True Tales
Nonfiction narratives.
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“That’s not how my other patients describe the voices they hear,” he said, his voice steady and reassuring. “It’s much different. In fact, I have never heard it described the way you just did.” “That’s good to know,” I replied, nodding my head with one quick, chin drop. He was an extraordinary psychiatrist. Usually, they
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“Where emptiness meets eternity” is a line from my poem The Death of a Heart, from my first book. I don’t know where things I write come from. I am clairaudient and some sort of medium, so I hear (and see) spirits, (which I plan to blog about sometime) so I can’t say if it
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Sometimes trudging through my word doc files is a depressing state. Abandoned stories untold, the character’s corpses cluttering up the hard drive. I have been known to resurrect them, even years later. This usually happens after a visit to their perpetual state of limbo (their file) and I remember why I created them in the
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I sat on the edge of my pool, feet in the water, notebook on my lap, pen scratching in an attempt to write, yet my efforts were met by an invisible wall of profound stillness. After a few attempts, I put my pen aside. I took a deep breath and turned my focus to my
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I’ve been looking through my old word doc files and finding things I wrote, saved, and basically forgot about. The piece below: The Heart Remembers: Love and Past Lives is one from what I am now calling: The Forgotten Files. It was written several years ago. ***~~~*** The Heart Remembers: Love and Past Lives
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“Do you want Mum’s old books?” my father said, his eyebrows raised in question. His gray-blue eyes met mine. “They meant an awful lot to her.” “Sure Dad,” I replied, “I’ll take them.” I knew the books meant a lot to my mother, although, I wasn’t exactly sure why, other than the fact she loved
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Most who are on a spiritual path are familiar with the term shadow work. It is the act of shining the light of our consciousness on parts of ourself we have rejected and pushed into what is called the shadow. It is referred to as the shadow because it is unconscious; the parts of ourself
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Hushing the voices, a dark quill shattered. When I listed my books from last to first and realized their titles formed a complete sentence, I was stunned. It was not something I consciously planned, and yet there it was: a cathartic trio of books wrapped up in a sentence. It seemed more like a message
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On the days I’m feeling uninspired I look at things more closely. I listen more intently. I feel more deeply. Something will strike a cord in me, and it may only be a slight vibration, but if I allow it to grow, it will consume me. Through the lens of my camera everything seems more
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There was always something: some event, some comment, some form of self-doubt, that left me with conflicted feelings about my writing. Sometimes it was the pressure to publish from someone who had read my work. Sometimes it was my inability to believe anything I wrote was any good. Sometimes it was the comments I received
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Not long after midnight, I went outdoors. The night sky was filled with stars, the wind was brisk, and the wind chimes sang in the night air. I felt more peace in those moments than I had all day. There was nothing in the darkness that frightened me. There was nothing under that black, glittering
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There are no happy mediums, not for me. It’s feast or famine, full throttle or slow crawl—it is life in extremes, and it’s the nature of the bats. Bipolar Disorder, Manic Depressive, Mentally Ill—none of these labels evoke anything positive. Nevertheless, these are the labels in which I live under. I prefer far less psychiatric
SB LACROIX 