bgsheaff

bgsheaff

Director. Playwright. The end of fear is where we begin.

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The proof was right there, in black and white. A single line on the statement made it clear that he had done it. The amount. The date. The description of the charge. She turned the page over, not believing it.

clay

The red dirt of the Earth stuck to her shoes. She grinned, more than pleased with herself for being here.

It's all this looking back, all this "how much has changed, what have we done, where are we going" that has left me, well... rather unsatisfied. And shouldn't it? Shouldn't it upend you and leave you out of sorts?

She inhaled into her pillow, the familiar smell almost knocking her into sleep immediately. She barely had time to plug in her phone before her weariness overtook her and she fell fast asleep. She awoke some hours later, unsure of what time it was, unsure of where she was at that.

Putting her feet on the bottom of the cart, she pushed off with one foot and sailed down the aisle. She laughed a little, making sure not to steer into the display of canned vegetables. She felt lighter.

She felt the pulse inside her chest, that kind of echo inside her own heart that drove her forward. Her eyes started to well, her face fighting gravity, trying not to crumple completely.

The snow was crisp and white, exactly how everyone always describes it. She was out of words to explain what it was like to look out on the vista she had seen just yesterday now cloaked in glimmering white. Majestic. Maybe.

brew

She listened to the kettle start to bubble and closed her eyes against the tears. What a weird reaction to tea. And yet it was so comforting, so lovely that she couldn't help but cry. She was so exhausted. This had to be a reaction to all of that. She wanted, more than anything, to sleep peacefully and wake up just as peacefully then next morning.

Her shoes made a satisfying squeak on the floor as she pivoted to shoot. Her arms went up in perfect form and her wrists flicked the ball into the net. Swoosh. Nothing but net. She sighed with relief. It never changed.

The zipper stuck and she struggled for a moment before giving up and slinging it on her back, open. She raced out the door, taking a second to lock it before sprinting down the sidewalk, one hand behind her to hold her processions in her backpack.

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writing since 2015 · 939 entries · 897 days shown up

each square is a day—lit means Bridget showed up.

26longest streak

897days written

3.9entries / week

on this day 11 years ago

Bridget wrote about braided
“She brushed her hair to the side and began twisting the strands familiarly. She watched him watch her through the mirror. It had been four years and he still watched her do this ritual with the same …”

the words Bridget reaches for

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