Mangus Khan

The Stuff They Give Up (So the Rest of Us Don’t Have To)

2025/05/17Posted in The Daily'sTagged creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-1941, family, life, love, mental health, The Daily's, writing5 Comments

Daily writing prompt

What sacrifices have you made in life?

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DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

Everyone makes sacrifices. That’s just part of being an adult—along with bills, back pain, and pretending to understand how taxes work. But some sacrifices don’t get enough credit. They’re quiet, constant, and totally underappreciated. Let’s start with parents.

Parents: The Masters of Silent Sacrifice

Sure, everyone knows parenting is hard. But it’s not just about surviving diaper blowouts or sitting through 300 replays of Frozen. It’s about the real, behind-the-scenes sacrifices. Like the mom who takes a job she doesn’t love just because it comes with decent health insurance. Or the dad who eats the last two bites of crusty mac and cheese instead of cooking himself dinner—again.

Parents give up more than time and money. They give up peace and privacy. They trade dreams for dental plans. And let’s not forget sleep. You could power a small city on the energy parents lose just trying to get a toddler to bed. It’s not glamorous. No one hands out medals for making it through a meltdown in Target. But these sacrifices shape lives. Quietly. Powerfully.

First Responders: Showing Up When It Counts

Then there are first responders—firefighters, EMTs, police officers—the folks who run toward danger while the rest of us are Googling “how to escape a burning building.” These people give up a lot too.

They miss holidays, birthdays, sleep… you know, all the fun stuff. And what do they get in return? Stress, trauma, and the joy of paperwork. Lots of paperwork. Plus, they carry memories most of us couldn’t handle—gritty, painful, unforgettable moments that stay long after the sirens stop.

And yet, they keep showing up. Not for glory. Not for a gold star. Just because someone has to—and they’ve decided it’ll be them.

The Sacrifices We Don’t See—But Should

Here’s the thing: whether it’s a parent sacrificing their sanity during a four-hour kindergarten play, or a paramedic showing up at 3 a.m. because someone else’s world just fell apart—these acts deserve more than a passing “thanks.” They deserve to be seen. Respected. Remembered.

Because at the end of the day, sacrifice isn’t always some big, dramatic gesture. Most of the time, it’s a thousand small decisions made out of love, duty, or just sheer stubborn commitment to doing what’s right.

And maybe a little caffeine.

The Slap Bible (MiMi Edition):

2025/05/17Posted in The Daily'sTagged books, creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-1930, Fiction, life, The Daily's, writing7 Comments

Daily writing prompt

What’s a job you would like to do for just one day?

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DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE – ME CUTTING UP

I Don’t Slap for Free, But I Would

A Field Guide to Slappin’ Sense into the Senseless

MiMi used to say, “Don’t let me slap the taste out ya mouth.”
I never really got it as a kid. Thought it was just one of those old-school sayings.
She also proudly declared herself a lifelong member of the “Slap-a-Hoe” tribe—a community based in tough love, real consequences, and zero tolerance for nonsense.

I didn’t understand it then.
But then I got older… and started experiencing dumbshit firsthand.

Now I get it. Fully.

If slapping people for dumbshit was a job, I’d have seniority, stock options, and a custom glove.
I wouldn’t even need a career—just one day. One glorious 24-hour shift to clean up the streets and correct the vibes.

This isn’t just about rage. This is about justice.
Public safety. Social service. Soul alignment via hand-to-face contact.

Training? You think this kind of precision comes naturally? Nah.
I’ve spent countless hours jabbing my hands into a bucket of sand, conditioning my palms for maximum impact.
Builds the strength for a proper open-hand slap and the disrespect required for a cold, sharp backhand.

And if you need an example of how a proper slap should be executed, look no further than the late, great Legend: Bernie Mac.

Take a moment. Pull up that clip from Head of State. (
You know the one—where he walks off that bus and starts slappin’ people like it’s a spiritual duty?
That wasn’t a movie scene. That was a demonstration. A clinic in open-hand excellence.

The footwork. The commitment. The follow-through. That man slapped with his whole soul.
Wrist loose. Elbow firm. Palm flat. Delivery: divine.
Each slap had meaning. Each face deserved it. And honestly, each viewer felt seen.

That’s the energy. That’s the standard.
Bernie didn’t act—he activated.

The Sacred Code of the Slap-a-Hoe Tribe

Founded: Unofficially. Feared: Universally.
Motto: “Talk reckless, get checked.”

Membership Requirements:

Must have an intolerance for foolishness.
Must be capable of delivering a slap with intention, precision, and righteous indignation.
Must not slap indiscriminately—only when dumbshit reaches terminal levels.

Core Rules:

Thou shalt not let foolishness go unchecked.
Slaps must be earned, not given.
Always slap with an open palm and a closed heart.
One slap = one lesson.
Respect the elders. MiMi walked so we could slap.

Tools of the Trade:

Conditioned hands
Glove of Judgment™
Mirror (for self-reflection after impact)
Corn Huskers Lotion – to keep hands conditioned.

Known Tribal Territories:

Family cookouts
Grocery store lines
Playgrounds – when parents get carried away, stating their children are angels.
That one auntie’s porch where truths are handed out with sweet tea

To be Slap-a-Hoe is to be a protector of peace. A guardian of sense. A bringer of clarity.

People Who Deserve to Be Slapped (Not a Complete List):

Jackasses who change the formula on tasty foods.
How dare you play with my emotions like that? That recipe was perfect. Nobody asked for “less sugar” or “new texture.” I hope you stub your toe forever.
People who pick on others for no rational reason.
What’s it like being a grown adult with playground bully energy? Get over here and take this slap like a good boy.
Asshats who disrespect women just for existing.
Oh, you’re about to be humbled. You’re gonna be a Bitch, today. No days off.
I learned this rule the hard way.
Left side of my face? Leather. Right side? Baby’s bottom.
That slap didn’t just reset my attitude—it synced it with the truth.
Folks who say “Let’s agree to disagree” after saying something objectively wrong.
Nah. You don’t get to be wrong and smug. Open palm. Full swing. Learn something.
People who chew with their mouths open in a quiet room.
You get one warning. Repeated offenses may not be a war crime, but it feels like one. You’re getting slapped on principle.
Adults who say “I’m just brutally honest” as a cover for being rude and unwashed.
Cool, I’m just brutally slappy. Let’s compare styles.
Anyone who thinks “The customer is always right.”
The customer is often loud, wrong, and overdue for a palm-to-cheek correction.

I don’t need a title. I don’t need a desk.
Just give me a list, a stretch break, and a reason.

Soft foods. Straws. Humbled souls.
That’s the care package I leave behind.

MiMi tried to warn y’all. I’m just the one delivering the message. Why only one day, I have a feeling my hands would be sore

Camping: Because Paying to Be Miserable Is Apparently a Thing

2025/05/16Posted in The Daily'sTagged blog, creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-1923, life, mental health, The Daily's, writing13 Comments

Daily writing prompt

Have you ever been camping?

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DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

An open letter to everyone who thinks bug bites and canned beans are a good time.

Look, I get it. “Camping is so refreshing,” they say. “It’s healing! It helps you disconnect!”

Cool. So does turning your phone off and taking a nap in a real bed. Because let’s be honest—camping is just voluntary homelessness with snacks.

Yes, yes, I’ve heard the propaganda:

“It reduces stress!”
“It reconnects you with nature!”
“You’ll sleep better!”

Really? Have you ever tried sleeping in a zipped-up nylon taco, on top of a rock, while a mosquito EDM festival rages six inches from your face? Nature isn’t hugging you. It’s hazing you.

Let’s get into it.

1. The Weather Is a Liar
The app said sunny. You packed shorts. Now it’s 3 a.m., your sleeping bag’s a sponge, and you’re praying your tent doesn’t collapse in the downpour. Mother Nature doesn’t care about your forecast—she’s here to ruin your socks and your spirit.

2. Bugs: The True Camp Counselors
“Oh, just a few mosquitoes,” they said. Wrong. It’s an insect Thunderdome out there. Mosquitoes, spiders, ants, bees—plus one raccoon with dead eyes and a chip addiction. You’re not at the top of the food chain. You’re on the menu.

3. You Paid to Be Miserable
Congrats! You dropped $300 on gear to cosplay as a frontier orphan. No mattress. No bathroom. No fridge. Just you, the dirt, and a can of baked beans sweating in your backpack. It’s like glamping, minus the “glam.”

4. The Bathroom Situation (A Horror Story)
It’s midnight. You’re squatting over a questionable log. One hand’s holding a flashlight, the other is praying to the god of not-peeing-on-poison-ivy. This isn’t “rustic.” It’s trauma.

5. Fresh Air Exists in Cities Too
If you want to breathe clean air, open a window. You don’t have to wander into the woods like some kind of Wi-Fi-less pioneer to feel “connected.” There’s a park near your house. It has benches and cell reception.

6. Campfire Cooking Is a Scam
Grilled hot dogs on a stick you found near a squirrel nest? Wow. Truly the Iron Chef experience. And let’s not forget the burnt marshmallows—nothing says “nature cuisine” like charred sugar goo stuck to your molars.

7. Sleep? In This Economy?
Nature sounds peaceful… until you’re trying to sleep. Then it’s either murderously silent or an audio jungle of crickets, raccoons, owls, and something growling that you’re definitely not Googling right now. You won’t get REM. You’ll get hypervigilant.

Final Thoughts
Camping is a beautiful, wholesome way to deeply regret your choices. If your idea of fun is working hard to be cold, itchy, hungry, and slightly feral—great! Have at it.

As for me? I’ll be inside. With flush toilets, strong coffee, and the blessed hum of air conditioning. Nature can stay outside where it belongs—preferably behind a double-paned window. With a lock.

Anxiety, a Cigarette, and a Stranger’s Grace

2025/05/162025/05/16Posted in The Daily'sTagged creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-1912, The Daily's, writing4 Comments

Describe a random encounter with a stranger that stuck out positively to you.

DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

Over time, a lot of strangers have helped me. Oddly enough, most of them have been women. It’s like I’ve been walking around with an invisible T-shirt that says, “I’m a Hot Mess… Please Help!” I’ve never figured out why, but I’ve stopped questioning it. Sometimes, people just show up when you need them.

One moment stands out. I was supposed to be helping my mom, but I was just running a few errands. I walked into a building where they were hosting some kind of event to promote a new internet service. The moment I stepped inside, something hit me. A wave of anxiety, confusion — I don’t even know what. I couldn’t breathe. I bolted out of the building and stood on the corner, trying to catch my breath. I lit a cigarette, hoping it would calm me down. It didn’t.

Then I saw her — a woman walking in my direction. She noticed me, stopped, and asked if I was alright. I don’t remember what I said, but she didn’t leave. She stayed and talked to me, just casual, steady conversation. Nothing deep, just enough to slow things down. She handed me a bottle of water, like she somehow knew I needed it. After a while, the tightness in my chest eased. I felt grounded again. Eventually, I thanked her and went back inside to finish the errand.

She didn’t have to stop. She didn’t have to do anything. But she did — and that kindness stuck with me.

The Rhythm of Leadership

2025/05/15Posted in The Daily'sTagged business, creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-1939, Leadership, life, management, personal development, The Daily's, writing4 Comments

Daily writing prompt

Are you a leader or a follower?

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DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

You’re both. We all are.

The idea that you’re either a leader or a follower — like those are fixed roles — doesn’t hold up in real life. Some moments ask you to step up. Others ask you to support. And knowing which role the moment calls for? That’s the real work.

We put too much weight on titles, as if the label makes the leader. But leadership isn’t a crown — it’s a responsibility. And following? That’s not failure. It’s often the smartest, strongest move in the room.

And then there’s gender — the quiet referee shaping who gets seen as “fit” to lead. A panicked child in the ER? Everyone turns to the woman in the room, like compassion lives in estrogen. A life-or-death rescue? Suddenly it’s “someone get a man in here,” as if courage and risk come with testosterone.

But sometimes, it’s the male nurse who brings the calm — not by raising his voice, but by kneeling down, steady and human.
And sometimes, it’s the female firefighter who leads the call — clear-eyed, no hesitation, already carrying the consequences before anyone else has even moved.

I’ve never considered myself a leader. But I have led.

Not in a flashy, take-charge kind of way — more like noticing what was slipping and quietly stepping in. It was during a group project that had completely stalled. No one was talking. Everyone was waiting for someone else to take charge. So I did. I laid out what we knew, broke the work into parts, and got people moving again. Not because I wanted to lead, but because silence was killing the thing.
When it was over, I faded back. No parade, no title. Just done.

Same goes for everyday work. Maya, a developer with no leadership title, sees her team veering off track. The manager’s underwater. Maya steps up. She rewrites a tangled spec doc, runs a quick sync, and gets people re-centered. No applause, no ego. Just clarity, action, and results. And when the dust settles, she steps back.

That’s leadership. That’s rhythm.

Lead. Follow. Don’t Get in the Way.

Susan Cain calls it quiet strength. Joseph Badaracco sees it in moral action taken when no one’s watching. I see it in people who don’t chase control — they show up, read the room, and do what needs doing.

The real question isn’t “Are you a leader or a follower?”
It’s this:
Can you read the moment — and be honest enough to become what it needs?

Did You Eat Your Vegetables?

2025/05/142025/05/14Posted in The Daily'sTagged Art, books, creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-1938, FOOD, poetry, The Daily's, writing4 Comments

Daily writing prompt

List your top 5 favorite fruits.

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DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

Plot twist: You’ve been eating fruit all along.

You ever bite into a tomato and think, “Wow, this vegetable is juicy, sweet, and suspiciously… fruity?” Well, congratulations — your instincts are sharper than your neighbor’s knives set. Because here’s the hard truth:

Tomatoes are fruit. So are cucumbers. And zucchini. And eggplants.

That’s right. Your salad is a fruit salad in disguise. Your stir-fry? Basically fruit cobbler without the sugar. Let’s talk about it.

🥒 The Great Vegetable Lie

Botanically speaking, a fruit is anything that grows from the flower of a plant and carries seeds. Vegetables, meanwhile, are things like roots (carrots), stems (celery), or leaves (spinach). You know — the boring parts. The greens your grandma tried to boil into submission.

But fruits? Fruits are the showoffs. The divas. The drama queens of the plant world, demanding, “Look at my seeds! I am the chosen one!”

And yet, we still treat them like veggies. Why?

Because humans are petty and organized the produce aisle based on vibes.

🍆 Welcome to the Fruity Bunch:

Tomatoes – The Benedict Arnold of vegetables. Shows up in salsa, but has the DNA of a peach.
Cucumbers – Spa fruit disguised as a crunchy vegetable.
Zucchini – Basically a green banana with imposter syndrome.
Eggplant – Dark, moody fruit that wants to be left alone.
Bell peppers – All color, no commitment. Still a fruit.
Pumpkins – Halloween’s fruity mascot. Also pie’s best-kept secret.
Avocados – The only fruit that tries to be butter.
Olives – Salty little fruits that got lost in a martini and never left.

🥗 So What Now?

Next time someone offers you a “vegetable medley,” just know you’re eating a fruit salad with a PR problem. Maybe we’ve been too harsh on the pineapple-on-pizza people. They were ahead of their time. Maybe everything belongs on pizza. (Except raisins. Raisins can stay banned.)

So go ahead — live your truth. Eat your fruit-veggies. Call your tomato what it really is: a juicy red betrayal.

And remember: in the garden of life, labels are made to be peeled.

Wordless Wednesday – 05142025

2025/05/14Posted in ArtTagged AI Generated Images, photo editing, Wordless Wednesday2 Comments

ART – AI GENERATED IMAGE – CONCEPT ART

My submission for Hugh’s Views & News blog, Wordless Wednesday post.

She Sings Forward the Fire

2025/05/12Posted in ProseTagged 3TC, creative writing, daily exercise, FOWC, Poems from Another Time, Prose, RDP, SocS, writing2 Comments

PROSE – FOWC, RDP, 3TC #MM57, SOCS

Her face, a still sea at twilight, holds a world behind closed eyes — a world scorched and sacred. Beneath the surface of her skin, time moves differently. The tear sliding down her cheek isn’t sorrow alone; it’s layered, like sediment pressed by centuries. It’s the weight of what was lost, and the stubborn, aching beauty of what still lingers.

In the palm of her silence, you can almost hear it: the laughter of ancestors, brittle with joy; the soft rustle of silk on temple floors; the sweet hush before a prayer. Memory lives here not as a ghost, but as a fire — not to destroy, but to illuminate. What we love, we do not forget. It settles into us, builds its shrine in the quietest chambers of the self.

She is witty, yes — but her wit is not for show. It’s forged from survival. Every word she withholds is a choice, every glance a negotiation between pain and pride. She has learned to speak with her silences, to wield them sharper than swords.

Wilful — not out of defiance, but necessity. She resists erasure. She refuses to dim. Within her, temples rise from ashes not as ruins, but as rebirth. Her breath is a hymn to endurance. Her heartbeat, a drum summoning the past into the present.

There is something wondrous in the way she holds it all — grief, fire, memory, and light — without collapsing. As if her soul was built to hold contradictions, to sing through them. A tear falls, yes. But it falls like a bell chime, echoing inward. Each note asking, not “Why me?” but “What now?”

She does not seek to escape the past.
She sings forward the fire.

A Mother’s Day Tribute: The Name for God, the First Superhero

2025/05/11Posted in UncategorizedTagged Happy Mother's Day8 Comments

“Mothers are the name for God on the lips and hearts of children.” That line isn’t just poetic—it’s the truth.

Before we understand anything else in this world, we know our mothers. Her face is our first home. Her voice, our first comfort. Her love, our first certainty. She doesn’t just raise us—she forms us. Her strength becomes our foundation. Her belief becomes our courage.

And let’s be honest: mothers were the original superheroes.

Before capes and comic books, there was Mom—lifting more than her share, healing wounds with a kiss, seeing through lies with a glance, fighting invisible battles no one else even noticed. No spotlight. No superpowers. Just relentless love and impossible strength.

She doesn’t fly, but she shows up—every time. She doesn’t have laser vision, but somehow always knows. She doesn’t wear armor, but she protects like no one else can.

A mother’s love is not small. It’s not easy. It’s built on sacrifice, on sleepless nights, on showing up tired and still giving her best. It’s fierce. It’s patient. It’s unshakable.

To every kind of mom—birth moms, adoptive moms, grandmothers, stepmoms, chosen moms—we see you. We thank you. Not just for what you’ve done, but for who you are.

Today, we honor you. Because you were our first home. Our first hero. And yes, the name for God on our lips when we didn’t have words for anything else.

Happy Mother’s Day.

How to Fall Apart (and Call It Progress)

2025/05/11Posted in The Daily'sTagged creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-1935, life, love, mental health, philosophy, The Daily's, writing6 Comments

Daily writing prompt

What does freedom mean to you?

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DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

A discussion about becoming unraveled, unburdened

What does freedom even mean? It’s like one of those made-up words everyone thinks they understand, but no one actually does. We toss it around in debates, slap it on bumper stickers, or turn it into a hashtag. Then we try to sound deep by asking, “In what sense do you mean — philosophical, political, personal?” But let’s be honest: most of that is just smoke to dodge the real answer. Which is, simply: I don’t have a clue.

We often treat freedom like a buzzword—something we claim, defend, hashtag, or stick on the back of a truck. It’s sold as autonomy, choice, and the sacred right to do whatever we want whenever we want. But real freedom? It’s not that flashy. It’s quieter, more internal, often inconvenient, and much harder to define. You don’t notice it on a billboard, and it won’t trend for long. It might even be harder to see, because it begins not with what we do, but with how we perceive—how we see ourselves, others, and what we think life owes us.

Across spiritual traditions—Buddhism, Taoism, Sufism, Christianity, Judaism, Islam—a pattern emerges: we are not free by default. We’re born into inherited scripts, societal myths, and a mess of cravings, fears, and projections. Most of our lives are spent reacting to things we don’t even understand. It’s like trying to win a board game where the rules are vague, the instructions are missing, and someone keeps changing the goalposts when you’re not looking. No wonder we’re tired.

Freedom, in the deeper sense, isn’t about getting our way. It’s about seeing clearly enough that we’re no longer at the mercy of every craving, trigger, or existential itch. In Buddhism, this means recognizing dukkha (suffering) and its cause, tanhā (craving). Sufism centers on taming the nafs — the unrestrained, insatiable ego. Taoism discusses abandoning the exhausting need to force outcomes and instead moving with the current.

Christianity points us to the idea that freedom comes not through control but through the purification of the heart. “Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.” Not “they shall win,” not “they shall be promoted,” but see. It’s not exactly the promise of a six-figure salary, but it might be worth more. Judaism and Islam also make it clear that freedom is not about breaking the rules, but living in alignment with something truer and eternal. In other words, you’re not the center of the universe — and that might be the best news you’ll hear all day.

This challenges our cultural obsession with control. As Ishmael shows us, modern civilization has wrapped freedom in the myth of domination. We think freedom means being the boss—of nature, of time, of each other. But domination isn’t freedom. It’s just anxiety in a power suit. The more we try to force the world to match our expectations, the more we suffer when it doesn’t.

And yet, even when we “get it,” the work is anything but linear. Sometimes, the path to freedom involves breaking down. Not the tidy kind of unraveling you read about in memoirs, but the ugly, confusing, no-GPS type of collapse. And oddly enough, that might be necessary. Because falling apart can strip away what was never really you. It can expose what’s underneath the performance, the control, the coping. You meditate one morning and snap at someone by lunch. You let go of a toxic habit, then dream about it for a week.

That’s because fundamental transformation creates cognitive dissonance—the friction between the polished self we’ve been taught to perform and the inconvenient truths trying to surface, like realizing that your definition of success might be making you miserable, or that the life you built isn’t the one you actually want. The system shakes when what we’ve believed can no longer hold up to what we’re beginning to feel. It’s disorienting. But that disorientation is a gift. It’s how the mind makes space for something more honest.

That’s not regression. It’s evidence you’re alive and paying attention — maybe even transforming.

Absolute freedom isn’t being untouchable. It’s being touchable without falling apart. It’s having enough self-awareness to recognize when you’re being hijacked by old stories, and enough stillness to pause before you reenact them. Learning to laugh at your own nonsense is key before it convinces you it’s the voice of God. You don’t destroy the ego; you learn not to take it so seriously.

And here’s the kicker: understanding isn’t the end of the journey—it is the journey. Freedom begins the moment you start to see differently: when the illusion cracks just enough to let in the light, or, just as often, when the darkness teaches you to feel your way through. The dark isn’t the enemy; it’s where the roots grow, where silence speaks, where real seeing begins. Understanding doesn’t guarantee peace but gets you in the room with it. And that, on most days, is freedom enough.

Perhaps today marks the opening of a much deeper conversation—scary, uncomfortable, and sometimes downright mean. A conversation that shakes the foundation of who we think we are, or who we’ve been told to be. It may challenge the ideals we’ve long held sacred. My question is this:

Do we need that kind of disruption to be free?

I know I do. Yeah, I’m scared. I’m frustrated. I’m pissed off. But I also know it’s necessary—because this discomfort is where I grow into the man I actually want to be.

Mistake were Made: The Shame pt 2

2025/05/10Posted in FictionTagged books, creative writing, daily exercise, fantasy, Fiction, short-story, writing2 Comments

FICTION

The Diner (Where Grease Meets Regret)

The Grease Trap Diner stood like a beacon of poor decisions made slightly better with hash browns. It had peeling booths, 24-hour fluorescent lighting, and the smell of burnt bacon baked into every surface.

Harper wrinkled her nose as we stepped inside. “It’s like someone deep-fried sadness and put it on a plate.”

A waitress appeared, equal parts tired and unamused. Her nametag was upside down, and she looked like she had just crawled out of a regrettable night and into her shift without a detour through self-care. Mascara slightly smudged. Hair bun defying physics. Coffee in one hand, soul long departed.

She stared at me like she was reliving something traumatic. “Oh. Look who’s alive.”

“You remember me?” I asked.

“You cried into a pancake.”

Harper clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle the laugh. “You always make such a strong impression.”

The waitress slid us into a booth with the energy of someone who had absolutely zero left to give. “You and Tank Top Man came in here at like 3 a.m., tried to order nachos using interpretive dance, and then debated the moon landing with a jukebox.”

“I’m starting to think I owe this entire city an apology,” I muttered.

