Revisiting old novel ideas, and of course, I can only write about love and sex. My creative life is such a stereotypical feminine nightmare.

On a less stereotypical note, here’s some ambiance music for the short read!


When Lorna thought about love, she thought about sex.
When she thought about sex, she thought about James.
When she thought about James, she thought about pain.
And, of course, when she thought about pain, she thought about love.

That’s what love was. Sex and Pain.

Or at least, that’s what love was to her.

When Lorna was 12 years old she fell in love for the first time.  He was from another school, he was two years older, and he had hands that explored every inch of her body. They went steady for 6 months, which, if you remember being 12 and ‘going steady’, 6 months is a lifetime. They were attached at the hip, they spent half a year growing up together, both physically and sexually.

Then, one particularly humid day in July she caught him fingering one of her girlfriends, a girlfriend so close to her that she called her parents ‘ma and pa’. She was devastated. She was hurt, she felt pain, real pain, for the first time.

Lorna knew, however, that to many people love wasn’t pain at all.

Love was bliss, love was a comfort, and love was, above all, a tradition. Those who felt that way led lives Lorna used to always wish she did. The picket fence, the startup family, the happily ever after…but that wasn’t what love was.

Love was hard.
Love was trying.
Love was so damn intense that you would rather hold your breath until you saw spots and faded out if you couldn’t be with your other half.
Love. Was. Pain.

She knew that to James, though, love was much more simple than that.

-D.R Breshears


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