yo.)

And that is why this blog you stumbled upon is different – it’s my creative outlet, I’ll call it, or a space where you’ll see how my mind works a little. Maybe it’ll instill in you an urge to read more, or even write yourself. This blog is the place where I’ll be posting all the little writings I randomly compose when I’m between water sips while working on homework. It’s all the quotes that have made me interrupt my busy schedule to think deeper f0r a second. It’s loud poems; it’s treasured short stories; it’s thought-provoking song lyrics… The list goes on.

Maybe, just maybe, this blog will be more than enough for now.

Some of the writings I’ll share with you will require a great deal of courage on my part to place here. Yet I’m confident that these writings will present me as the person who I was in the moment that I first composed them.

Without further ado, Dear Reader, I hope you’ll join me in my appreciation of the power of the pen!


~ Ruth