She poured us coffee like she was dealing cards in a poker game she had already lost. “You made me promise I’d never speak of it. But here we are.”

Harper leaned in, still grinning. “Any chance he left a wallet here?”

The waitress—Marge, apparently, per her crooked tag—shook her head. “Nah. But you wouldn’t shut up about Lucky Note Karaoke. Said you needed to ‘redeem your voice and your legacy.’”

“That sounds like something I would drunkenly declare,” I admitted.

“You also said you were going to drop the mic and your toxic tendencies. Then you stole a breadbasket.”

Harper blinked. “Why a breadbasket?”

“I claimed it was symbolic,” I muttered.

Marge handed me a receipt with a scrawled note on the back:
“Raj still owes you the mic. Lucky Note Karaoke.”

Harper raised an eyebrow. “Raj?”

“I have no memory of that name, which means it’s probably important.”

The Karaoke Bar (Where Self-Respect Goes to Die)

Lucky Note Karaoke looked like a speakeasy run by tone-deaf ghosts. The lighting was dim; the carpet was sticky, and a muffled rendition of Living on a Prayer wailed from the next room.

“I already hate it here,” Harper muttered.

“I think this is where I transcended,” I said.

Raj, the bartender, looked up as we approached. “Ah. The tenor of tequila returns.”

“Raj,” I said. “Please tell me you found a wallet. It’s black, a little beat up, contains my entire sense of security.”

Raj smirked and reached under the bar. “This one?”

I nearly wept.

“I kept it here,” he said, “because you made me swear not to give it to you unless you remembered the sacred vow.”

Harper arched an eyebrow. “What vow?”

Raj grinned and held up a napkin. Scrawled in my chicken-scratch handwriting were the words:
“Future me: if you’re reading this, you’re probably panicking. Don’t. I hid the wallet here. Because drunk-you was a liability. You’re welcome. Also, drink water, you crusty bitch.”

I stared at it in silence.

Harper burst out laughing so hard she had to sit down.

“I hate and respect myself,” I whispered.

Raj handed over the wallet. “Cards intact. Cash untouched. You even tucked in a note that just says: ‘Remember: NO BACKFLIPS.’”

“I want to go home,” I said, taking it reverently.

“You said that last night,” Raj replied. “Right before singing Bohemian Rhapsody like you were exorcising a demon.”

Return of the Wallet Warrior

Back at the apartment, I collapsed on the couch like a war hero returning from the front lines. My wallet—miraculously intact—was now clutched in both hands like it contained ancient wisdom.

Harper tossed her jacket onto a chair and flopped down across from me, watching like a judge awaiting a confession. “So. You retrieved the sacred artifact. At what cost?”

I opened the wallet and rifled through it.
Cards? Present.
Cash? Surprisingly untouched.
Sanity? Negotiable.

“I think I aged five years,” I said. “Also, apparently, I’m prone to hiding things from myself when drunk. Like a paranoid raccoon.”

Harper leaned forward. “So… lessons learned?”

I nodded solemnly. “Never attempt a backflip. Never trust tequila. Never trust myself.”

“Three truths,” she said. “Write them on your wall.”

Then she pulled out her phone.

“What’s that?” I asked.

She smirked. “Your final humiliation.”

I watched in slow horror as she pressed play on a voicemail. My own voice, slurred and self-important, filled the room:

“Hey, future me. It’s past you. I know you’re probably panicking right now because you’re a dumbass. Don’t worry. I hid your wallet at the karaoke bar. You made me do it. You’re welcome. Also, you’re gonna want Gatorade. And don’t call your ex. I know you’re thinking about it. DON’T.”

There was a long pause on the message. Then, faintly, “…I think I might be a genius.”

Harper was in tears.

“I am,” I said slowly, “my own unreliable narrator.”

“You left yourself a drunk fail-safe,” she said. “Like an alcoholic Mission: Impossible.”

“It actually worked,” I whispered.

Harper grinned. “Too bad you’ll never live it down.”

Scene 8: The Final Baby Step

The next morning, I downloaded a wallet-tracking app, activated it, and set up notifications. I was taking control, being responsible.

I was… learning?

Harper wandered into the room, half-awake, sipping coffee. “Look at you. Growing.”

“I’m trying,” I said. “Baby steps.”

She nodded.

Then paused.

“Where’s your phone?”

I blinked.

Patted my pockets.

Checked the couch cushions.

Looked under the cat.

“…Oh no.”

Harper sipped. “Back to the quest, Odysseus.”

THE END
(Or is it?)

Did I tell you about the time Harper stalked a stripper

Soft Defiance

2025/05/09Posted in PoetryTagged creative writing, daily exercise, Poems from Another Time, poetry, Weekend Writing Prompt, writing2 Comments

POETRY – WWP#414

Mistakes Were Made: The Shame pt 1

2025/05/09Posted in FictionTagged books, creative writing, daily exercise, fantasy, Fiction, FOWC, RDP, short-story, writing2 Comments

FICTION – FOWC & RDP

The Morning After

If you ever wake up and immediately regret being alive, congratulations—you’re probably me.

My skull was hosting a drum circle led by caffeine-deprived raccoons. My mouth felt like an unnamed beauty had sandpapered it with a vendetta with every man who dissed her ever, and my limbs responded to commands in defiance like they were on strike. Everything hurt, especially my dignity.

I groaned, rolled over, and promptly fell off the bed onto my work boots. Those lace hooks really hurt. Classic.

As I clawed my way upright, fragments of last night teased my consciousness—neon lights, slurred toasts, someone yelled “SEND IT!” (possibly me), and the faint memory of interpretive dancing to an EDM remix of Ave Maria.

Then it hit me.
Something was missing.

I patted myself down. Phone? Somehow still miraculously clinging to life under the pillow. Keys? Jangling mockingly on the nightstand. Wallet?

No wallet.

I picked up my jeans from the corner and checked the pockets. I wondered how they got there. Then realized that nothing was going to be normal today.

Cue the internal scream.

I scrambled to check under the bed, between couch cushions, inside the fridge (don’t ask), and even in the washing machine. No dice.

Panic was slowly rising like a bad dubstep drop when the door creaked open.

Harper, the Roommate of Judgement

“Lose something, hero?”

There she stood: Harper. The kind of roommate who alphabetized the spice rack and judged you silently when you microwaved leftover fish. She was holding a mug that said, ‘I Tolerate You’, which honestly felt generous.

I blinked at her, attempting to appear casual while definitely radiating the aura of a feral raccoon.

“My wallet,” I croaked. “I think it… wandered off.”

Harper leaned against the doorframe like she was starring in a sarcastic soap opera. “Well, unless your wallet’s name is Travis and it yells about late-stage capitalism when drunk, you left with someone else last night.”

“Travis?” I asked, brain lagging.

She sipped her coffee with the grace of a smug swan. “Tall, loud, wore a tank top with a motivational quote that was both inspirational and wildly inaccurate. You two were in a budding bromance bonding over tequila shots and something about ‘seizing the narrative’.”

“…I’m scared of me,” I whispered.

“You should be.”

I collapsed onto the couch. “Tell me we didn’t go clubbing.”

“We did. Or at least, you did. You left this apartment yelling ‘THE NIGHT IS YOUNG, AND SO AM I!’ “Drink, dance, and Conquer!” even though both those statements were lies.”

I groaned. “Please tell me we ended at the diner.”

“We always end at the diner,” she said. “You made out with a corn dog and a bottle of mustard.”

“…Romance is dead.”

She tossed me a bottle of water and a packet of aspirin with the precision of someone who had done this before. Too many times. “Find your wallet. I’m not covering your avocado toast debt again.”

With the grace of a hungover possum, I stood up. “Time to retrace my shame.”

“Godspeed, wallet warrior,” Harper called after me, already halfway back to bed. “And try not to lose your soul this time.”

The Pub (Where It All Went Wrong)

The sun assaulted my retinas like it had a personal vendetta. I stumbled onto the sidewalk, blinking like a mole emerging from its hole, while Harper followed behind me, arms crossed, coffee in hand, deeply regretting her life choices.

“Are we walking into your shame voluntarily now?” she asked.

“Retracing my steps. Like a detective. A very dehydrated detective with a bad haircut and no clue.”

She snorted. “So… yourself.”

We reached The Pickled Elbow, the pub where the descent into chaos had apparently begun. It looked innocent enough in daylight—wood-paneled charm, cheerful chalkboard sign out front. Like the kind of place that would lull you into bad decisions with discounted craft beer and 2000s pop playlists.

Inside, the bartender looked up as we entered. She wore the tight smile of someone who’d seen it all and did not want to see any of it again.

“Oh,” she said, narrowing her eyes at me. “It’s you.”

“Hi,” I said, sheepishly. “I think I lost my wallet here last night.”

“You mean after you got on the bar and tried to convince the crowd you invented the espresso martini?”

Harper burst out laughed so hard she nearly spilled her coffee. “You what?”

The bartender—Gina—shrugged. “He was passionate. Loud. Slightly wrong.”

I flushed. “Right. So, no wallet?”

Gina shook her head. “Nope. But you left with a guy named Travis. Tank top. Looked like he got rejected from a CrossFit cult.”

Harper nodded like it all made sense. “The prophet of bad life choices.”

“Also,” Gina added, pulling a wrinkled napkin from behind the bar, “you made me promise to give you this.”

I unfolded it. It said, in my own handwriting:
“IF I GET LOST, CHECK THE MEAT PALACE. THE TRUTH IS THERE.”

Harper peered over my shoulder. “What the hell is the Meat Palace?”

I stared at the napkin. “I think… it might be the club.”

She sighed. “Of course it is.”

As we turned to go, I found myself reflecting on just how often I ended up here—metaphorically and literally. A bar, a mistake, a blackout, and a joke that stopped being funny. I wasn’t just losing wallets. I was losing my grip on being someone I recognized in the morning. There was a certain bewilderment in that realization that dug deeper than I’d like to admit.

The Club (A.K.A. The Meat Palace)

We stood outside a neon-soaked warehouse with a line of people already queuing like they were about to enter battle. The bass thumped like a distant migraine.

Harper looked up at the glowing sign:
CLUB INFERNO.
Below it, in smaller font: Home of the $5 Mystery Shot.

“This place smells like Axe body spray and desperation,” Harper muttered.

“I vaguely remember trying to backflip here,” I said. “I cannot do a backflip.”

“You also can’t walk straight, so that checks out.”

The bouncer stopped me. “ID?”

Harper raised an eyebrow. “This is the part where you realize the comedy of your situation.”

I gave the bouncer my saddest eyes. “I lost my wallet. Can I just ask the bartender something real quick?”

He folded his arms. “No ID, no entry.”

“I have a photo of him doing the worm in here last night,” Harper offered, holding up her phone. “In a banana costume.”

The bouncer looked. Blinked. Grunted. “Five minutes.”

We had to scoot around a line of club kids in rhinestones and mesh to get through the door. Every one of them looked like the embodiment of my hangover’s worst nightmare.

We pushed through the crowd toward the bar. The lights flashed violently. My brain considered self-immolation.

At the bar, the bartender gave me a once-over. “Oh, God. You again.”

“I was hoping that was a collective fever dream,” I said.

“You kept shouting ‘THIS IS MY SONG!’ during a techno remix of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star,” she said. “And tried to tip me with lint.”

Harper let out a strangled noise. “Please. Tell me there’s security footage.”

“No wallet,” the bartender added. “But you were ranting about karaoke. Something about reclaiming your narrative through power ballads.”

I turned to Harper. “It’s worse than I thought.”

She looked at me a little more closely then. Not just annoyed or amused—concerned. And maybe I saw it too. This wasn’t just another night out. It was a pattern. I wasn’t looking for a wallet. I was looking for proof I hadn’t completely lost myself. That some idealistic version of me still existed beneath the chaos.

“Yeah,” she said. “We’re going to a karaoke bar.”

Earned Peace and a Fondness for Naps

2025/05/092025/05/08Posted in The Daily'sTagged creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-1933, The Daily's, writing8 Comments

Daily writing prompt

What is your career plan?

View all responses

DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

What’s my career plan?
I’m retired. Gloriously, defiantly, finally retired.
No more war zones. No more herding soldiers at 0500. And absolutely no more trying to stretch a budget tighter than my last pair of combat boots.

I’ve led through chaos, built structure from madness, and kept people alive with little more than grit, instinct, and caffeine. I’ve done the job. All of it. And then some.

Now? I plan to enjoy the serenity that years of devotion, discipline, and flat-out fortitude bought me. Paid in full.

So forgive me if I’m not lining up for another round of deadlines and drama. I’ve traded in my battlefield for a hammock and a hard boundary around my time. Sure, maybe I’ll mentor someone if they’re worth the time and actually willing to listen. Maybe I’ll consult if the cause is right. But only if it fits between my morning coffee and an aggressively scheduled nap.

So what’s my plan? To finally not have one. And that freedom? That’s the reward.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a nap to defend like it’s sacred ground.
Because it is.

The Living Room Sessions: Halestorm at Their Most Human

2025/05/08Posted in The Daily'sTagged creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-1932, Halestrom, The Daily's, writingLeave a comment

Daily writing prompt

What was the last live performance you saw?

View all responses

DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

My brother introduced me to Halestorm. At the time, I was into The Pretty Reckless, which sparked a conversation about female-led rock bands. Over the years, we’ve caught Halestorm live a few times and always came away impressed. But when we saw The Living Room Sessions Tour, it was on a different level—we honestly didn’t have the words for what we witnessed.

The Living Room Sessions is Halestorm’s stripped-down acoustic tour, led by Lzzy Hale and Joe Hottinger. The concept is simple but powerful: remove the noise and big production and deliver the music raw—just vocals, guitars, and stories. It’s meant to feel like you’ve been invited into their space—not as an audience but as part of the conversation.

That’s exactly how it felt. Lzzy and Joe didn’t just perform; they connected. They shared songs, yes, but also the personal stories behind them—the influences, the struggles, the moments that shaped them as artists. Every track was reimagined acoustically, revealing emotional depth and nuance that sometimes gets buried in the full-band arrangements.

What stood out was how balanced the energy was. It was quiet but electric. Stripped-back but intense. It felt like being let in on a secret, and it hit harder than any arena show. We walked out knowing we’d just experienced one of the best live performances we’ve ever seen.

I’ll Remember April, But Not Like This

2025/05/08Posted in TunageTagged Charles Mingus, daily exercise, Mixed Music Bag, music, reviews, Tunage, writing2 Comments

TUNAGE – MMB (APRIL)

Charles Mingus didn’t just play a jazz standard—he took it apart, set it on fire, and built something unforgettable.

“I’ll Remember April” is one of those jazz standards every musician runs into, eventually. It’s basically a jam session rite of passage—48 bars of twisty harmonic turns masquerading as a wistful ballad about lost love and changing seasons. I’ve been familiar with it for years. Played it, heard it, filed it under “That one tune that’s fun to blow over but nobody remembers the lyrics to.”

Then I heard the Charles Mingus versions.

Someone once told me, “There’s jazz, and then there’s Mingus.” At the time, I thought that sounded like one of those pretentious one-liners people drop in record stores to feel superior. But after diving into his takes on “I’ll Remember April,” I get it. Oh man, do I get it.

Mingus didn’t just cover “April.” He took it apart like a mad scientist, rewired its guts, jolted it with electricity, and dared you to still call it a “standard.”

The Café Bohemia Version (1955): Mingus and Roach Light a Fuse

Let’s start at Café Bohemia, 1955. Picture a packed New York club, cigarette smoke thick enough to chew, and a band that clearly didn’t come to play it safe. Max Roach sits in on drums, and if you’ve ever wanted to hear someone simultaneously keep time and destroy it, this is your moment.

The melody of “April” makes a brief cameo, like it wandered onstage and then realized it was at the wrong gig. What follows is 13 minutes of fearless improvisation, with Mingus, Roach, and pianist Mal Waldron operating on some telepathic groupthink. The horns? They show up, but the rhythm section is driving the bus—and the bus is on fire.

Roach’s drumming is the engine room of this madness. His solo isn’t just technically jaw-dropping—it’s spiritually charged. He plays like he’s pulling sound from some ancient, elemental place. It’s powerful, commanding, and completely locked into the spirit of the tune, even as the band steamrolls past the recognizable parts of it. He doesn’t just support the performance—he embodies it.

The Antibes Version (1960): Bud Powell and the Beautiful Collision

Now fast-forward to 1960 at the Antibes Jazz Festival in France. Mingus is in full mythic form. His band includes avant-garde sorcerer Eric Dolphy, hard-bop bruiser Booker Ervin, and lyrical firebrand Ted Curson. Oh, and just to make things even more surreal—bebop piano legend Bud Powell drops in.

I was hypnotized by Powell’s piano. He doesn’t just comp—he sets the tone for the whole damn piece. His phrasing is gentle but firm, melancholic but insistent. He drove the vibe of the entire take with a calm storm underneath. It was a genius move by Mingus to bring him in. Powell didn’t just play the tune—he channeled it.

And as chaotic as the rest of the band is—Dolphy sounding like he’s melting into the fabric of reality, Ervin breaking every hard bop ceiling—Powell grounds the whole thing with this subtle gravitational pull. It’s stunning.

Same Tune, Two Earthquakes

Each of these versions is radically different, but neither feels careless. Each artist involved—Roach, Powell, Mingus himself—took the time to embody the nature and spirit of this piece. They didn’t just play “I’ll Remember April”; they meditated on it, exploded it, resurrected it.

Here’s the wildest part: I know I was listening to the same song. But these takes? They felt like two completely different pieces of music. That’s not just impressive, it’s disorienting in the most thrilling way.

Café Bohemia is all raw nerve and instinct, like jazz fighting for its life in a boxing ring. Antibes is a theatrical, kaleidoscopic manifesto with solos. Both are driven by Mingus’s refusal to play it safe. Both reveal just how much space one tune can contain if you’ve got the nerve to stretch it.

After hearing these, that old quote—“There’s jazz, and then there’s Mingus”—stopped sounding smug. It started sounding accurate.

Mingus didn’t interpret “I’ll Remember April.” He cracked it open, poured his entire brain into it, and gave us two versions that are less about remembering a month and more about never forgetting the man who dared to redefine it.

Skunk Anansie: The Band That Kicked Down the Britpop Door

2025/05/08Posted in TunageTagged blog, creative writing, daily exercise, music, rock, Skunk Anansie, Song Lyric Sunday, writing10 Comments

TUNAGE – SLS

I wasn’t looking for a new band. I was elbow-deep in grease, rebuilding an engine, when Skunk Anansie hit my ears — completely by accident. They were playing in the background, and something about the sound stopped me cold. Mid-wrench, I froze. The voice, the chaos, the nerve of it. As someone who’s always had a thing for rock bands fronted by women, I knew instantly this wasn’t background noise — this was a warning shot. I scrawled their name on a scrap of paper, went back to torquing bolts, and forgot about it. Years later, I found that note again. The rest? History.

Turns out, the band that hijacked my afternoon was in the middle of torching the status quo.

Formed in 1994, Skunk Anansie didn’t show up to blend in. While Britpop was navel-gazing and pretending it was revolutionary, Skunk Anansie was actually shaking things up — loud, political, unapologetically Black and queer. They weren’t the sound of the mainstream. They were the sound crashing through it.

Their debut album, Paranoid & Sunburnt, landed like a brick through a glass ceiling. It was blistering, furious, and full of truth that most people weren’t ready to hear. They didn’t write “Selling Jesus” and “Little Baby Swastikkka” for radio; they wrote them to confront, provoke, and awaken listeners.

But one track hit me harder than I expected: “Intellectualise My Blackness.”

As a Black man of a certain age in America, I felt that song. It screamed frustration, the tightrope walk between pride and exhaustion, the unspoken demand to constantly explain, justify, tone down, and translate your existence—to “intellectualize” something simply being who you are. The song doesn’t offer simple answers. It just screams the question we’re too often forced to answer: “Why do I need to prove my identity to you?”

It’s not just a powerful track. It’s personal.

And then there’s “I Can Dream” — the song that might’ve grabbed me all those years ago. It’s not about chasing dreams. It’s about drowning in them. Fantasies of power when the world keeps shutting you out. “I can dream that I’m someone else,” Skin snarls, and it’s not a wish — it’s a survival mechanism. That song doesn’t whisper. It breaks the silence wide open.

Which brings me to Skin herself. She’s not just the lead singer — she’s the force of nature steering the ship. A Black, openly gay woman with a voice like a controlled explosion and a stage presence that demands attention. She didn’t fit into the rock world’s mold — she shattered it. Watching her felt like watching someone fight for breath and win.

They called their sound “clit-rock,” because of course they did — loud, feminine, political, and deliberately hard to market. And they wore that label like armor.

Paranoid & Sunburnt wasn’t just a strong debut—it ripped the roof off what rock albums could be. It wasn’t sanitized, safe, or diluted. It was their truth, screamed at full volume. This album laid the groundwork for everything that followed: headlining Glastonbury as the first Black British-led act, performing for Mandela, sharing a stage with Pavarotti, and returning years later with 25LIVE@25 to remind everyone they never lost a step.

Skunk Anansie never asked for permission. They took up space, challenged everything, and demanded the world catch up. They’ll always be the band that made me put the wrench down — and feel something real.

Poor Old Henry’s Brilliant Post

2025/05/08Posted in ProseTagged Poor Old Henry, REBLOGLeave a comment

In a world that constantly demands we cram as much as possible into every single day, this post resonates deeply. It’s a reminder that sometimes, slowing down is the most productive thing we can do.

This – lifted from LinkedIn – deserves consideration for its wisdom

Caught in the Heavy

2025/05/08Posted in FictionTagged 3TC, creative writing, daily exercise, Fiction, FOWC, horror, Image Animation, Ragtag Daily Prompt, RDP, Short Stories, short-story, writing4 Comments

FICTION – FOWC, RDP, 3TC

Caught in the Heavy

The corridor stretched on like a memory he couldn’t escape—narrow, dim, damp with a cold that clung to the skin like breath on glass. Mildew, rusted metal, and aging wood tinged the air, a scent that settled into the lungs and whispered of long-forgotten places. Floorboards groaned beneath his boots, their brittle creaks echoing like old bones remembering how to hurt.

He stood in the middle of it all, unmoving. Not frozen by fear exactly—more like resignation. The kind that seeps in after the tenth mistake, the last apology, the moment you realize the story you’ve been living might never shift its ending. He used to think time would fix it. But time, he’d learned, doesn’t heal. It settles—like dust.

The walls pressed close with peeling wallpaper and old nail holes where lives once hung. He scanned them as if he might find his past nailed there, too. Maybe a younger version of himself in a photo frame, smiling with someone whose name he couldn’t say out loud anymore.

An unfortunate truth surfaced: he’d chosen this silence. No one forced him here. He pulled away. He locked the doors before anyone knocked. They called it being guarded—he called it survival.

On a crooked table sat a lone candlestick, melted to a stub. Its wax clung like a memory—dried, useless, but still intact. He reached for it absently, fingers brushing tarnished brass. Cold. Solid. Real. A reminder that even forgotten things still leave traces.

He wondered how long he’d been standing here. How long had he been waiting for the hallway to say something? But hallways don’t speak. They listen. They hold your silence for you until it grows too loud to ignore.

Everything around him felt heavy. His coat, soaked with damp air. His thoughts sagged with years of unanswered questions. Even his heartbeat felt labored, as if each thud carried the weight of something he refused to let go.

He closed his eyes and thought of the words he never said. The calls never returned. The glances he turned away from because he didn’t trust what he saw in them.

Regret was a slow grief, the kind you wear like skin. And the mind, cruel and calculating, was its favorite weapon. Not a blade, not a gun—just memory sharpened to a whisper that says, “this is who you really are,” when you least expect it.

Still, a thought rose unbidden through the noise—quiet, but firm:

We always try to overlook the past, because we can’t change it. But we forget the important factor about the past… the wisdom we gain from it.

He let the idea settle, warm against the cold inside him. Maybe that’s what he’d come here for. Not punishment. No escape. But understanding. A reckoning not with the pain itself, but with the lesson buried beneath it.

He didn’t move. Not because he couldn’t—but because this was the only place he could hear himself. This hallway wasn’t just a space. It was a mirror, a memory, a confessional.

