Posted in Fiction, Uncategorized, Writing

Timed Write…Like a Mouse

She scribbled fiercely on the scrap of paper while the pounding on the door got louder and more insistent. Bang, bang, bang! She shivered clutching her sweater closer to her tiny frame.

“Come on, Izzy! I just want to talk! I promise I won’t hurt you.” The voice was all too familiar; slurred and stumbling, a half human half drunken snarl. All promises made by such a beast were lies. She had heard this story before. Promises were easy. As soon as she unlocked the door she knew he would be angry and red faced, and he would hurt her.

Her heart beat hard and fast in her chest causing little painful spasms. She found it hard to gulp down air. She was in panic mode, a survival tactic that would not help her now. She called forth the meditation she did in therapy after her parents’ divorce.

The counting to ten breathing. Her mother was also small and meek, and drank enough to become a fish. She drifted away on a magical boat away into the mists never to be seen again. There weren’t enough unicorns in her room to protect her from the were wolf outside the door. She knew her Dad would be back in the morning if she could only hold out that long.

Her handwriting was not the best but she wanted it legible. Her colored pencil broke with a loud snap. The pounding and pleading had stopped. She looked toward the door. This was too simple, too easy. She knew something was wrong. Quiet wasn’t always good. Sometimes quiet meant bad things were about to happen.

She held really still like a mouse. As still as she possibly could, frozen in time and place, light lavender sweater draped around a t shirt and jeans surrounded by friendly stuffed animal faces. Her eyes stayed focused on the door for a minute and then she breathed out.

The window burst into shards of glass forcing her to whirl around.  She left the note on the table, an all too brief note written in red. She ran to the door, tripped over her untied laces and crashed to the floor.

She felt his strong grip on her ankle and he pulled her toward him with a jerk. She reached out an arm toward the door, nails clawing into the wooden floorboards making an eerie screech and leaving tell tale marks. I was here, I existed. I cannot be erased. But I can be snuffed out like a candle flame she thought to herself quietly.

Posted in Fiction, Uncategorized, Writing

Writing Prompt — When It All Comes Crashing Down

Aimee looked out the large picturesque window of trees and vines and rolling hills of grass. It was pretty, it was seemingly solid. But, she knew it was all an illusion. She remembered a boy a long time ago that died jumping off the edge. How much she wanted to follow him even knowing she would not survive. Some days that was all she wanted to do. She was head of the council for the city and they all looked to her for guidance now.

She had no idea how great she had it being a carefree child running about the world without thinking of the future. That boy woke her up.  She recalled all the grown ups whispering in hushed voices. Certain people disappeared and no one would tell her why back then.

Now, she was an adult nearing forty and she knew things now she wish she didn’t. Her neighbor cities in the sky had started having little issues at first. Repairs were becoming more frequent now.

She clenched a paper in her hand, wrinkling it, twisting it. She could throw it in the garbage by the table of the conference room. She smoothed it on the table reluctantly. She straightened her suit jacket, adjusted her collar. Aimee breathed in deeply, letting the air out slowly.

People began to file in with their coffee cups and idle chatter. They took their seats carefully, pulling their small black chairs out and pushing them in. She watched them fill the room slowly.

“Mrs. Hailey, I believe we are all here now. You have the chair.” Ben Howard gestured toward her being the last to take his seat, the rest had their memo pads with stylus looking serious but unconcerned. The typical expression of the community.

The world’s problems were left down on the Earth. Their issues were usually simple ones, who would coach the girls volleyball team or who would replace the technician for the lawn maintenance machines. Aimee kept thinking back to that boy and his backpack. He thought he was saving her world but perhaps he was just putting off the inevitable.

“You are all here because I have been informed of a problem that has been occurring more and more often among our neighbor cities. I am sure you all know we do  not want general panic. So, what you share must be minimal.”

“I’ve heard some rumors. Some cities don’t respond to calls anymore. Maybe a technical issue with the screens?”

