Sunday, January 4, 2015

Short story- "Sophia Died Today"

This is something I wrote for my book of short stories called "Unsent Letters". It's fiction. I wrote it a few weeks back. I hope you like it.

Sophia died today. I’m sorry I had to be the one to tell you. I was hoping you would hear it from another, as I hate to be a bearer of bad news.

You know she’d been sick and you hadn't come around lately. I’m not trying to make you feel worse than you already do, trust me. I’m only pointing it out because no one knew how to reach you. And she asked for you. She asked for you twice. Once, right after you left for the last time. The second and final time, it was the day that she died. Today.

In the morning, I got a call from Norman. He told me he’d been up with Sophia most of the  night. He said she’d awakened several times in the night and would start coughing so badly that she was spitting out blood. She was in and out of sleep. At one point, he said he could hear her talking, whispering. He went closer to her and noticed she had fallen asleep again, but was talking to someone. She said “It only hurts some of the time”. And that’s all he could make out.

She refused to go back to the hospital. She knew her time was near and didn't want to die in that sterile place, hooked up to machines. She wanted to leave on her own terms in her own bed in the house she so dearly loved.

She would tell me about the great times she had in that house with her husband before he died. She told me stories of the Christmases she spent there, surrounded by her children. There was so much love and warmth, leftover from the memories she cherished. She wanted to be there in the bed she shared with Raymond, with the pictures of her family on the walls. No one wanted to rip her away from that. So we stayed with her the whole time. Mostly in her room.

Did you know that Sophia was only 75? I know it seems like a lot, compared to us. She’d lived a lot before we came into her care. Her stories never got old to me, though. Even the ones I’d heard before, I was always happy when she’d retell them. Her eyes would light up and I could see what happened, in her eyes.
Sophia was not our mother. I know that’s what you’d say because you've said it before. I know in some ways, you feel as if she failed you. Again, I don’t want to make you feel worse. Even if you won’t admit it to me, I know that you missed her. And you have to know that she missed you too. Sophia did all she could possibly do for you. And if your mother hadn't come back, she was going to keep you, like she kept Norman and me.

I walked into her room this morning, knowing she was gone. They’d taken her out of there, and even though I knew she was gone, I could still feel her there. I could feel her warmth. If you want to say good-bye, I’m sure you can feel her there too.

Saturday, January 3, 2015


The money is gone
And you never came
Too hot for the sun
On the northwest side
Between heaven and hell
Your splendor,
Blatantly lied,
Asleep in sadness
And attempted murder
Wipe the crusts from your eyes,
Curly-haired girl
And remaining,
In grief
And complaining
As I write to remember
Your sensitive side
And just one more mystery

inside of your shadow

Friday, January 2, 2015

Blue Poisons

My soul cries without the burning embers of your touch
I am naked, disarmed, without shelter
And with dreams of a humble smile
And to fear away from a shallow touch
Since craving your naked skin, warm body
Eyes so inviting, loving, sensitive touch
Years of dreams, finally coming to fruition
And blue poisons ruining forever
Living a terrible reality of manic indefiance
Growing vastly, running quickly to the sober light
Enduring rivers that flow at the thought of you
And tears that only appear in the dark of night
Since when do I plead for an emotional touch
I can’t withstand this grueling hour of invalidity
I will close my eyes and hear phrases, unused
And conjure spells in the back of my mind
I can’t bear to be without the sight of you
The uniqueness of your eyes and the warmth of your kiss
Your awaiting hands reaching for mine
And I pray for this moment, just a moment to exist
To show you my inner-strengths, I can achieve
But is there a point; is there shame in this?
What of the Promised Land we share in a kiss
Awaiting a kingdom, praying to exist
Or to drown in a river, an endless forever
A soul-less determination and a defining silence
A poison I will so happily die of
And a forever good-bye that’s worth a million lives

Come home to me.

Thursday, January 1, 2015

Old Poetry: Without the Night

So I found some old poetry on my old laptop. I've decided to share, no matter how much anxiety it gives me. And it gives me great anxiety to share my writing sometimes. But I've learned from my many literary heroes. Not guts, no glory, right?

Without the Night

We’re all on the chopping block
But I’d rather be on yours
I’d rather be naked
Then covered in mud from his backyard
I try to resist temptation
But nothing’s left to be done
So I go my own way
And solitude follows
And I know I’m not a saint
I’ve sinned among the sinners
I’ve got it bad this time
And I just can’t shake it
When do we learn to fight?
When do we learn to heal?
Why is this so hard and disgusting
At the same time, appealing?
I will never trust
Though I have never lied
And the thought of lying next to you
Takes my breath
I hold it inside
The night overcomes us
And tragedy has fallen to light
This is a fucking nightmare

Although without the night.