A bulb overhead buzzed, casting him briefly in light—harsh, unflattering. His reflection in the warped glass at the far end looked like a man still mid-sentence, still caught between what he was and what he feared he’d never be.

Just enough light to prove he was still there.

Just enough to remind him that some corridors don’t lead out.
They lead in—and if you’re not careful, they never let you leave.

Wordless Wednesday – 05072025

2025/05/07Posted in ArtTagged AI Generated Images, photo editing, Wordless Wednesday3 Comments

ART – AI GENERATED IMAGE – CONCEPT ART

My submission for Hugh’s Views & News blog, Wordless Wednesday post.

Brand Recognition: Can We Still Trust It, or Is It Just a Fancy Lie?

2025/05/05Posted in The Daily'sTagged blogging, creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-1929, digital-marketing, life, marketing, The Daily's, writing5 Comments

Daily writing prompt

What are your favorite brands and why?

View all responses

DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

Remember when seeing a brand you recognized actually meant something? Like, Oh cool, this probably won’t fall apart in two days or set my house on fire. Those were the days.

Now? Just because you know the name doesn’t mean you should trust it. In fact, sometimes it’s a red flag.

Brand Recognition: From Badge of Honor to Marketing BS

Back in the day, brand recognition was something companies earned. They made good stuff, treated customers decently, and didn’t have massive lawsuits hanging over their heads (well, fewer at least). If you recognized the name, it was because they built it on trust.

Now? Recognition just means you’ve seen enough ads to burn the logo into your brain like a bad tattoo.

You’re not “trusting” a brand—you’re just exhausted into submission by their marketing budget.

Famous ≠ Trustworthy

Let’s be real. We all know brands that have gone full villain arc.

Facebook (sorry, Meta) is basically that shady guy from high school who “accidentally” sells your data and then gaslights you about it. Everyone knows the name. Fewer trust it.

Volkswagen was out here waving the green flag with “clean diesel” while secretly dumping emissions like a smoke-belching cartoon villain.

And Amazon? Sure, it delivers cat socks in four hours, but it’s also quietly crushing small businesses and treating warehouse workers like they’re disposable batteries.

Recognition? Yes. Trust? Eh.

The Great Quality Drop: Lower Standards, Higher Prices

Let’s talk about the elephant in the store aisle: the stuff you buy from big brands isn’t as good anymore.

Clothes pill after two washes. Appliances break before the warranty even expires. Laptops throttle themselves to death because someone decided thinner was more important than functional cooling. And don’t get us started on “fast fashion”—it’s basically clothing with the lifespan of a ripe banana.

Brands are cutting corners left and right. Thinner fabrics, cheaper materials, shorter life cycles—all while jacking up the prices because “inflation” or whatever excuse they’re using this quarter. They’re banking on the fact that you trust the label, not that you’ll notice the buttons are falling off in week two.

This isn’t nostalgia. It’s measurable. Customer reviews across the board have turned into quality control complaint sections. You used to get what you paid for. Now you get what the boardroom decided would maximize Q4 profits.

Why This Actually Matters (Yes, Even to You)

Every day, we’re bombarded with choices—products, apps, influencers selling weird tea. It’s overwhelming. So we use shortcuts, like “Hey, I’ve heard of this brand; it must be good.”

Spoiler: That shortcut is broken.

Brands know this. That’s why they spend millions making sure you remember them, not necessarily respect them. They want to win your trust before they’ve earned it—like a Tinder date who brings a resume but no personality.

So What Do We Trust Now?

Instead of falling for the shiny logo or catchy jingle, try this:

Transparency > Hype
Look for brands that actually show their work. Not the “inspiring mission” on the About page—real behind-the-scenes stuff. Think Patagonia, not PrettyLogoCo.
Reputation > Recognition
Forget who spent the most on ads. What are real people saying? Not influencers with discount codes—actual customers, with receipts and opinions.
Accountability > Apologies
Everyone messes up. The good brands admit it, fix it, and don’t hide behind a PR team with LinkedIn smiles.
Alignment > Loyalty
You don’t owe any brand lifelong devotion. If they start slipping, ghost them. You’re not married.

Indie Brands That Actually Walk the Walk

While the big-name brands are busy chasing stock prices and pumping out “limited edition” garbage, a bunch of smaller, independent brands are out here doing what the big guys used to do: making solid products, standing for something real, and not treating you like an easily manipulated click.

Here are a few indie brands worth knowing:

Public Goods – Clean, minimalist everyday basics. No wild claims, no obnoxious packaging—just good stuff made right.
ROKA – Eyewear and active gear that doesn’t fly off your face when you move. Designed by athletes, not some bored branding agency.
Darn Tough—Yes, socks. But these are Vermont-made, ridiculously durable, and backed by a lifetime guarantee. For socks, that’s commitment.
All Citizens – Men’s basics that don’t cost luxury prices or fall apart in a week. Also, ethically made. Imagine that.
Otherland – Candles that actually smell like what the label says and don’t choke you out with fake perfume. Chic, clean, and not trying too hard.

These brands don’t rely on recognition—they rely on reputation. They’re not screaming at you through Super Bowl ads. They’re quietly building trust by making things that last and treating customers like people, not data points.

The Bottom Line

Just because you know a brand doesn’t mean you should trust it. These days, recognition is more about repetition than reliability. Don’t let a logo make decisions for you.

Ask yourself:

Do they walk the talk?
Do they treat people (and the planet) like crap?
Do their products actually work, or just photograph well on Instagram?

Trust is earned. Logos are just fonts.

And if you’re tired of paying more for less, maybe it’s time to stop rewarding brands that think “good enough” is still good enough.

The Deprivation Chronicles: Tales from the Edge of Sleep and Sanity

2025/05/05Posted in FictionTagged creative non-fiction, creative writing, daily exercise, Fiction, flash fiction, MLMM, short-story, writing6 Comments

FICTION – MLMM #423

The darkness rolled in like it had something to prove. Real main-character energy. Clouds stacked overhead like they were about to drop the most dramatic breakup speech ever. The wind started howling—less “otherworldly whisper” and more “Karen demanding to speak to the manager of nature.” Windows rattled like they owed the wind money. Shutters flailed with the enthusiasm of someone who just realized they left the stove on.

The scent of rain filled the room, all ominous and moody, but of course—not a single drop. Just a tease. Rain was clearly ghosting the whole event.

A candle flickered in its blue glass holder, doing its best impression of ambience. It gave off an aura of “I tried, okay?”—like it had dreams once, but then it met grad school. Its flame danced like it had no rhythm but a lot of confidence, like that guy at weddings who thinks even the Electric Slide is freestyle.

He sat cross-legged in the middle of the room, surrounded by books stacked with the precision of someone deeply avoiding emotional responsibilities. It was less a cozy reading nook and more a literary panic fort. The spines practically shouted, “Look at us! We’re important! We’re unread!” Each story melted into the next until they formed a plot smoothie that tasted suspiciously like pretentiousness and unresolved metaphors.

Sleep tiptoed in like a cat with boundary issues. He was no longer in control—just a tired, passive spectator in a dream sponsored by confusion. The haze pulled him in gently, like a sentient weighted blanket with attachment issues.

Then it got weird.

He felt the warmth of her breath on his face. Comforting. Mysterious. And deeply concerning because, again, he lived outside of a romantic subplot. Who was this woman? Did she come with the house?

Her soft, wet lips pressed to his cheek—sweet, tender, and vaguely moist, like a warm fruit snack. He didn’t question it. Honestly, he didn’t want to know. A strand of hair brushed his brow with the precision of a motivational TikTok influencer wiping away his doubts and reminding him to hydrate.

He sank deeper. Into the story. Into the illusion. Into a pile of metaphors with no exit strategy. Reality became a suggestion. One he politely ignored.

Because sometimes, in the words of others, we somehow… somehow we find our own. And other times, we fall asleep halfway through a book and wake up with a paperback stuck to our cheek and a vague sense of accomplishment.

As the Inkwell Stirs

2025/05/05Posted in TunageTagged 3TC, creative writing, daily exercise, Elvis Costello, fantasy, Fiction, Morning Vibe, poetry, short-story, Tunage, writing7 Comments

PROSE – 3TC #MM48 – MORNING VIBE

Night lingers longer than it should, clinging to the edges of the world like a thought half-forgotten. It doesn’t go easily. The air is still, but not gentle—there’s a sharpness to it, the kind of chill that doesn’t announce itself. It pricks at the skin, slow and methodical, working its way in until your body shivers and you’re not sure when it started.

You finish your smoke. One last flick. The ember cuts through the dark like a dying star—brief, insignificant, but final. Somewhere out there, homes stir. The floors creak. Feet drag in patterns worn deep by repetition. The restless shuffle begins, zombie-like and directionless, following the scent of timer-brewed salvation. Coffee. The first small mercy of morning.

You sit by the window with a cup, warm in your hands, and watch the sky peel itself open. First the black, then the dull gun-metal, then the faintest shade of pale. The blue comes slowly, unsure of its welcome. Beneath it all, the horizon simmers—red, orange, brown—like coals that never fully went out. A silent ember of the night’s final stand, glowing under the weight of a world about to move again.

The inkwell stirs, shakes off its rust. Its lid lifts like a breath held too long. The quill taps, tentative at first, testing the moment. No plan, no script. Just rhythm. Just the need to begin.

You pour another cup. The clock says 5 a.m.

And somewhere between the sip and the silence, Elvis Costello’s “Radio, Radio” crackles through the speakers—too loud for the hour, perfect for the mood. The voice is defiant, bright, sharp as a match strike. You listen, because the lyrics don’t ask—they insist. The static fades beneath the beat. The world hasn’t spoken yet, but it’s no longer asleep.

Coffee, Heels, Ramen, Commutes, and the End of the World

2025/05/04Posted in FictionTagged books, creative writing, daily exercise, Fiction, FOWC, life, Ragtag Daily Prompt, random fiction, RDP, writing4 Comments

FICTION – FOWC & RDP

For most people, the holidays are a time for joy, togetherness, family, and other concepts pushed by commercials and overpriced airline tickets. Me? I got a new city, a new job, a new apartment, and not a single damn soul to split a drink with. A festive little cocktail of isolation, garnished with cold floors and ramen noodles.

Warm beer wasn’t a preference. It was apathy in a can. Every dollar was rationed like I was living in a bunker, waiting for a war that already came and went. All in service of building a “normal” life. Whatever that meant. Probably something people posted about with filters and hashtags while wondering how far they could lean out their windows without falling.

I stared out the window, coffee in hand—black, burnt, and bitter, just like me. Outside, the early morning parade of wage slaves stumbled toward their cars, moving like background actors in a post-apocalyptic sitcom. Another day of selling hours they’ll never get back. I lit a cigarette with my Zippo, watching the flame catch like it was lighting a fuse. It usually was.

Then she appeared. A brunette with an athlete’s build and a power suit tailored like a threat. She walked like the world owed her rent—somewhere between courtroom and catwalk. I didn’t know if it was lust, curiosity, or cabin fever talking, but after nine months of social starvation, she might as well have been a hallucination in heels.

I told myself I was meant to be a writer. The kind who bled truth onto paper and didn’t flinch. But instead, I was half-awake, smoking, and objectifying strangers. Not exactly Pulitzer material. So I turned back to my notebook. It was the only thing that didn’t feel fake. Just ink, paper, and whatever was left of my sanity—a loop I couldn’t seem to break.

Every morning, I wrote until 6:30. Then I’d drag myself into the shower and make the fifteen-minute commute that somehow always took an hour. Sixty minutes of bumper-to-bumper hostility. Everyone late, everyone pissed, everyone pretending their playlist made it okay. It was the same ritual every day—wake, write, shower, drive, repeat. Resist the urge to scream, loop through it again tomorrow.

My job? IT guy. The one people called after breaking things they didn’t understand, then blamed me for fixing too slowly. You could tell within thirty seconds I hated it. I didn’t try to hide it. Misery loves company. I hosted parties.

The paycheck kept the lights on, but not much else. I worked for a mid-tier company with big egos and small ideas. But lately, the rumor mill has been grinding overtime. Word was, we were getting bought out by some corporate giant with a thirst for blood and profit margins.

That meant an audit. Cue the chaos. People who spent the last six months tweeting through staff meetings were now sprinting to cover their asses. Watching them panic was the most fun I’d had in weeks. The hammer was coming, and I had the best seat in the house—coffee in hand, notebook open, waiting to see who’d get crushed first.

Corner Wisdom

2025/05/04Posted in The Daily'sTagged creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-1928, family, life, mental health, The Daily's, writing2 Comments

Daily writing prompt

List the people you admire and look to for advice…

View all responses

DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

There have been plenty of people in my life I’ve admired and turned to for advice—too many to name, if I’m being honest. So instead of listing names, I’ll talk about a time in my life.

When I was a young buck, there were a few older gentlemen who used to hang out by the market. These cats preached—not religion, but life. No dogma, just wisdom. I’d stop by with a bag of penny candy and listen in.

Some of them also posted up at the barbershop, dropping the same kind of knowledge. I always wanted to be that cool—calm, sharp, and respected, with something real to say.

I’d go home and tell my auntie and MiMi about those guys. They’d tell me to stay out of grown folks’ business—and let me know which ones to steer clear of. But most of those men knew MiMi, so I was safe. Nobody messed with MiMi’s kinfolk.

Looking back, I probably wasn’t getting the full picture—just a watered-down version of what they were really saying. But I appreciated every bit I was able to soak up. It stuck with me.

Though I admired those men and wanted to be like them, I never thought I’d get there. Then one day, at my niece’s wedding, I was cutting up with my brothers, just talking mess, making people laugh. This young lady nearby was cracking up at us. Then she said, “I hope I’m this cool when I get old.”

We were floored. We’re a lot of things—but cool? That one caught us off guard.

But I’ll always remember this: people will remember your example more than your advice.

The Face Beneath

2025/05/04Posted in ProseTagged creative writing, daily exercise, fantasy, Fiction, FOWC, Poems from Another Time, poetry, Prose, RDP, writing4 Comments

PROSE – FOWC & RDP

The dawn light was pale and useless—just a smear across the treetops, barely making it through the humidity. Everything was wet—the porch boards, the air, your skin, even your breath. It felt like you were breathing through cloth—heavy, damp cloth wrapped around your head.

You stood barefoot on the steps, a slice of watermelon dripping in your hand. It tasted like water and rot now, its sweetness gone. You spat into the grass and stared out at the treeline.

The forest didn’t move. Not even the leaves. It just watched.

You didn’t sleep. Not last night. Not really the night before. The dreams had stopped pretending to be dreams. They didn’t fade in the morning. They lingered in the corners of your vision and behind your ears, where the sound of whispering almost made sense.

You went out early. Needed to check the perimeter cameras. Needed to move. To feel the ground under your boots. That was the plan.

Instead, you wandered. The trail curved in a way it hadn’t before. You followed it. Past the markers. Past the thinning grass. And then it was just you and the dirt.

You nearly tripped over it. At first, just a glint of white in the soil. Bone, maybe. A rock. You crouched, brushed it off with the edge of your shirt. The shape took form fast.

A face.

Stone. Weathered. Cracked. Like it had been buried for years, forgotten. But the eye, just one, was too clean. Too precise. Like it had waited.

You stared at it for a long time. Tried to laugh. Couldn’t. You ran your fingers along the nose, the lips. Your hand trembled, but you didn’t stop.

It looked like you. Not exactly, but enough. The same line between the eyes. The same curve of the jaw. It had no expression, but somehow, it felt like it was judging you.

You left it there. Swore you would forget it.

But that night, you dreamed of breathing through stone. Heavy. Silent. Dreamed of dirt filling your mouth, your ears, your chest. Dreamed of a voice saying your name—not out loud, but from inside.

You woke up with soil under your fingernails.

You told yourself: it’s a statue. Left behind. Forgotten.

You told yourself: it’s just heat sickness, a little sleep deprivation.

You told yourself: don’t go back.

But the forest doesn’t let you decide things like that. Not anymore.

In the Voices of Thousands, We Become One

2025/05/03Posted in ProseTagged creative writing, daily exercise, Fiction, life, love, Moonwashed Weekly Prompt, Poems from Another Time, poetry, Prose, writing2 Comments

PROSE – MOONWASHED WEEKLY PROMPT

The sunlight fades. Darkness returns. I wait in the hush, breath held, heart steady. The Keepers stand ahead, already assembled—silent, still, and watchful. In their presence, I feel both small and eternal. Beneath my calm, something stirs—my soul, long quiet, surges suddenly. It’s not noise, not fear. It is truth moving through me like a forgotten rhythm remembered. A tremor rises from the deepest part of who I am, and with it comes a whisper: the light… the call… the quill. These were never external things. They lived within me all along. I had only forgotten how to listen.

In the distance, the sky bends to the horizon’s will. Waves of green light ripple across the dusk like an ancient truth brushing its fingers across the world. The field before me sparkles with dew, each blade of grass a tiny shard of clarity, reflecting the last breath of sunlight. This moment—caught between day and night, between silence and speech—feels sacred. My steed shifts beneath me, sensing the tension in my thoughts. He is anxious, ready. And maybe I am too. But readiness doesn’t feel like confidence. It feels like surrender. I tighten the reins—not to control, but to remind myself that I am here, that I have chosen this.

We ride—not toward victory, but toward purpose. Toward the gathering. Toward those who understand this strange calling to bear words like burdens, and gifts. We are not warriors. We are vessels. We carry stories that are older than we are, stories that ask to be told again, each time a little more fully. We move as one toward the collective, not to be absorbed, but to belong.

Now, surrounded by my brethren, I feel the resonance. Not noise. Harmony. Thousands of voices—not the same but aligned. My own words rise from that shared current, not louder, but clearer. I speak the truth I have wrestled with in the quiet corners of my mind.

Some call the rawness madness. They dismiss it as noise, as rambling. But those of us who live in this tension—we know better. We know that sometimes, madness is just meaning in disguise. That chaos, when held in the right hands, becomes clarity. To those who face the block, I say this: it is not your enemy. It is your mirror.

The block is doubt. Yes. But not the kind that breaks us. It is the kind that slows us down, that makes us ask why before we speak. It is the force that prevents arrogance, that checks ego. Doubt humbles us. It forces us to listen harder, to question deeper, to speak with care. It reminds us that this craft is not about being heard—it is about being understood.

And it is in that pause, that searching, where we grow. The block is not a wall. It is a threshold. When we understand that, it no longer stops us—it transforms us. That understanding, that acceptance, is how the block is shattered.

Oil & Jazz

2025/05/02Posted in PoetryTagged 3TC, creative writing, daily exercise, Poems from Another Time, poetry, writing11 Comments

POETRY – 3TC #MM44

The spotlight didn’t just touch her—
it carved her
from shadow and breath,
chiseling her presence
into something holy,
a gospel of flesh and color.

She stood
like a question no one dared ask,
wrapped in the hush
before a storm breaks.
Every inch of her
was painted tension—
raw, unresolved.

The mic—
old as regret,
bright as memory—
caught the room’s breath
and held it hostage.

This wasn’t performance.
This was ritual.
And the format was fire.

Her voice wasn’t smooth.
It cracked like old vinyl,
ran like rivers
under skin that remembers.
She didn’t reach for notes—
she pulled them
from places too deep for light.

Each syllable
was a wound opening slow.
Each phrase
a letter to the ones
who never came home.

She wasn’t singing.
She was driving
through the dark
with no headlights,
just instinct
and that bruised kind of faith
you only earn by surviving.

Behind her, the world dissolved—
a smear of color and motion,
like God forgot to finish the painting.
But she stayed in focus,
a woman-shaped flame
dancing at the edge of coming undone.

Her intent was not to be heard—
but to be felt.
To set fire
to the silence
you carry in your chest
and call it strength.

And somewhere,
between the grit of her voice
and the way the air held its breath,
you stopped being a listener.

You became the echo.

Mingus and Mitchell’s Rebellion

2025/05/01Posted in TunageTagged Charles Mingus, creative writing, daily exercise, Joni Mitchell, music, reviews, Throwback Thursday, Tunage, writing8 Comments

TUNAGE – THROWBACK THURSDAY

A jazz legend. A folk icon. One final act of creative defiance.

When Joni Mitchell dropped Mingus in 1979, it threw everyone for a loop. Critics scratched their heads; fans wondered where the dulcimer had gone. It didn’t sound like Blue, or Court and Spark, or anything even remotely close to her folk-pop reputation. And honestly? Joni didn’t care.

“This wasn’t just a genre crossover — it was a genre collision.”

This was Charles Mingus’s final project. ALS had stolen his ability to play, but not his impulse to push boundaries. So instead of retreating into legend, he reached out to Joni Mitchell — the queen of tunings, lyrics, and curveballs — and asked her to set words to some of his compositions. She said yes.

The result was a challenging listen — five spoken-word “raps,” interludes pulled from their conversations, woven between rich, angular jazz compositions. It was intimate, raw, and not made for background listening. You don’t just hear music — you hear mortality, mischief, and Mingus grumbling like a jazz prophet in a wheelchair.

“Mingus couldn’t play anymore, but he wasn’t done.”

Mitchell described their first meeting like this:

“The first time I saw his face it shone up at me with a joyous mischief… Charlie came by and pushed me in—‘sink or swim’—him laughing at me dog paddling around in the currents of black classical music.”

Translation: Mingus didn’t want a tribute. He wanted a partner with nerve.

The lineup was no joke:

Jaco Pastorius on bass (melting frets like butter)
Wayne Shorter on sax (bending the air around him)
Herbie Hancock on electric piano (tickling the keys like he invented them)
Peter Erskine and Don Alias holding down rhythm
Plus wolves — yes, wolves — on “The Wolf That Lives in Lindsey”

“She didn’t smooth the edges — she leaned into the mess.”

This isn’t dinner-party jazz. It’s messy, meandering, occasionally maddening. But it has guts. At one point, Mingus told her she was singing the wrong note.
She replied, “That note’s been square so long it’s hip again.”
Mingus, without missing a beat: “Put in your note, my note, and two grace notes too.”

That’s the whole album right there — layered, irreverent, and unbothered by convention.

From Skeptic to Fan

My journey into Joni Mitchell’s world didn’t start with a musical epiphany. It started with a woman — one who casually mentioned that Prince was a fan of Joni Mitchell. I made a face. Possibly several. My inner monologue said: Oh great, another misunderstood-genius folk artist I’m supposed to pretend to like.

But then I saw her vinyl collection.

Not a greatest-hits graveyard. Not recycled top 40 safe bets. Her shelves were full of weird, daring, intentional records — the kind people own because they listen, not just display. I started paying attention.

I got home, looked up Joni’s discography, and there it was: Mingus. Charles Mingus? With her? I hit play.

Then I heard him — the voice. The Maestro. Laughing, breathing, alive. For a second, I thought I’d stumbled onto a secret Mingus record.

Then the bass came in. And I paused.

This isn’t Mingus on bass. But the lines were liquid, wild.
Then the piano hit. I stopped. “Who’s tickling the keys like that?” I muttered. I knew that sound. Herbie Hancock.

This was no crossover fluff. This was a full-on creative risk with real players and real weight.

I stopped the record, called her, and said:
“Okay — what’s the Joni Mitchell starter kit?”

She gave it to me. Blue. Hejira. Court and Spark.

I listened. And suddenly, the whole picture came into focus.

I came back to Mingus later — and this time, I didn’t feel lost. I was ready. I didn’t need it to make sense immediately. I just needed to meet it where it was.

Critical Reception: Then and Now

Upon its release in 1979, Mingus got a lukewarm reception.
Stereo Review said it had “no improvisation.” Robert Christgau gave it a C+, calling it a “brave experiment” that didn’t quite succeed.

Folk fans missed the softness. Jazz critics missed Mingus’s hands. Everyone expected something different — and Mingus gave them none of it.

But over time, things changed. Today, Mingus is respected for what it is: bold, strange, and ahead of its time.

“After four decades, the deeply personal and experimental Mingus has grown into one of the most important titles in the Mitchell catalog.”
— Ron Hart, GRAMMY.com

Even those who played on it are reflecting differently now:

“It was and remains a brave project and statement… an essential piece of not only Joni’s library of music, but of American music in the late 1970s.”
— Peter Erskine, drummer on Mingus

Funny how time — and maybe a little patience — can change everything.

Final Word

Mingus isn’t cozy. It’s not an easy listen. It’s not even especially likable at first.

But it’s real.

