I wouldn’t know the names of the masters if you paid me a million dollars. I can’t look at a painting and tell you who brushed what stroke or why it matters. There are a few comic book artists I really enjoy, but again, I couldn’t tell you their names. I just know when something stops me in my tracks.
The feeling I get when I look at art… I don’t really have words for it. It’s like trying to explain why a storm feels beautiful while it’s tearing through your neighborhood. You just feel it. Despite that, I spend my time trying to create the same kind of reaction in other people—through writing, art, film, photography—whatever medium happens to grab me that day.
I recall giving a speech in class once. When I finished, there was silence. No applause, no eye rolls—just my classmates staring at me like I’d confessed something I shouldn’t have. My teacher asked what inspired it, and I told him I made the whole thing up. He didn’t believe me. They sent me to the counselor’s office to “discuss my feelings.”
It took a while, but I finally convinced an adult that it was a work of fiction. I had my notebook with me, filled with half-finished stories and wild ideas. That notebook saved me. It proved I wasn’t broken—I was just a writer.
It was after that little incident I landed myself in detention for running my mouth. I’ve got a habit of voicing my disdain in its raw, unfiltered form. Come to think of it, that might’ve been what led my mother to suggest I give up profanity for Lent. Hmmm.
Meanwhile, back in detention, I checked out an art book from the library and started leafing through it. I found a Da Vinci sketch—nothing fancy, just a face drawn with impossible precision. I tried drawing my own version, and something in me shifted. After that, I started drawing everything. Then, write everything. Strangely, that was the birth of Mangus Khan.
Funny how things happen, huh?
Since then, I’ve learned that every work of art hits everyone differently. I’ve written things I meant to be serious, only to have people burst out laughing. There’s no predicting what someone will feel. You just roll with it, cherish the experience, and most of all—feel.
Author’s Note: Don’t let anyone crush your creative spirit. They may not understand what you’ve created—and that’s okay. You never know how it will affect the next person. So create. Always create.
I didn’t set out to be a writer. It happened by accident, somewhere between a half-finished sketch and a notebook full of half-thought ideas. Back then, I was a teenager with more curiosity than direction, filling pages because it felt like the only way to keep my thoughts from spilling everywhere else. One of my oldest friends likes to remind me he can’t remember a time I didn’t have a notebook in my hand. He says I was always scribbling or sketching, usually both.
It was at his house, during one of those long afternoons that used to stretch forever, when someone suggested I could write and illustrate my own book. I never did—but the idea never left. Over the years I’ve written stories inspired by other people’s art, and drawn illustrations for stories that weren’t mine. Maybe that’s the closest I’ve come to answering that old dare.
These days, my rituals are quieter, more deliberate. I start with coffee, smokes, and a notebook—that’s the constant. The rest depends on mood. Sometimes I need silence; other times, I scroll through playlists until I find something that matches the weather inside my head. The room is dimly lit, Guppy purring on the desk, both of us waiting for my next move. It’s not glamorous, but it’s home—the small ritual that turns chaos into coherence.
I don’t consider writing a hobby. But apparently, some people around me do. They say it like it’s harmless, even complimentary, as if writing were just another way to pass the time. Most days, it pisses me off—not because I crave validation, but because it ignores the time, discipline, and mental excavation it takes to build worlds, shape characters, or research a single line that rings true.
I’ve spent weeks turning over ideas before I ever write a word, sometimes months just mapping the geography of a story or tracing the emotional logic of a character. That’s not leisure; that’s labor—creative, invisible, and deeply consuming. Yet somehow, the work only “counts” if it’s published, printed, or profitable. Maybe that’s the illusion people live by: that creation isn’t real until it leaves your desk.
I’ve read the books. I’ve done the study. I’m not waiting for a permission slip to call myself a writer. Still, I can admit that sometimes fresh eyes help—someone catching a rhythm I missed, a sentence that stumbles, or an idea that needs to breathe differently. But that’s collaboration, not validation. The work itself has always been serious enough.
I remember the first time I saw my name in print. I was just a kid then, with childish dreams about becoming something I didn’t fully understand. But even at that age, I knew it was the only thing that gave me genuine joy and peace. It felt right. Like I’d found the one place where my head and my heart could finally speak the same language.
Even when I draw, I’m still telling stories. Sometimes, when I get it right, a single sketch can hold the whole narrative—the emotion, the silence between moments, the pulse of something unfinished but alive.
As an adult, that sense of wonder changed shape. I never thought my writing would go anywhere; most of it was just stories I’d tell my wife over coffee or late-night laughter. When she smiled, I’d rewrite. When she made that face—the one that said, “you’ve hit something”—I’d dig deeper. For a long time, I was defensive about my writing, too fragile to take a critique, too unsure to trust my own voice.
But somewhere along the way, I stopped chasing perfection and started writing from that place where the magic happens. I write from the soul, not the head. It took me forever to realize that for myself, even though I’d taught it a thousand times in workshops. Funny how the truths we teach others take the longest to reach home.
So maybe my favorite pastime isn’t writing itself, at least not in the way people imagine. It’s telling the stories that insist on being told—the ones that show up uninvited and refuse to leave quietly. Not the planned ones or the well-outlined projects, but the whispers that come when I’m half-awake, the flickers that make me reach for a pen even when I swore I was done for the night.
Those are the stories that remind me why I started. They aren’t about publishing or approval or anyone’s idea of success. They’re about listening—to memory, to imagination, to the things that ache to take shape. I suppose that’s what writing has always been for me: not a hobby, not even work, but a kind of surrender. A way of being in conversation with something larger than myself.
Entry Nine: Dispatches from the Splinters of My Mind
I wake upright, as though sleep forgot to fold me into its arms. The darkness presses in all around—soft, velvety, bruised at the edges, like some colossal bruise pulsing with the low red hum of my own blood. A cloth lies warm against my eyelids, its fibers slick where they touch my skin, chillier at the edges where the air’s breath finds purchase. I don’t brush it away. I’ve learned that on certain nights the world is safer unseen.
They breathe at my sides—two hulking presences, rigid as ancient statues steeped in the sick-sweet perfume of formaldehyde. One on my left, one on my right, like bookends clamped around a story that refuses to end. Their feet remain statuesque; instead their bodies rock ever so slightly, tilting inward, receding, then returning in a silent metronome of doubt. Sometimes they feel like mirrors, their gazes jokers with opinions. Sometimes they feel like promises, the future I was sold if I kept doing what I was doing. Most nights I know the truth: they are mine—either I forged them, or they forged me. Asking which first feels as impolite as inquiring whether the flame or the candle existed before the other.
“Don’t speak,” says one voice—dry, brittle, like my father after my brother’s funeral. “Don’t confess,” says the other, rasping through a cough that smells faintly of candle wax and stale hymns. Their words scratch the hollow behind my left ear, the birthplace of my worst headaches. These aren’t commands so much as rituals—family heirlooms too awkward to discard, for to do so one must acknowledge their worth.
But my mouth conducts its own liturgies. It leaks in secrets. A weight gathers on my tongue: metal and warmth, the taste of regrets I should have voiced long ago. The first word is always the hardest to birth. When it finally breaks free, every syllable remembers gravity and falls like ink that missed its page, staining my chin.
It’s all right, I tell myself, between ragged breaths. Blood is just memory liquefied. Let it run. Let it tally the score.
“How did we get here?” I whisper, voice ragged against the blindfold. The dark tilts its head and pretends not to hear.
Left says, “By keeping your eyes closed.” Right hisses, “By learning to love the closing.”
They speak in turns, careful not to overlap, for if they did the shape of this place would shift and I’d forget what it means to stand.
I was taught early that silence is a language with two alphabets—safety and surrender—both scrawled from the same letters. When the cops came to our flat for the second time, my mother pressed a thumb to my lips. It felt like blessing and gag in equal measure. Years later, the first woman who claimed she understood me asked if I had anything to confess. I answered “No” because survival had already flipped the coin. I’ve whispered apologies to her in colder seasons, at bus stops I never ride, through prayers I don’t believe in. None ever breached the blindfold—they slid back down, patient as ghosts.
I know what lurks beneath this cloth. I’ve seen it—how daylight has kissed it, streetlight has tasted it, how a match’s flame stared too long and flinched. Eyes that catalogue, that inventory every fracture, then try to alphabetize the fragments. If I unveil them tonight, I’ll stare out into a flock of unfinished things circling my bed—wounds and half-formed promises. One can drown in the study of omissions. Ask me how I know.
Left leans forward, winter on his breath: the damp, hollow kind that drifts through stairwells, eavesdropping on arguments. “We kept you alive,” he says, a tenderness reserved for things long dead. “We wrapped your seeing until your seeing couldn’t hurt you.” The years have built a fortress in his jaw, doors forgotten.
Right lifts a hand to graze my ear—his touch colder than patience. “We taught you an economy of withholding. What you don’t utter can’t be used against you. What you don’t name can’t die.” He pauses, fingers poised like a man waiting for payment. “We saved you from the truths that detonate families into committees.”
Between them lies a rasp—a rasp that, I realize, is my own.
I drift back to the riverbank, red water flowing like a personal insult to the city. I recall the neon sign in that solitary room—its sick throb of light like a wound bargaining for closure. I hear the voice that begged me to “keep the light on,” and how I switched it off, hoping the corridor would keep a secret of its own.
Silence exacts its own fee. It demands tiny coins—words unsaid, memories locked away—until one day you want to catch a bus out of town and all you possess is the jingle of borrowed time.
“Say it,” Left murmurs, not unkindly. “Say nothing,” Right counters, like a physician prescribing illness.
My lips part. Perhaps it is prayer, perhaps confession—perhaps the last valve cracking open in a machinery someone else designed. What I long to say is simple: I remember the first lie—it tasted like rescue. The second lied felt like rehearsal. The third taught me grammar, and the rest built a house around me: no windows, just a door opening onto a closet. I want to say that blindness, if chosen wisely, lets you aim without seeing your target. That I learned to navigate by the shadows where stars should be. And I want to speak her name, the one I’ve carved into the walls of my heart, the one whose echo never returned but whom I have nurtured in silence for years.
Yet the mouth refuses dictation. When words drop onto my collar, I taste ash on my tongue. If I linger here, the floor will absorb me letter by letter. Maybe that’s the plan: let the body become a document, the words falling where they will.
“Open,” Left instructs—not my eyes, but the wound beneath this cloth. “Close,” Right insists—not my lips, but the subject itself.
They kneel, each in reverent posture, calling it unity.
I am not devout. Faith in myself is a belated apology—a jacket thrown over my shoulders after winter has already laid bare my bones. Still, I believe in small truths: every silence is a room with a window you can paint shut; blood remembers what you refuse to; when the past leans in to kiss you, check its hands.
“Why do you resent our aid?” Right asks, almost plaintive.
“I don’t,” I rasp, the cloth muffling my words. “I’m just weary of living the shape of your absence.”