“Oh yeah, I haven’t reached Cerberus in days.

“Had that trouble with Nova City, too.”

” Yes, there have been a lot of problems. However, I just got word that it isn’t the screens failing. We have confirmation from a survivor. Someone with their own personal aircraft. The system that allows the flotation devices are failing.It has been failing for awhile.”

Everyone grew silent, looking around the room in quick glances and looking at phones and watches and screens.

“Don’t allow this to leave this room. We do not want panic. However, we need a plan. Our neighbors are all gone with their survivors back on Earth which is a wasteland. They need supplies and we do not know when or how much time we have left here. We are getting more isolated all the time and I am not sure how much supplies we will have left.”

“Mrs. Hailey, what is that paper about?” Rita Tollingford asked pointing at the crinkled paper.

Aimee took the paper again and crumpled it up putting it in the trash. “Nothing. I don’t want you to worry. We just need to prepare. We need to figure out what we can spare. And we need to make sure we have an evacuation plan that works.”

“Where are we going to go? What’s the nearest city?”

“There are no longer any cities nearby, the nearest one is New Bakersfield, and it is in the same condition we are in. We would have to head down to the Earth where the other survivors are.”

“How do we know any of this is real? What if it is some scam to get free supplies from us? The ground dwellers have done this sort of thing before.”

Aimee sighed. “Ben, not everything is a big lie. You are just going to have to trust me.”

“Like we trusted your parents? How many people disappeared? All over what some kid claimed? Some kid from down there no less. My father just gone one day because of some crayon scribbles in a backpack. And, now you are telling me some people down there need help, and that we are in danger. The information coming from earth dwellers can’t be trusted.” Ben got up abruptly walking out. Others watched him leave some reluctantly getting up others remained seated nervously tapping their stylus.

“I guess we are done here. I will try to convene another meeting later today on a plan.” She watched the others go. Some were unconcerned walking out the same way they walked in. Others were anxious.

Aimee looked back out the window. Picked up her glass of water and took a sip, setting it back down on the table. She felt the world tilt slightly. That has happened before and it always rights itself. It was fine, she thought to herself, watching the trees and the grass as a slight breeze started to sweep through.

Her water glass slid from the table and crashed into the wall sending shards of glass out violently. Her hand reached out for the table to grip something but the table also slid against the wall pinning her hand in place. She felt a surge of pain in her hand and felt the blood begin to ooze slowly. The bookcases tilted over next spilling discs and covers onto the floor in a cascade of paper and plastic. An alarm began to blare piercing into her brain as she sat with her hand shoved into the wall by the heavy table.

she knew this would be the end of her, but hoped that her family was aboard their ferry going to safety. Don’t wait for me, she cried out quietly, her voice dimming as the lights flickered and went out one at a time.

” Maybe I will see you again, my friend. Perhaps you knew more than I gave you credit for.” She said thinking of the boy who threw himself off the edge of the world.

Posted in Fiction, Uncategorized, Writing

The Need to Write and Upcoming Birthdays…

There are a lot of  May birthdays for writers. So, I am going to list who is coming up. And of course, there are always some authors whom I have not written down or miss because my brain is imperfect and fallible. But, the ones i have on my handy dandy list are Roger Zelazny May 13th, one of my all time favorite authors. He happens to share a birthday with Stephen R Donaldson who wrote epic fantasy. So, most likely will do a shared post there.

May 27th is the birthday of Harlan Ellison, science fiction writer who also could be quite humorous. May 18th is Fred Saberhagen, another great science fiction writer.

A big oversight for me was skipping Robert E. Howard, the author of Conan the Barbarian. His birthday was on January 22nd in 1906. Howard and Edgar Rice Burroughs both influenced science fiction and fantasy in their earlier days and would influence the authors that would follow them.

I might deal with him on Burroughs’s birthday because I equate them in style and time period to each other. So, that might be a good place to address Howard.  Much like Tolkien and Lewis, writers of a certain time affect each other and the future and sometimes it is better to comment on them in a joint post anyway.