Two artists — one dying, one evolving — making something on their own terms. No pandering. No hand-holding. Just music, conversation, and courage.

I started listening to Joni Mitchell because of a woman.
But I kept listening because Mingus didn’t try to win me over.
It made me meet it halfway.

And once I did, I never looked at music — or Mitchell — the same way again.

Maggot Brain: Where Beauty and Despair Collide (and Punch You in the Gut)

2025/05/01Posted in TunageTagged creative writing, daily exercise, Fiction, life, love, mental health, Song Lyric Sunday, Tunage, writing9 Comments

TUNAGE – SLS

Funkadelic’s Maggot Brain isn’t just a record — it’s a reckoning. Released in 1971, it captured the psychic temperature of a country unraveling. War abroad, decay at home, distrust in the air, and the so-called counterculture burning out in real time. Maggot Brain took all that noise, that grief, that disillusionment — and turned it into one of the most brutally honest LPs ever pressed.

It wasn’t neat. It wasn’t safe. It was spiritual, political, cynical, funky as hell, and deeply weird — like a sermon preached from the edge of a nervous breakdown.

Maggot Brain captured the attitude of the entire country within a single LP. There was literally a track that spoke for everyone. If you were angry, it had you. If you were confused, it held you. If you just wanted to dance your way through the end times, Funkadelic had you covered. Every track hit a different nerve, and none of them asked permission.

There are songs that groove hard (You and Your Folks, Me and My Folks), others that mock the stupidity of it all (Super Stupid), and ones that crack open a deeper existential dread (Wars of Armageddon). But all of it orbits the title track. Maggot Brain isn’t just the opener. It’s the altar. It’s the cry at the center of the storm.

Eddie Hazel doesn’t play Maggot Brain. He doesn’t even perform it in the traditional sense. He haunts it. Possesses it. Bleeds into it. And once it begins, you don’t get to be a casual listener anymore. You’re drafted. No warning. No warm-up. Just a single, ghost-drenched guitar note that slides into your chest like a whisper you weren’t supposed to hear.

It’s not loud. It’s not fast. It just is. And that’s more terrifying than any distortion pedal at full blast. Hazel creeps in like a rogue spirit — smooth, silent, uninvited — and by the time you realize what’s happening, you’re already in it, stripped of cool and composure, emotionally pantsed.

You don’t get a beat to grab onto. No vocals to decode. Just a guitar screaming in slow motion. It’s like standing in the middle of a storm you can’t see but definitely feel. The grief is palpable. The rage is buried just deep enough to make you nervous. And right when you think you’ve got it figured out, the damn thing shifts and you’re spiraling again. Welcome to Maggot Brain — cognitive dissonance with a six-string.

Because let’s be real: this song shouldn’t work. It’s ten minutes, mostly one instrument. No verse. No chorus. Not even a satisfying drop. But for ten minutes, Eddie Hazel demolishes every “rule” about what music is supposed to be, and you love him for it. Or maybe you hate him for making you love it. Either way, you’re in it.

And no, you don’t walk away saying, “cool solo, bro.” You walk away dazed, like you just remembered a dream you never had. Or like your soul got mugged, politely. This is the kind of music that picks a fight with your expectations and then hugs you while you cry.

I still remember the first time I heard it — in a smoke-filled room full of strangers pretending not to be high. No one talked. No one moved. We were all just… held. Not by the music, exactly, but by whatever was trying to speak through it. We didn’t share a moment. We survived one. And we were better for it, or at least quieter.

Hazel doesn’t “solo.” He confesses, and we are his priests. Every bend, every scream from those strings is a sin laid bare. And by the end of the song, we have no choice but to grant absolution. Not because we’re qualified, but because he earned it. Because whatever he was holding, he handed it to us. And in some strange, sacred transaction, we took it.

His playing doesn’t follow any tidy roadmap. It stumbles through grief and grace, melting down and pulling itself back together like a nervous breakdown that found religion. There are moments where you think he’s going to lose it entirely — and maybe he does. But somehow, that’s the point.

You want to make sense of it, but your brain is two steps behind the whole time. Because it’s pretty and ugly. Gentle and violent. Hopeful and hopeless. Your heart’s trying to lean in while your head’s going, “Are we okay??” That’s the dissonance. That’s the magic. That’s why it hits harder than any perfect pop chorus ever could.

And George Clinton, cosmic genius and probable chaos wizard, gave Hazel just one instruction: “Play like your mother just died.” Which is both tragic and kind of a dick move, but clearly — it worked. What came out wasn’t a song. It was a slow, spiritual detonation. Hazel didn’t perform grief — he offered it. Raw. Untuned. Unfiltered. The kind of thing most of us spend our lives trying not to feel.

The track never resolves. No big finale. No grand crescendo. Just a long fade into silence, like a memory slipping back under the surface. It’s not done with you — it’s just gone. Until the next time you’re reckless enough to press play.

And I wonder: for those ten minutes, did Eddie Hazel serve as a guide to enlightenment?
Not the neat, monk-on-a-mountain kind.
The messier kind. The gut-punch kind.
The kind that grabs you by the heart, shakes something loose, and leaves without saying a word.

Maggot Brain #479 on 2003 list

Quote of the Day – 05012025

2025/05/01Posted in Quote of the DayTagged Joseph Heller, QOTD, Quote of the Day, quotes4 Comments

In Every Breath, There’s Poetry

2025/04/30Posted in PoetryTagged creative writing, daily exercise, Daily Spur, Poems from Another Time, poetry, RDP, writing4 Comments

PROSE – NATIONAL POETRY MONTH

Today marks the end of National Poetry Month—a celebration we rarely celebrate yet live through daily. Every breath carries it. In a single line, past, present, and future meet. Poets give shape to that breath, making it something we can hold: a line that lingers, a memory that stirs, a feeling too deep for words but not for remembrance. And sometimes, it brings a smile—small, unspoken, but real.

It occurs to me that people are connected because of the stories we carry inside. One can’t help but notice the familiarity of movement and thought. On the surface, they appear to have nothing in common, random even. Yet, one can never tell what the truth of a person is: their passions, their fears, their deepest secrets. We witness those who lose their way, those who rise from the ashes, or the calamity of those who need to prove themselves to people who don’t even know their names—the ones who, like me, are numb.

Poetry

I’ve discovered that it is an entity of its own, composed of laughter, sorrow, joy, tears, family, the before, the in-between, the undiscovered; everything—all of it.

It’s a poem

Only YOU can write.

Wordless Wednesday – 04302025

2025/04/30Posted in ArtTagged AI Generated Images, Art, photo editing, Wordless WednesdayLeave a comment

ART – AI GENERATED IMAGE – CONCEPT ART

My submission for Hugh’s Views & News blog, Wordless Wednesday post.

The Quiet of the Moment

2025/04/29Posted in ProseTagged 3TC, creative writing, daily exercise, Fiction, love, Poems from Another Time, Prose, short-story, writing5 Comments

PROSE – 3TC #MM43

The morning began like it had countless times before—but today, it felt different. There was a stillness that lingered just a second longer. A hush in the air that made you listen more closely. The slow fade from darkness to grey had its own rhythm, its own muted pulse. It was that fragile aspect of dawn—neither night nor day—when everything feels suspended, as if the world is holding its breath.

You hear the familiar rush of cars below, life going about its business, unaware of the quiet reverence unfolding above. You step onto the terrace not out of habit, but out of something harder to name. A need, maybe. Or a yearning to be part of something unspoken. You don’t search for a view. You let your gaze fall into the sky, into nothing. Into everything.

Then the sound begins. The piano. Tentative at first, like a thought forming. Fingers move over ivory and black, finding phrases that don’t need words. The melody doesn’t push—it drifts. You close your eyes, and it takes you somewhere. Or perhaps it helps you retrieve something lost in the static of everyday: a gentleness, a memory, a forgotten truth.

You lift your bow, not to perform, but to respond. To join. Your hands move, not with effort but with instinct, the strings vibrating beneath your fingers like a second heartbeat. There’s no audience, no need. Just the sound, the sky, and you.

Then you see her.

She’s there, just below, wrapped in morning light, coffee in hand, eyes somewhere far away. She doesn’t notice you yet. She doesn’t have to. She’s inside the moment too. Something about her stillness makes the entire world feel composed. As if her quiet presence is the final note that makes the music whole.

You watch her for a beat, caught in the beauty of her being, the unforced motion of her simply existing. The way she breathes. The way the steam rises from her cup. How the breeze toys with the loose strand of her hair. It’s ordinary, yet nothing could be more profound.

And in that moment, I understood what beauty and love was—
and it didn’t have a damn thing to do with sex.

You play on. And she listens—without effort, without expectation. Just as you play—without reason, without resistance. The world outside blurs. Time bends. You’re no longer trying to capture the moment. You’re inside it. You are it.

And for once, that’s enough.

The Rocket Lawn-chair Chronicles

2025/04/29Posted in ChallengesTagged creative writing, daily exercise, humor, Random Thoughts, Weekend Writing Prompt, writing2 Comments

PROSE – WWP #412

Larry built a rocket from lawn chairs, soda bottles, and sheer idiocy. “NASA’s overrated,” he said, seconds before launch. It flew for two glorious seconds. Then gravity reminded him who’s boss. The neighbors applauded politely. Larry, dazed but grinning, shouted, “Next time: chickens for thrust!” He’s now banned from Home Depot.

Perforated Silence

2025/04/29Posted in PoetryTagged creative writing, daily exercise, FOWC, poem, poems, Poems from Another Time, poetry, RDP, writing10 Comments

POETRY – FOWC & RDP

Why do I bother to write?

Each word drifts into the void—unanswered, unheard.
They vanish like smoke—transparent. Gone.
Not because they’re sacred or encrypted in G-14 code—
but because no one’s looking. No one’s listening.

There was a time when that silenced me.

“Why speak?”
“No one listens.”
“Does it even matter?”

Do you matter?

Some days, that voice won.
It slid into my bones, curled behind my ribs, and whispered me into silence.
Told me I was just scribbling into darkness.
That my pain was recycled. That I was nothing new. Nothing needed.

But even then, something fought back.

A flicker. A breath that refused to die.

I had forgotten why I came here.
Lost the thread. Lost myself in fog.

But I remember now.

I write because I must.
To survive the war within.
Not the loud, cinematic kind—
but a silent, grinding, bloody war.
Fought in mirrors. In 3 a.m. thoughts.
In doubts that circle like vultures.
In guilt that clings like wet ash.

We don’t talk about it. Not really.
But we all feel it.
That private battlefield behind the eyes.
The endless rummage through our own wreckage,
hoping to find something still whole. Something still true.

I’m not here to prove I exist.
I’m here to understand why I keep breathing through the wreckage.
Not seeking praise—seeking peace.

To sift through ruins.
To bleed on the page.
To let the shards of memory cut me clean,
and the embers of regret burn what no longer serves me.

There is hope in the fire.

And I have not walked alone.
Some of you were there—watching, listening,
fighting your own quiet wars beside me.
We faced Lunacy like pilgrims, eyes wide, daring her to do her worst.

You stayed.

For that, I owe everything.

So I write.
Not because I’m whole—
but because I’m becoming.

Page after page.
Sentence after sentence.
Word after word.

Until the silence breaks.

And something holy rises
from the blood.

No Clock, No Rules, Just Coffee and Smokes

2025/04/28Posted in The Daily'sTagged creative writing, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-1922, The Daily's, writing13 Comments

Daily writing prompt

When do you feel most productive?

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DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

When I think about when I feel most productive these days, it’s not about some magical hour on the clock anymore.
When I worked, mornings were sacred—mostly because if I waited, life and other people’s drama would kick the door down.

Now that I’m retired, the rules have pretty much evaporated.
Productivity shows up whenever two things happen: I have a cup of strong java in one hand and a nice trail of smoke curling in the air. That’s it. That’s the list. Everything else — time of day, cosmic alignment, mood rings — is optional.

I also stopped setting up little landmines for myself, which I used to call “parameters”—imaginary rules about how things should look or be received. Now, I just build whatever I want without asking permission from the internal committee.
I’ve ditched worrying about the final product or whether someone will like it (spoiler: someone always doesn’t).
Now, I actually enjoy the process, like I should have all along.

In short: smoke, coffee, and the freedom to not give a damn about anything else.
Turns out, that’s the real productivity formula nobody bothered to put in the handbook.

Into the Khanverse: Rebuilding, Reshaping, and Saying Thanks

2025/04/28Posted in Prose, UncategorizedTagged blog, blogging, books, reading, writing2 Comments

A vintage typewriter on a cluttered desk, exploding into birds as books tower around it—chaos and creativity in motion.

PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT

As April wraps up, I just want to say: thank you.

This past month has been one of the best yet for the blog — new readers discovering the space, longtime followers sticking around and engaging more than ever. Your support, feedback, and energy mean a lot.

What’s Changing Moving Forward
I want to keep the momentum going and make things even better. Here’s what’s coming:

New Posting Schedule: I’ll be posting regularly to keep things consistent.
Expanded Topics: While writing stays front and center, I’ll add [new topics, if any, time travel].
Reader Spotlights: Once a month, I’ll feature a reader’s story, feedback, or question to keep the conversation two-way.

The Bigger Picture: Rebuilding the Khanverse
2025 is my year to rebuild and organize my online world. Over time, I’ve created a lot, and it’s gotten a little chaotic. My PTSD and OCD aren’t exactly helping, so it’s time to bring some order to the madness.

And yeah — I know “the Khanverse” sounds pretentious and extra. But if you’ve been reading me for a while, you already know… sometimes I’m both.

I’ve collected several domain names over the years (and kept paying for them), and it’s time to actually use them. Some content from this blog will shift to new homes:

The Howlin’ Inkwell: Home for The Knucklehead Report, From the Stoop, and other essays.
House of Tunage: Everything music-related — including responses to musical challenges. (If you spot a strange new face in your challenge, it’s probably me.)
Memoirs of Madness: A space for creative writing — fiction, poetry, prose, and writing challenge responses. Some visual art will eventually move to another site, but I’ll share my favorites here, like Wordless Wednesday.

I’m excited — and honestly relieved — to start untangling the web I’ve built. Thanks again for sticking with me through this ride. I think it’s going to make everything better for all of us.

See you soon,
Mangus

Quote of the Day – 04272025

2025/04/27Posted in Quote of the DayTagged QOTD, Quote of the Day, quotes, Seneca2 Comments

Chronoholics Anonymous: The Tragicomic Life of Mangus

2025/04/27Posted in The Daily'sTagged books, creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-1920, Fiction, life, science-fiction, The Daily's, time travel and writing, writing11 Comments

Daily writing prompt

What topics do you like to discuss?

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DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

Everyone knows me as the guy who talks about writing, music, and “normal” human things. But the truth is… I have a problem.

I’m addicted to time-travel discussions.

Seriously.

I even attend meetings now. It’s called Chronologically Confused Anonymous — CCA for short.

Every Tuesday night, a ragtag group of us gathers in a dusty church basement, folding chairs circling a busted time machine that someone swears they almost fixed with duct tape and tears.

We take turns.

“Hi, I’m Dave, and I can’t stop arguing about paradoxes on Reddit.” “Hi, Dave.”

“Thanks for letting me share.” “Thanks for sharing.”

“Hi, I’m Sheila, and I tried to marry a Victorian ghost.” “Hi, Sheila.”

“Thanks for letting me share.” “Thanks for sharing.”

“Hi, I’m Lou. My smartwatch accidentally started a Renaissance art movement.”

Then it’s my turn. All eyes on me. I sweat even though it’s cold enough inside to hang meat.

“Hi, I’m Mangus… and I spent four hours last night explaining why making a list of historical villains, rogues, and scoundrels could create catastrophic timeline disturbances.”

Polite applause. Sad nods.

“We’ve all been there.”

Someone hands me a cookie. Snickerdoodle. Proof there is still a God.

I try to stay normal. I talk about music, writing, and TV shows. I nod during conversations about taxes like a domesticated human.

But you mention “wormhole” within 30 feet of me? Boom.

Suddenly, I’m on the floor, diagramming alternate futures on napkins, losing friends like loose change.

Every week, I tell myself it’ll be different. I’ll drink coffee, smile politely, and resist.

Then it happens.

Usually, Carol, the group leader, casually drops “time loops” into the conversation.

Next thing you know, I’m dramatically unrolling laminated charts like a deranged, time-obsessed librarian.

“Here’s Joseph Bridgeman!” I shout, slamming down Nick Jones’s series about a guy emotionally wrecked by his attempts to fix the past.

“Here’s Quinn Black!” I declare, tossing Roy Huff’s “Seven Rules of Time Travel” across the table — a man rebooting his life like a glitchy video game.

“And if you’ll just admire these visual aids,” I say, shoving diagrams under noses — expertly crafted flowcharts warning of butterfly effects, grandfather paradoxes, and existential doom, backed up by The Time Machine, 11/22/63, Replay, and thirty-seven other carefully curated sources.

Someone tries to intervene. I shush them. “No touching the exhibits.”

Carol sighs. Stage 2 of my intervention: the Official List of Things You’re Not Supposed to Do While Time Traveling.

(Yes. We made a list.)

Rules like:

Don’t fall in love with someone from the past (because heartbreak and paradoxes are a double whammy).
Don’t leave your iPhone in the 1800s (unless you want steampunk TikTok).
Absolutely, under no circumstances, meet your past self (unless you enjoy cosmic implosions and punching your own face).

I nod furiously. Because mentally? I’ve broken all those rules. Repeatedly. For fun.

The real tragedy isn’t the napkin diagrams, or the laminated charts. It’s what you don’t see:

Friends invite me to barbecues, but I turn them down because I’m “in the middle of analyzing closed time-like curves.”

Family asked why I’m single, and I answered with a thirty-minute rant about temporal dislocation and the tragic love lives of doomed time travelers.

At some point, you realize you’re not just losing hours; you’re losing actual time you can’t ever get back. Irony, meet Mangus.

But it’s fine.

The first step is admitting you have a problem.

The second step is admitting you secretly keep a copy of Timeline by Michael Crichton under your pillow for “comfort reading.”

My recovery plan? It’s ambitious:

Only historical fiction without time travel for a month.
No arguing about causality unless provoked by at least three separate people.
Emergency cooldown word: “Quantumly.” If someone says it, I must cease all time-travel discourse immediately.

So yeah, I talk about writing and music and normal-person hobbies.

But deep down? I’m one poorly timed wormhole away from disappearing into a Victorian murder mystery or trying to stop the butterfly effect with a pool noodle.

Pray for me.

Carol asked if I could assemble a pamphlet for the new members. I wondered why she asked me to do this, but then remembered she was also a member of my writing circle.

For those of you who are building a time machine, the end of each semester in your local college town is a gold mine. Those kids just sit stuff on the curb. They look at you strangely and probably mock you, but they have no idea how hard it is to get quality parts these days.

Here is a working draft of the pamphlet:

Official Pamphlet for: Chronologically Confused Anonymous

Welcome, New Chronoholic!

Congratulations on taking the first step toward temporal responsibility. Your membership kit includes:

An emergency “Timeline Stability” manual (written in erasable ink)
A “Do Not Date Renaissance People,” bumper sticker
One vintage “I Survived a Causality Loop, and All I Got Was This Lousy T-shirt” shirt
A pocket-sized “Temporal Incident Report,” form

Remember, if you ever feel the urge to “just take a quick peek” at the future, call your sponsor immediately.

The 12 Steps of Chronoholics Anonymous

(because “one minute at a time” is too much pressure)

We admitted we were powerless over time travel — that our timelines had become unmanageable.
Came to believe that a Power greater than us (aka Physics) could restore us to sanity.
Made a decision to surrender our paradoxes and bootstrap loops to the universe’s natural laws.
Made a fearless moral inventory of all the pasts, presents, and futures we’ve accidentally wrecked.
Admitted to ourselves, another traveler, and at least one confused historian the exact nature of our timeline violations.
Were entirely ready to have Physics remove all defects of character — or at least stop us from trying to kill Hitler again.
Humbly asked Quantum Mechanics to correct our spontaneous wormhole-generating habits.
Made a list of all alternate versions of ourselves we had harmed, and became willing to apologize (even to the evil clones).
Made direct amends to such people wherever possible, unless doing so would collapse the multiverse.
Continued to take temporal inventory and, when we messed up, promptly set a fixed point.
Sought through meditation and time-loop journaling to improve our conscious contact with Present Moment Awareness.
Having had a paradox-free awakening, we tried to carry this message to other chocoholics and practice stable timeline maintenance in all our affairs.

Step 13: Learn from the Ancient Screw-Ups

Before Doc Brown, before The Continuum, before that one cousin who “totally invented” the flux capacitor at Burning Man, there were… Mythological Time Travelers.

King Kakudmi (Hindu Mythology): Time-travel sin: Visited Brahma for a matchmaking consult. Returned to Earth, and whoops, millennia had passed. Chronoholics Verdict: 5,000 years late to dinner = automatic probation.
Urashima Tarō (Japanese Folklore): Time-travel sin: Took a “short” vacation to an underwater palace. Opened a magic box. Aged 300 years instantly. Chronoholics’ Verdict: Violation of Rule #5: Never trust mysterious free vacations.
Oisín (Irish Mythology): Time-travel sin: Ran off with Niamh to Tír na nÓg, where no one ages. Came back, instantly turned into a 300-year-old man. Chronoholics Verdict: Violation of Rule #4: No cross-temporal romances.
The Dreamtime (Aboriginal Mythology): Time-travel sin: Existence where past, present, and future are all layered together. Basically, quantum physics without equations. Chronoholics’ Verdict: Legal loophole. Proceedings postponed indefinitely.
Rip Van Winkle (Okay, not myth, but classic): Time-travel sin: Took the longest nap in literary history. Woke up decades later, confused, broke, and trending on TikTok. Chronoholics Verdict: Violation of Rule #10: Always set your alarm clock.

Moral of the Story: If ancient myths teach us anything, it’s this: If someone offers you magical food, glowing objects, or a “harmless little trip” across realities, just say no. (Or at least make sure your insurance covers temporal anomalies.)

Slogans We Shout Over Lukewarm Coffee:

“Keep it Present!”
“Easy does it… unless you’re in a collapsing singularity.”
“Don’t time-jump before you’re ready.”
“One timeline at a time.”
“No paradox today — maybe tomorrow!”

The Time Traveler’s Serenity Prayer

Universe, grant me the serenity to accept the past I cannot change, the courage to alter the futures I must, and the wisdom to know when I’m creating a paradox.

Living one stable timeline at a time, enjoying the moment as it exists, accepting disruptions as part of cosmic design, taking this distorted continuum as it bends, not as I would have it, trusting that black holes, wormholes, and rogue agents are part of the plan.

I may be reasonably happy in this present, and supremely careful with all alternate versions of myself, forever and ever. Amen.

Important Reminder:

Time travel is a privilege, not a right. Misuse can cause spontaneous disappearance, angry alternate versions of yourself, or cosmic-level grounding.

Chronoholics Anonymous: Protecting the timeline, one grave decision at a time.

Perception Blue

2025/04/272025/04/27Posted in ProseTagged 3TC, creative writing, daily exercise, Poems from Another Time, Prose, SocS, writing9 Comments

PROSE – 3TC #MM40 & SoCS

The room softened into mist, and time slipped its tether. He saw only her, standing beneath a net of soft lights, her head bowed, lashes dipped in silver. She looked like a secret the universe had forgotten to keep.

He watched her, hardly breathing. There was a stillness about her, as if even the air itself had fallen into orbit around her glow.

Was she real? Or just a dream stitched out of loneliness and hope? He blinked, but she didn’t vanish.

He let himself linger, caught between wonder and a trembling kind of fear. She was too much—too bright, too distant, too beautiful in a way that had nothing to do with the glitter at her temples or the jewels at her brow.

And him? He was just a man standing in the dark, bones full of small regrets, heart patched with quiet scars.

For a moment, he hesitated, sinking into the pause, that heavy moment when you question if you are enough to even be seen. If you are worthy to stand before something so inexplicably beautiful.

His hands shook at his sides, almost imperceptibly. His voice, he feared, would betray him worse.

He closed his eyes and tried to listen — not to the noise of the room, but to the stubborn, fragile hope still alive inside him.

When he opened them, she was still there. Still breathing. Still real.

He stepped forward, heart battering against the cage of his ribs, and found the smallest, truest word:

“Hi,” he said, almost a prayer.

