"The Pen is Might[ier]"

Maybe if I post things that I've written before I might get more motivated to write something new...

Maybe.

Anyway, this is from about a year ago.  It's far from perfect, hardly edited, and actually liked by me. 

That is why concession became a word that was more and more meaningful to her: its presence in her consciously accepted subconscious became the lens thru which she interpreted everything around her. The boom of every laugh was slightly muted. The brightness of the setting sun was less menacing. The immobility that gripped her, that sunk its claws into her open eyes every morning, as she would lie motionless on her back in bed was all because she had conceded to the fact that he had not. The painful glimmer of hope that she had used to taunt her own better judgement fell from its perch fruitless--as all things artificial suck the life out that from which it originates, yielding nothing by means of compost and promise. Lying between her sheets every morning, she enacts her concession, watching her blind, stupid hope flit down through the air like a plastic shopping bag caught in the wind, watching it inevitably sink, yet still thrusts itself upwards at times in a last ditch effort to fly again.

"You should be a bird," she always thinks, watching her un-recyclable, transparent hope dance before her on its way down, aiming to entice her with its artificial beauty. "I wanted you to be a bird."

She finishes her illicit rendezvous with her hope every morning by punching her loving and sympathetic pillow.  They usually start out rapid and powerfully, the blow delivered by a fist clenched as tightly as the anatomy of the human hand allows. The punches were intended to create the most trauma and devastation to its target--a very pliable pillow personified as a very specific human face. As the satisfaction derived from what was imagined as the breaking of facial bones and eruption of blood vessels began to subside, so did the punching. That breaking point always occurred when she felt a tiny solitary tear escape; after the first tear, she quit with an added grace of pacifism and continued on with her day. She was determined to maintain some air of strength, convinced he didn't deserve more than just one of her tears each day. So on a particularly windy day in her imagination, she would spend a great deal of the time allotted to her morning routine aggressively slamming her fist into her pillow.