Part 2–That Need to Write…

I got lucky with a day off in the middle of the week from my day job so I find myself with the desire and time to write. I need to write. If I stop for too long a period I feel like a part of me is missing.

It may be hard to understand to those that don’t write. Although people in the habit of journal-ling I would think could understand, or anyone with a routine that is part of their being. For some it might be running or exercising. For others maybe it is going to the same restaurant at the same time on a regular basis. Whatever is part of your routine, you just feel off sometimes when you aren’t participating in it.

For about a week I got the great feeling of doing what I love to do on a regular basis. Now I am back to work and trying to fit it in around the cracks. I have always had issues finding the balance between work and play, important and not important. But, now I have a sense of urgency in that I don’t want to lose this thread I am on.

I want to continue this writing streak even if it means scribbling on napkins in a spare moment or jotting down ideas in the middle of the night. It is part of who I am and how I see myself. Being a writer is more of a calling than a job. You don’t have to write to survive technically.  But I do get more irritable and agitated the longer I go without it.

It is like listening to the perfect song for the mood you are in. It is work you do for yourself like a good meditation. It is cathartic and soothing. It is like I am letting things out that I have kept trapped in a little cage.

I need to write. It is part of who I am. And, I know I will find a way to keep it going because it means a lot to me.

I appreciate all who come by this way or follow me on twitter or word press because it means so much to a writer to have an audience. It makes it all seem so much more important. It is like the difference between speaking in a mic to a roomful of people or singing in your shower all alone.

Both can be great. No one will judge you in the shower, but it is important if you want to improve to get actual feedback. And as  a writer I am constantly looking for ways to improve. Not just my writing but my health, my life, and how I deal with the realities of a complex world. So, thank you. Thank you so very much. Hugs to all.





Posted in Fiction, Life, Writing

Stream of Consciousness And Why I Sometimes Wish I was a Poet…

Been reading the news online and it is filled with the usual mayhem and death and destruction, and then I proceeded to stare at an empty screen for a bit thinking about how I should be writing and maybe I should figure out what I am going to write about.

Sometimes things come to me naturally, effortlessly. Just add coffee. Other times I need to coerce myself a little. I guess this is one of the latter situations as I am not really feeling it, but I find myself with the perfect opportunity to write. And I know I will regret not taking this opportunity later.

Then I thought about the term ‘Stream of Consciousness.’ It is a type of writing which I have read and I kinda like. Roger Zelazny uses it in his Chronicles of Amber, usually when his characters are changing their surroundings in some manner. It can be effective. It is perhaps the only way I can do anything poetic. It just doesn’t come naturally to me. I love words, and I love stringing them together in interesting ways. So, I should love poetry.

And, I love reading poetry. But, if I try to write a poem, it ends up either being sappy or depressing or amateurish. Or all three. Perhaps it is because it isn’t something I have worked on extensively. It isn’t something that I have sat and thought I could do. If you don’t believe you can do something, it is usually a self fulfilling prophecy where you will convince yourself to the point where— surprise, surprise, you can’t do it.

So, it might be a mind over matter type of thing. I don’t think of myself as a poet, therefore I am not one. But there is something to be said for finding a sentence that works and is visually compelling. I could probably go through my works and cherry pick sentences and phrases that sound cool to me and create a poem from them. Whether it could have a cohesive meaning I am not sure, but I could take the time to find a meaning and make it work.

Ultimately, if you think you can, you probably can. If you think you can’t, you probably can’t. The power of the mind and how you identify yourself, how you think or perceive yourself as a being matters.