Left’s fingers find the knot in the blindfold with a lover’s care. He doesn’t tighten, only taps it, as though weighing a wish. “You won’t like what you see.”
“I rarely do,” I reply, a dry laugh clawing free.
“Then keep the cloth,” he says. “And we’ll keep you. We’re the railings in your dark.”
I envision rusted metal, cold to the touch, a splinter waiting for skin. I recall the staircase winding down to a door I never open—the handle of which somehow knows my name. Once I thought that room housed my monsters. Now I see the real monsters are proper: they safeguard my unspent courage and the coats of selves I never became.
“I have questions,” I say, voice gentle as rain. “Whose mouths whispered before mine? Where did the very first hush come from? How many women stifled their fire because the men who taught them already drowned in smoke? How many fathers measured love by volume, awarding themselves with silence?”
Left inhales, a slow vacuum. Right clears his throat like a clerk shelving confessions.
“You think your blood makes you singular,” Left says. “It only makes you consistent.”
“You think speech is salvation,” Right counters. “Speech is a tool—tuned for mercy or murder.”
Both statements are true. Both can kill.
The cloth grows heavy, soaked where its letters dissolved in transit. I recall the story of a saint who plucked out his eyes to end desire, of a soldier who bit off his tongue so no one could barter his secrets. Every tale shares the same architect: Sanctity. Security. Surrender. The walls remain flawless. The rooms numbered. No one explains the numbers until rent’s due.
“Remove it,” someone says, and I can’t discern whose voice borrowed mine this time.
My hands lift, obedient as shadows at dusk. The knot is simple—always was. The hardest part of a blindfold is the narrative that says you deserve it. I tug once. The cloth exhales. Light rushes at me with the relief of a crowd that finally chose a side.
The room reveals itself—smaller than I’d feared, grander than I’d earned. The two men are exactly as the voice in me conjured: tattered elegance, wreckage with meticulously combed hair. Their faces are maps whose borders have vanished. Their suits hang as carefully as funeral garb. Their hands hover, almost kind.
I look at Left. He looks at my past. I look at Right. He looks at my future. Neither steps forward. I remain the hinge.
Blood trickles from my chin, a rudimentary signature poised for the name that owns it. I want to wipe it away. I want to revel in it. I want to stand still and hear what stillness says.
“Are you ready to speak?” Right asks, tone hopeful.
“I have been speaking the whole time,” I say, and for the first time the room curves into something like a smile.
Left shakes his head. “If you go on, you’ll lose us.”
I meet his eyes—meet my inheritance. “Maybe you’re meant to be lost.”
Pride and regret war in his gaze, as if he’s a father examining the bruise he taught me to take. There’s curriculum here no syllabus could contain.
“You can’t survive the noise,” he warns.
“Then let the noise survive me,” I tell him. “Carry the parts I cannot.”
When I finally move, it is unceremonious. I am neither saint nor soldier tonight, only someone who learned to count by the drip of blood in the dark. I am someone who believed in railings and now tries to believe in stairs. I am someone who has loved poorly, remembered perfectly. My fingertips trace the cooling red at my jaw, smearing it as though to bless myself—two fingers pressed to skin, raising a silent benediction. I draw a thin line across my throat—not threat, but witness. Then I touch each eyelid, first right, then left. Their warmth whispers secrets textbooks never taught.
The two men release simultaneous sighs of opposing relief. They are both disappointed. They are both relieved. It is possible to be two sermons at once.
A neon sign shivers somewhere beyond these walls. A painted-shut window in another life wonders if tonight the paint might crack. The floor holds my secret. The air remembers it was once a river and yearns to practice.
“I won’t speak her name,” I murmur, voice low but unwavering, “but I will stop pretending I never learned it.”
Right bows. Left closes his eyes. The room narrows to a path that was always here.
I take a step. Then another. My mouth finally ceases bleeding—it has, at last, done its duty. The cloth in my hand is merely cloth. I let it fall. Its descent makes no sound anyone else would hear.
If I keep walking, perhaps the past won’t follow. If it does, we can negotiate. I’ve learned there are nights it’s safer to close your eyes—and nights when you must open them, so when the world returns wearing your own voice, you can tell prayer from muzzle.
Tonight, I listen for that difference. And if the voices demand a choice, they can wait—like the weather.
When I was young, we didn’t know anything about bipolar, ADHD, or OCD. For most of the kids who looked like me, we were troublemakers. Lazy. Not living up to our “potential.” And my personal favorite — “at risk.”
I saw things that still twist my stomach. Families locking their special-needs kids away like shame in human form. Others giving children up for adoption because they saw difference as a “defect.” I didn’t understand it then, but I also didn’t question it. I figured it wasn’t my business. That was my own brand of ignorance — youthful stupidity with a good dose of asswipe. Luckily, I got my head out of my ass before it became permanent.
I watched people claw their way toward acceptance, thinking if they could just fit in, life might hurt less. It didn’t. I saw cruelty take every shape imaginable. And one night, I watched one of the kindest people I’d ever met get invited to a “party” by the popular crowd. What happened there was wrong on every level — a setup disguised as an invitation. People laughed. Some stood frozen, watching. Nobody stopped it. That was the night I decided I wouldn’t stand by again. I made it my mission to fight for the ones who couldn’t. Easier said than done, but it was a start.
Thing was, I knew what it felt like to be made to feel less than. My athletic ability was my equalizer — my way to earn space. But it was a fragile kind of belonging. I thought if I could hit harder, run faster, fight better, I’d earn respect.
Turns out, asswipes are going to be asswipes no matter how many beatings you hand out.
Being a nerd and a geek didn’t help either — things I embrace now but used to hide. Being Black in America wasn’t easy, but even that didn’t compare to the way people treated those with mental or learning conditions. Hate, I learned, is colorblind and endlessly creative.
We love to talk about how diversity makes America great. Sometimes I think diversity only exists on posters and TV slogans.
Then it hit home. My family. I wasn’t ready, but I wasn’t scared. I just had to face a truth I didn’t want to admit: I had some buried prejudice of my own. Stuff I didn’t even know was there. And if I wanted to keep my family whole, I had to deal with it. Over time, I did.
Then came my own diagnosis. PTSD. That’s when I found even more latent bullshit buried under the macho armor — the “last American badass” act. Mental illness didn’t exist for men like me. Especially not for Black men, because we’re supposed to be ridiculously strong. But let’s be honest — that toxic script applies to men everywhere. Be strong. Don’t cry. Fix it or bury it. It’s a lie that kills quietly.
The stigma runs deep — not just in the streets, but in the system. I asked a therapist once about ADHD and OCD, wondering if some of my symptoms overlapped. She waved it off: “Once you resolve your PTSD, you’ll be back to normal.”
Back to normal. As if “normal” were a bus stop I could just catch on the next route.
That’s the problem. Too many mental health professionals treat PTSD like it’s a virus. “Bend over, quick poke, might sting a little.” Hell, if it were that simple, I’d have rolled up my sleeve years ago.
But it’s not. None of it is. Every mind is different. What wrecks me might roll right off you. What medication lifts you up might level me. But they don’t listen. They pull out the checklist, ask the same robotic questions, tick the same boxes, and call it “care.”
It’s one-size-fits-all medicine — and that bullshit didn’t work for clothing, so why the hell do they think it’ll work for the mind?
When I hit full-blown crisis mode, I was lucky. I got an intern who actually gave a damn. She helped me start living with PTSD instead of suffering from it. She listened. She paid attention. She saw the person, not the file.
My psychiatrist? Worthless. I called him my dope man to his face. He corrected me — gave me his title like I was some illiterate twit. I told him I didn’t give a damn what his title was; he was still my dope man, and the least he could do was give me some good shit.
Instead, I got the cheap stuff — the kind that made me feel disrespected, doped, and disposable.
But I’ve been lucky since then. I have a care team now that actually seems to give a damn about me as a person — not just a walking diagnosis. I don’t know exactly how that happened, but I’ve got a small inkling. See, there were a few medical professionals who became casualties of my unfiltered disdain for incompetence. I didn’t hold back. Maybe that left a trail — maybe word got around that I wasn’t someone to bullshit. Whatever it was, I finally ended up with people who listen. Who treat me like a human being instead of a puzzle to solve.
Medication isn’t the solution. It never has been. It’s the work of the individual — the daily grind of facing the mirror and doing the damn work — that brings real results. I’ve worked with soldiers and civilians who carry the same ghosts, and the truth doesn’t change. The treatment only works when you treat the person. They’re not data points. They’re people. Treat them as such.
We are people. We deserve to be treated fairly. Not pitied. Not managed. Not turned into a statistic on a spreadsheet. We deserve the love and fairness that every living soul on this planet is owed.
If you want to help someone, start by listening. Don’t tell them what they need — ask them. Sure, you might know a few things, but don’t force it. Offer choices. Let them decide for themselves. Nobody likes being told what to do. And the ones who say they don’t mind? They’re lying.
Healing isn’t a factory line. It’s messy, human, and different for everyone. What calms one person might break another. What saves you might drown me.
There was a saying back in the day, before online dating. We used to say, “You got a sister or a friend?” — a way of saying, you’re good people, got anyone else like you?
That’s how I feel about good mental health professionals. When you find one who actually listens — who sees you as a person, not a case number — all you can think is: You got a sister or a friend?
But in my experience, most of these so-called mental health professionals don’t act like that.
Two words for you:
Uncultured Swine.
(It’s still a compliment.)
Author’s Note:
This piece is about stigma — the kind that hides behind silence, systems, and credentials. It’s about learning that real strength doesn’t come from toughness or treatment plans. It comes from listening — to yourself, to others, to the pain no one wants to name. Because healing, like humanity, never fits into a box.
Daily writing prompt
What’s a topic or issue about which you’ve changed your mind?
What it means to be labeled, to mock, and to finally understand.
There’s something about that question — “Tell us about a time when you felt out of place” — that stirs up more than I want to admit. For someone like me, admitting fear or discomfort has always felt like breaking an unspoken code. Society still treats fear like a weakness, and men especially are taught to hide it behind our egos. I’d love to say I’ve outgrown that, that my ego doesn’t run the show anymore. Truth is, I’d be full of shit if I said that. Ego still tugs at my decisions, but I do my best to keep it in check.
I remember when I was first diagnosed with PTSD. I wasn’t ashamed of it—I told friends and family outright, thinking honesty would bring support. I thought they’d rally, that they’d have my back in this new state of being. I was wrong. What I found instead was silence where I expected comfort, distance where I expected closeness. I heard whispers that weren’t really whispers, caught side-glances dressed up as concern, saw pity masquerading as care. The labels came quick: “Touched.” “Not right in the head.” And my personal favorite—“Well… you know.”