For half a second, the universe hung suspended. Then —

She lifted her head, and the faintest, brightest smile tugged at her lips.

“Hi,” she answered.

And in that small, electric exchange, the stars seemed to exhale, and the night leaned closer around them.

One for Mono, Two for Stereo

2025/04/27Posted in The Daily'sTagged creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-1921, Seether, The Daily's, writingLeave a comment

Daily writing prompt

What are your favorite emojis?

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DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

What are my favorite emojis?
None. Seriously — none.

People can’t even handle words anymore, and now we’re tossing little cartoon faces into the chaos. Half the time, they’re not listening; they’re just nodding like bobbleheads, waiting to drop some half-baked hot take.

Actual listening — staying quiet long enough to understand — is basically extinct. We replaced it with fake smiles, buzzwords, and “uh-huh” filler before someone cuts you off to argue about something you didn’t even say.

And emojis? Yeah, because nothing says I’m here for you like a crying-laughing face while you’re spilling your guts. Humanity, you’re doing amazing, sweetie.

Favorite emoji?
Middle finger.
One for mono. Two for stereo.

Things Found in the Fire

2025/04/27Posted in ProseTagged creative writing, daily exercise, FOWC, Poems from Another Time, Prose, Ragtag Daily Prompt, RDP, writingLeave a comment

PROSE – FOWC & RDP

The alley wasn’t picturesque, but it was honest. Cracked brick walls caught the last tired light of the day, holding it like a secret. She leaned against them, letting the roughness bite through the fabric of her shirt — a small reminder she was still here, still standing.

People always skipped places like this. Skipped the alleys, skipped the worn faces that carried too many losses. She used to believe that if she fought hard enough, worked long enough, she could save something — a home, a love, herself. She thought effort could outmatch entropy.

But slowly, we turn the page and walk away from everything. We worked so hard to save. Must we start all over and find another shoulder to lean on?

The question pressed into her like ash on skin. Maybe survival wasn’t about saving what was burning. Maybe it was about knowing when to let it burn. About sifting through the ashes for the pieces that could still hold weight.

The sun folded into the horizon, leaving behind the thick hum of a city settling into itself. She didn’t move quickly. She didn’t look back. Some fires you didn’t put out. Some things you simply let burn and walked away from — lighter, fiercer, more your own.

She stepped out of the alley and into the dusk, steady and unafraid, carrying only what survived the fire.

Quote of the Day – 04262025

2025/04/262025/04/26Posted in Quote of the DayTagged QOTD, Quote of the Day2 Comments

The Dishwashing Incident

2025/04/262025/04/26Posted in ChallengesTagged creative writing, daily exercise, Random Thoughts, Weekend Writing Prompt, writing4 Comments

CHALLENGE RESPONSE – WWP #394

She stood in the kitchen, wielding a wooden spoon like a magic wand. “You’ve done it again!” she bellowed, eyes wide. “You turned the dishwasher into a science experiment!” He peeked over the counter, wearing a saucepan as a helmet. “It was…for science.” Soap bubbles floated through the air like tiny traitors. She poked a bubble mid-sentence. “Science doesn’t berate its assistants!” He shrugged, bubbles clinging to his head. She sighed, plopped the spoon down, and grabbed a mop. “Next time, at least invent a self-cleaning floor.”

The Great Pigeon Siege

2025/04/26Posted in ChallengesTagged creative writing, daily exercise, Random Thoughts, Weekend Writing Prompt, writing5 Comments

CHALLENGE RESPONSE – WWP #396

Flashback Friday – 04252025

2025/04/25Posted in ChallengesTagged Fandango Flashback Friday, Random ThoughtsLeave a comment

CHALLENGE RESPONSE – FANDANGO’S FLASHBACK FRIDAY

This time last year, I was ill, so my posts were pretty lame. But here they go

Poem of the Day – 04252024

Quote of the Day – 04252024

How to Lose, Fight, and Write Anyway

2025/04/252025/04/25Posted in The Daily'sTagged blog, blogging, creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-1919, life, The Daily's, writer's life, writing12 Comments

Daily writing prompt

When is the last time you took a risk? How did it work out?

View all responses

DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

The last time I took a real risk, I didn’t jump out of a plane—or onto one with three Camel cigarettes, a dime, a suit a size too small, and a half-whispered prayer. You know the kind of move you make when desperation’s gnawing at your ribs and pride’s already dead.
No, I did something worse.
I posted my writing online.
Voluntarily.
Like a lunatic begging for public execution, dragging my entire bloodline down with me.
Go ahead. Pile up the rocks. Light the torches.
Here comes some fool named Mangus Khan—half dead from alcohol withdrawal, twitching on caffeine, clinging to bad decisions and a blog password like they’re body armor.

You’re not just tossing words into the void—you’re stepping out from cover, wide open, daring every hidden sniper in your own mind to take the shot.
The ground gives out beneath you, and suddenly you’re swallowed by a wraith screaming, “Disrespectful twit!”
PTSD flares up like a tripwire.
You can’t do that. You’ve got to stay safe. You can’t expose yourself like that.
Then comes the voice—the one that always shows up.
The one that tells you, “You’re a fraud, that you’re embarrassing yourself, that no one asked for this, and no one cares.”
It’s all there. Waiting.
It feels less like posting and more like being a fugitive, hunted for the crime of being seen.

Self-doubt is a masked assassin, cutting you a thousand times and spraying iodine on every wound.
You feel the burn every time you open a document. Some days, it’s enough to make you scream.
And yet—there’s something stubborn. Something deep down.
A fire that refuses to die, screaming, “Come on! Face me!”
Still swinging, no matter how much shame you pour on it.
It spits back at the doubt.
It says: Maybe this isn’t perfect. Maybe it’s not even good. But it’s mine. And it’s real.
The fight never ends. Some days you lose. Some days you swing back harder.
But if you’re lucky, you stop waiting for the permission slip that’s never coming—and you start writing anyway.

I clicked the button.
Not because I felt brave. Not because I silenced the voices.
I clicked it because if I didn’t, they would win.
It wasn’t some Hollywood moment. No slow clap. No flood of praise.
Just the hollow thud of silence at first.
I startled like I’d been caught doing something I wasn’t supposed to.
What was that?
Could it be?
A sound. A signal. A crack in the wall I thought would never break.
If you’re lucky—and if your courage holds—you hear something.
A whisper from the ether.
I see you.

I’m not fearless now. I never will be.
To think otherwise is the act of a fool.
I am a great many things, but a fool isn’t one of them.
Every time I sit down to write, Doubt whispers sweet nothings in my ear, stroking my hair like an old lover.
I moan at the comfort of it. Yes, that’s it. A little to the left.
But I know something she doesn’t:
I made it through once.
I can do it again.
Sentence after sentence.
And that’s enough.

The outcome? Unknown to me.
It’s entirely up to you.

One thing’s certain:
I am Mangus Khan.
And I write the Memoirs of Madness.

T. S. Eliot’s Cold, Snobby Guide to Poetry (Now with 90% More Dead Guys)

2025/04/252025/04/24Posted in ProseTagged creative writing, daily exercise, Java & Verse, Reena S Xploration Challenge, T.S. Eliot, writing10 Comments

ESSAY – JAVA & VERSE

What if greatness in poetry isn’t about your feelings, but your ability to disappear? T. S. Eliot thought so. And he said it with the intellectual force of a literary wrecking ball.

The Essay That Keeps Haunting Me

An English professor once handed me a stack of literary theories, as if they were polite interventions. I was emotionally raw, so naturally, I assumed the worst. One of the texts was T. S. Eliot’s Tradition and the Individual Talent—a dense, icy essay I’ve come back to over the years, especially when I start thinking my writing is getting good.

Spoiler: Eliot never lets me feel good for long.

Tradition: Now with 90% More Dead Guys

Eliot opens by dragging the English for treating “tradition” as a brag or an excuse to never change. He’s not here for that. For him, tradition isn’t a safety blanket—it’s literary CrossFit. You don’t inherit it; you earn it. You read so much Dante and Shakespeare that their ghosts start charging rent in your brain. That’s Eliot’s idea of a “historical sense.”

“The historical sense involves a perception, not only of the pastness of the past, but of its presence.”

If you’re not writing while haunted by the canon, Eliot’s judging you from his perch in the great library in the sky.

Your Poem Isn’t That Special

Next, Eliot drops the literary version of “you didn’t build that.” Your new poem? Cute. But it only matters in relation to what came before it. Tradition isn’t a one-way street—it’s a remix. Every time you drop a new metaphor, the canon must make room, like a snobby dinner party where you just showed up in a hoodie. The past adjusts—but only if your work is good enough to make it flinch.

Kill Your Ego, Save the Poem

Now for Eliot’s hottest take: great poetry isn’t about you. It’s not your diary entry. It’s not your breakup in verse. The poet should be like platinum in a chemical reaction—an invisible catalyst. You cause the emotional explosion, but leave no trace of yourself.

“The progress of an artist is a continual self-sacrifice, a continual extinction of personality.”

Your angst? Irrelevant. Your personality? A liability. Eliot’s poetic hero is the anti-snowflake: invisible, ego-free, and built like a Greek grammar book.

He’s not just dunking on confessional poets—he’s challenging the cult of authenticity. Writing as therapy? Valid. Writing as art? That’s a different game. Great poetry doesn’t wallow in feeling; it refines it. And yes, it takes someone deeply emotional to understand the need to flee from emotion. Cue the mic drop.

Feelings? Meh.

Eliot closes by swinging at sincerity. Feeling something doesn’t mean you’ve written something worth reading. You can mean every word and still write a dud.

“Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion.”

The emotion belongs to the poem, not the poet. So if you’re writing about your fifth breakup in six months, maybe skip the sad-girl sonnet and channel Ovid’s exile or the fall of Rome instead. Just a thought.

Final Thoughts: Eliot vs. Instagram Poets

In a world obsessed with “finding your voice” and “speaking your truth,” Eliot reads like a literary curmudgeon with a PhD in gatekeeping. But there’s a weird freedom in his elitism. He doesn’t want you to be original—he wants you to be excellent. That means burying your ego, studying like a maniac, and writing like you’ve time-traveled through the entire Western canon.

So, don’t ask, “How do I feel next time you write?” Ask, “Would this make Virgil roll over in his grave?”

And if that sounds exhausting, good. Eliot didn’t write for quitters. He wrote for ghosts with PhDs.

This post was written for Reena’s Xploration Challenge #378

“True Love Way” — Because Apparently Love Is a Muddy, Slow-Dragging Southern Funeral

2025/04/252025/04/24Posted in TunageTagged creative writing, daily exercise, Kings of Leon, Morning Vibe, Tunage, writing10 Comments

MORNING VIBE – THURSDAY INSPIRATION #227

You ever hear a song and think, “Wow, this really makes me want to lay in a ditch and feel things”? Enter: “True Love Way” by Kings of Leon, the musical equivalent of watching the rainfall on a rusted-out pickup truck while chain-smoking Marlboros and remembering a girl who ghosted you in 2006.

Let’s be honest—this track didn’t show up to party. It showed up to sulk on the porch at 2 a.m., crying into the void while a symbolic tumbleweed rolls by… in the middle of your city apartment courtyard. Cigarettes smolder in an overstuffed ashtray like tiny, bitter torches of regret, and the acrid stench of burning filters assaults your senses like a personal attack. Your dog and your cat sit nearby, silently judging you—united for the first time in weeks by their mutual disappointment in your life choices.

The vibe? Sluggish Southern heartbreak, dragged across gravel and dipped in bourbon. The tempo moves like it’s legally not allowed to go over 25 BPM. Caleb Followill’s voice sounds like he gargled sandpaper and emotion for three days straight—so pretty on brand.

The lyrics are vague enough to mean everything and nothing, which is perfect for when you’re too emotionally exhausted to explain what you’re feeling, so you just say, “this song gets it” and stare at the wall.

“True Love Way” doesn’t hold your hand through heartbreak. It drags you by the collar through a swamp of longing, stares deep into your soul, and says, “Yeah… you do still miss her.”

So naturally, once you’ve hit emotional rock bottom, it’s time to switch to “Molly’s Chambers.” Because if you’re going to wallow in your feelings, you might as well wallow while dancing like a drunken tumbleweed in boots that don’t fit anymore.

You’re out there on the porch, hips moving like you’re being exorcised, spinning under a streetlight like a sad little moth. And now your neighbor’s lights flick on. Curtains rustle. There’s Mr. Patel, confused. There’s Mrs. Johnson, concerned. They’re all watching—but they say nothing. Because they feel your pain. Or possibly they’re filming you. It’s unclear.

And let’s not forget: Mrs. Johnson is absolutely going to show up at your door at 6:47 a.m. with a basket of “feel-good muffins,” as if carbs can fix whatever’s going on with you emotionally (which, let’s be honest, they absolutely can). Because apparently, octogenarians don’t sleep. They just hover near windows like maternal ghosts waiting to pounce with baked goods and unsolicited life advice.

Introducing: Emotional Support Carbs™
The real MVPs of any midnight breakdown. Move over therapy dogs—there’s a new comfort system in town and it’s made entirely of banana bread and passive-aggressive neighborly concern.

Picture this:

You’re standing on your porch, barefoot, emotionally disheveled, probably wearing a bathrobe that hasn’t known joy since 2019. the dog looks embarrassed for you, and “Molly’s Chambers” is blasting like it’s a personal exorcism. Then—ding dong—it happens.

Mrs. Johnson, 84 years old and running on pure fiber and divine intuition, shows up with a basket lined in a gingham cloth. Inside? Emotional Support Carbs.

Pumpkin bread.
Three snickerdoodles and a judgmental smile.
A muffin so dry it absorbs your tears.
A laminated Bible verse tucked under the scones, just in case.

She doesn’t say a word. She just looks at you, nods in a way that says, “I, too, once had a porch breakdown,” and vanishes into the mist like some sort of suburban baked-goods cryptid.

This is your life now. And honestly? You earned that muffin.

This is the morning vibe …

The Ridge Where Silence Waits

2025/04/24Posted in ProseTagged creative writing, daily exercise, fantasy, Fiction, FOWC, Poems from Another Time, poetry, Prose, Ragtag Daily Prompt, RDP, short-story, writing2 Comments

PROSE – FOWC & RDP

Dawn unfolds like a hesitant prayer, its soft light unspooling over the bones of the hills. The stars, one by one, retreat into the folds of daylight, as though ashamed of what they bore witness to through the long, silent hours. Still, I remain at the crest of the ridge, a lone silhouette etched against the slow bloom of morning. I have not slept. I could not—not with the weight of forgotten omens pressing down on me like ancient armor.

The saddle beneath me creaks as I shift, leather complaining in a language only the wind can answer. My limbs ache, not just from the vigil, but from something deeper—an unraveling. I am more wreck than man, hollowed by longing and the quiet violence of loss. My voice, once sure, now drifts somewhere in the ether, unreachable. Even if I could summon the will to speak, I no longer trust the shape of my own words.

Below, the keepers stir. I hear the sharp clash of their voices, rising in petty squabble over rituals they no longer question. Their movements are brisk, their concerns tethered to earth and duty. I do not begrudge them this. But I cannot descend, not yet. I am no longer bound to the cadence of the living. Not while something in me still listens for a call that may never come again.

For I have lost the vision.

Once, it came to me like thunder through a cathedral—blinding, holy, terrible in its beauty. It lit my mind with purpose, set my hands aflame with creation. But that light has dimmed, flickered, vanished. Last night it sang, soft and clear through the bones of the wind. Now it is gone, and in its place: silence, vast and unrelenting.

I reach inward, desperate for a glimmer, a fragment of that divine echo, but find only echoes of my own fear. My compass is shattered. My quill is waiting in some distant place I no longer know how to reach. The path to it—if it still exists—has been swallowed by mist and regret.

And yet, there is no peace in surrender. Only the chill of a fate whispered by unseen mouths, breath like ice on the back of my neck. They murmur not of endings, but of reckonings. Of a soul unmoored of a promise made long ago beneath stranger skies.

Perhaps this is what becoming untethered feels like—not a fall, but a float. Not a silence, but a waiting breath.

The ridge hums beneath me, and I close my eyes.

If the light returns, I will know it by the way the wind shifts. I will feel it in the marrow. I will rise, not with certainty, but with faith scorched into my bones like forgotten scripture.

But until then, I remain.
A shadow made flesh.
A watcher at the edge of memory.
A ghost, listening for the sound of his own return.

The Lip, the Dirt, and the Question That Won’t Die

2025/04/24Posted in The Daily'sTagged creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-1918, The Daily's, writing4 Comments

Daily writing prompt

Describe a risk you took that you do not regret.

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DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

I can’t believe WordPress repeatedly asks the same question: “Describe a risk you took that you do not regret.” But this post is still valid, because it was the catalyst for so much more.

In “Boy! What’s that Sh** on your lip, dirt?” I recount my first day in the military, highlighting my challenges and fears. Despite the repetitive nature of the prompt, the story remains relevant as it marks the beginning of a transformative journey.

So, while WordPress may be stuck in a loop, this post is a testament to the enduring power of personal growth.

Boy! What’s that Sh** on your lip, dirt?

Bark and Blood

2025/04/24Posted in ProseTagged creative writing, daily exercise, Poems from Another Time, Weekend Writing Prompt, writingLeave a comment

PROSE – WWP #395

Every morning, Elías stood before the vow tree—the one with his father’s face etched in bark. Its eyes never moved, but somehow, it watched. When Elías broke a promise, the mouth curled in silent disapproval. He learned to speak carefully, act deliberately. To commit was no longer abstract. It was rooted, ancient, and watching. The tree remembered. And it never forgave.

The Inheritance of Purple

2025/04/232025/04/23Posted in PoetryTagged creative writing, daily exercise, Moonwashed Weekly Prompt, Poems from Another Time, poetry, writing12 Comments

POETRY – GROWTH

They say purple was born
from crushed murex shells—
a thousand lives
for a single thread
worthy of gods.

It was never meant for the ordinary.
Worn by emperors,
draped on deities,
spoken only in whispers
or prayers.

But you—
you carry it quiet
in the marrow,
like something ancient remembered
not with words,
but with ache.

Growth, in purple,
is not soft.
It is ceremonial.
A coronation no one sees—
a crown of silence,
not gold.

It is the color of trials,
of nights that stretch too long
and still end in morning.
Of scars turned sacred
and stories no longer told
for approval.

You are not blooming.
You are being
enthroned.

In every slow step,
every time you chose stillness
over spectacle,
you stitched yourself
in the lineage
of the violet divine.

And when you sit now,
not reaching—
just radiating—
it is not peace you’ve found,
but power
disguised as peace.

This piece was written for Eugi’s Moonwashed Weekly Prompts and Weekly Prompts Wednesday

Wordless Wednesday – 04232025

2025/04/23Posted in ArtTagged AI Generated Images, Art, Art Therapy, Wordless Wednesday2 Comments

ART – AI GENERATED IMAGE – CONCEPT ART

My submission for Hugh’s Views & News blog, Wordless Wednesday post.

Strategic Withdrawal

2025/04/22Posted in The Daily'sTagged creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-1916, family, Fiction, life, relationships, The Daily's, writing10 Comments

Daily writing prompt

What makes you nervous?

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DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE – FICTION

I never meant for things to turn out like this. Not that I had a plan—God forbid I be that organized. Life just… happened. Like a lopsided bundt cake with all the chocolate chips sunk to the bottom. Turns out you’re supposed to mix them into the batter. Would’ve been good to know before I tried to impress Rachel Largo—the most beautiful girl in three counties, maybe the entire eastern seaboard under the right lighting.

I didn’t check the expiration dates either. The cake tasted like regret and powdered disappointment. Rachel smiled and said it was “very creative,” which is high school girl code for this is awful, but I admire the attempt. She took one bite, chewed like she was processing trauma, and excused herself to “call her mom”—translation: you’ll never see me again.

I stood there in my mom’s kitchen, holding a dented bundt pan, wondering what exactly had led me to that moment. And I realized maybe I was just that guy. Not the one who gets the girl—just the one who learns not to bake without instructions.

Most of my life’s been like that. Spent in service to others. Not because I’m noble. I wasn’t raised by monks. No lightning bolt of altruism hit me over a bowl of cereal. If anything, I swore I wouldn’t end up outside a convenience store with a paper bag and a cigarette, crashing on my mother’s couch.

Spoiler: I did. More than once.

But service? That just kind of… happened. One favor turned into another. One crisis became two. Suddenly people were looking at me like I had answers. Like I was someone you could lean on. A functional adult. Which was optimistic, honestly.

Do I regret it? No. Do I feel good about it? Also no. I made mistakes—some loud and theatrical, others slow and corrosive. The loud ones make for stories. The quiet ones wear you down. And despite my best efforts and my many failures—usually delivered in the same week—it all still feels like it adds up to… nothing.

And that’s the part that really sticks. I might be the only one who thinks that. Everyone else moved on. I’m still here, counting ghosts.

I was in the Philly airport once when I saw her. The girl in uniform. Back then we traveled in dress—polished boots, pressed collars, trying to look like recruitment posters. She had that look: sharp, composed, untouchable. Every guy nearby tried to catch her attention. I didn’t bother. I wasn’t nervous—I was realistic. Women like her didn’t talk to guys like me. We carried bags. Maybe threw a punch if needed. But conversation? That wasn’t in the playbook.

Then the flight got canceled.

Instead of sleeping on a chair under fluorescent lights, they put us up in a hotel. Which meant one thing: party. Some guy who needed attention like oxygen threw a room bash together. I wasn’t old enough to buy beer, but I’d been doing it long enough to qualify as a supplier. I grabbed a few six-packs and slipped outside to the pool, which was closed for the season—quiet, gated, empty.

That’s where she found me.

Out of uniform, hoodie up, hair tied back. She looked more real than before. She spotted me, gave a half-smile, and walked over.

“You hiding too?” she asked.

“Strategic withdrawal,” I said.

She laughed. Sat down next to me. I handed her a beer.

We didn’t talk about much—music, food, home. No names. No stories. Just two strangers in the quiet, trading small things. But for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel like background noise. I felt seen.

That should’ve been it. A memory, sealed off and fading. But a few years later, after deployment, I was sitting on an exam table at the clinic, in a paper gown, waiting for some overworked doc to clear me.

The door opened.

Rachel walked in.

Yes, that Rachel. Bundt cake Rachel.

And behind her? The nurse?

The girl from the pool.

I didn’t know whether to laugh, panic, or check if I was still in the desert hallucinating. Rachel was flipping through my chart. The nurse was wrapping a cuff around my arm like this was just another Tuesday.

And then she asked, casually, “How’ve you been sleeping?”

Like we hadn’t shared a beer under dead stars. Like we hadn’t sat together in silence while the world spun out behind us.

I opened my mouth. Lied like I’d been trained to.

“Sleeping fine,” I said.

But the truth?

I would never sleep again.

Swallowed, then Speak

2025/04/21Posted in PoetryTagged creative writing, daily exercise, FOWC, life, love, poem, Poems from Another Time, poetry, Ragtag Daily Prompt, RDP, writing6 Comments

POETRY – DEFIANCE

What is the moment when I scream into silence?

But I’m silent, really—
no sound, no voice,
just a mouth stretched wide around something too big to name.
My eyes glaze—not with calm, but with shock.
A thin film of disbelief over everything.
My heart races.
I’m wrecked like a tsunami with no quarter,
flung breathless against the shore.

It’s not quiet.
Not truly.
It’s a silence that throbs,
that undresses me,
strips me down to the rawest nerve.

Why?
Am I afraid to speak what I feel?
I push it down until I crack.
Swallow the pain, the misery, the grief—
like that’s what strength is.
As if silence means control.

But inside, it never stops screaming.

I’ve built a prison with no walls.
I’m both prisoner and warden.
Every emotion I swallow—another brick.
My tears, the mortar.
The longer I hold on,
the harder the mortar sets.

Letting go should be simple.
But I can’t.
I won’t.
I have to be strong.
Another brick.

The chains tear into me.
I pull and pull,
begging for clemency I know isn’t coming.
Skin breaks.
Something deeper frays.
Still I pull.
Still I scream.
Another brick.
How did I get here?

I slump into the abyss of agony.
Its waves strangely soft,
almost soothing.
The ghosts of my past wrap around me,
pulling me under.