My attempt at stream of consciousness:

New Year’s

Red flowers blooming brilliantly over night time skies

where the stars shine down like little paper lanterns

illuminating the fierce nocturnal eyes of a million raccoons

and cats and weasels and varmints as they scurry amidst bushes and trees

looking for tiny prey that is also scurrying looking for nuts and seeds to eat

so they can continue another day and another night

so that the cycle can start anew another day and another night

as the earth turns slowly in space rewinding time

like a loom of silver thread until one day there will be no more

and some other thread will start spinning

in some other faraway place will begin instead.

Posted in Fiction, Uncategorized, Writing

Que Sera Sera — What Will Be, Will Be, Or How Twisting Reality Can be Fun

Doris Day recently had a birthday, and of course that reminds me of one of my favorite happy songs. I love the tragic so much, it is nice to like a happy song once in a while since different moods are important to writing for me.

They can make or break a story. I listened to Muse for my last writing prompt, which was depressingly dreary. But, a few years ago I would have ended that story differently.

I wrote a short story that isn’t on here back then about a cool blonde in a cafe, calmly waiting for a bomb to explode. A terrorist without a conscious willing to die amidst chaos because she can, her reasons weren’t explained because she was a cool cold collected character. What made her this way? Hard to say. If I wanted to write a longer version I might delve into her more to see why someone would casually throw away her life and the lives of others.

This time I wanted to explore a would be terrorist that as a kid, would not be fully desensitized to people and could still be ‘saved’ in a sense from being part of the machine of senseless destruction.

I wanted to get into the thought processes and how one makes a decision like this that affects so many people, so many strangers really. We can assume a whole swathe of people is one way or like this or that. But, when we know individuals we realize this is a simplistic way of looking at the world and nothing about reality is simple.

People are not inherently bad or good, they are everything in between, and most people have a rationale for their actions. Whether this rationale is logical or not it is still that person’s rationale for their actions.

A lot of times this is based on personal experience and assumptions, sometimes it is based on information that is readily available via the media. The old adage that if it is on TV it must be true, or the newer version, If it is on the internet it must be true is part of this problem.

Either way, if any of my short stories sparks some thought somewhere, good. Then I have done my job as a writer. To illustrate and propagate ideas and hopefully thoughts that can awaken the minds of the sleepers out there.

Honestly though, I just enjoy getting into the minds of people that are far removed from me, it is like untapped characters are exciting and intriguing. I like to get out of my skin and into another. Same reason I love fantasy and Science-Fiction so much. I like to take normal on its head, and tilt it. I get a perverse pleasure out of skewing reality.

Maybe it is because that is a magical power of a sort. To be able to take something mundane, add in a dash of a little experience and somehow voila; it is something extraordinarily weird. That kernel of truth is still in there, way deep in the center of the acorn hoping the astute reader can get to it amidst the layers of shiny metal and fire breathing dragons.



Posted in Fiction, Uncategorized, Writing

Writing Prompt — One Possibility

*This is inspired by James Mascia’s Other Worlds: Writing Prompts for the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writer.


“It is so beautiful here, isn’t it?” Aimee swung her feet casually over the ledge back and forth enjoying the whooshing sound.

He held back, reluctant to look down. “Come on, there is nothing to be afraid of. Where you come from, is it so different?”

“Well, Aimee, I came from a dirt town, on the ground. We would be lucky if we had a tree tall enough to climb. This place is beautiful, and I am not used to it. That is a long way down. Wouldn’t your mother be scared to know you were sitting on the edge like that? I mean, shouldn’t we be heading back?”

“My mother isn’t worried. She knows I won’t fall.” Aimee smiled an innocent friendly smile. She had short blonde hair, freckles and green eyes that were large and luminous. Butterflies and birds flitted about and the majestic birch trees added to the picture of intense beauty.

They were on a very large platform way above the earth where the air was still pristine, where plants and animals could breathe and flourish. Not like the deserted barren place he had been living.

He won a lotto pass to live here. Every now and then the elite threw a bone to the lower classes allowing a fraction of them to ascend to the cloud cities. He was one of the lucky few. It was breathtaking but frightening.