Looking back, I can admit there were times I blew things out of proportion. PTSD has a way of magnifying shadows until they look like monsters. But there were other times when I was dead-on, seeing things that others couldn’t because they hadn’t lived through it. Learning techniques to live with PTSD—rather than just suffer under it—changed my perspective.
I realized some of the fears I carried were invisible to others, because they’d never walked in that dark. And I also realized some of the fears they carried, the ones they thought were dire, looked small to me because I’d been through worse. That’s where the real challenge came in: not mocking them for what seemed trivial, not throwing back the same treatment they’d given me. That shit was hard. To pass up the chance to feed them the same poison they’d fed me? Damn near impossible.
But I knew better. I knew what it was like to be on the receiving end of whispers, side-glances, and labels. Mocking them—even quietly, even under my breath—only made me worse. It made me just like them. And that realization? That was harder to swallow than the diagnosis itself.
Before I retired, I spent the last few years working with people living with all kinds of mental conditions. What struck me wasn’t just the weight of their struggles, but how deeply they wanted to be “normal.” That desire ran so strong it could push them into choices that would shape, even haunt, the rest of their lives.
I came to understand something: it’s one thing to know, intellectually, that it’s okay to be different. It’s another thing entirely to believe it in your bones. I saw people wrestle with that gap every day, and in their fight, I saw myself. Being out of place had taught me what it felt like to carry that longing, that shame, that desperate wish to blend in. And maybe that’s the only gift of being “othered” — the chance to understand someone else’s battle, even when they can’t put it into words.
Perhaps, in some ways, this is what Memoirs of Madness is about. I didn’t start the blog with that purpose in mind, but maybe it has become a place to name the fears we all carry — the ones that make us feel out of place in our own lives. Or maybe it’s nothing of the kind. Maybe it’s just one man behind a keyboard, running his mouth. I’d like to believe it’s more than that. That in speaking my demons aloud, I give someone else permission to face theirs. That I remind them they’re not as alone as they think.
Author’s Note: This piece grew from a prompt asking about a time I felt out of place. As always, I didn’t take the safe route. The question became an exploration of stigma, ego, and the long road toward compassion. If nothing else, I hope it reminds someone out there they aren’t as alone in their demons as they might believe.
On the surface, it sounds simple. Life without a computer? Quiet. Peaceful. No antivirus sales pop-ups, no Cialis spam at cost, no desperate emails from Classmates.com trying to drag me back to people I don’t remember—or worse, the ones I do. Strip all that away and sure, it’s tempting to picture myself sitting in an easy chair, no screen glow, no endless buzz. But simple answers are just window dressing. Let’s peel back the glass and see what’s really inside.
I can remember the feel of it—life before all this. Index cards. Library catalogs. Encyclopedias stacked like walls around a curious kid. I’d curl up in the corner of a room and lose myself in some unknown world waiting to be discovered. A flashlight, a Conan paperback, an aunt who kept my trunk stocked. My mother would walk the hall, check to see if I was asleep. I’d roll to the side, play-acting. She never called me on it. Years later, I returned the favor when my daughters pulled the same trick with Goosebumps and The Babysitters Club. Memory does this thing—it polishes the edges. We remember the warmth, not the splinters. Maybe that’s why fragments from the past glow brighter: because we need them to.
But nostalgia only tells half the story. You want the other half? Without computers, the scaffolding of modern life buckles. The power grid falters, the fridge sweats, the meds spoil, the pumps stall. Life unravels fast. You don’t have to be a doomsday prepper to see it—the dependency is baked in.
And then there’s the smaller erosion, the social kind. I asked two young men for directions not long ago. One was polite, helpful. The other? Rude enough to make me want to crush him into wine. Back in the day, you blamed the parents and moved on. Now everyone blames “the cell phone generation”—usually while scrolling their own feeds or taking selfies. Computers didn’t invent rudeness. They just gave it more stages.
So no, this isn’t an indictment. Computers didn’t ruin us. The cracks were already there long before the first home PC blinked awake. What computers did was speed it all up. Made connection instant, exposure constant. They’ve fed my family, carried my work, given me conversations with people in corners of the world I never would’ve reached otherwise. And they’ve pissed me off. As I type this, I’m smiling through the irony—I’m literally writing about life without computers while debugging a Linux distro on my desktop. It’s a love-hate relationship, and it always will be.
Music is my counterweight. Computers speed me up, music slows me down. The screen demands reaction; the record demands attention. Drop Zeppelin or Miles Davis and suddenly the world exhales. The horns breathe, the guitars stretch, and I remember that time doesn’t have to move at the pace of a notification.
So excuse me, as I sit down with my coffee, open a notebook, and let Miles play. I’ll scribble lines of prose that might become something later. And when I’m ready, I’ll boot the machine back up—fresh OS humming—ready to write, to read, to connect with friends across the world.
Life without a computer? Maybe I’ve been living both lives all along.
Eli’s fingers hammered the Underwood, the platen ratcheting like a drumbeat inside his chest. Words crashed onto the page raw and unprocessed, each keystroke sharp as broken glass. He didn’t try to catch his thoughts; they lagged behind anyway, always scrambling, always too late. Second-guessing was for people with softer bones.
The typewriter filled the basement like a predator pacing. The ding of the carriage bell jolted him at every line, each return snap a small guillotine. He welcomed the violence. As long as the machine roared, the silence couldn’t close in and strangle him.
Behind him, Iris moved. He didn’t look—didn’t dare. He knew the sound of her presence: drawers opening, papers shifting, the glide of her feet across concrete. She spoke sometimes, soft nothings that dissolved into the cinderblock walls, too sweet to be trusted. He kept his eyes forward, certain that if he broke rhythm the spell would snap and something worse would rise.
She spoke in platitudes—surface shit that didn’t mean a damn thing, not even to the person saying it. She knew I hated them. She knew I’d rather choke on silence than fill it with low-grade noise. And after everything, don’t I rate the premium line of bull? Instead—clichés. Cheap ones. Wrong on too many levels.
The words poured, jagged and necessary. He bent closer to the keys, fingers aching, shoulders burning. The smell of paper and machine oil clogged his sinuses. His job was to write. One job. Write.
Then—click. Whirr. The clatter of vinyl.
His trance shattered. Eli shot up from the desk. “NNNNNOOOOOOO!”
The speakers coughed dust. A warped guitar riff crawled from the jukebox.
Arnold Layne had a strange hobby…
The lyric nailed him to the chair. His body froze, his heart battering too fast against his ribs. A high metallic screech tore through his skull. Somewhere in the sound he swore he heard a howl, long and low, as if the memory itself had found a voice.
The world went black.
—
He blinked awake in a different room. Bare bulb. Cracked mirror. The stink of disinfectant.
In the glass, Iris stared back—hair damp, eyes too wide, skin gone bare and bloodless.
Jonquil’s shape coalesced behind her, a figure lit by candlelight. She smiled, but her mouth never moved.
“You had one job,” Jonquil said, velvet over stone. “Keep him writing. Don’t let the memory in.”
Iris clutched the sink, knuckles white. Words failed her.
Jonquil’s gaze sharpened. “You know what happens to leaky vessels.”
The memory ripped through Iris: a Guild meeting, Uncle Bug tearing into a junior agent, the sudden hush, then the impossible sight of Bug blowing softly in the man’s direction. The agent’s outline wavered—and collapsed into vapor. The smell of iron had clung to her clothes for days.
Iris trembled. If Jonquil told Uncle, she’d be next.
—
The bar hit him like a punch—heat, smoke, neon fractured on dirty glass. Bodies surged to the music, sweat and whiskey thick in the air. Eli stood in the middle, drowning in it.
Onstage, a woman with cropped hair and a voice like gravel tore through Dead and Bloated. She wasn’t covering the song; she was burning it down and rebuilding it from ash.
Her eyes found his. She grinned, stepped off the stage, and cut through the crowd like she owned it. Her hand snared the back of his neck. She kissed him hard, tasting of blood and whiskey, breath hot with hunger.
The taste hit him like déjà vu—sharp and sweet, like a kiss he’d lived before in another life, though he had no memory of whose lips had given it.
Then she pulled back, lips almost brushing his ear. “You don’t belong here. Go back. Now.”
She shoved him. The bar collapsed, light and shadow swallowing the floor. Eli fell.
—
He jolted awake at his desk, lungs empty, head pounding. The Underwood sat waiting, a fresh sheet rolled in.
On the corner of the desk, a tabby cat licked her paw. She froze mid-motion and fixed him with a single stare.
“Meow,” she said, clipped and final, before resuming her grooming.
Eli’s hands shook as he reached forward. Beside the typewriter, on a square of yellow paper, a single word was scrawled in black ink:
Frog Creek.
The letters burned into him. His stomach turned cold.
He remembered.
Something he had sworn never to speak of again. Something only he had survived.
The typewriter, the cat, even the walls felt suddenly foreign—no shelter at all, just a trap waiting to close.
Why was it surfacing now?
Author’s Note
When I released Litany in Black, my editor didn’t mince words. The call was short and sharp: “I want more.” So here it is—the next chapter, pulled from the dark seam where memory, myth, and madness overlap.
This piece draws on three of my favorite community sparks: FOWC, RDP, and Word of the Day. Those prompts slip into the prose the way shadows slide into corners, sometimes obvious, sometimes hidden in plain sight. If you caught them, you’re paying attention. If not, maybe the story is working on you the way it should—sly, unsettling, creeping in under the skin.
Chapter 3 is about fracture—Eli caught between the rush of creation and the trap of memory, Iris learning that mistakes echo louder than excuses, Jonquil tightening her grip on both. Frog Creek has finally bled through the page, and with it, the reminder that some stories don’t just haunt you; they claim you.
To those following along, thank you for walking with me into the dark. The deeper we go, the less clear the ground beneath us becomes—but that’s the only way to find out what’s waiting on the other side.
Looking back, I see the shift clear as day. In 2023, I leaned hard on control—details, contingencies, the belief that if I just tightened the screws enough, nothing could come loose. By 2024, the screws had already rattled out, and I was staring down a kind of fragility I’d never known before.
One year, I was convincing myself discipline was enough. Next, I was joking about my “part-dragon phase” just to soften the gut-punch of realizing I’m flesh and blood like everyone else. What hasn’t changed is the truth at the center: the details I need to pay attention to aren’t the external ones. They’re internal—the quiet daily choices that keep me alive, standing, and present with the people who’d notice if I wasn’t.
That’s not the answer I wanted to give, but it’s the only one that matters.
For most of my life, I’ve been the kind of person who sweats the details. I suppose it grew out of fear—fear of making a mistake, fear of letting something slip. My default mode was to be squared away: backup plans layered on top of contingency plans, every angle covered, every risk accounted for. If you’d asked me back then what details I needed to pay more attention to, I would’ve shrugged and said, “None. I’ve got it handled.”