Is this peace?
Is this what I deserve?

No.

I scream NOOOOO!!!
A final act of defiance.
A rupture in the silence.
A crack in the wall.

I scream again—louder.
Louder than the pain.
Louder than the ghosts.
Louder than everything that told me to stay quiet.

The final word is no longer a whisper.
The silence and I become one.
And we finally—

SPEAK.

Quote of the Day – 04212025

2025/04/21Posted in Quote of the DayTagged Franz Kafka, QOTD, Quote of the Day, quotesLeave a comment

Drives, Tea, and Other Stories of Unraveling Rituals

2025/04/21Posted in The Daily'sTagged creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-1915, The Daily's, writing8 Comments

Daily writing prompt

How do you unwind after a demanding day?

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DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

I’ve never had a set way to unwind. It depends on the day. A long drive helps—something about being on the highway, the hypnotic rhythm of the road. It pulls the weight off your shoulders. You end up having a conversation with yourself, and for once, you actually listen.

Other days, it’s music and a large cup of coffee. You sit back and let the artist take you on a ten-minute adventure. When the album’s good, each track feels like a new chapter in a bigger story. What’s beautiful is that the story shifts every time you hear it. Same songs, different journey.

There are moments when I turn to tea. I use the Chinese tea ceremony. It’s a slow, methodical process—but that’s what makes it calming. There’s peace in the ritual, and the tea is always worth it. Some of what I have is aged, so there’s history in every sip. For me, the experience has a quiet, mystical quality.

And at times, I just pick up a pen and start scribbling. Maybe a story begins to take shape, or a sketch forms. I let myself drift into the corners of my mind to see what’s there. On a good day, I snap a few photos and fold them into whatever narrative is growing with each stroke of the pen.

Whatever the method, I do my best to find peace.

REBLOG: CaptureTutor

2025/04/21Posted in ProseTagged Capture Tutor, Composition, Photography, Photography Tips, REBLOGLeave a comment

REBLOG – PHOTOGRAPHY TIPS

I spent a lot of time taking crappy photos before I got lucky and snapped a good one—total fluke. That’s when I realized I had no idea what actually made a photo work. If that sounds familiar, this post is for you. Whether you’re just starting out or you’ve been at it for years and need a refresher, it breaks down simple, practical composition tips—like leading lines, framing, and the Rule of Thirds—that actually make your shots look better. Doesn’t matter if you’re shooting with a phone or a DSLR. Check it out—you’ll be surprised how much a few small changes can improve your photos.

Composition Hacks: How to Instantly Improve Your Photos

Ego, Snacks, and the Search for Peace

2025/04/20Posted in ProseTagged blogging, creative writing, daily exercise, life, mental health, poetry, Sunday Poser, wisdom, writing10 Comments

PROSE – REFLECTION – SUNDAY POSER #230

At my core? Still me. Still sarcastic. Still curious. Still low-key allergic to group think and people who say “per my last email.” But life—especially this past year—shifted something in me. A life-altering moment has a way of stripping you down to the truth, whether you’re ready or not.

It made me realize I’ve been sitting on a set of gifts I’ve treated like party tricks. I can do more. I should do more. Sure, I could keep yelling into the void about the uncultured swine running the world (still baffled by how that happened). And if I accidentally handed them the keys somewhere along the way, then yeah—I’ve got some things to atone for. Maybe even finish the time machine in the basement.

But mostly, I’ve just changed in the way that matters: I’ve started trying. Less coasting, more choosing. Less needing to be right, more needing to be honest.

Wisdom? Not exactly my department. I’ll never be that guy. Never been that smart, and I’m okay with that. What I am is honest enough to admit I’m a deeply flawed man. Whatever good I carry, I got from my mother. The rest is a work in progress.

Marcus Aurelius said, “Waste no more time arguing what a good man should be. Be one.” I’m trying. Some days better than others. And like in Sufism, where they speak of the nafs—the lower ego—it’s a constant fight. Not to eliminate your ego, but to tame it. To bring it into balance. Peace doesn’t come from pretending to be pure—it comes from wrestling with your own chaos and not letting it win.

And honestly? If King Solomon—the wisest man to ever live—couldn’t get it all right…

I think I’m good.

Chronicles of a Social Media Peepaw

2025/04/20Posted in The Daily'sTagged blogging, creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-1914, life, mental health, social-media, The Daily's, writingLeave a comment

Daily writing prompt

How do you use social media?

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DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

Episode 1: Apparently, I’m “Doing It Wrong”

I don’t know how to use social media. That’s not false modesty—it’s a fact. And my grandkids make sure I never forget it.

“Peepaw, I just don’t understand,” is something I hear far too often, usually after I’ve posted something harmless like a photo of my cat licking a plate of spaghetti. The photo’s blurry (again), the caption’s too long, and apparently I’m using hashtags like I just discovered them yesterday. Which, to be fair, I kind of did.

What really riles them up are those blurry photos. “You literally have a good camera!” they protest, as if I’m dishonoring a sacred artifact. And they’re not wrong. I do have a good camera—it’s a sturdy old DSLR that doesn’t connect to the cloud, but it’s seen more family moments than most smartphones. It just takes a little work to upload. That’s what USB cables are for, right?

And let’s not forget—they got their start in tech by watching me work. I had wires running through the garage office before they could spell “HTML.” I was the one patching together PCs, fixing drivers, and explaining what RAM was. Now they’ve got degrees and job titles like “UI/UX designer,” and suddenly I’m the tech-challenged grandparent who needs an intervention.

I never set out to be the cool grandpa. I just wanted to share a few thoughts. Maybe post a picture of my chili (my chili is the truth). I wanted to cheer them on when they land a new job or adopt another rescue dog. But apparently, there are rules—unspoken, constantly shifting rules—and I’m breaking all of them.

That’s okay. I’ve made peace with being their favorite internet punchline. If “Peepaw doesn’t get it” gives them something to laugh about, I’m happy to play the part.

Besides, this is just the beginning. There’s a whole internet out there for me to misunderstand.

Quote of the Day – 004202025

2025/04/20Posted in Quote of the DayTagged Carl Jung, QOTD, Quote of the Day, quotes6 Comments

In The Struggle, We Find Each Other.

2025/04/202025/04/20Posted in TunageTagged creative writing, daily exercise, Miles Davis, Morning Vibe, writing7 Comments

MORNING VIBE – REFLECTION

How can we feel peace in a society based on fear? A society where hysteria is the most addictive drug on the planet.

It’s not sold in bags or bottles—it’s pumped through headlines, algorithms, and dinner table arguments. Fear keeps people alert, afraid, and obedient. It tells them who to hate, what to buy, and why they should never trust their neighbor. It whispers that safety is submission, and freedom is recklessness.

We scroll, we panic, we comply.

Peace isn’t profitable. Fear is. Fear sells protection. It sells security systems, surveillance, wars, and pills. A calm population doesn’t need saving. But a frightened one? They’ll beg for chains if you tell them it keeps the monsters out.

Is inner peace an illusion? Has the idea become a fairy tale, a bedtime story we whisper to ourselves as we tuck in under stress and screens, pretending we’re safe, pretending we’re okay?

We meditate between emails. We chase mindfulness through apps that send push notifications. We breathe in for four, hold for four, exhale—and then doomscroll five more minutes. The world burns and we light candles, hoping the smell of lavender will cancel out the sirens.

Maybe peace isn’t a state anymore. Maybe it’s a product. Packaged and branded. Just another goal in the endless self-improvement hamster wheel—be calmer, be better, be less angry, be more forgiving, as if serenity is another checkbox.

But if the world never stops screaming, how long can silence survive in our heads?

Technology isn’t evil. It never has been. It’s a mirror. It reflects exactly who we are and what we crave. The chaos, the noise—that’s on us. But so is the potential.

We’ve never had more ways to find each other in the dark. To say, me too, to share the ache, to build something human across lines that once divided us. The screen doesn’t have to isolate. It can become a bridge—if we let it.

We have an opportunity like never before to connect within the struggle. Not in spite of it, but because of it. To stop pretending we’re fine and start showing up as we are—uncertain, overwhelmed, genuine.

Not curated. Not filtered. Just real.

Because the truth is, everyone’s carrying something. We’re all bruised in places we’ve learned to hide. But maybe the hiding is the problem. Maybe if we showed the cracks, others might too—and suddenly, we’re not alone anymore. Suddenly, it’s not just my anxiety, my grief, my confusion. It’s ours.

That’s where the healing lives—not in perfect answers or polished advice, but in the shared breath of I see you. In the quiet courage of me too.

This moment, this fractured now—it’s begging for honesty. Not the weaponized kind, but the kind that invites someone in. The kind that breaks the cycle of fear with something as simple as presence.

This is the Morning Vibe with a little Miles Davis for effect.

The Edge of Becoming: Refusal to Disappear

2025/04/20Posted in ProseTagged creative writing, daily exercise, Fiction, love, Poems from Another Time, Prose, Random Thoughts, romance, short-story, writing2 Comments

PROSE – REFLECTION

The light crept in, not with purpose, but inevitability. It pooled over the floorboards in pale streaks, slipped across the rumpled sheets, and found her where she sat—curled in on herself at the edge of the bed like something unfinished. The curtain shifted with a lazy sigh, stirred by the hum of a world already moving without her.

She didn’t move. Just blinked slowly, eyes still heavy. Her hair was a mess—coiled and wild, clinging to the nape of her neck with sweat. The air felt thick, damp from last night’s rain, and carried a faint trace of coffee drifting in from the apartment next door. It reminded her she wasn’t entirely alone in the world—just sealed off from it.

Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. She didn’t look. She already knew the message: “You okay? You were pretty quiet last night.”

She had gone to that rooftop gathering. Smiled on cue. Nodded politely as someone explained a startup idea for the third time. But when the conversation shifted to politics, to “people being too sensitive,” to jokes with teeth she wasn’t supposed to flinch at—she had gone quiet. Not out of agreement. Out of calculation.

It wasn’t fear of confrontation. It was exhaustion.

The kind that seeps into your bones when you’ve spent years editing yourself in real time.

Why can’t you just be easier?

The voice came sharp, cutting through the fog. Familiar. Not hers exactly—but forged in her. It spoke in the tone of her third-grade teacher, the one who called her “bossy” for speaking with certainty. The one who wrote on her report card, “bright, but disruptive.” That was the first time she learned that being loud and being wrong were seen as the same thing.

She had been shrinking ever since. A slow erosion.

And now, this morning, she felt caught between the shrinking and the wanting—wanting to take up space and fearing the cost of it.

You think you’re different? That the rules don’t apply to you?

She flexed her jaw, let the thought sit. The worst part of that voice was how reasonable it sounded. How it wrapped itself in concern. In survival.

Outside the window, a billboard stood tall above the bus stop: a model in spotless white jeans and a tagline in all caps—LIVE YOUR TRUTH™. She almost laughed. As if truth came clean and neatly styled.

Her own truth felt messy. Unmarketable. Like morning breath and ragged nails and questions without answers.

She looked at her hands—real, rough, hers. Last night she had come home and typed a long apology to the group chat. “Sorry I was off. Just tired. Hope I didn’t kill the vibe.”

She hovered over the send button.

Then she didn’t.

Now, she picked up the phone, screen still glowing with the unsent draft. She tapped and held. Delete.

It wasn’t a revolution. Just refusal.

A small, quiet defiance.

She wasn’t whole. There were still bruises beneath her calm, still doubts threading her thoughts. But she was done apologizing for needing more than performance.

The light had shifted again, stronger now. Not demanding. Just there.

She wasn’t sure what came next.

But this—this stillness, this pause, this decision not to disappear—was a start.

Not Feeling it !

2025/04/19Posted in The Daily'sTagged creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-1913, The Daily's, writingLeave a comment

Daily writing prompt

Jot down the first thing that comes to your mind.

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DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

“Man, I don’t feel like writing today!”

[Whining … Whining Complete]

Back to work … high speed

Quote of the Day – 04192025

2025/04/19Posted in Quote of the DayTagged Isaac Asimov, QOTD, Quote of the Day, quotes2 Comments

Poem of the Day – 04182025

2025/04/182025/04/18Posted in ProseTagged Good Bones, Maggie Smith, National Poetry Month, Poem of the Day, poetry2 Comments

Quote of the Day – 04182025

2025/04/18Posted in Quote of the DayTagged QOTD, Quote of the Day, quotes, VoltaireLeave a comment

Memoirs of Madness: Writing Is the Only Way Through

2025/04/17Posted in ProseTagged creative writing, daily exercise, healing, life, love, mental health, Moonwashed Weekly Prompt, Prose, Random Thoughts, writing2 Comments

PROSE – MOONWASHED WEEKLY PROMPT

Mind, body, and spirit—it’s not just a slogan on a t-shirt or a phrase tossed around in self-help books. It’s a lived, gritty process. It doesn’t happen in a straight line. It doesn’t always feel peaceful. It asks to be practiced daily, especially in the moments when we’re coming apart.

When my wife was dying, I was unraveling. There was no calm breath, no quiet meditation that could hold me. The pain was too loud, too sharp. I couldn’t go to the dojo—I knew I might hurt someone. So I turned to the only thing left that didn’t require restraint: writing.

That’s where Memoirs of Madness was born—not from ambition, but necessity. I wrote because if I didn’t, I was going to explode. Writing became my release valve. My attempt to find balance in a world that no longer made sense. It wasn’t polished. It wasn’t composed. But it was honest. It was survival.

Healing doesn’t always look like light. Sometimes it’s just sitting with the darkness long enough to stop being afraid of it. Writing gave me a place to do that. Not to escape pain, but to face it with something steady under my hands—a pen, a page, a place to speak freely.

People like to talk about acceptance, about “new normals,” especially when you’re going through something irreversible. I’ve been told I may never return to the person I was before. And maybe that’s true. But I also know it’s not the whole truth. I know there’s more to me than what’s been broken.

Throughout my life, I’ve encountered teachings I didn’t ask for. Moments of awe, loss, surrender, and grace. I didn’t always understand why they came, but something in me knew not to reject them. Writing became the way I made sense of them. The way I honored them.

It’s not therapy, exactly. It’s more like a mirror. Each word reflects something back at me—something raw, something I need to see. Writing doesn’t heal like medicine. It heals like movement. Like breath after being underwater too long.

Writers tell the truths we were taught to keep quiet. We witness the small miracles—flowers bending to the breeze, the call of a bird we can’t see, the still gaze of an animal watching us. We notice the laughter of children that vibrates with something pure and untouchable. We let it all into our bones. But writing is how we let it back out. How we stay connected—not digitally, but spiritually, viscerally.

Every sentence I write is a thread that connects me to the person I’ve always been beneath the layers of grief, anger, and expectation. Not the old self. Not the broken self. But the essential one. The one that endures.

I once asked: Who’s smarter—the adult or the infant? Predictably, everyone said the adult. When I pressed them, they said the child doesn’t know anything. But I disagreed. I said the infant. They laughed, of course. All but one. That one asked me, “Why?”

“Because the infant sees everything,” I said. “They feel everything. They haven’t learned to numb themselves yet. They haven’t picked up the habit of pretending. They are unfiltered truth.”

That’s what writing brings me back to. That clarity. That honesty. That wholeness before the world taught us to break ourselves into pieces.

Healing through writing isn’t a return to what was. It’s a return to what’s real. And sometimes, that’s more than enough.

Author’s Note:

I sat looking at the challenge image, thinking about the beauty of that moment frozen in time. I found myself wondering how to capture something like that in words. Lately, I’ve been studying Buddhism—not because I want to become a Buddhist, but because I’m wise enough to know that truth can’t be found with a closed mind.

Next thing I knew, this piece came through me.

It’s not all I have to say on the subject, but it’s a beginning.

Thanks, Eugi.

Daily Doodle – 04172025

2025/04/17Posted in ArtTagged Daily Doodle, pen and ink sketchLeave a comment

The Weight of Stillness

2025/04/17Posted in ProseTagged creative writing, daily exercise, FOWC, Poems from Another Time, Prose, Ragtag Daily Prompt, writing5 Comments

PROSE – FOWC & RDP

I drift through the mist of life’s abyss, not falling, not flying—just suspended. Time doesn’t move here; it folds in on itself, leaving me trapped in a silence that isn’t peace, but ritual. Dutiful. Respectful. A silence learned over years of swallowing words and measuring breaths. It’s the kind of silence that makes you forget the sound of your own voice.

The air around me stirs, barely. Still, I hear the whispers—low, deliberate, cold. They speak not in sentences, but in suggestions, in warnings that curl around my ears and settle in my chest. They speak of fate, of choices already made, of a path too worn to change.

In my hand, the quill waits, poised like it knows the weight of what it might say. But it’s grown unwieldy—too much meaning, too much memory packed into such a fragile thing. I grip it, unsure whether to write or release. Each word feels like it could be the last. Maybe this sentence is where I stop. Maybe this is where I finally let go.

But still I hover, caught in that space between thought and surrender, listening to the hush of everything I’ve never said.

Quote of the Day – 04172025

2025/04/17Posted in Quote of the DayTagged Eugene Ionesco, QOTD, Quote of the Day, quotesLeave a comment

Quote of the Day – 04162025

2025/04/16Posted in Quote of the DayTagged Desmond Morris, QOTD, Quote of the Day, quotesLeave a comment

Where the Sky Remembers Her

2025/04/16Posted in ProseTagged creative writing, daily exercise, FOWC, Poems from Another Time, Prose, Ragtag Daily Prompt, RDP, writingLeave a comment

She stood still, her profile etched in the quiet glow of imagined worlds. Galaxies spun behind her eyes, each one holding a memory she hadn’t spoken aloud in years. Moons drifted close, brushing her skin with light that wasn’t light, warmth that didn’t burn. The clouds moved through her like thoughts, slow and tangled, as if the sky itself had cracked open to whisper her name.

Her expression didn’t shift. It didn’t need to. She wasn’t here to perform. She was caught in that weightless place between who she’d been and who she might become. And in that stillness, even the planets seemed to orbit slower, listening.

Someone once told her she looked too serious, too distant. But they only gave her a bland kind of attention—the kind that never reached deeper than skin. The type that skimmed her surface and missed the storm beneath.

Now, she let her thoughts roam in this quiet collision of sky and soul. Not forward. Not back. Just… outward. And for a fleeting second, she caught a flicker of something—possibility, maybe—out of the corner of her eye.

A glance, nothing more.

But it was enough to remind her that she was more than what the world saw, more than the shadows cast by fading light. She was part of the cosmos now, and maybe, just maybe, the cosmos was part of her, too.

Nothing, Babe: A Travel Philosophy

2025/04/162025/04/16Posted in The Daily'sTagged blog, blogging, creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-1910, life, mental health, The Daily's, writing15 Comments

Daily writing prompt

What place in the world do you never want to visit? Why?

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DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

To me, this is a loaded question. Like there’s just one place you’d never want to visit, as if you hear a name like Topeka and just decide: absolutely not.

I’ve been around. I’ve seen beauty in unexpected places and tension in spots that looked picture-perfect. So saying I’d never go somewhere feels rigid, and life’s too unpredictable for rigid rules.

But I won’t lie—there are places I instinctively avoid.

Some of that’s just gut feeling. I avoid places with names that don’t sit right—Bone Gap, Jim Falls, Slidell. Part of it is how they sound, part of it is associations I can’t quite shake. Sounds silly, but names carry weight. They trigger memory, emotion, or sometimes just a weird vibe that tells you to keep moving.

Then there are practical reasons. I don’t mess with places where monkeys outnumber people. That’s not fear—it’s realism. Monkeys throw things. I know myself well enough to admit I wouldn’t handle that gracefully. I don’t believe in animal cruelty, and I don’t want to find myself in a moral showdown with a macaque.

Then there’s the deeper stuff. As an American soldier, I’ve seen how quick misunderstandings can turn into something worse—especially when we didn’t know the customs or context. That always struck me as ironic, considering how much we pride ourselves on our ‘attention to detail.’ It taught me to respect where I go and to prepare before I get there. It also taught me that sometimes, respecting a place means knowing when not to go.

When my ex-girlfriend said, “No places with a history of cannibalism,” I didn’t laugh it off. That was her line, and I respected it.
But I couldn’t help myself—I looked at her and said, “So… just to be clear—California’s out, right? That whole Donner Party thing. Colorado too. Can’t forget Alfred Packer. Oh—and Virginia. Jamestown had a real rough winter.”
She stared at me, confused. “Wait… what happened in Virginia?”
I took a long sip of my drink, nodded slowly, and said, “Nothing, babe. Just history being weird again.”

Some places carry histories that deserve reflection, not vacation photos.

So no, I don’t have a definitive “never” on the map. But I have instincts, boundaries, and experiences that shape how I move through the world. That’s not fear—it’s awareness. And in a world this big, I think that’s fair.

What My Mother Taught Me, What My Family Gave Me

2025/04/15Posted in The Daily'sTagged creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-1909, family, life, love, mental health, The Daily's, writing5 Comments

Daily writing prompt

Describe a positive thing a family member has done for you.

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DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

“Do as I say, not as I do,” the classic parental phrase, never touched my mother’s lips. However, “Because I said so,” not only repeated — it seemed like it should be on a plaque above the door. I even used it with my children, and they used it with theirs. However, this isn’t the most important lesson she gave me. What she demonstrated my entire life is how to be steady, even in the most challenging situations life has to offer.

She raised me by herself, so every bump, scrape, and broken bone — she was steady. Honestly, I don’t know how she did it. I remember being on the verge of losing it with my own kids, and I had a wife to back me up. To do it all alone? I don’t have the words.

That steadiness she showed me has served me well throughout my entire life. No matter what, I stay steady. I might be pissed off while I’m doing it — that trait definitely comes from my father. He had two modes: super cool or absolute death. Nothing in between. He kept people guessing because you never knew how he’d react. People say I do that too. I always swore I’d never be anything like him… well, oops.

It’s said that in life you have two families: the one you’re born into and the one you choose. My mother gave me the tools to build both. Her steadiness became my anchor, and whether I was dealing with work, parenting, or just the everyday chaos of life, I leaned on what she taught me — stay calm, handle your business, don’t fall apart.

And yeah, maybe I inherited some of my dad’s unpredictability too. But thanks to her, the foundation underneath is solid. That balance — between calm and chaos, between knowing when to hold it together and when to let it fly — that’s something I’ve carried into every relationship I’ve built, chosen or otherwise.

My chosen family has shown up for me in ways I never could’ve imagined. I’m truly blessed to have them in my life. Like all my family, they’ve been incredibly patient with me. I can be a lot sometimes — I know that. But they hang in there.

The challenges in life never really stop coming. But when you’ve got people who stick with you, who steady you, who love you even when you’re not at your best — you can get through anything.

In life, we have two families: the one we’re born into and the one we choose. I’m grateful for both.

Quote of the Day – 04142025

2025/04/14Posted in Quote of the DayTagged QOTD, Quote of the Day, quotesLeave a comment

Quote of the Day – 04132025

2025/04/13Posted in Quote of the DayTagged QOTD, Quote of the Day, quotes2 Comments

The Silence of Excess

2025/04/12Posted in ProseTagged creative writing, daily exercise, Poems from Another Time, Prose, Weekend Writing Prompt, writing4 Comments

PROSE – WEEKEND WRITING PROMPT #410

Opulence dazzles, but it doesn’t fill the void. Gilded walls, luxury cars, designer clothes—they impress, not satisfy. The chase for more becomes endless: bigger homes, flashier jewels, louder status. Yet behind the gloss is silence. Relationships shallow. Laughter forced. Meaning fades. Surrounded by everything, the soul starves for something real. Comfort becomes a cage, and abundance numbs. The high of acquisition dulls fast, and stillness creeps in. Opulence, once a dream, becomes a mirror—reflecting what’s missing, not what’s gained. In the echo of excess, we find the truth: wealth can buy things, but not worth.

Warrior’s Creed

2025/04/122025/04/12Posted in ProseTagged creative writing, daily exercise, Prose, Weekend Writing Prompt, writing4 Comments

PROSE – WEEKEND WRITING PROMPT #411

Fierce burned in her chest—not anger, but resolve. Each setback was fuel. She didn’t flinch, didn’t fold. Determination wasn’t loud; it was steady. Quiet steps forward, no matter what. That’s how she wins.

