Category Archives: Writing

The Bus Against the Creek

The school bus slept at the bank of the creek. Blotches of brown crusted its face and a toupee of twigs and feathers made a silly hideous man that welcomed Ashley and I.

The smell is what I remembered most: old rotting plastic leather and stale water. We didn’t mind the mosquito bites; we tolerated it, more so than the bruises if we weren’t in our rusted home. But the smoke of our cigarettes helped keep the insects at bay. We made sure to take the packs that were nearly empty. Makes any search for it useless. So we smoked until we were finished.

Ashley’s blue hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and my red draped over the left side of my face. “There’s fire and Ice,” they would say, “they’re trying too hard,” they whispered. There were other words that floated around, words that hurt, words that drove our constant emotions. I was fire for my hatred, and she was ice to bay her sadness. That was our meaning, but of course, no one bothered to ask. Maybe one day.

The lonesome bus against the creek knew how we felt. Just to be stuck here, in this small fucking town, falling apart into the earth, I get you dear Bus.

Everything was far away, and when I would grab the torn and peeling steering wheel, I swore I felt the tremors of an engine. I pull the shifting lever and pushed the accelerator; we floated down the creek, into the ocean, toward New Zealand, and walked the Mordor trail. We lived in my hobbit hole and her smiling, and the smell of warm food. Maybe one day.

But dreams die and are reborn constantly. I dreamed of Ashley the night before. That she laughed with a beautiful smile. And I would kiss her. Over and over, this dream came and went. She knew how we felt, but the blue overcame her. I wish I could’ve told her. I wish that she knew how much I loved her.

It rained. A strong storm that came, Katrina, a vengeful woman’s name, and Ashley called me, crying about her parents. She wanted to dream of the driving again, with me beside her. She wanted me there.

It hurt me so much that I couldn’t be there. Ashley had moved the bus, just as we once dreamed, and the creek took her away. I wept alone on the other side of yellow tape with my boots stuck in the creek’s bed. I hope to meet her in New Zealand one day. Maybe one day.

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Dying Dreamers

Do you remember when we were kids:
When we jumped into small streams, welcoming the pull of an ocean’s current;
When we stood atop hills, planting our flag on Everest;
When we sat on skateboards, drifting across the line of the Grand Prix?

We were giants, and the Earth was ours.

I remembered:
I told stories.
I keep telling stories,
I still tell stories so I may feel
the water
the air
the wind
every day.

And the moment I hold my breath,
they come and dissipate
leaving their dying breaths, fading memories.

and my heart breaks.

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Cold Dead Lips; and Untitled

My sister was tasked in school to write a short story in 55 words or less. So, naturally, I took on the task for fun. This is what I came up with on the spot.

My dad loves dead lips. He paints them dead lips in his office but Momma’s already got painted lips. His assistant Sarah, loves dead lips too. She paints in red and green. With her Cold kiss hello on my head, smiling a Dead smile, I remember through a keyhole, my dad loving Cold Dead Lips.

***

We fucked on stairs. Who would’ve thought that Ascension could create Life?  But an angry cry, a frustrated love, and a misstep; who would’ve thought Descent could take away?

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A Photobooth Reprise

“Let’s look at each other. Spend time. Pretend we mean something.”

*Flash*

“There are others waiting for a photo.”

*Flash*

“But right now, it’s just us…

*Flash*

Maybe if we stay, they’ll forget about their turn.”

*Flash*

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A Canvas of Fire.

I had a dream where I loved setting fire to my house’s curtains. The black ashes break away, filling the air with tiny black angels; they take pride and enjoyment in filling and smothering my nostrils. Feeling pain was a pleasure.

And I would wake up. My hovering blank ceiling never fulfilled any childish fantasies of deep-space voyages, or a themed bedroom representing career aspirations.  I was a blank canvas. My father behind a newspaper, my mother being swallowed by the cooking steam; none was there to provide me the paintbrush.  And so, without contents/context/substance, I stared into the kitchen where both parents remain in the hums of the solitude house.

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Intro to A Memoir

When the Existentialist Exists.

I pause in front of mirrors; viewing jars holding me. Please, let me just have this one.

This existentialist is a questioner and a hopeless dreamer. He often ponders on the existence of the past and future. So when given the task of recording all that had formed his person, his black ink bleeds on paper like a dying sun. Does he use eloquent calligraphy to start at emergence from the womb? Or does he begin with blunt, print handwriting at the end?

The only memories that arrive to him are the loves that had shaped him, and the experiences that had followed behind: the growth, the decay; the birth, and the death. He could write about his birth, his growth from Spanish Harlem, to living in a strong fruitful community; but those moments in time have faded; blurs amidst the foggy memories that had occurred before his true prints. The prints, the loves that had made him him, will always leave their mark. All perceived positive qualities derive from such experiences, and the remainder of his memories serve as mere building blocks; but as an existentialist, he questions its existence.