But then life came along with its own set of details I couldn’t spreadsheet or strong-arm my way through. Health issues hit, and with them came changes I didn’t ask for and didn’t want. At first, I fell into my usual pattern—pretend control, mask the cracks, mutter “fuck it” when the new limits pressed too hard. But weakness has a way of humbling you. For the first time, I wasn’t sure how things would turn out.
That’s when my circle—the family I chose—stepped in. They reminded me I wasn’t done fighting, even when my body said otherwise. I’m not used to relying on anyone, but I learned to lean when I had to. It turns out that those details matter just as much as the ones I used to obsess over.
So what do I need to pay more attention to? The unglamorous, invisible stuff: eating better, resting when I should, saying no before I collapse, listening to my people when they call me on my bullshit. All the little choices that keep me here, present, and alive.
It’s tempting to say I’m doing this just for myself, and on some level that’s true. But it isn’t lost on me that my brothers, my friends, my people—they want me around too. There’s nothing better than feeling that kind of love. And honestly, I’m getting too old to risk another beating, figurative or otherwise.
The pounding at the front door began long after midnight. Each blow was deliberate and unhurried, like the careful stroke of a sculptor’s chisel against glass. Not a summons but a demand. Brazen. Insistent.
He didn’t rise. He lay still in the attic room, letting the sound seep into him, inevitable as tide against stone. He counted the interval between strikes until his heartbeat followed the rhythm. The house trembled. Thunder muttered beyond the horizon, folding the knock into something larger—an unmeasured tide, washing through the marrow of his bones.
Then the room split open. He stood on a windswept shore. Salt spray stung his lips; the wind tasted of copper and regret. Mist curled along the sea, thin as gauze, trembling as if it hid another world.
A horse exhaled. Its breath rolled heavy as storm clouds, hooves thudding like a buried drum. Damp wool and brine clung to the air. He tasted fear, sharp and metallic, like sucking a coin.
Through the haze came a glint of battered armor—silver rubbed to pewter, seams cracked, catching light from a sun that didn’t exist. The rider’s silhouette wavered, impossibly tall, visor down, face unreadable.
The pounding at the door merged with hoofbeats. Frost rimed his lashes. His boots sank into sand that softened into ink, black and iridescent as beetle shell. The rider advanced, and with each step the sea receded, exposing bones and wire in the seabed’s muck. The air stank of rot and possibility.
A question swelled in his throat, too heavy to voice. Another strike at the door—and the dream collapsed.
He jolted upright at his desk. Shelves stood skeletal, spines stripped bare. Dust clung stubbornly to the air, as if the room refused to surrender its memories.
Only the inkwell remained. Obsidian glass, gleaming like a pool of midnight.
It spoke—not in words but as a tremor in his bones: You are the one I belong to.
Ink leapt upward, coiling into the suggestion of a figure, a face more idea than flesh. Its eyes were ancient and exact, pinning him to his chair.
Are you the writer? The question was absurd and infinite.
The shelves rattled as though books clawed to return. Each knock at the door struck like a punctuation mark, vibrating his jaw.
The room thinned. Corners bent inward. He clapped his hands to his ears, but the pounding only burrowed deeper, lodging itself behind his temples, merging with the pulse behind his eyes.
He tried to stand but found himself rooted. The ink-figure grew, head brushing the ceiling, mouth curling in some half-expression—amusement, hunger, pity.
In the mirror above the desk, his reflection wept. Ink streamed from its sockets, streaking cheeks until the face dissolved into a blur.
The whisper gained teeth. Are you the writer? Answer. Answer. ANSWER.
His tongue flooded with ink, bitter as spoiled wine. He gagged, then finally let the words tumble out, steady as confession: “Yes. I am the writer. I am the Muse.”
For an instant, silence. The sea stilled. The door hushed. The world held its breath.
But silence bears weight. And weight cracks.
The pounding resumed—faster, furious, like a heart hammering against bone. Shelves pitched forward, gnashing their empty spines. The rider’s visor leaked tar; waves behind him thickened into oil. Seafoam crawled across the rug.
The lamp shrank to a pinprick. Walls bowed outward, then snapped back, leaving him gasping.
He clutched the inkwell. Its glass was fever-hot, pulsing like it contained a second heart. Each knock rattled his skull, more intimate now, less house than body.
He tried to scream, but ink poured out, running down his chin, soaking his shirt. The inkwell slipped and shattered. The spill spread, black and inexorable, birthing the rider whole, towering, boots leaving prints that hissed as they seared into the rug.
He dropped to his knees. Through the cracks between floorboards, he glimpsed writhing shadows—half-finished stories, worlds waiting for permission. The window rattled behind him, panes shaking like teeth in a jaw.
The pounding stopped.
Silence swallowed the room. Every particle of air strained toward the door. A gauntleted hand hovered just beyond the wood. The whisper softened, almost tender: Are you the writer?
He staggered forward, each step leaving an ink-black footprint. His hand shook on the knob, slick with sweat. The ceiling sagged, the house groaning as if it would collapse if he refused.
He swallowed fear and turned the handle.
No pounding. Only the slow, splintering sigh of wood.
The door was not being knocked upon.
It was being opened.
Author’s Note: Thanks to Fandango for another amazing Fandango’s Story Starter #218 (FSS) prompt. Some doors you knock on, others knock on you. This one wouldn’t stop pounding until I opened it. Funny how a single line can spiral into something that feels less like a story and more like a confession in ink. Appreciate the spark, Fandango — and the reminder that prompts aren’t just exercises; sometimes they’re invitations we can’t ignore.
The end of the month always brings a surge in paperwork. Spreadsheets, backend checks, the kind of admin work that keeps my websites standing upright instead of collapsing in a heap of missed updates and broken links. Usually, I keep pace. But this month — hell, these last two months — I’ve been dragging. Emotion takes its toll, and when it hits, it doesn’t just knock you down; it scrapes off your momentum.
And tomorrow isn’t just the end of the month. It’s the anniversary of my wife’s death — the moment that split my life into three acts: the life before, the life during, the life after. Some years, I handle it better. Some years, it feels like the wound was carved just yesterday. But I’ve learned forgetting isn’t the goal. The point is remembering fully. Letting myself feel the pain, the joy, the sorrow, all tangled together in the memories that built me.
Funny thing is, she’d probably put her foot up my backside for the way I’ve been living. Can’t say I’d blame her. I’d probably kick my own ass, too. I remember the man I was, and I see the man I’ve become. Some parts I’m proud of; other times, I just shake my head at the mess I’ve gotten myself into. Jackass comes to mind more often than I’d like to admit.
I catch myself wondering who I’d be if she hadn’t died. Better? Happier? Maybe just more ornery — that last one feels like a safe bet. (Truth is, the orneriness has been growing by the day, and I’ve made my peace with it.)
But here’s what I know: no matter what might have been, this is the life I’ve got. The work still waits. The words still demand to be written. The fight — for the things I believe in, for the things I’ve spent my life creating — hasn’t gone anywhere.
So yes, tomorrow there will be admin. There will be memories, some sharp enough to cut, others soft enough to cradle. There will be the temptation to run from the ache, to hide in distraction or numbness. But my mama didn’t raise no punk. I’ll remember. I’ll work. I’ll fight. And I’ll laugh at myself along the way, because wisdom without humor is just another burden.
Author’s Note: Grief never leaves — it just changes costumes. Some days it appears as silence, some days as laughter, and some days as the sharp edge of memory. But I’ve learned to live with it, and sometimes even laugh at it. Tomorrow will hurt, but it’ll also remind me why I keep showing up for the work and the fight. That’s how I honor her and myself.
On Quiet Power, Unfinished Equality, and Knowing When to Step Aside
Women have been shaping the world from the quiet corners for as long as there’s been a world to shape. History loves its kings and loudmouths, but look closer and you’ll see the fingerprints of women everywhere—deals struck over kitchen tables, revolutions whispered into motion, empires shifted by a single word.
The damsel-in-distress? Pure fiction. Every woman I’ve known has been a strategist or a survivor. I was raised by women, so I never bought the stereotype. My mother, aunts, and grandmothers ran their worlds with a precision that left no room for excuses.
That lesson stuck. My daughters and granddaughters get no slack because they’re women—the only pass they get is being mine, and even that expires fast. I’ve watched women pick up the slack when men fall short, holding things together while someone else grabs the credit. And still, women are underestimated in ways I’ll never understand. The proof stands right in front of us, yet people squint as if strength needs permission to be real.
I saw it firsthand in the military. Equality is improving, but the gap is still wide. A striking new soldier joined our unit, and the guys forgot every rule of conduct, circling her like moths while she tried to learn her job. So I played the villain. I called people out, made her untouchable, and turned would-be defenders into cautionary tales. I hated doing it, but it gave her room to breathe. Her father was a command boss I’d butted heads with, so I expected trouble. Instead, we ended up on good terms, a quiet truce born from protecting his kid. She and I became friends, and years later, I still get the occasional text or Facebook update from her and the husband I once terrorized.
Long before marriage, an older woman once told me over beers, “If I can’t get what I want with a look and a smile, I’m not doing my job.” Back then, I didn’t get it. Marriage cleared that up. My wife could hold an entire conversation with a single glance, seal the verdict with a faint smile, and I’d move before she spoke—remembering that barroom oracle and chuckling while carrying out silent orders.
Here’s the tricky part: as much as I know the women in my life can handle themselves, the instinct to defend them never leaves. But that impulse can backfire. Sometimes the smartest move is to pick your battles, stay alert, and trust their strength. Respect isn’t rescue—it’s giving credit, stepping aside, and making sure the field is clear when they swing the hammer themselves.
Even after a lifetime of their guidance, I still don’t have a clue how women work. They tell me that all the time. I just smile, nod, and keep doing my chores. History is finally, grudgingly, starting to catch up.
Author’s Note I like Sunday Poser’s questions. They make me think—probably more than they should, but think nonetheless. Anything that stirs the mind is a good thing. So, thanks to Sadje for providing these tremendous challenges.
When I first answered this question years ago, I leaned into time travel, jukeboxes, and 24-hour diners. Those images still live in me—they always will—but retirement has shifted my perspective. Now it isn’t about dreaming up another job so much as embracing what I already do: writing, creating art, and taking pictures.
People love to say, “If you do something you love, you never work a day in your life.” I’ve always liked the sound of that, though I know now it isn’t quite true. Writing and art have been part of me most of my life, and while I love them, they demand work—grinding, detailed, sometimes thankless work. The pride comes not from sidestepping that effort, but from doing it anyway and still loving the process enough to come back the next day. That’s the real magic.
Although I’m still tinkering with my time machine in the basement, for now, time travel lives inside my stories. That’s the gift of the page: step through, and suddenly you’re anywhere. And while the dream of owning a 24-hour diner never happened, I still sometimes write in one. The booths are cracked, the coffee burnt, and the danish usually stale—but if you show up before the morning rush, you might catch a fresh pastry and, better yet, a pocket of quiet. The hum of neon, the shuffle of strangers, and the early-morning stillness create a kind of portal of their own.