And then there was the task left to him by his brothers. He looked away from Aimee. Her family was his foster family. He was staying with them, eating with them. Sharing little moments like this. Yet it was all a sham.

When it came time to have a position here, he would at best be the janitor while she would be a councilwoman or Professor or some other such profession where her hands wouldn’t need to get dirty. He was here for the grunt work, the work they didn’t want to do.

He was also older than Aimee. Older in years, older in experiences, older in all ways. He felt like he had lived a couple lifetimes all ready. Sometimes it was too much. What was expected of him by his family. What he wanted to do, versus what he had to do.

There were others here who were also planning, and they had contacted him not long after he arrived. He watched Aimee kick her legs a few more times, the birds chirping above them. It seemed like the garden of Eden, paradise on Earth. Only this garden could come crashing down all too easily. Maybe more Tower of Babel, Or Sodom? Not all here were as innocent as Aimee.

In fact, it was the fact that there were Aimee’s running around, laughing skipping, and jumping that gave him pause. His mission would be so much easier, so much  more fulfilling if somehow God could come down and save all the Aimee’s. All the innocent children could somehow be spared.

But that was  a fool’s dream. God doesn’t work that way anymore. Besides, these children would grow up to be monsters. Perhaps it is a kindness, he rationalized. Yes, better for them to leave the world pure of mind and heart. They will go straight to heaven like the angels they are.

They will not ever know suffering, starving, pain. They will not know what it is like to watch your baby brother be burned alive by bombs, or have a mom who is crippled by a landmine that wasn’t defused from some past conflict.

Or a sister who was raped repeatedly and eventually ended her own life in shame. A father who no longer spoke, having witnessed most of this. And, then like magic, his family perhaps because of all their sufferings gets the elusive and rare lotto pass. But why did he not feel lucky?

Sometimes he felt that some strings had been pulled; he was not put here by accident. He was here to serve a purpose. God himself may have willed it. But, there was definitely some mortal man’s hand on it. He could not believe his family would ever be so lucky. Luck had left them a long time ago.

“Aimee, lunch time!” He heard a voice call out. Aimee reluctantly got up, brushing the grass off her leggings. “Aimee!” The call came again with  a tinge of annoyance added. “I’m Coming! Sheesh!” She yelled back, shaking her head and rolling her eyes.

“You don’t know how lucky you are, Aimee. To have a mom that cares about you.”

“I am sure your Mom cares about you too. All mom’s care.”

“Oh, of course, my Mom loves me dearly. But, she needs to be taken care of, she cannot take care of me anymore.”

“Is she sick?”

“In a manner of speaking. She stepped on something that blew up her leg. So, now she is bedridden, and we take care of her.”

“I’m so sorry that happened to you. That must be awful. I will send some good thoughts her way, that maybe she can be healed and good as new.”

“That would be very kind of you.” Aimee gave him a strange look and ran in the direction of her mom’s voice. He watched her recede. He knew no one would be calling or waiting for him so he took his time taking the view in. He took a step toward the edge and looked down. He could see clouds, and sky and a receding base of metals and vines going into nothing, for eternity.

His heart started to beat fast, and he backed away. It was too much. Man should not reach out to heaven like this. There was something artificial and wrong about this. That his people should be starving and these people should have paradise. What did they do to deserve this?

They had a birth lottery, where they were born into paradise. Maybe it was time to even things out. But Aimee’s smile. She didn’t deserve this. Why was he chosen for this mission? He just wanted to be a kid himself and not have a care in the world, run after Aimee and have cheese sandwiches and juice and then be sent out to play once again.

That life appealed to him. It would be so simple. Just agree to everything, and then not do it. Just act like the kid he was supposed to be. Just play. Live and play. Forget the past, forget that others are still out there suffering. Just enjoy his lucky situation.

Would the others let him walk away? Probably not. They might tell on him. He was just a kid. Who would believe his word over an adult’s? He felt stuck. He had to follow his mission, but he didn’t want to. What was the right thing?