Continue reading

Talking Dog Task.

Writer’s Digest assigned a public task to write a short story with a certain storyline. Hope you enjoy my rendition :D.

TASK:

Your kids have spent years asking you to get them a dog. You finally break down and get one, only to discover that this dog talks—but only to you. More interestingly, the dog loves to gossip about your kids and their lives. Write a scene where your dog rats out one of your kids for doing something they shouldn’t.

Post your response (500 words or fewer) in the comments below. (I accidentally went over by 82)

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TALKING DOG

“Hey Tom, hey Tommy! Tommy Tommy! Hey!” repeated Buck.
“Shut up Buck, please for God’s sake, just shut up for once! Just be a normal dog and just, just, sit there!” I yelled.

I then resumed watching the television and once I glanced over to Buck his ears droop down and stares at me with large wide eyes. He wants me to love him again, to pet him and not be angry with him anymore. I submit and proceeded to rub his head in which he thoroughly enjoyed.

“Oh yes, yes! Love me! Wait, wait, rub me under my chin, do it please! Oh man, yes. Oh I love it!” Buck exclaimed.

This has always been disturbing to me, so I always try to ignore his, uhm, his enjoyment.

“Oh man, this is so great, so much better than Jake! Oh ye- What, wait, why’d you stop?”
“Who’s Jake, Buck?” I commanded.
“Oh Jake, oh yes, Jake is Chrissy’s friend who comes over around uhm, I don’t know, before you come home almost every day! He’s nice, I like him a lot. He rubs my belly each time I bark when he comes over. I guess I should stop barking since I know him now, but it’s almost like a game! Oh I love games. We should play that game Tommy!”

My eyes are wide and my heart started to race with thoughts. My parental instincts start to kick in.

“No I will not. Chrissy. MY Chrissy, Buck, is only 15 years old. Why is there a boy coming over every day? Why Buck? What do they do?”
“Oh I don’t know, she usually kicks me out of the room after a while. She usually just laughs and howls, but I thought that was silly, no one was blowing my whistle. For her to howl is silly, I don’t know, maybe it was a project in school about dogs! Ha ha, that’s just silly. He also howls a little bit, but it was more li-”
“Shut up Buck!” I shouted.

My rage is becoming out of hand and Chrissy isn’t home right now. Perhaps confronting her would make her assume I’m skipping work and watching her like some paranoid father. No I can’t let a young teenager lose trust in her father. I know what to do.

“Hey Buck. Do me a favor buddy. Next time Jake comes over, I want you to bite him as hard as you can on his hands and butt. Keep doing it until he leaves the house please. I know he’s your friend, but if you do this, I’ll be sure to pet you and rub your belly everyday! Everyday until you can’t take it anymore! Sound good buddy?”
“Oh yes, yes that sounds amazing, oh yes! I love you Tommy, this is too good to be true, oh man!” He exclaims.

I started to beam and think of the coming events. In the meanwhile I pat and rub Buck’s head and he continues his rants of enjoyment. Then suddenly he starts coughing and gagging. I ask him what’s the problem and he just keeps coughing until finally he just throws up. Something reflects the sunlight in the vomit.

“Oh I forgot I ate that! Hm, but where is the chew toy?” Buck wondered.

I looked closely and it seems to be a corner of some foil with the letters ‘TROJ’ on it.

“Oh well, I’ll just wait until you walk me Tommy!”

I hate you Buck.

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The Woman with the Dark Blue Dress

Wrote this in one sitting on 7/24/11. Barely edited.

She sits alone at the bar, tracing the loop around her wine glass with her fingertips.  Her eyes survey her surroundings, looking at each individual person with large worrisome eyes. Her hand reaches for the wine glass slowly, sliding against the bar’s table as if her diamond wedding ring weighs heavy. Her eyes never stop wandering.

The large crowds of people constantly block my view from her. Everyone standing and shuffling about, awaiting for the countdown to 1980. Cheering and laughing fills the room with lively energy. Everyone is gleeful and sharing the emotion with everyone adjacent. All except this woman. This woman who’s wearing a dark blue dress. A gorgeous dress that one would wear to a special occasion. However, she isn’t celebrating, nor conversing with others. She’s all alone tonight, celebrating among herself. Why? I do not know.

She’s absolutely beautiful, I thought to myself. Too beautiful to be drinking alone. I pick up my glass of whiskey and walk toward her. Everything seems to be moving slowly. People raising their glasses into the air with large smiles and odd chants. I move through the crowd, gently pushing people aside, moving toward the woman.  I take several sips of my drink, hoping to finish it by the time I reach the bar. She isn’t smiling, but I am, for I want to bring her happiness tonight; the last night of the year. Continue reading

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