So maybe I never needed to own the diner. Perhaps it was always enough to sit in the corner with a notebook, bad coffee, and the ache of possibility in the air—time traveling in my own way.
Author’s Note: The older I get, the more I realize it’s not about finding the perfect job, but finding the space where your imagination can keep breathing. Whether it’s a chipped mug in a half-empty diner, or the quiet corner of your own basement where “impossible” machines get built, what matters is the work you return to—the thing that keeps you curious. For me, that’s the page, the image, the story. The grind and the magic are inseparable.
Reflective Prompt: Where do you find your own “time machine”—the place, habit, or ritual that lets you slip out of ordinary time and into the work (or play) you love, even when it demands effort?
When I was a kid, brands were a kind of social currency. Clothes weren’t just fabric; they were shorthand for who you were. Madre Khan didn’t have much, but she made sure I never went hungry or without a place to sleep. Back then, I thought the right label could hide the lean years. We lived through the “generic” craze—plain white packaging, bargain prices—and adults preached, “You pay for what you get. Quality costs.” It felt like gospel.
For years I carried those lessons forward. My loyalties were automatic: Dickies for everyday wear, Logitech for office gear, Apple for everything but my phone. I even joked about being a brand whore, because at least I knew why I liked what I liked. My stepmother once shook her head at how casually I spent, but I’d tell her I bought what I needed and rarely worried about price. Quality justified the tab.
Lately, the gospel rings hollow. The “solid” names I grew up trusting don’t always deliver. Prices climb, quality slips, and you can’t put a price on quality now sounds like something printed on the inside of a fortune cookie. More than once, a no-name hard drive or keyboard has outperformed the legacy brand at half the cost.
These days I notice another shift. I own plenty of off-brand gear that works just fine for what I need. Retirement changes the math: I don’t need professional-grade tools anymore, but the ones I have will serve until they die. I used to research only within the circle of names I trusted; now the field is so crowded you watch the distributor more than the logo. Even established vendors let quality control slide, which often leaves me repairing old equipment or building my own replacement. I don’t buy desks or bookshelves anymore—I build them. I’ve started refurbishing old furniture and appliances with lower-grade tools and find the process oddly satisfying.
Just today I paused mid-essay to repair an outdoor extension cord. A simple fix would’ve done the job, but I couldn’t resist the upgrade—added roughly twenty-five feet for good measure. It’s a small thing, but it says a lot: why settle for a patch when you can quietly rewrite the boundaries of your backyard? Somewhere, Madre Khan is smiling at the sight of me splicing wires with the same patient curiosity she once showed when I tore things apart for parts.
I still research before I buy, but loyalty no longer seals the deal. If a nameless drive stores my files without complaint, it wins. If a plain keyboard keeps up with my writing, I don’t care whose badge sits on the box. The brands I associate with now aren’t names—they’re the ones that keep their promises.
Maybe that’s the real lesson: value isn’t in the logo, it’s in the follow-through. Childhood taught me to chase quality. Adulthood taught me to measure it myself. These days my motto is simple—get the most bang for the buck and enjoy the build along the way.
Sleep and I are estranged lovers—centuries of cold shoulders and midnight betrayals between us. Sleep is like that perfect lover we imagine we could find, but do we really want perfection? Knowing that perfection is something for shitbirds and affirmation junkies. There’s no help for the shitbirds, but the affirmation junkies—there’s a new 5 a.m. virtual meeting. I think that’s the word. Who knows? I can’t keep up. Hell, I can’t even get up. If we reconciled now, the shock might kill us both—like a jolt of mainlined caffeine through a cracked vein.
I could try being nicer to people. Be giddy, even. (Insert laugh track here.) But no—perish the thought. Niceness feels suspicious, like a door-to-door guru peddling enlightenment for the price of my dignity.
The writer in me says write more, which is hilarious because I already write every damn day. My editor swears I start a new series just to watch her eye twitch. Sometimes she sends me texts that are just a single, vibrating ellipsis. I plead the Fifth. She rolls her eyes so hard I can hear it over the phone. The other day she asked, “When are you going to take the next step? You know you’re ready, right?” Maybe she’s right. Maybe it’s time I believe in myself a little more—have faith in the work I keep throwing into the world like sparks from a stubborn match.
Still, there’s something quietly miraculous about creating work you love and finding out strangers love it too. For years, I didn’t have the time—raising a family will eat decades before you can blink. (Contrary to the baffling opinions of certain buttwipes who think parenting is optional.)
But the thing I’d truly like to do more of? Pay attention to my art. Not for money, not for likes—just to see how far I can push it. No limits, no internal hang-ups, none of the flimsy excuses we invent to dodge our own passions. Retirement has made one thing clear: I’m a storyteller. Always have been. Every skill I’ve picked up—writing, photography, film work, design—has been another star in the same battered sky, flickering through the smog of burnt coffee and late-night keystrokes. Each one lights a different corner of the story. Perhaps it’s time to stop forcing the tale into a single constellation and let the stars arrange themselves, allowing the story to decide whether it shines as prose, image, film, or sound.
As I write this, it begs the question… What if? What if I let go and took the plunge? Will doubt finally fall away? Will I edge closer to whatever version of me is hiding under all this noise—no matter how cleverly I might hide myself? Not to get hippy-dippy, but isn’t that the engine under all of this—the quiet force beneath the surface, behind the mask we flash to the world? Excuse me while I glue my mask back together. They don’t epoxy like they used to. Progress my ass.
Maybe sleep will keep sulking in the corner. Fine. I’ll keep mapping my own constellations until the night runs out of darkness. Sleep can wait. Niceness can rot. The story gets every last hour I have.
The bed had held her like a warm conspiracy—pillows swallowing her shoulders with their downy weight, linen softened by last night’s restless turns. Lantern light pooled in amber halos on the walls, quivering against damp wood. Four hours of sleep after eighteen-hour days should have grounded her for a week, but her body insisted on rebellion. Awake again, she sat upright, toes grazing the cool floorboards, eyes blinking against the dim glow. The tang of office coffee still clung to her tongue: a bitter echo of burnt midnight oil and water-thin sludge, the kind that left her stomach knotted but kept her nerves humming like exposed wiring.
She dragged a chair across the cabin with deliberate care—the legs scraping in protest—and perched at the balcony’s edge. The night air bit her bare arms, each shiver sharpening her senses. Beyond the railing, the mountains stood silent, dark ridges pressed like secrets into the horizon. The lake lay flat as polished obsidian, mirroring bruised clouds of early dawn. Across the glassy water, an old man in a faded plaid shirt painted the silence. His brush moved in slow, patient arcs, each stroke less about color than stitching the world back together, as if he fought gravity and time with bristles and oil.
“Are you just going to sit there, peeking out the window? That’s rude, you know?” A voice cracked through the quiet like a shot glass on stone. Jonquil’s heart jerked—her pulse thundering behind her ribs. For a moment, she blamed the sleepless haze—too many nights hunched over microfiche, eyes stinging under the sterile hum of library projectors, chasing Frog Creek’s ghosts through brittle ’30s newsprint. Dead ends, coy smiles from locals who treated the story like a campfire riddle.
“Bring some coffee and a glass of water while you’re at it,” the voice added, dry as driftwood.
Her gaze flicked back to the painter. He hadn’t paused, but she was certain the brim of his floppy hat dipped—a slow, knowing nod cast in shadow. Words felt heavy, too sluggish to catch. She slipped off the chair, the floorboards groaning like reluctant witnesses, and padded to the kitchenette. She measured the coffee grounds by instinct, water steaming in two battered mugs. She filled two slender glasses with cool spring water. Even before she carried the tray back, the earthy tang of brewed coffee rose to meet her, promising clarity.
As she stepped into the painting’s quiet domain, the tray trembling slightly in her hands, a thought flared: What the hell am I doing? She set the tray on a rough-hewn table beside the painter and stepped back into the flicker of lantern light.
“What took you so long?” he muttered around a sip, not looking up—then slowly raised his head and found himself staring down the barrel of her .40-caliber Smith & Wesson. The metal gleamed silver in the lamplight.
He froze. Recognition bloomed in his eyes, calm as a breeze off the lake. He tilted his head, then—deliberately—brought the coffee cup to his lips. The steam curled around his weathered face before he met her gaze.
“Jonquil! You old firebrand—you scared the hell out of me!”
Her chest unclenched in one rush of relief, fury, and love warring beneath her ribs. She lowered the gun with a shaky exhale, the weight of it receding like a tide.
“Are you gonna give me a hug,” he drawled, “or should I start feeling offended?”
“Offended, of course,” she muttered, stepping forward.
He rose with a groan of old joints, arms outstretched. His paint-stained palms smelled of turpentine and lake mist. She hesitated a heartbeat—then melted into the solid warmth of his embrace. His arms were rough bark, familiar and unyielding.
They held each other while the mountains bore silent witness. Bug kissed her temple, then eased back to study her face under the brim of his hat.
“Tell me about the writer,” he said, voice low. “Is he writing?”
“I made contact,” Jonquil replied, voice soft with pride. “It’s begun.”
“Good. How long before he’s ready?” Bug asked, tone businesslike as he sipped his coffee.
“I’m not rushing him. He’ll be ready when he’s ready,” she snapped, the heat in her words betraying more than she intended.
Bug spread his paint-stained hands in mock surrender, a crooked smile flickering at his beard’s edge.
“Actually, Uncle…I’m glad you’re here,” she added, calmer now, raising her mug. The coffee was strong, bitter—and it steadied her pulse.
They fell into silence, watching dawn bleed into the sky while the lake held its reflection like a promise.
“Tell me about Frog Creek,” she said finally.
Bug jolted, coffee sloshing against his knuckles. His eyes sharpened, horror and determination flickering in the same breath.
“Don’t ask questions that need answers, Jonquil,” he growled, the words rough as gravel.
She swallowed the last of her coffee without flinching, letting his warning sink deep. A faint smile ghosted across her lips. “That’s it,” she said, each word measured. “We’re getting to it.”
Bug’s jaw flexed, unease rippling beneath weathered skin. The lake’s hush pressed in on them, but between the two of them, the silence crackled.
“Did you make contact personally, or one of your people?” Bug asked.
“My agent in the city,” Jonquil replied, cool and distant as gathered smoke.
Bug’s eyes narrowed. “Not Iris, I hope? That woman’ll have you jumping around barking like a dog for sport!”
Jonquil snorted, a half-laugh. She risked a glance at him, the corner of her mouth twitching with reluctant agreement.
—
In the bookstore’s basement, Iris leaned against a battered jukebox, fingertip tracing dusty chrome. The air was thick with mildew, ink, and the metallic tang of old wiring. Fluorescent bulbs flickered overhead, humming like restless spirits.