Aimee ran up to him out of breath, her blonde hair all over the place. “Aren’t you hungry? We got peaches and cream, and orange juice, and some grapes. Why didn’t you come? The food is for you too.”

“I’m sorry, Aimee. I’ll be a long in a few minutes, okay? I just have a lot to think about, and if you could tell your Mom to just save the food for later? You’re a good person, Aimee. A good friend, I hope you know that, and never forget that. You have helped me more than you will ever know. ” She looked at him confused, and ran back, shouting, “Okay.” on her way back to deliver the message.

He walked over to his backpack that had some crayons and a coloring book and some trail mix in it. He ripped out the last page out of the coloring book and took the black crayon and started to as carefully and simply as he could write out his brief story, and who were the conspirators in the plot to blow up the suspension system. He made sure and wrote names down so they would know.

It wasn’t our job to end life, that was God’s. And, he felt that Aimee had shown him the way to what he must do. He added at the bottom, ‘Please do not blame yourself, Aimee. You are the best, and you showed me the path. I will miss you. God Bless.’  He put it on top the coloring book where it would be seen and carefully zipped up the backpack.

He placed the backpack carefully where he knew she would see it when she came back. He walked up to the edge, and looked straight ahead, and calmly, walked off the edge of the world into the clouds. People would believe him now he knew. He would be with the angels because his conscious was clear.


Posted in Fiction, Writing

Writing Prompt– One Man’s Story

Inspired by James Mascia’s Other Worlds:Writing Prompts for the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writer, kindle edition.

The man opened the door, slowly sliding in and taking a seat seeing the line in front of him. The phones were ringing and could not be answered fast enough. Policemen hurried about and left leaving staff frantically answering phones and taking messages on those little post it notes and stationary, whatever happened to be close to their hand at that moment.

The man knew why this was happening. And he knew it was time to tell his story. There is no point in telling a story without an audience to react to it, so time would be limited. He needed an audience. This was his masterpiece and he wanted to be recognized for it before it was too late. His worn shoes and tattered coat misled people into thinking he was powerless. They were all wrong, so very wrong.

He watched the people edge closer to the counter one at a time, being told to take a seat and as soon as someone was available they would be seen to. He waited. People continued to stream in, in a worried frantic way, only to wait. Hurry up and wait folks. Time’s almost up.

The man looked at his cracked beaten watch and smiled. So close now. He took a deep breath in through his nose, almost tasting the fear, the sense of impending doom in the air. He could almost feel the vibration like a massive bomb going off, of all the anxious energy of all the people around him. To be in a police station when the end was nigh. That was how to be in the center of the storm. To feel the nuclear blast at its core. Would he survive this? Did it matter?

He started tapping his foot. He almost jumped out of his chair. He had been carrying a sign for so long warning people of the end times. People laughed at him, spit in his face, shoved him, but it was the laughing that hurt most. Now who is laughing, he thought.

He was a part of this chaos. He knew he started this cyclone spiraling down with his powerful mind. He would watch the world burn and it go down the toilet bowl. Would he get sucked in with it? Maybe? But it was so worth it. Just to hear all those jeers and taunts, the pity change thrown at his feet like he was a common beggar.

How dare they! He meant it as a serious warning but no one took heed. He smiled smugly to himself. His ex wife and estranged kids cut him out of their life long ago. He lost his house and property to the evil empire. He all ready lost everything that mattered including his pride and dignity.

This was his calling, his duty to warn mankind of the angels of destruction and the end of the world. But it was a onerous task, one which cost him everything. A man with nothing to lose is the most dangerous. He believed this. He knew this. He was that man.

Finally the lobby was filled with people muttering and sitting and some still standing defiantly, all demanding answers. He stood up and walked up to the counter pushing some people aside, others looked at him perplexed but still moved aside. His purpose was now. This would be his audience, his big moment.