Arc Logic

2025/04/12Posted in FictionTagged #FFFC, creative writing, daily exercise, Fiction, short-story, writing4 Comments

FICTION – FFFC #315

“Did you know rainbows aren’t real?” Sophie said, nose pressed to the rain-speckled window like she was trying to peer through the fabric of reality.

Josh, flopped sideways on the couch and half-heartedly plucking his guitar, didn’t look up. “Real enough to chase. That counts.”

“They’re just light doing a water park routine. You can’t touch one. You can’t keep it. It’s basically sky clickbait.”

Josh strummed a lazy, spacey chord. “Exactly. That’s what makes it magic.”

Sophie turned, eyes narrowed like a nine-year-old prosecuting attorney. “Magic isn’t real either. Honestly, sometimes I think you were left on our doorstep by a pack of whimsical wolves.”

Josh raised an eyebrow. “Bold accusation for someone who still believes in bedtime.”

“I’m just saying—look at the evidence. Dad’s an engineer. Mom rebuilds humans for a living. I’m a well-documented overachiever with a spreadsheet for everything. And then there’s you—Mr. ‘What if clouds are just sky-whales and the rainbow is their feeding tube?’”

Josh laughed. “Okay, that was solid. Respect.”

Sophie gave a smug little bow. “Thank you. I’ll be here all week. Try the sarcasm; it’s aged to perfection.”

“I’m the creative recessive gene,” Josh said, plucking at a new tune. “Or maybe a stowaway from an alternate timeline with looser rules.”

“You give strong alternate timeline energy,” Sophie agreed, already hopping off the windowsill.

She disappeared down the hall and reappeared 90 seconds later fully suited up in a bright yellow slicker, matching boots, and her frog-shaped umbrella. She looked like a tiny storm hunter gearing up for war.

Josh blinked. “Are you… ready to fight the weather?”

“I’m ready to dominate puddles,” she said, snapping her hood into place. “The rain’s letting up, and I have a contract to enforce.”

Josh raised an eyebrow. “What contract?”

Sophie stared him down. “Don’t play with me, Mister. You promised me ice cream after the rain stopped. There were witnesses. I can draw you a diagram.”

Josh put both hands up. “Okay, okay. Ice cream. I hear you.”

“Good,” she said, already halfway to the door. “Justice will be served. Preferably in a waffle cone.”

As Josh grabbed his keys, he glanced at her. “Are you gonna be embarrassed being seen with me? I’m kind of a known weirdo.”

Sophie rolled her eyes, but grinned. “Of course not. You’re my brother. I love you—even if you are intellectually stunted. No one’s perfect.”

Josh chuckled. “Wow. You really know how to make a guy feel cherished.”

“I try.”

He set the guitar down with exaggerated care. “But when we get back…”

She paused mid-step. “What?”

“Will you let me play that song? The one I wrote that’s totally not about you but also definitely is?”

She sighed, but her grin cracked through. “Fine. But if it’s sappy, I’m filing a formal complaint.”

“To who?”

“Your soul.”

Josh laughed. “Noted. Minimal sap. Maximum chords.”

“And no eye contact,” she added. “That’s how feelings sneak in.”

Outside, the rain had dwindled to a drizzle. A rainbow stretched overhead like it had been waiting for them to notice.

Josh looked up. “You know, it kind of feels like a map.”

Sophie squinted at it. “To where?”

Josh shrugged. “Somewhere we don’t have to know everything. We just get to… exist.”

Sophie stomped into a puddle with both boots. “Cool. Let’s go there. Right after ice cream.”

They set off down the sidewalk, the sky still dripping a little, the rainbow curved above them like a wink. Neither of them said it, but both figured: if that thing was pointing somewhere—maybe it was toward each other.

Alcoholism: The Drug Hiding in Plain Sight

2025/04/112025/04/11Posted in ProseTagged Addiction, AI Generated Images, alcohol, alcoholism, creative writing, daily exercise, Random Thoughts, Recovery, sobriety, writing6 Comments

It’s not always the staggering drunk on a sidewalk.
Sometimes, it’s the friend who always shows up, the parent who keeps it together, or the coworker who “just likes to unwind.”

But behind closed doors, they’re shrinking. Fighting. Breaking.

Alcoholism doesn’t always look like what we expect. And that’s the problem.

*Folded into himself. Silent. Alone. Crushed under the pressure of needing something he hates needing.*

We call it “just a drink.”
But alcohol is the most lethal drug in the world—more deadly than opioids, meth, or cocaine.

And yet… it’s everywhere.
It’s legal.
It’s glorified.
It’s handed out at every wedding, every weekend, every wound.

*Not a habit. A fight. Against himself. Against the silence. Against the pressure to act like everything’s fine.*

Addiction doesn’t start with rock bottom.
It often begins with social acceptance.
A drink to relax. A drink to celebrate. A drink to cope.
Until the bottle isn’t an option—it’s a cage.

*Even the strong get trapped. Alcohol doesn’t care how tough you are.*

What makes alcohol so dangerous isn’t just the physical toll.
It’s the silence.
The shame.
The way we minimize it, laugh it off, ignore the signs.

*This is what addiction feels like. Rage, regret, and no way out. But always another drink.*

The Truth:

Alcohol kills more than 3 million people globally each year.
Withdrawal from alcohol can be fatal.
It destroys bodies, families, and lives—and we rarely talk about it.

If you or someone you know is struggling:

You are not alone.
There is help.
There is life outside the bottle.

CTA (Call to Action):

📞 [Insert helpline or resource link – e.g., SAMHSA’s National Helpline: 1-800-662-HELP]
💬 Share this post. You never know who needs to see it.

What’s One High School Story You Actually Want to Hear?

2025/04/11Posted in The Daily'sTagged creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-1905, The Daily's, writing13 Comments

Daily writing prompt

Describe something you learned in high school.

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DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

Everyone has high school stories. Some are boring. Some are embarrassing. Some are the kind you only tell your best friend at 2 a.m.

Here are five story titles from my high school years. Each one has a real lesson behind it—some funny, some rough, some surprisingly honest.

But I’m only telling one of them. And you get to pick which.

Vote below for the story you want to hear most. The one with the most votes? I’ll post it next.

Pick the story you want to hear:
(And yeah, they’re all true.)

I Couldn’t Kiss Worth a Damn
No Drunk Chicks
All You Need Is One True Friend
I Might Be a Time Traveler
I Survived

REBLOG: JoyfulStephanie’s Journey

2025/04/11Posted in ProseTagged alcoholism, JoyfulStephanie, REBLOG2 Comments

Reblogging this powerful and vulnerable piece from Stephanie. Her courage in acknowledging her truth and sharing her journey with alcoholism and recovery deeply resonated with me.

Reading this stirred something in me—not just empathy, but reflection. While our paths differ, the terrain of struggle, self-confrontation, and healing feels familiar. I’ve danced with my own shadows, and I’ve been meaning to speak on that for a while now.

I’ll be sharing more about my journey in the coming days—not to diminish Stephanie’s voice but to add to the conversation. Healing isn’t a solo act. It’s a chorus, and sometimes, just hearing another voice echo your truth can be the thing that carries you a little further.

More to come soon.

Accepting I Am An Alcoholic

Dante in Combat Boots: My Journey Through the Divine Comedy

2025/04/112025/04/11Posted in ProseTagged books, creative writing, daily exercise, Dante, essays, Fiction, poetry, Random Thoughts, writing5 Comments

ESSAY – RANDOM THOUGHTS

The First Encounter – Lost in the Woods (and the Footnotes)

The first time I read The Divine Comedy was sparked by an argument—an intellectual back-and-forth with someone who, as it turned out, didn’t know much about the book. But he was passionate. His conviction was hypnotic. I didn’t buy his analysis, but I understood why he was obsessed.

I picked up the book out of curiosity and a little competitive pride. I didn’t finish it. We got called out on a mission, and you don’t take library books on missions. Fines are one thing—charred pages are another.

Still, even unfinished, it stuck with me. Something about Dante’s voice—strange, serious, deliberate—lingered.

That first attempt, though brief, planted a seed. When I returned to it later, I had more patience, a better dictionary, and no librarian breathing down my neck.

Even then, Inferno was dense. Layers of references. Historical names I barely recognized. Theology deep enough to drown in. I was flipping between footnotes and old library texts like I was defusing a bomb. The nine circles of Hell were vivid, yes—but they felt more like a museum exhibit than a lived experience. I was watching Dante, not walking with him.

It felt like homework. Necessary, maybe. But distant.

Still, something about the structure—the cold logic behind every punishment—got under my skin. Sin wasn’t just bad behavior. It had a shape. A weight. I didn’t have the words for it then, but the idea that justice wasn’t arbitrary began to settle in.

I didn’t love the poem yet. But I was starting to hear it.

Warzones and Infernos – Dante in Combat Boots

When I returned to The Divine Comedy after combat, it hit differently. Dante wasn’t just a poet anymore—he sounded like someone I knew. Maybe even like me.

Inferno started to make more sense. Hell wasn’t about fire and demons—it was about clarity. Brutal, stripped-down moral logic. A world where actions had consequences that couldn’t be bargained with.

In combat, you live in that gray zone between judgment and survival. Right and wrong don’t show up in clean lines. Sometimes you do the right thing, and it haunts you. Sometimes, it felt like there was no God—at least not the one we heard about in Sunday school. We believed in the integrity of what we were doing. We questioned it, sure. But our resolve stayed intact. Sometimes, surviving was all you could do. And that didn’t always feel like redemption.

Dante’s Hell isn’t just punishment—it’s paralysis. People stuck in their choices, their pride, their rage. No growth. No movement. Just a reflection in the worst kind of mirror.

That rang true.

Some turned to a higher power for guidance. We knew—we were fighting for God. But we also knew the limits. We were required to do what was asked of us—but no more. We fought for God. And we had to answer to Him too.

Not just for the people we encountered. Sometimes for what we became.

Purgatorio – The Long Climb Back

Purgatorio doesn’t get the same attention as Inferno. It’s not as dramatic. No fire. No famous sinners frozen in ice. But it’s the part that felt most real to me.

Because after war, after any real descent, what follows isn’t glory—it’s work. Quiet, repetitive, soul-grinding work. That’s Purgatorio.

Dante climbs a mountain, terrace by terrace, confronting the seven deadly sins. Each level is a mirror—less about judgment, more about recognition. It’s not punishment anymore. It’s penance. The difference matters.

After combat, reintegration isn’t just about coming home. It’s about stripping away the armor you lived in. Unpacking things you didn’t have the luxury to process while they were happening—and you don’t have the luxury to process them now. You’re thrust back into your life like nothing happened. You lie to the ones you love to keep them safe, to spare them from the world you know exists but no one is talking about. You keep that secret.

You make a valid attempt to let go of habits that kept you alive but will not help you live. It’s exhausting.

That’s why Purgatorio hit me so hard. I didn’t expect it to. But there’s something deeply honest in the idea that healing doesn’t feel holy. It feels like discipline. Like carrying your own burden up the hill with no end in sight. Some days, you move a little higher. Some days, you just don’t slip backward.

There’s no audience. No headline. Just effort.

And yet—it’s hopeful. The whole mountain is built on the assumption that you can be made whole. That ascent is possible. Redemption is a process, not a prize.

Paradiso – The Light We Try to Name

Paradiso is the hardest part.

Not just to read—but to believe in. It’s abstract, layered with theology and geometry, full of light and music and spheres. Dante is trying to describe the indescribable. He’s chasing God through language; the closer he gets, the less the words hold.

For a long time, I didn’t connect to this part. It felt like too much, too far, too clean.

But after Purgatorio, after the work of climbing, carrying, and unlearning, I started to understand what Paradiso was reaching for—not perfection, not purity, but peace.

And peace—real peace—is foreign when you’ve lived inside chaos. It’s not some cinematic moment of triumph. It’s quieter. It’s the ability to be still, without needing to be numb. It’s presence, not performance. It’s the moment you stop bracing for the next thing to go wrong.

Dante meets Beatrice here—his guide into the divine, his symbol of grace. We all have our Beatrices, if we’re lucky. People who held the line for us when we couldn’t. People who reminded us we weren’t lost forever.

Am I worthy of this grace? Will God forgive me for what I’ve done? I find myself waiting—searching—for that one thing that could wipe away all the havoc of my making. Is that a thing? You know the scales will have an answer.

In the background of all this light, I still imagine the scales. The old ones—Egyptian, Christian, Islamic. The image of your life being weighed. Every choice, every silence. Your hands held out, waiting to see which way it tips.

We fought for God. We made peace with that. But we also knew we’d stand in front of Him one day. And maybe that’s what Paradiso is really about—not escaping judgment, but understanding it. Accepting it. Trusting that there’s a kind of justice that doesn’t crush you, but completes you.

I don’t claim to understand everything Dante saw in Heaven. But I understand the desire to see it.

And that’s something.

Full Circle – Still Listening

I’ve read The Divine Comedy more than once now. Not in a straight line, not as a scholar, but as someone who’s lived with it—left it, returned to it, wrestled with it. And the strange thing is, it keeps changing. Or maybe I do.

What started as a challenge—half a debate, half an ego trip—turned into a mirror. Dante’s journey through Hell, up the mountain, into the light, isn’t just theology or poetry. It’s a blueprint. A map of what it means to go through something, to come back from something, and to wonder if you’re still whole on the other side.

I never read it looking for answers. Not really. But I keep coming back to it for the questions.

Am I worthy of grace? Is peace possible? Can the scales ever truly balance?

I don’t know.

But I’m still listening.

And that’s something too.

Author’s Note:
This was written as a result of a post by alexander87writer. I was going to leave a comment, and just kept writing. My two sentences became this. I’m so extra at times.

The Change That Brought Me Back

2025/04/10Posted in The Daily'sTagged blog, blogging, creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-1904, life, mental health, Mental Wellness, The Daily's, writing19 Comments

Daily writing prompt

Describe one positive change you have made in your life.

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DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

After my health started to improve, I made a quiet promise to myself: take it slow, do it right, and make the changes stick. Not just another sprint followed by burnout. Not another performance. Just something real.

To be honest, I didn’t have much choice. Getting my strength back has been a crawl, not a comeback montage. The days of jumping up, yelling “I’m okay, I’m okay!” while secretly scanning the room for lost cool points—those are done. By the time I realized chasing cool points was just another layer of nonsense, the damage was already in motion.

So I made a deal with myself: if I ever got my strength back, I’d write my butt off. Not for validation. Not to prove something. Just because I have things to say, and writing is how I say them best.

My editor always believed in me—even when I didn’t believe in myself. I’d whine about low engagement, tweak my style constantly, chasing some imaginary formula for success. I forgot the quote a dear friend gave me when I first started posting:
“Better to write for yourself and have no public than to write for the public and have no self.” — Cyril Connolly.

Now I get it. And I’m not just writing again—I’m enjoying it. Actually enjoying it. Not refreshing analytics or stressing over reach. Just creating.

And it’s not just writing, either. I’ve been drawing again. Editing film. Playing with my cat—who may or may not have been a dog in a past life. (I’ll get into that another day. It’s a whole thing.)

But yeah, I’m creating again. Fully. Freely.
And that’s the change that brought me back.

Wordless Wednesday – 04092025

2025/04/09Posted in ArtTagged AI Generated Images, Art, photo editing, Wordless WednesdayLeave a comment

ART – AI GENERATED IMAGE – CONCEPT ART

My submission for Hugh’s Views & News blog, Wordless Wednesday post.

Cut That Shit Out!

2025/04/09Posted in The Daily'sTagged blog, creative writing, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-1903, HEALTH, life, mental health, self-care, The Daily's, writing11 Comments

Daily writing prompt

What’s the most fun way to exercise?

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DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

A journey through fitness, false identities, and finally figuring your shit out

Fun Way to Exercise, You Say? Let’s Get Delusional.

Let’s start here: Olivia Newton-John basically rewired an entire generation’s brains with “Let’s Get Physical.” She morphed from wholesome sweetheart to headband-wearing fever dream, and somehow we all collectively agreed that writhing in a leotard was fitness. We never really recovered, emotionally or sartorially.

Then there was Jennifer Beals in Flashdance, reminding us that it’s totally fine—encouraged, even—to be obsessive about your passions. Especially if your passion includes dumping water on yourself mid-dance. That “Maniac” scene wasn’t just exercise—it was aspirational chaos. It made sweating look like a personality trait.

Even Popeye tried to get in on it. He wasn’t just pushing spinach; he was pushing the idea that vegetables could give you freakish forearm strength and the confidence to punch boats. No one wanted to be the 90-pound weakling on the beach getting sand kicked in their face. We worked out—not for health, not for longevity—but for the attention of a girl who may or may not even know our name.

Jane Fonda came along and made aerobics a spiritual obligation. Suddenly we were all cult members, grapevining for our lives, and gym bros looked at us like we were losing our minds. You tried aerobics? RESPECT. That’s not cardio. That’s performance art.

And Richard Simmons? That was a whole vibe we still don’t fully understand. Sequins, shouting, sincere encouragement—somewhere between motivational speaker and glitter elemental. Whatever it was, it worked. People moved. They sweat. They cried. They believed.

My step-madre? She was in the trenches with Tae-Bo. Billy Blanks screaming from the TV, and her throwing punches in the living room like a woman possessed. I still don’t know if it was for fitness or because she thought Billy was fine. She’ll never say. She holds secrets like a vault, and no one has the access code.

Supplements & Shenanigans

Just when you thought the movement was enough—enter the supplement era.

We started popping Flintstone Chewables like they were candy (because they were), then graduated to Centrum when we wanted to feel like grownups who still couldn’t swallow pills. Then came Geritol Tonic—that was the truth. Took a sip and blacked out in enlightenment.

Protein shakes replaced food. Creatine replaced logic. Ginseng, ginkgo biloba, and questionable powders scooped into shaker bottles at 6am because someone on the internet said it would “enhance vitality.”

We were building bodies. Fueling potential.
And slowly, maybe accidentally, getting nowhere near wholeness.

Mind, Body, Spirit… and Other Marketing Buzzwords

(Now With 12 Unnecessary Challenges, Just Like Hercules!)

Eventually, the workouts and pills and VHS tapes weren’t enough. People started exercising their minds. Started researching things like inner peace, balance, self-actualization—whatever that is. People wanted to genuinely like themselves. Be whole. Mind, body, and spirit.

Sounds good, right?

But come on—is that even real?
Is that obtainable?
With the flood of curated nonsense, the influencers, the unsolicited life advice, the algorithmic chaos—how does anyone even begin to weed out the bullshit?

Hercules had twelve trials. You? You’ve got:

Unread emails,
Burnout,
Repressed childhood trauma,
And a morning routine you’re too tired to follow after Day 3.

He had to slay lions and capture magical deer. You have to:

Journal without spiraling,
Set boundaries with your toxic cousin,
And drink water instead of iced coffee for once.

Same energy.

We all want to feel better. More “aligned.” But instead of holy quests, we get wellness content. Instead of oracles, we have mood boards and moon water. Instead of epiphanies, we get an Instagram carousel of “ways to raise your vibration.”

You started exercising your body.
Then your mind.
Then your spirit—probably via breathwork, moon phases, or a yoga class in a converted warehouse with exposed brick and emotional lighting.

And when that didn’t quite fix the aching void?

People started turning to God.
Or the Universe. Or Source. Or the Vibe Manager in the Sky, depending on your belief system.

Every path, every name—people started reaching out, up, and through, looking for a way to cleanse the demons and purify their spirits. Not just the metaphorical demons either—like, the real ones. The ones whispering, “You’re not enough,” while you’re trying to do a downward dog and not weep into your yoga mat.

Prayer, meditation, sacred texts, incense, tarot, gospel, gospel-adjacent YouTube playlists—anything to feel like you’re not just a sentient to-do list trying to find peace in a collapsing world.

Because after you’ve tried all the earthbound answers, sometimes the only thing left is the divine shrug of surrender.

The Real Labor: Showing Up For Yourself

So here’s the thing.

Exercising isn’t fun.
If you think it is—cut that shit out. Seriously. Stop lying to the rest of us who are dragging our carcasses through spin class wondering if our souls are leaking out with every drop of sweat.

But exercising your entire being?
Taking the time to figure out what you actually need?
That’s different.
That’s hard. That’s a process. That’s showing up and sitting in the silence. It’s being real enough with yourself to stop pretending. And yeah, you need to cut that shit out, too.

This isn’t a 30-day fix.
It’s a lifelong pursuit.
One that changes as you do. One that requires you to keep showing up, even when you don’t feel like it, even when no playlist or dopamine hit is waiting.

But if you do it?

If you do the real work?

The reward… it has no words.

It’s a feeling.
Quiet. Deep.
Solid as bedrock.

The feeling of becoming whole—not perfect, not pure, not finished—just complete in the way only honesty can make you.

And at the center of all of this is one simple truth:
The point of this is to Do You.
No qualifiers. No “better” or “best” or whatever recycled buzzword is trending this week. Just you, fully and unapologetically.

As the great Oscar Wilde said,

“Be yourself; everyone else is already taken.”

You are enough. You always have been.

And if someone tries to tell you otherwise, or if your own brain starts slipping back into that goofy self-hating soundtrack?

Cut that shit out.

About the Author

Mangus Khan did a yoga pose once, and it hurt like hell—respect to anyone still doing that on purpose. He owns a towering stack of unread self-help books, which now function as either a faux end table or a regal perch for his cat, who loves him unconditionally despite the obvious madness. He believes in growth, sort of. He believes in showing up, sometimes. And he definitely believes in cutting that shit out.

Fold Theory & Fiction: Confessions of a Rereader

2025/04/082025/04/08Posted in The Daily'sTagged book review, books, creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-1902, Fiction, reading, The Daily's, writingLeave a comment

Daily writing prompt

What book could you read over and over again?

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DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

Plenty of books fall into this category. I’d love to say I have a strict system for what earns a reread, but let’s be honest: the rules shift every time. Sometimes it’s the writing, sometimes it’s a character who won’t shut up in my head, and other times it’s because the book whispered something suspicious from the shelf—like it knows things. Rereading isn’t a choice at that point. It’s a compulsion. Like the story implanted a post-hypnotic trigger in my brain that activates randomly. And when it does, I drop everything—sleep, obligations, dignity—and reread. Again.

Now, my particular brand of obsession comes with a twist: time travel. I don’t just read about it—I research it. Because yes, I’m building a time machine in my basement. And no, I’m not joking. I know what you’re thinking. This person is completely unhinged. Stop looking at me in that tone of voice. Don’t judge me—I’m backed by science.

Stephen Hawking once said, “Time travel used to be thought of as just science fiction, but Einstein’s theory of general relativity allows for the possibility that we could warp space-time so much that you could go off in a rocket and return before you set out.” So, technically, I’m not crazy—I’m just early.

And Einstein himself—our time-bending MVP—once said, “The distinction between past, present, and future is only a stubbornly persistent illusion.” That quote haunts me. Because if time really is just an illusion, then maybe my late-night diagrams and basement scribbles aren’t completely absurd. Maybe I’m just trying to see through the illusion. With tools. And snacks.

Some books feel like accomplices in this mission. Einstein’s Dreams is one of them. It’s not a novel in the traditional sense—it’s more like a collection of speculative time experiments disguised as dreams. Time slows, speeds up, loops, fractures. Each version reveals how fragile we are, how much we lean on the idea that time is stable. It made me wonder if I want to manipulate time or if I just want to understand why it controls me so completely.

Then there’s The Psychology of Time Travel, which sounds quirky but plays out like a cautionary tale. It’s brilliant, and it doesn’t flinch. Time travel in that book isn’t just a shiny toy—it messes with identity, memory, and even reality. It shows the mental strain of knowing too much about your own timeline. Honestly, it made me stop mid-chapter and ask, Do I actually want to succeed at this, or do I just like the chase?

This is probably why I’ve started keeping my own book—a messy, ever-growing volume of experiments, part science, part psychology. Charts, notes, theories, emotional meltdowns—it’s all in there. It’s not publishable (yet), but it’s real. And it’s mine. Some people journal. I document the potential collapse of linear time. To each their own.

And then there’s the part no one wants to discuss—the mythic weight of time. The ancient beings who ruled it long before clocks or quantum theory. Chronos, the Greek god who devoured his children just to keep time moving in his favor. The Moirai, weaving destinies and snipping threads when they feel like it. Kāla, the Hindu personification of time, is both destroyer and renewer. Even the Norse Norns, sitting beneath the world tree, are casually deciding fates like it’s a hobby. These entities weren’t just metaphors—they were warnings. Time is power, and it doesn’t like to be tampered with.