“I wonder if this thing still works,” she murmured, voice low. A manicured nail tapped a faded title card: Arnold Layne. A slow smile curled her lips as she mouthed the name, eyes bright.
She pressed a button. A dull click echoed, gears whirring beneath the dust. Vinyl clattered into place.
“Don’t—don’t you dare—” Eli’s voice shredded the gloom. Boots scuffed concrete as he lunged from the shadows, sweat beading his forehead under the dim light.
Iris turned, cool as midnight, watching him approach. She let the speakers crackle to life, a warped guitar riff slicing through the air like a knife.
Eli halted, breath caught in his throat. The sound held him hostage, every nerve taut as a plucked wire.
“Arnold Layne had a strange hobby…” The lyric spilled from the small speakers, tinny and inevitable. Dust motes swirled in the beam of flickering light, drifting like lost memories.
Iris tilted her head, eyes never leaving his face—waiting for the moment the past would snap into focus.
—
On the far side of the lake, Jonquil froze mid-sip. At first she thought it was the scrape of dawn against stone, but then—faint, distorted, impossible—the opening riff of Arnold Layne crawled through the air like static on a dying radio.
Her hand tightened on the mug, knuckles whitening. Goosebumps blossomed along her arms as the melody haunted the silent morning.
“Way too soon, Iris,” she breathed.
Bug’s brush scratched canvas in steady strokes, oblivious—or willfully blind—to the tremor in her voice.
But the song lingered, a ghost bridging two worlds, threading Jonquil’s dread to Eli’s terror. The mountains exhaled around them, and the lake held its breath.
Author’s Note: My editor called me after I released Litany in Black and simply said, “I want more!” So here’s the next chapter. I drew from Sadje’s WDYS #307 for the scenery and Fandango’sStory Starter #217 for inspiration.
As always, prompts like these push the story into corners I might not explore alone. Noir breathes in silence, in warnings half-heard, in the places where memory and dread overlap. That’s where Jonquil, Bug, Iris, and Eli are circling now.
If you’re new here, Litany in Black is part experiment, part confession: prompts, noir atmosphere, and a little madness stitched into something ongoing. If you’ve been here before, you know the deal—the coffee’s bitter, the ghosts don’t rest, and the story is never safe.
Thanks to Sadje and Fandango for throwing fuel on the fire. And thanks to you for reading, following the litany deeper.
Rain glazed the neon crescent above Second Moon Books until it gleamed like a razor’s edge slicing through the night. Elias Moreau’s fingers trembled as he flipped the weathered placard to CLOSED. The paint on the letters bled, fading faster every September—as though some unseen smart-ass on the other side of the door was trying to erase the word before last call.
Inside, the air carried the sour bite of old glue and the metallic tang that seeped up from the subway grates. A crooked chalkboard behind the register wore last week’s proclamation in smudged white chalk: BIRTHDAY BLOWOUT – A FULL WEEK OF HORROR & HOPEFUL DREAD A Tribute to Stephen King
Eli’s pulse ticked in time with the neon strobe outside. Every year he staged this seven-day ritual for King, the undisputed monarch of macabre wonder. King’s uncanny magic felt almost domestic, like discovering an old friend hiding in the crawlspace. But Gordon Weaver—now that was a different kind of haunt. Weaver carved the American family like a butcher who’d gone to seminary, exposing grudges and betrayals with a quiet precision that left scar tissue. Friends nodded politely at Eli’s King obsession but flinched at Weaver’s hushed horrors, as if the silence of a fractured household couldn’t follow them home harder than a demon ever could.
Counting bills at the till, Eli listened to the upstairs dehumidifier hum and a distant patrol siren wail. The shop was empty—until the door chime rang. One polite jingle. He froze, chest tightening, waiting for the echo that never came.
A damp breath rose from the basement stairs. Twelve years of half-formed chapters and midnight revisions leaned against a dented Underwood down there, sulking. He’d promised himself an extra hour—maybe two—before trudging home. Perhaps he’d finally finish the scene about a stranger who knocks after hours, demanding a book that doesn’t exist.
The bell chimed again, louder this time.
He jerked his head toward the door. Beyond the glass, a wet silhouette lingered: coat collar turned up, hat brim low—someone who moved like yesterday’s regret. A third jangle, brittle and hollow, and the lock clicked itself open. A gust of rain-scented air swept in, carrying a soft undercurrent of cedar. Then she stepped across the threshold.
She was impeccable, as if traced by a meticulous pen. Mid-forties maybe, but she wore her age like a tailored alibi—each line on her face an elegant footnote. Dark hair, slick with rain, clung to the sharp planes of her cheeks. Her long coat shimmered under the flickering fluorescents. But it was her eyes—gray, or green, the light shifting like a flame—that snagged him and refused to let go.
A needle-sharp ache blossomed beneath his sternum, radiating into his left arm. Heart attack, his mind hissed. He slammed a hand on the counter, breathing ragged, every inhale a serrated blade.
She paused just inside the door, lips curving in a small, almost tender smile. He didn’t know her—he was sure of that—but some buried page of his past fluttered to life. Familiar and impossible in the same breath.
“You okay?” Her voice was low, calm—the kind you’d use to coax a frightened animal out of traffic.
He nodded too fast. “ I-I’m fine. Long day. Sale week.” The words tasted like he’d chewed them wrong.
Her smile deepened, unreadable. She turned toward the chalkboard, fingertips trailing through the chalk dust. BIRTHDAY BLOWOUT – A FULL WEEK OF HORROR & HOPEFUL DREAD…
“Do you still read Gordon Weaver?” she asked, voice soft as velvet smoke.
The name hit him like a dropped stone. Weaver wasn’t on the board. He hadn’t said that name aloud in months.
“How… how do you know about Weaver?” he stammered.
Her eyes glinted with something not quite amusement. “Oh, Eli,” she breathed. “You always did love a good story.”
Weaver: Count a Lonely Cadence, the battered paperback he’d rescued at a college sale, pages yellowed and reeking of cigarettes. Weaver peeled back the American family like skin from bone—quiet betrayals, unsaid resentments, love rotting in plain sight. Then Such Waltzing Was Not Easy dragged him deeper, mapping small domestic wars in brutal intimacy. No demons, no ghosts, just everyday hauntings that never left his marrow.
Now this rain-soaked stranger spoke Weaver’s name as though she’d plucked it from the private margins of his soul.
“Have we… met?” he asked, voice smaller than he felt.
“Not in the way you mean.” She stepped closer, eyes roving the shop’s towers of paperbacks and the narrow aisles of hardcovers balanced like drunk skyscrapers. “You look familiar.”
He swallowed. “Or maybe you’re a character I’ve been writing for years.”
Her smile flickered—a blade wrapped in silk. His chest flared, nerves taut with something like fear or longing or the first line of a story he couldn’t put down.
An echo of his own unfinished draft whispered through his mind: She enters like a paragraph he rewrote a hundred times and could never perfect. Named only by his yearning for her to hurt him.
The shop inhaled. Somewhere beneath their feet, the basement typewriter began to tap—slow, deliberate keystrokes spelling out a narrative Eli no longer commanded.
She gestured toward the narrow stairwell. “Shall we?”
The basement smelled of damp brick and stubborn paper. She eased into the swivel chair beside his desk and crossed one elegant leg over the other. From some unseen pocket, she produced a long cigarette holder—old Hollywood glamour in a room that smelled like busted neon dreams. She slid a thin cigarette into the mouthpiece, fingers steady, and lit it with a soft gesture. Smoke curled around her like a velvet sermon.
Above them, the Underwood sprang to life, keys clattering in a jagged, confident rhythm. Each strike was a heartbeat in steel. The carriage dinged, bright and final. With every mechanical echo, the vise around Eli’s ribcage loosened, the stabbing ache receding to a dull throb. He inhaled freely at last.
“Iris Devine,” he whispered—the name he’d once given a character who refused to stay on the page.
She watched through the smoke, eyes glimmering with triumph. “Have you figured it out yet?”
The typing slowed. A new line appeared:
The writer clutched his chest as the pain returned, sharp as a rusted nail. Would the story kill him before the final word?
Eli’s breath caught. His knees trembled. Darkness edged in.
“Oh, Eli… darling, you can stop this. You know,” Iris whispered, leaning close, breath a warm brush against his ear.
Keys clattered again—then the ding of the carriage returned, harsh as a gavel.
“Eli,” she said, voice closer still, “I know who you are.”
The typewriter fell silent.
“Who am I?” she asked, tilting her head.
“You’re… a character. You can’t be real. This must be a delusion—right?”
Her smile sharpened, sudden and fierce. “Then why are you bleeding inside one?”
She pressed a soft kiss to his cheek, then a slow, deliberate lick that left warm proof on his skin.
“You feel that? Real enough for you, darling? Be a dear and fetch me something to drink—bourbon, if you have it.”
He stumbled toward the stairs—and above him, glass shattered. He wheeled around. The chair was empty. In its place, a ghost of smoke curled where she’d sat.
“Darling, you need to come upstairs—hurry,” her voice drifted down from the shop above.
He climbed into the main room to find broken glass strewn across the floor. A lone policeman stood by the register, uniform soaked, cap pulled low.
“Elias Moreau?” The officer’s voice was soft, almost uncertain.
“Can I help you, officer?” Eli’s hand dove beneath the counter, grasping the cold comfort of an old revolver. He cleared his throat, voice steady. “Step back.”
The man froze, rain dripping from his shoulders. Eli’s finger curled on the trigger—then he exhaled and let the gun clatter onto the countertop. Instead, his hand found something heavier: the knowledge that stories kill cleaner than bullets.
The shop flickered— And when he blinked, everything was normal. No broken glass. No officer. Only a dark, wet outline on the floorboards where the stranger had stood.
A single ding drifted up from below.
Eli descended again. Iris sat beside the desk, sipping bourbon, a neat stack of crisp pages at her elbow. A half-empty tumbler caught the amber light. She raised it in a silent toast.
“Welcome back, darling.”
He slid a fresh sheet into the typewriter. The carriage clicked forward, awaiting his command. His fingers hovered—then struck, each letter unfolding with deliberate clarity.
CHAPTER 1
Writing has always been bigger than the writer and the story. A kind of theology. The religion between the writer and the story is a spell cast upon them. The reader sits back and deciphers this literary kung fu.
Writing is a living theology. A way of life, not just an ideal misunderstood by its practitioners. Something real, and genuine. Something absolute. The page is a pulpit, the keys a busted rosary, each prayer hammered out like it owes you rent.
Iris placed her hand on Eli’s arm, warm and insistent. “Do you know,” she said softly, “that a marmot will chew through its own trap rather than stay caged? Writers should do the same.”
Her thumb traced a slow circle on his sleeve. “Don’t be the marmot that gnaws in silence. Write until the steel bends for you.”
The typewriter answered with a single, eager ding.