“All these storms, these disasters. All this natural destruction that y’all are experiencing right now. It is the will of God. But it is also my vengeance. I was tasked by the angels to warn you all of this time that was a coming. But you all laughed at me, pitied me, shook your head and kept on a walking. Well, now is the time to pay the piper. Now it is the end times.

“And, I hope you all suffer as I have suffered. I hope everyone you loved leaves you high and dry. I hope government types come and take your house, and your car, and tell you what to do. I hope when you get so down and you can’t buy yourself food and clothes that when people laugh and chuckle and throw a penny or a nickel at your face that you think it is actually funny. I hope that you get dirty looks when you scrape enough change together to buy a pack of cigs or a single beer.

“I hope people judge you by how you smell, and what you look like. I hope you fall apart and when the voices do come, cause they will, I hope you listen real hard. I hope you all go in one big group and throw yourselves off the cliff like lemmings. I won’t do it. But I will be watching. And, maybe I will have a beer while I do.” And he spat on the ground, people looking at him like he was crazy. Nothing new there. They will see. They would all see. No one made a move to grab him, or hurt him.

They just all stared at him blankly like they didn’t understand English. Maybe he was still a big joke to them. He breathed in deeply one more time, focusing his mind on the final destruction, seeing it, believing it. Making it happen, now. He spread his arms out, people backed away still muttering. But he could no longer hear them.

” Please God, make me an instrument of your will. Please, end my suffering, and all the suffering of those around me. I cannot stand this evil world anymore. I tried to do your bidding, but it was hard. People are cruel. I do not know if they are ready for your love, yet. They are still full of arrogance, pride, jealousy, envy. Revenge. Yes, I am also full of revenge. I am also not worthy. But let me be the undoing. My fate is sealed, I know that now. I made my choices, I am ready to pay. Let it be now.”

A large rumble shook the room. People gripped the counter, and ducked down. Windows shattered, the personnel behind the counter took cover, trying to call out to no avail. Lines went down lights flickered and went out. People started to panic running in all kinds of directions. He simply watched, un-moving, a slight smile on his dirty face. It was just like he pictured it. Exactly. His mind was ridiculously powerful. The fear, the fear, it was intoxicating. They were scared, and he was not.

And then suddenly his eyes opened, and he was in a hospital bed, surrounded by faces he didn’t know. “What happened? Is this heaven?”

“No, this isn’t heaven. You were in an accident. A hit and run driver. These people found you and called 911. Do you remember what happened at all?” The doctor had a notepad and a pencil and wore a concerned expression on his face like a costume. A pretend to care face, he knew that look too well.

“Do you want the truth? Or what you want to hear? I was living my dream. And what a beautiful dream it was. I wish I had not woken up. I hate this world.”

“When was the last time you saw a doctor? Who is your next of kin?”

“Does it matter? I am like an egg carton, like one of those oily burger wrapper things that doesn’t make it into the trash. No one takes care of me, yet I stick around. No one wants me, but I’m still here.”

He saw the doctor scribble something down. He would guess Depression with a capital D. No one knew the truth, no one wanted to know. He closed his eyes again. Still not worthy to fulfill his destiny. He had to go back to warning people again. Someday he would be worthy to fulfill his purpose. Then they would all see. They would all tremble before him. The laughing would finally stop.





Posted in Fiction, Life, Writing

The Infamous Jennisfora strikes back at her allergies…and loses?

Been suffering from allergies or a cold or something for a few days now and I am all ready sick of it. Can’t seem to find anything that really works at getting rid of the symptoms which are not life threatening by any means.

They are just a hindrance. I am taking some time off but I have to catch up on some things and am also doing a fair amount of sleeping which seems to help me get over these things. Just grateful I can be writing and drinking coffee today. I’m over due for a post. I think I will follow this up with a writing prompt and then I may start working on one of my novels. Maybe both. For once I have time. Been working a lot so, I am going to try and not take time too much for granted. You only have so much of it, and when it is gone, it’s gone.