CATHARSIS: a collection of short-short fiction

By Charles Reynolds

Starting with a stressful period in the author's life, he found that writing through the emotions helped him deal with, let go of and generally deal with these stresses. Death, divorce, financial woes . . . all can contribute to emotional pressures. Some paint, some play music. Here is the author's accumulation of words letting off the steam of life's pressures.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Charles Reynolds
• Release date: Nov 11, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465857743

Charles Reynolds

Charles B Reynolds is a freelance writer with over 34 years experience writing. "Behind the Wheel" is his first book of published poetry. "CATHARSIS" is his second eBook, a collection of short-short fiction. His non-fiction book, "Thinking Ou Loud: The Book" is now published.

Book preview

INTRODUCTION

A catharsis is defined as the purging of emotions or relieving of emotional tensions, especially through art, such as tragedy or music. I guess this also means through writing. And this is how I find myself dealing with tragic events in my life. I write. I write about them, I write to subside them or subvert their power. I write to explore them. I just generally write.

And so, I found myself in the summer (or was it autumn by then?) of 1997, in the midst of emotional crisis. Divorce. Never an easy thing for anyone concerned.

I must express right here and now, that the stories written here were started during my first divorce, but were not done solely during that time. The process of cathartic writing is one that I have used time and again – during other times of emotional stress during bad relationships, my mom's passing, then my dad's and then my oldest sister's. There are many times throughout one's life that the stress of emotions must be released, and I took advantage of the catharsis involved in writing to do so.

Just so you understand that these tales were sometimes fictional, sometimes artistic allusions of real emotions if not real life, and are not literal depictions.

And it was the cathartic writing I credit with being able to get through, get on and get over the whole emotional plane crashes of divorce, death, joblessness, et al.

So, herein, I present the result of many, many . . . way too many, hours spent writing to release the emotions and the emotional tensions of life. Some of what follows is sad, sometimes painfully so. Some of it is funny, sexy and just generally a varied collage of emotional colors.

I hope you enjoy them as much as I enjoyed writing and re-reading them.

Charles

We All Go Round In Circles

You fall in love. Its the first time. She dumps you for some other guy. No problem, that's the way teenagers work. And it wasn't really love, you say to yourself, was it? It was a teenager thing. You grow.

Later, you meet someone new, and this is it. Its love. Only to find out she just likes you and is not into commitment yet. Still no problem. That's the way it works. And it was just a soft kind of love. Not the lasting kind. You learn.

Several more times, you think the old love thing has happened, but mostly its just about sex. That's okay, too. Because now you've gotten all that out of your system.

You've been bitten numerous times by this love thing so you cool your jets.

Then BAM!. Its the real thing. The kind you feel way down deep in your soul. The lasting kind. You commit to it. You'll do anything for it. You grow, it grows. Love is so great.

Then BAM! One day, after ten years, its I want a divorce, can't be married to you anymore, I still love you but we aren't compatible anymore. And its another guy, too.

Man, love stinks. But its still stuck in your mind. You still have the love inside. That's what stinks about it. She's gone off, gone on and you still have all this love. Yep, love stinks. And I'm through with it. No more.

Excuse me, did you just see the way that young lady smiled at me?

Wrapped In Lies

He sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the floor. An idle thought told him he really should clean up the clothes and put them in the laundry. Then, just as suddenly, the tears flowed.

He didn't know what to believe anymore.

Eight months ago, she told him she didn't love him anymore. She said one morning she got up and loved him, by the end of the day she didn't. Now, as he was about to accept this truth, a truth hard fought over in his mind, she tells him she still loved him up until last weekend.

He thought back over the roller-coaster which had been his life for eight long months. She said David had not stayed over night. But he knew this was a lie because he saw David's car parked in front of the house at 2am. She said he was moving in, then said he wasn't, and THEN said she only told him that to hurt him. All this from a woman who had promised to be married to him for the rest of her life. From a woman who said she didn't believe in divorce; who said any problem could be worked out. Who said she loved him.

As he stared at the floor, he wondered how he could have loved a woman who was so wrapped up in lies, all her life, that even she probably didn't know one from the other. But love her he did.

He shook his head and began to pick up the dirty laundry. He wondered what the rest of his life would hold for him. Knowing she was truly gone forever, even if she came back to him tomorrow.

Water's Edge

She stood on the beach, her bare toes absently digging into the sand. She wore loose jogging pants and a sweatshirt. The wind picked up the tip of her straw hat, long brownish hair swayed at her back. I longed to touch it, stroke it. As she stared out onto the bay waters,. I could only guess at what she must be thinking. But I just stood there, where the grass and the sand met in gentle harmony, watching her watch the seas.

Memories of nights walking along this beach came to me. I could almost feel her hand in mine, smell her scent above the brine in the air. Almost hear her sigh. Other memories grazed over these. Flashes of the passion that had warmed the house up the road on the could Massachusetts evenings. Again, I could nearly feel her flesh pressed against mine, feel her hands and breath explore me as I explored her.

As I watched, she turned and looked up at me. A sadness flowed across her features. Then she moved away, back towards the home we'd once shared. The cottage where love flourished.

But no more. Now it was as cold as the December ocean breeze. She'd decided, I'd realized. She no longer desired me, though my passion for her still burned brightly.

I stood alone, until she was gone. I wondered, remembering her standing there, baggy clothes and all, how she could still excite me while killing me inside.

Washed Away

The tears streak down my