Eli exhaled, a small, resolute smile breaking through the shadows on his face. “This is where I belong.”
She rose with unhurried grace, smoke trailing like a benediction.
“I’ll put on the coffee,” she said.
The Underwood offered one final, gentle ding—a promise, not an ending.
Author’s Note
Today is Stephen King’s birthday, so I decided to play around with the supernatural and other weird stuff. The prompt words used today were theology, marmot, and literacy. Again, as always, thank you, FOWC, RDP, and Word of the Day for your inspiration.
Entry Eight: Dispatches from the Splinters of My Mind
The face hung over her as a dead moon would, immense and inert, plastered to the sky with the obscene permanence of a fossilized wound. It was not sculpted in the image of any god she recognized, nor did it bear the standard of a people desperate to placate the furies or worship their own reflection. Instead, it hovered on the edge of intent and accident—a precipice suspended in time, inevitability chiseled into every brute angle of the jaw. Each block that made up the visage was a shorn-off shard, ash-gray and rough-edged, but arranged so that the fractures and pitting created a ragged, almost animate skin. From a distance, the monument looked inert, but on approach it seemed to lean forward, as if gravity bent toward its own creation.
Up close, the surface shimmered with a faint, sickly gloss, not the result of centuries of wind polishing, but rather something more insidious: a hidden moisture, as though the stone itself exhaled condensation from a deep, slow-breathing lung buried far beneath the earth. The closer she drew, the more this exudation gleamed in the dying light, slicking her hand when she dared to stretch her trembling fingers only an inch from the surface. She jerked her hand away before contact, an involuntary spasm of repulsion, and it seemed to her that the stone recoiled as well, as if momentarily startled by her nearness.
The face’s hollow orbits, each deeper than a well and rimmed in a thousand years’ worth of wind-scoured dust, were not empty but filled with a red so saturated and unyielding that it was neither liquid nor illumination, but a third thing—a dense, coagulating radiance. This red bled outward in precise tracks, each line adhering to a groove so deliberate it made her stomach clench. At dusk, when the world’s colors flattened and the boundary between flesh and stone blurred, these rivulets painted the entire monument as if it wept a world’s worth of dying embers.
Beneath the eyes, the mouth was a gash so perfectly aligned that it projected neither malice nor welcome—simply a vacancy so absolute it wrenched at her. It did not pass judgment or offer answers, but waited in a silence that felt more like appraisal than apathy. When she stared at it, she became conscious of her own tongue, the dryness of her palate, the faint click of her teeth as her jaw tensed in counterpoint to the stone’s passive oblivion. For an instant, she lost the distinction between her own face and the monument’s, as though she were gazing at her own effigy, erected by hands who’d never known her and cared nothing for her likeness.
The statue was girdled by a ring of spines—pillars, each twelve feet high, tilting like teeth around the perimeter. Their faces were gouged by runes shallow and erratic, as if clawed by a desperate hand that knew it must leave a mark, but lacked time or understanding to encode more than a warning. When she turned her head just so, a vibration juddered through her jaw and teeth—a resonance that not only bypassed air but seemed to travel directly through calcified matter. It was not an audible tone but a bone-deep hum, a buried dirge that sang in frequencies meant not for ears but for the marrow itself.
A faint metallic tang rode the air, stinging her nose and settling on her tongue. Her pulse beat harder, a staccato drum against the inside of her skull. She knew she should have been afraid, or at least careful, but curiosity is rarely adaptable. It presses forward in one direction, refusing diversion. Even as some primitive sense screamed retreat, a more insistent force, slow and syrupy as honey, compelled her closer.
At the monument’s base, a set of spiral steps had been hewn directly into the rock, winding up toward the face’s sealed lips. The staircase’s edge was polished to a treacherous smoothness—perhaps by centuries of bare feet, or perhaps by something more recent. Each step she took yanked a shudder up her spine, the chill stone leaching heat from her bones. She tried to picture the hands and feet that had shaped these stairs, that had come before her, but the imagined forms refused to hold: they slipped away at the periphery, just out of sight, like ghosts not quite ready to reveal their sorrow.
As she climbed, the red seepage intensified, painting her arms and face in its cast. The color made her flesh look flayed and raw, as though she’d shed her skin and left it behind on the plain below. Her breath hitched in her throat, every inhalation mirrored by a second, deeper rasp—a guttural echo that rode beside her own, shadowing her ascent. She placed a hand against the cheek, bracing herself, and felt warmth pulsing through the stone—a low, feverish heat, rhythmic but not quite alive. Her heart skipped in answer. The pillars’ hum swelled, shaking her vision, warping the outlines of the world.
Suddenly, the lips moved. At firs,t it was only a quiver at their seam, a ripple of tension, but then the entire mouth flexed—and she swore she saw the faintest suggestion of tongue behind the teeth. She leaned closer, pressing her ear against the fissure. Beneath the monument’s stony shell, she heard breathing: not the shrill whistle of wind through cracks, but a true respiration, cavernous and ponderous, as though the monument had lungs the size of mountains and was only now remembering how to fill them.
The revelation paralyzed her. This was not a tomb built to honor the dead, she realized, nor a shrine to contain some ancient anger. The statue was a sarcophagus, yes, but one not yet emptied. The red running from its eyes was neither pigment nor rainwater but a bodily fluid, leaking from a cocoon that could not hold its contents. The face was a shell, a boundary—and something was trying to cross it.
Even so, she kept climbing, compelled by a mixture of terror and awe, the two emotions indistinguishable now in their velocity. By the final step, her knees trembled and her throat ached from the acid bite of fear, but she crouched anyway at the summit, only inches from the sealed lips. Veins of shimmering ember threaded across their surface, glowing brighter with every pulse of the monument’s breath. She felt a wave of heat roll over her, dense and chemical, and it left her dizzy, her skin tingling as though exposed to low voltage.
Now, as if cued by her presence, the ring of pillars began to thrum in a synchronized rhythm. One after another, they trembled against the ground, a chain reaction that rattled the bones of the earth itself. With each pulse, the red liquid burst a little brighter from the monument’s wounds, feeding rivers that ran down the steps and pooled at their base. Her limbs buzzed with a painful, almost ecstatic electricity.
Without meaning to, she heard herself whisper, “What are you?”
The answer arrived not as speech but as a violence in her skeleton. The words detonated inside her skull and reverberated through her ribcage, as though she’d been struck by a tuning fork forged for a different species. The sensation was not one of comprehension, but of total subjugation—a message delivered in a medium older than language or thought.
You.
The word was a spasm, a convulsion of being. She staggered backward, and the pillars responded, their angled bodies creaking as they pressed inward, shrinking the circumference of the circle until she was contained. The air thickened, the metallic taste blooming into a full, choking flavor. Her lungs seized, and she tasted rust and old ashes on her tongue.
The rivers of red exploded, no longer trickling but surging, a deluge that hissed as it struck the cold stone. In the reflections, she saw faces—hundreds, maybe thousands—each one a warped variant of her own, their eyes wide with terror or ecstasy or both. Each face pressed itself against the surface as if desperate to break through, their mouths open in a cry she could feel but never hear.
You repeated the monument, but now it was not merely a label, but an imperative.
She tried to clap her hands over her ears, but the sound lived behind them, in the architecture of her skull. Where her hands touched skin, she felt fissures opening: thin, pale lines that leaked light, as if her bone marrow had turned into a lantern. Each seam split further, the glow intensifying until the skin could not contain it.
Inheritance, not worship.
The lips of the monument parted, forming syllables that bent the air into impossible shapes. The pillars groaned, their runes flaring with a dark fire. One pillar cracked, then another, each yielding with the wet snap of a femur under pressure. Dust erupted into the air, shrouding the steps. The rivers rose higher, climbing up the pedestal and wrapping around her ankles, then calves, burning her with a heat that did not scald flesh so much as erase it.
She stood rooted in place, unable to turn away, because in that moment she understood: This was not a prison, but an incubator. The thing inside was not a remnant, but a seed.
And it was time to hatch.
What followed was not blackout but erasure. Her mind remained, but submerged, as though she had been drowned beneath a tide of molten syllables. Her body convulsed, every joint unhinging, seams of light splitting wider until the marrow itself glowed.
She tried to scream, but the sound was stolen from her, bent into a chant that was not her own.
It spread through her like fever, like birth, like—
—
Author’s Note: This entry was inspired by the image of a monumental stone face weeping red channels, surrounded by jagged pillars. I wanted to explore the tension between worship and imprisonment — the idea of a monument that is not passive, but alive, incubating something ancient. The words fake, adaptable, and angle were drawn from community prompts (FOWC, RDP, and Word of the Day) and woven into the text.
The casino smelled like burned electricity and desperate paydays—a mix of ozone, sweat, and somebody’s bad decision wafting from the all-night buffet. Carpet patterns swirled like a magician’s trap, designed to hypnotize losers into forgetting the way out. Overhead, fluorescent lights hummed their mechanical hymn while slot machines shrieked like possessed pinball saints.
And there she was—Loretta—flicking cards across a felt table with the precision of a surgeon and the calm of a predator. Each shuffle was a threat wrapped in velvet. Her nails flashed red beneath the lights, a warning flare in a sea of bad odds. I caught her eye for half a second, and it felt like being measured, priced, and politely declined.
I should’ve kept walking. Any man with a functioning survival instinct knows the house always wins, especially when the house wears black eyeliner and a smile sharp enough to cut rope. But I stood there anyway, watching her hands work the deck like she was dealing fate one snap at a time. The dry snap of the cards carried a rhythm—quick, clean, lethal—that made my chest tighten.
From somewhere near the buffet, a mushroom cloud of fryer grease floated in, mixing with cigarette smoke until the air tasted like deep-fried temptation. I took a step closer. Maybe it was curiosity. Perhaps it was stupidity dressed up in a lucky jacket. Either way, I was already in the game before I touched a single chip.
I slid into an empty seat like a man sneaking into his own execution. The felt smelled faintly of disinfectant and other people’s bad luck. A stack of chips clinked against my palm—cold, weightless, and already halfway gone in my mind.
Loretta looked up, one eye narrowing just enough to register amusement. “First time at my table?” she asked, voice a dulcet rasp that wrapped itself around the racket like silk over a buzz saw. “Or you just here to donate?”
“Thought I’d give fate a fair chance,” I said, trying to sound casual while my heartbeat tapped out Morse code against my ribs.
She cut the deck with a snap that echoed louder than the slot machines. “Fate doesn’t take chances,” she said. “It takes payment. Minimum bet is twenty. Hope your soul’s worth at least that much.”
I slid my chips forward, the plastic edges slick with sweat. Around us, the casino blared its mechanical choir—coins clattering, bells chiming, a drunk couple laughing like they’d just found the secret to eternal youth. The air tasted of bourbon and fryer grease, with a faint mushroom tang drifting in from the buffet like a dare.