The more I study, the more I feel like time isn’t linear—it’s layered. Some theorists say time can fold over itself like a sheet of paper, bringing two distant moments into contact. Others call it fluid, a river that bends, swells, evaporates, and returns in strange new forms. Honestly, I’ve felt both. There are days where the past bleeds into the present like ink on wet paper. There are moments I swear I’ve already lived. Maybe I’m stuck in a fold. Maybe I’m just bad at time management. Either way, I write it all down.¹

And Then She Vanished wasn’t just another trip down the wormhole—it rerouted my entire approach. The way it plays with memory, causality, and the emotional cost of screwing with time? It hit differently. I went in looking for narrative patterns, maybe a clever paradox or two. What I got was a punch to the gut and a blueprint for moral consequences. The book didn’t just mess with time—it made me rethink why I want to.

And maybe that’s the real loop. Because every time I pick up a pen, I feel it. Writing bends time, too. It stretches memory, warps emotion, and compresses decades into a sentence. Every time we write, are we building new worlds, or are we just reconstructing something we have already lived? Maybe stories are our version of time machines. Just paper ones. Slightly safer than the one in my basement.

¹ Excerpt from my “Working Theories of Time” notebook, vol. 3:

Time is a crumpled map, not a straight road. Folds = déjà vu. Rips = blackout years.
Fluid time isn’t just poetic—it leaks. Time gets messy around emotional events—breakups, funerals, weird Tuesdays.
The body remembers time differently than the mind. Proof: muscle memory, grief anniversaries, and spontaneous panic attacks for no logical reason.
Clocks lie. This isn’t a theory. Just a fact.

This is why I track time like a conspiracy theorist with a mood disorder. It’s all connected. Probably.

The Unwritten Standard

2025/04/08Posted in FictionTagged creative writing, Fiction, flash fiction, short fiction, short-story, Word of the day, writing2 Comments

SHORT FICTION – WORD OF THE DAY CHALLENGE

She walked the shoreline like a fading echo, her reflection trailing behind her in the shallow water, unsure if it still qualified to be hers. Time had stretched her thin. Not just in years, but in identity—pulled apart by choices she had to make, and those made for her.

Everyone said she wasn’t eligible.

Not for the kind of life that lives in whispers and instinct. Not for the kind of happiness you don’t need to prove. They said you need a plan, a structure, a timeline, a box. Dreams, they told her, had to fit within a budget—not just of money, but of reason, of patience, of what the world deems acceptable.

But deep down, she knew the rules they played by weren’t written for her.

There had always been this undercurrent—soft, persistent, impossible to ignore—that tugged at her ribs like tidewater. A voice not quite hers, but always with her. A silent, steady reminder that she came from something more than survival. That she wasn’t lost; she was just unclaimed.

It wasn’t ambition she was chasing.

It was the prophecy of her becoming.

Not some ancient foretelling, but the quiet, sacred promise she made to herself when she was younger: that she would not shrink. She would not trade her fire for comfort. She would not let her story be rewritten just to make others feel safe.

She had tried being the replacement—fitting into other people’s molds, echoing voices that weren’t hers. But there was always a price. Always a fracture. Always a hunger that imitation couldn’t fill.

Now, walking into the pale light where sky and sea dissolved into one another, she realized: she had nothing left to prove.

She didn’t need to qualify.

She already did.

The Gauntlet of Fog and Stone

2025/04/08Posted in ProseTagged creative writing, fantasy, Fiction, FOWC, Poems from Another Time, Prose, Ragtag Daily Prompt, RDP, short-story, writing2 Comments

PROSE – FOWC & RDP

The mist clung to the earth like old sorrow, curling around boots and stones, swallowing sound. Two figures stood before the monolith, cloaked in black, their outlines blurred by fog and fate. The stone towered above them, carved from the mountain’s spine. Its surface was worn by centuries but still bore the mark—an eye within a jagged star—that pulsed faintly, like something alive and watching.

They had come a long way to find it. Through dead forests that whispered their names. Across plains littered with the bones of better men. Not for glory. Not even for vengeance. Just the promise of an answer, or maybe an end.

Behind them, the others waited. Hooded. Silent. A dozen warriors who had followed them without question, bound by old oaths and older regrets. No one asked what lay on the other side of the fog. The question had been buried with the first man who hesitated.

The taller of the two stepped forward, boots crunching on frost-hardened gravel. His hand hovered near the hilt of his sword, fingers twitching like they remembered every fight that hadn’t gone his way. “We stand at the edge,” he said, low and certain.

His companion didn’t look at him, just stared at the monolith. “And what waits beyond?”

“Only those who boldly engage the old magic will know.”

The other figure stepped closer to the stone, his silhouette ragged with wear but upright and determined. He placed a gloved hand on the carving. The stone felt warm—too warm—as if it hadn’t forgotten.

The ground answered—not with light but with a deep, resonant hum that rolled through the valley like a warning. The fog began to move, twisting into strange shapes, pulling backward to reveal what waited deeper in the pass—a path, a gate, shadows shifting on the other side.

The second man drew his blade slowly, the sound of steel slicing the stillness. “Then we put on the gauntlet,” he said, quiet but resolved. “And we walk into whatever comes next.”

Not for glory. Not for vengeance. But for truth. And for the ones they couldn’t bring back.

Together, they stepped forward as the stone split open, the mountain groaning with ancient memory. Finally, the fog began to part.

Plato’s “The Vital Truth of Poetry”

2025/04/08Posted in Quote of the DayTagged Plato, QOTD, Quote of the Day, quotes2 Comments

Why “Sometimes It Snows in April” Still Hurts So Good

2025/04/08Posted in TunageTagged creative writing, love, Mixed Music Bag, music, Prince, Tunage, writing10 Comments

CHALLENGE RESPONSE – MMB

One of my nephews stopped to visit. We talked about philosophy, music, and a bunch of other things. Almost like he knew I needed to get out of my own head for a moment and be reminded of something that’s always been soothing—music.
After he had left, I plugged in the headphones and got to work.

Prince’s music has left a mark on humanity.
However, the music I enjoyed the most was songs seldom played on the radio—the tracks only discussed quietly among the fans who kept searching for the ones that touched them deepest.

For me, “Sometimes It Snows in April” is one of those songs.

It’s not built for the charts. No booming drums or flashy guitar solos. Just a delicate piano, soft guitar, and Prince’s voice—fragile, almost whispering. It’s stripped down in a way that makes you sit still. Makes you feel.

The song was part of the Parade album in 1986, which doubled as the soundtrack to Under the Cherry Moon. Prince played Christopher Tracy in the film—a charming romantic who dies too soon. The song is what comes after: mourning, confusion, and the quiet heartbreak of losing someone who wasn’t supposed to be gone yet.

And Prince didn’t try to clean it up. He kept the raw demo. You can hear creaking chairs and fingers sliding on strings. Those imperfections? They’re what make it real.

The lyrics hit like a conversation you didn’t want to have but needed:
“Sometimes it snows in April / Sometimes I feel so bad, so bad.”
Simple words, but when Prince sings them, they carry weight. It’s not performance—it’s confession.

Then came April 21, 2016. Prince passed away. Suddenly, a song about losing someone too soon became eerily personal. It was recorded in April. He died in April. And just like that, it sounded like he’d written his own farewell without knowing it.

And here’s the part that always gets me—I often wonder why we don’t truly appreciate an artist until after their transition.
Why do we wait?
Why do the tributes flood in only once they’re gone?
It’s a question that’s never been answered—at least not a good one.

Maybe it’s human nature. Maybe we think there’ll always be time. Maybe we don’t realize what someone gave us until we can’t get more of it.

With Prince, we had a genius in real-time. But songs like “Sometimes It Snows in April” remind us that his deepest gifts weren’t always the loudest. They were the quiet truths tucked in between the hits—the kind you don’t hear until you’re really listening.

“Sometimes It Snows in April” isn’t just about death. It’s about love, memory, and the strange ache of time. It’s about the moments we don’t talk about much—but feel the deepest.

And that’s why it still hurts. In the best kind of way.

Oracle of Hollow Peak

2025/04/07Posted in ProseTagged AI Generated Images, creative writing, daily exercise, Fiction, FOWC, Poems from Another Time, Prose, Ragtag Daily Prompt, romance, short-story, writing3 Comments

PROSE – CONCEPT ART – DOUBLE EXPOSURE

In the heart of the Hollow Mountains, where the air hummed with silence and time forgot to tick, a being older than wind sat. Encased in a sphere of shimmering energy—neither glass nor light, but something between—the Oracle meditated above a chasm that pulsed with ancient fire.

He had not spoken in centuries. He didn’t need to.

The mountains around him were carved not by water but by will. Their jagged silhouettes, emerald-tipped and layered like echoes, were born from his breath. Each ridge was a memory. Each peak was a vow. He had once been flesh, bone, and fire. Now, he was purpose wrapped in the illusion of form.

To the outside world, he appeared as a man—if a man could be sculpted from starlight and storms. His robes flowed like liquid fog, and his long, tangled beard bore streaks of silver like splotches of moonlight left behind by the gods.

Pilgrims had tried to reach him, climbing in silence, their mouths dry from reverence or fear. None returned unchanged. Most didn’t return at all.

Inside the sphere, reality bent. Time curled inward like smoke. The Oracle sat cross-legged on a throne of molten stone that neither burned nor aged. Beneath him, streams of liquid light cascaded into the void—knowledge pouring endlessly into the earth’s soul, never wasted, never full.

He was more than a seer. He was a medium between worlds—the silent conduit through which forgotten truths passed. Not a messenger, not a prophet, but something more elemental, something that watched as stories ended and began again.

He waited—not out of impatience but design. Somewhere, someone would be ready to ask the right question. Not about destiny or death. Those were too easy. But the one that mattered. The one that cracked the world open.

Until then, he breathed. And in that breath, universes whispered.

I’d Be Shaft, Obviously (Everyone Else Needs Therapy)

2025/04/07Posted in The Daily'sTagged book review, books, creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-1901, Fiction, literature, The Daily's, writing5 Comments

Daily writing prompt

If you could be a character from a book or film, who would you be? Why?

View all responses

DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

An aggressively personal breakdown of alter egos, revenge spirals, and why fictional characters are one emotional snap away from disaster.

Ever watch a movie, read a book, or binge a show and think, Wow, this character really needs therapy? Like… immediately. They have pills for that. And boundaries. And emotional support animals. But instead of signing up for BetterHelp, fictional characters usually take the scenic route: they grow an alter ego, light their lives on fire, and call it “justice.”

Sometimes you’re just sitting there, watching a perfectly normal person start talking to their dead father’s ghost, and all you can think is: They are so fucked.

Let’s talk about that.

The Alter Ego: Fancy Latin for “Oh no, he’s talking to himself again”

There’s something darkly satisfying about a character cracking right down the middle. Not like “oops, I’m having a rough day” cracking—but full-blown talking to their reflection in the mirror and the reflection talks back cracking.

Dr. Jekyll doesn’t just dabble in science—he mainlines Victorian repression and conjures a walking midlife crisis named Hyde. And Tyler Durden? He’s what happens when toxic masculinity drinks four espressos and finds Nietzsche on Reddit.

“Man is something that shall be overcome.” – Nietzsche

Too bad most characters take that as an invitation to become unhinged vigilantes instead of, say, doing the shadow work.

Alter egos don’t just show what characters fear—they show what they secretly want: power, escape, freedom from polite society. It’s the part of them that isn’t okay with playing nice anymore. It’s also the part that starts the fires and says “oops” later.

Holmes and Moriarty: A Gentleman’s Guide to Mutual Obsession

Sherlock Holmes and Professor Moriarty are technically enemies. But let’s be honest: they’re intellectual soulmates with unresolved tension and no HR department to report to. If Holmes is logic in a waistcoat, Moriarty is chaos in a cravat. One solves crimes. The other is the crime.

Holmes says he’s repulsed by Moriarty’s criminal mind. But let’s call it what it is: obsession. Like, we-should-talk-about-this-in-couples-therapy obsession.

“He who fights with monsters should be careful lest he thereby become a monster.” – Nietzsche again, because of course.

Their final tango at Reichenbach Falls? That’s not a climax—it’s a breakup scene disguised as a death drop.

Werewolves, Hulks, and People Who Should Not Be Left Unsupervised

Let’s talk about werewolves: the OG metaphor for “Oops, my emotions got out.” Classic lit was obsessed with this stuff. Guy seems chill—until the moon rises and suddenly he’s shirtless, hairy, and eating villagers. It’s like puberty, but worse.

And then there’s Bruce Banner. Poor guy just wants to be left alone to do his science. But noooo—every time someone provokes him, he turns into a giant green rage machine in cut-off jeans. He told them not to make him angry. They did. Now there’s structural damage.

Each transformation screams what Carl Jung quietly suggested:

“Until you make the unconscious conscious, it will direct your life and you will call it fate.”

Which is a very classy way of saying, “Congrats, you’re the werewolf now.”

But let’s not forget—masks don’t just hide. Sometimes they liberate.

“The mask is the instrument of the power that makes one see and speak.” – Michel Foucault

In other words: sometimes putting on the cape, the claws, or the face paint isn’t about hiding who you are—it’s about finally saying what you were never allowed to. That’s why Batman isn’t just Bruce in costume. He’s Bruce off-leash.

The real question is: when the mask comes off… what’s left?

Revenge: It’s Like Therapy, But With Body Counts

Here’s the thing about revenge stories: they used to be neat and tidy. Somebody wrongs you, you plot, you avenge, you feel… better? At least that’s how it worked in the classics. The Count of Monte Cristo is the gold standard of “I was wrongfully imprisoned, now I’m back with receipts.”

But modern revenge stories? Oh, they’re emotionally messy. There’s no neat payoff. Just guilt, trauma, and a long trail of ex-friends.

Walter White didn’t just want to “provide for his family.” He wanted to feel like the universe owed him something—and when it didn’t pay up, he became the universe’s problem. Watching him morph into Heisenberg is like watching your dad get really into crypto and start calling himself an “alpha.”

Amanda Clarke from Revenge isn’t much better. She goes full Machiavelli in heels. She infiltrates high society to take down the people who framed her dad—and in the process, slowly turns into one of them. You know it’s bad when even your revenge plot has subplots.

“Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves.” – Confucius (or at least the internet version of him)

Revenge doesn’t heal. It haunts. And if your therapist charges $200 an hour, revenge charges your soul.

Why Can’t We Be More Like Shaft?

Let’s take a breather from all the tortured brooding and talk about someone who handles his business without spiraling into an existential crisis every five minutes: John Shaft.

Shaft is revenge fiction’s cool older cousin who doesn’t need an alter ego because he’s already whole. He doesn’t slip into madness, grow claws, or adopt a second name—he just walks into a room, says something smooth, and gets stuff done. No inner monologue. No moral agony. Just grit, justice, and style.

Here’s what makes Shaft different: he’s angry, sure—but he owns it. His anger doesn’t consume him; it fuels him. He doesn’t lose himself in vengeance because he never lets anyone else define who he is. He knows the system is broken. He knows justice is often DIY. But he doesn’t get lost in it. He stays Shaft—and somehow makes leather trench coats look like emotional armor.

Honestly? Watching most of these fictional characters unravel, you start to wonder:

*Are psychiatrists who Curtis Mayfield was talking about in his classic song “I’m Your Pusherman”?
Because half these people don’t need a gun—they need a prescription and a twice-weekly check-in with someone who says:

“Know thyself.” – Socrates, probably side-eyeing half the MCU right now.

And here’s the kicker: Shaft doesn’t need a mask to be powerful. He doesn’t hide behind a symbol. He is the symbol. While most characters fracture under the weight of dual identities, Shaft walks in fully integrated—what Foucault might call power without disguise.

“Power is not an institution, and not a structure… it is the name that one attributes to a complex strategical situation.” – Foucault, probably watching Shaft with admiration and fear.

Shaft is the complex strategical situation. Everyone else is just playing dress-up.

Final Thoughts: You vs. You (And Sometimes a Werewolf)

At the end of the day, alter egos and revenge stories aren’t really about villains. They’re about us—our insecurities, our grudges, our late-night fantasies of telling someone off and walking away in slow motion while something explodes in the background.

These stories hit because they remind us how hard it is to be a person. A person with baggage. With rage we swallow. With wounds we dress up as ambition. We all want to believe we’d be the Shaft in our own story—cool, unshakable, morally centered with a killer soundtrack—but let’s be honest: most of us are two stressful emails away from turning into Mr. Hyde.

“Where there is power, there is resistance.” – Foucault

Whether it’s the beast inside, the grief-fueled vendetta, or the charming psychopath in your mirror, every character in these stories is resisting something: society, morality, themselves.

And some of them lose.

Most of them do.

But then there’s Shaft—no split self, no mask, no melodrama. Just a man who knows the system’s rigged, knows who he is, and shows up anyway.

Maybe that’s the real power.
Maybe the rest of us are just monologuing in the dark.

Top 5 Ways to Ask a Girl Out: Rule #5

2025/04/062025/06/29Posted in Fiction, Top 5 WaysTagged creative writing, daily exercise, fantasy, Fiction, FOWC, Ragtag Daily Prompt, romance, short-story, writing3 Comments

FICTION – FOWC & RDP

Top 5 Ways to Ask a Girl Out: Rule #5
If you survive the kiss attempt, you’re in.

We walked back from the taco truck under the kind of sky that made everything look slightly more romantic than it deserved to. Streetlights flickered on like they were rooting for me. Or mocking me. Hard to tell.

“So,” she said, arms folded, still carrying her drink like it was a trophy. “Do you usually spend your Saturdays pretending to be a mechanic-slash-foodie with girls you’re not dating?”

“Only the ones who invite me to test-drive their haunted vehicles and emotionally unstable lawn statues.”

She laughed. “So I’m special.”

“You are,” I said, before my filter could save me.

She looked over, eyes holding for a beat too long. I panicked and did what any emotionally underdeveloped guy would do: I kicked a pebble and immediately regretted everything I’ve ever said.

We got to her door. The gnome was back. Sitting on the railing again like nothing had happened.

“You brought him back out?” I asked.

She shrugged. “Didn’t move him.”

We both stared at the gnome.
The gnome stared back.
Relentless.

I cleared my throat. “So. Tonight was… really good. Even if I almost stripped the threads off your lug nuts and spilled soda on my own knee.”

She smiled. “Definitely one of my better fake-date disasters.”

And then it happened.
That silence.
The kind that invites a kiss if you’re bold, or complete social collapse if you’re not.

I stepped a little closer. Not a full leap—just a half-step of doomed courage. She didn’t move. Just watched me with that same small smile and terrifying confidence.

This was it. This was the moment.
I leaned in.
And completely misjudged the height difference.

My nose bumped hers. Her forehead bumped mine. My glasses fogged instantly. Her drink sloshed. One of us made a weird surprised sound—pretty sure it was me.

We pulled back, both blinking.

I wanted the sidewalk to swallow me. Instead, she started laughing.
Like, full-on, can’t-stop, leaning-on-the-doorframe laughing.

I winced. “Cool. Yep. Nailed it.”

She grabbed the front of my shirt, pulled me in, and kissed me properly.
Soft. Sure. Just long enough to shut my brain off.

When she pulled away, she whispered, “You passed that test, too.”

The gnome was still watching.
Probably smirking.
Waiting for whatever moment would arrive next.

Author’s Note
And that’s a wrap on this blog series. Thanks for sticking with it. This story (and its awkward kiss energy) will be part of my upcoming short story collection. Same premise, just expanded—with more chaos, more heart, and yes, probably more gnome appearances.

The Quiet Break

2025/04/06Posted in PoetryTagged creative writing, daily exercise, poetry, writing2 Comments

POETRY – BARK OF THE DAY CHALLENGE

A whispered secret crawls through alleyways, laced with smoke and static.
Neon blinks like a warning.
You turn the first page, not knowing what’s coming.
This debut is the gateway to madness.

David Hare – Whispers Between the Pages

2025/04/06Posted in Quote of the DayTagged David Hare, QOTD, Quote of the Day, quotesLeave a comment

Things We Couldn’t Say, But That’s the Job

2025/04/06Posted in ProseTagged creative writing, Fiction, life, love, Moonwashed Weekly Prompt, Prose, short-story, writingLeave a comment

PROSE – MOONWASHED WEEKLY PROMPT

“Duty is what we carry in silence, long after the reasons stop making sense.”

They said, Be all you can be, and we believed them. But we didn’t know at what cost.

There is a line—not drawn, but implied. A hush between steps, a rule never spoken aloud but lived as law. It was my job to hold the line. To guard it. Uphold it. Even on the days I couldn’t see it. Even when I wasn’t sure it was ever really there.

We lied to everyone that mattered. Spoke in half-truths, offered polished answers to unspoken questions. And over time, the lies started to sound like loyalty. We even convinced ourselves. Still—we held the line. We sacrificed everything for it. Time. Peace. Parts of ourselves no apology will ever retrieve. But we believed our sacrifices had meaning. And maybe they did. Maybe meaning isn’t always clean.

There were things we couldn’t say—not because we didn’t want to, but because the job required silence. Duty demanded presence, not explanation. We chose service over clarity. Responsibility over release. That’s what no one tells you: sometimes loyalty means carrying the truth quietly so others don’t have to.

When the dust settled, we tried to find something to hold on to—something we could trust, something true, something pure. Not perfect. Just real. Something that wouldn’t dissolve when we stopped performing.

And yes—we sometimes lived in the dark. Operated in shadows. Did things we could never speak of. Things people will never know. But there was always a light. A flicker. A guide, buried deep, pulling us back. Even when we wandered, even when we hardened. Some of our paths were rockier than others, but still—there was hope. Always hope.

I traced the curve of the line out of habit, out of fear, out of love for something I couldn’t name anymore. The line is not a fence. It’s a suggestion, soft as a breath on glass, sharp as memory. You learn to shape yourself around it—to fold your hunger, to tailor your voice. To make small beautiful, and still wonder why it feels like vanishing.

Some days, it glows. Other days, it disappears, but you still feel it—in the pause before truth, in the way your shoulders remember how to shrink. Still, I held it. With both hands. Tired hands. Loyal hands.

And then one day, without rebellion, without even deciding, I stepped. Nothing broke. No thunder. No light. Just space. Quiet and wide. I waited for collapse. It didn’t come. The air was different here. Not sweeter, not easier—just honest. There was wind, and with it, direction.

I looked back. The line was still there, but fainter now, as if it never meant to stay. And I understood: it was never a barrier, only a shadow cast by belief. And belief, like shadow, can shift with the sun.

We did what we thought was right. We held the line, lived in the shadows, and told the stories people needed to hear. And through it all, we tried to provide hope—while quietly, desperately, trying to hold onto our own.

DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

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DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE – ME CUTTING UP

I Don’t Slap for Free, But I Would

A Field Guide to Slappin’ Sense into the Senseless

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DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

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DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

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DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

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DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

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ART – AI GENERATED IMAGE – CONCEPT ART

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PROSE – FOWC, RDP, 3TC #MM57, SOCS

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DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

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FICTION

The Diner (Where Grease Meets Regret)

The Karaoke Bar (Where Self-Respect Goes to Die)

Return of the Wallet Warrior

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POETRY – WWP#414

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FICTION – FOWC & RDP

The Morning After

Harper, the Roommate of Judgement

The Pub (Where It All Went Wrong)

The Club (A.K.A. The Meat Palace)

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DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

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DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

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TUNAGE – MMB (APRIL)

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TUNAGE – SLS

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FICTION – FOWC, RDP, 3TC

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ART – AI GENERATED IMAGE – CONCEPT ART

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DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

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FICTION – MLMM #423

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PROSE – 3TC #MM48 – MORNING VIBE

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FICTION – FOWC & RDP

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DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

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PROSE – FOWC & RDP

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PROSE – MOONWASHED WEEKLY PROMPT

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POETRY – 3TC #MM44

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TUNAGE – THROWBACK THURSDAY

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TUNAGE – SLS

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PROSE – NATIONAL POETRY MONTH

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ART – AI GENERATED IMAGE – CONCEPT ART

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PROSE – 3TC #MM43

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PROSE – WWP #412

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POETRY – FOWC & RDP

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DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

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