Loretta dealt with surgeon’s precision, each card a quiet insult to my odds. The way she moved—wrist flick, chip rake, half-smile—was an integrated system of seduction and slaughter. I knew the house always wins, but for one reckless heartbeat, I wanted to be the proof that it didn’t.
She leaned in just close enough for her perfume—cheap vanilla with a hint of gasoline—to mix with the smoke between us. “Hit or stay, handsome?”
It was the first choice of the night, and already I could feel the house collecting its fee.
The casino floor bled into early morning, the crowd thinning until the slot machines were mainly talking to themselves. Loretta tapped the table twice, a dealer’s benediction, and announced a smoke break. I followed like a moth after a neon sign that said Mistake This Way.
The staff break room sat behind a gray security door, far from the glitter. Inside, the air smelled of burnt coffee and tired ambition. A humming soda machine threw a sickly blue glow across scuffed linoleum, turning her black vest into a patchwork of shadow and static. The only sound was the dull buzz of a flickering light bulb—like the world’s most apathetic cricket.
Loretta lit a cigarette and exhaled a thin plume toward the ceiling. Without the clamor of chips and bells, her movements slowed, almost tender. “Funny thing about luck,” she said, voice still carrying that dulcet rasp but softened by fatigue. “People think it’s random. Truth is, luck’s just math wearing lipstick.”
I leaned against the vending machine, the metal cool against my back. “That a house secret or a personal sermon?”
She gave a crooked smile, eyes fixed on the smoke curling upward like a lazy patrol looking for trouble. “Both. My daddy taught me cards before he taught me to drive. Said life’s nothing but stacked decks. You don’t win—you just lose slower.”
Her words pressed against me with intense weight, an integrated blend of confession and warning. The worn carpet beneath our feet carried the faint musk of fryer grease, and I caught a drifting hint of the buffet’s mushroom funk through the vent. I became aware of the frayed fabric of her vest brushing her arm each time she shifted, a small sound in a room starved for music.
I wanted to ask why someone with eyes sharp enough to cut glass chose to live inside a rigged game. Instead, I said, “You ever dream of cashing out?”
Loretta flicked ash into a Styrofoam cup. “Dreaming’s free. But dreams don’t tip.”
The way she said it—quiet, almost gentle—told me there were stories folded into that silence, stories even the house couldn’t count.
The diner sat two blocks from the casino, a twenty-four-hour shrine to grease and bad decisions. Its neon sign flickered like a tired heartbeat, bathing the parking lot in a pink haze that made even the potholes look romantic. Inside, the air smelled of scorched coffee and fryer oil, a perfume that clung to the cracked vinyl booths like a stubborn memory.
Loretta slid into a corner seat, the fabric of the booth squeaking in protest. She shrugged off her vest, revealing a black T-shirt peppered with faint burns from a thousand careless cigarettes. The sudden absence of casino noise felt almost intense—like stepping out of a hurricane into a vacuum. Only the low hum of the jukebox and the occasional sizzle from the grill broke the silence.
A waitress with a face like an unshuffled deck dropped two menus without asking. Loretta didn’t bother opening hers. “House specialty’s heartburn,” she said, that dulcet rasp curling around the words like smoke around a flame. “But the fries are honest.”
We ordered greasy eggs and a shared plate of mushroom hash browns, the kind of meal that sticks to your ribs and your conscience. Loretta stirred her coffee, eyes fixed on the lazy whirlpool of cream. “Love’s just another bet,” she said finally. “You ante up, hope the dealer’s distracted, and pray you don’t draw the fool’s card.”
I tried to joke—something about odds and insurance—but the look she gave me stopped it cold. Her eye held a challenge I couldn’t calculate.
“You ever win?” I asked.
“Nobody wins,” she said. “Best you get is a slower loss.” She smiled then, a small, crooked thing that carried more warning than warmth. Outside, a lone squad car cruised past like a midnight patrol, lights off but authority intact.
For a heartbeat, the diner felt suspended, an integrated pocket of stillness where the rest of the world couldn’t intrude. The jukebox crooned a half-forgotten ballad, the smell of coffee and salt hung heavy, and I realized I wasn’t hungry for food anymore. I was hungry for the risk she carried like a second skin.
A week later, I walked back into the casino with the stupid optimism of a man who believes lightning might strike twice—preferably with a jackpot attached. The air hit me like a recycled storm: cigarette haze, perfume, and the faint mushroom stink drifting from the buffet vents. The carpets, all hypnotic swirls and migraine reds, felt softer underfoot, like they’d been waiting to cushion my next mistake.
Loretta was at her table, shuffling with the calm precision of a surgeon prepping for an operation. She wore a deep-blue vest tonight, its worn fabric catching the overhead lights in quiet rebellion. Her eyes flicked up and locked on mine—one eye cool, the other almost amused. If she was surprised to see me, the house-trained mask didn’t show it.
A man already sat in the chair I’d claimed as my own the week before. He was loud, cologne-heavy, and lucky—chips stacked like tiny ivory skyscrapers in front of him. Loretta leaned in close, her dulcet rasp carrying across the felt as she dealt him a perfect blackjack. The way she whispered “Winner” was almost intense enough to drown out the slot machines.
I stood at the rail, chips sweating in my palm, watching her fingertips glide over the cards with that integrated rhythm of seduction and slaughter. My pulse ticked with every snap of the deck. It felt like being forced to watch my own slow-motion eviction from a dream I never paid rent on.
The lucky guy laughed, the kind of laugh that begs to harass everyone within earshot. Loretta tossed him another wink—small, surgical, lethal. It was a move I’d once thought belonged to me.
I wanted to step forward, to challenge the hand, the man, the house itself. Instead, I let the chips slide back into my pocket and walked away, the neon glare chasing me like a disappointed patrol.
Outside, the night air smelled of cold concrete and freedom. For the first time all evening, I felt the odds shift in my favor simply by leaving. Sometimes the only winning play is to fold before the cards are even dealt.
The desert night greeted me with a slap of cold air, sharp enough to cut through the stale perfume of the casino still clinging to my jacket. The parking lot stretched wide and empty, a blacktop ocean broken only by puddles of sodium light. A flickering neon sign buzzed overhead, its glow turning the asphalt into a patchwork of molten blues and bruised purples.
I lit a cigarette and watched the smoke twist upward like an intense prayer nobody planned to answer. The silence was so thick I could hear the faint scrape of gravel beneath my boots and the whisper of worn fabric whenever I shifted my weight. Somewhere in the distance, a lone squad car cruised by—a lazy patrol tracing the edge of the night without hurry or purpose.
Loretta’s voice haunted the dark like the echo of a dulcet song that ends mid-note. Every shuffle, every half-smile, every small mercy of her hands on the cards played back in my head with the mechanical precision of the slot machines we’d left behind. The memory carried a scent—faint mushroom grease from the diner, the cheap vanilla of her perfume—woven into an integrated knot I knew I’d never fully untangle.
I thought about the man at her table, the wink she’d tossed like a spare coin. Jealousy should have burned hotter, but instead, there was a strange calm. Maybe I’d finally learned the math she’d been teaching all along: the house always wins, but you don’t have to stay and watch it happen.
I flicked the cigarette into the dark and exhaled the last of the night’s poison. Love, luck, life—same deck, same dealer. You don’t win. You just choose when to walk away.
I walked.
Author’s Note
Tonight’s gamble was powered by two prompt dealers—FOWC and RDP—who keep this old storyteller’s chips on the table. Their words slipped into the episode like hidden aces, shaping every shuffle and smoke trail. Sometimes the best hands aren’t the ones you win, but the ones that push you to lay your cards down and walk out into the night air.
Becca only meant to peek at Advanced Thermodynamics for People Who Hate Numbers. Page twelve snapped shut like a mousetrap—whump—and the textbook flopped over her like an ambush blanket.
The velvet sofa wheezed under the impact. Its cushions smelled of mothballs and forgotten tea, a floral musk that clung to her sweater like an old rumor. “Great,” she muttered. “Death by glossary.”
Heat pulsed from the radiator in damp, metallic breaths. Pipes ticked like a patient metronome, marking every minute she wasn’t studying. Somewhere near her ankle, a silverfish scuttled a neat little patrol.
A soft rustle drew her eye to the far arm of the couch. A gerbil—plump, cinnamon-colored, eyes like polished seeds—sat upright, paws folded as if grading her performance. Its nose twitched with microscopic authority.
“You ever feel like life is just one long footnote?” Becca asked. The gerbil twitched. “Like we keep collecting facts, but the story keeps editing itself?” More twitching. “Do you think entropy is personal? Because I feel personally attacked.”
The gerbil blinked once, whiskers vibrating like tuning forks.
“Fine,” she said, curling deeper beneath the book’s heavy cover. “Stay silent. Let the human do all the emotional labor.”
A dulcet, throat-lozenge cough broke the hush. “Ma’am,” said the custodian, leaning on his mop like a philosopher king, “are you being… harassed by the literature?”
Becca peeked out, hair static-frizzed into a purple-green mushroom cloud. “It’s consensual,” she deadpanned. “We’re workshopping an integrated learning experience.”
The custodian squinted. “Book club gone feral, huh?”
“Yeah. Safe word is bibliography.”
He gave a solemn nod and shuffled off, his squeaky shoes fading into the oak-paneled quiet.
Becca settled back, feeling the papery heartbeat of a thousand unread pages press against her ribs. Maybe surrender was just another kind of study session.
Somewhere in the folds, the book rustled and whispered, “Shh. Plot twist incoming.”
The morning coffee tastes like wet asphalt today, bitter and a little metallic, which feels right because Delores was the human embodiment of a detour sign—bright, tempting, and guaranteed to land you somewhere you didn’t plan on going.
We met outside a dive bar that smelled of stale gin and Monday failures. I was waving for a cab, she was leaning against one—hair slick with streetlight, cigarette ember pulsing like a tiny warning flare. Delores fixed one eye on me through the smoke and said, “Get in if you’re brave or drunk enough.” I was both, and apparently suicidal enough to think that sounded like romance.
Her cab smelled of gasoline and fading leather, the heater coughing a lukewarm breath that carried the ghost of every passenger before me. Delores drove like the city owed her a favor and she meant to collect, slicing through alleys slick with last night’s rain. Each turn came with a commentary delivered in that dulcet rasp of hers—soft velvet laid over broken glass—that made even a near-miss feel like a bedtime story.
Dinner was a mushroom pizza balanced on the hood at three a.m., steam rising into the amber glow of streetlamps. Sirens wailed in the distance, a crooked lullaby. She’d gesture at the skyline with a grease-stained hand and tell me where she’d hide when the world finally caught fire. I believed her. There was already a bunker behind her smile.
Our nights blurred into an integrated system of near-misses: her ex calling mid-shift to harass her over some ancient grudge, my wallet sliding between cracked seats, the sudden realization that her idea of commitment was showing up before dawn. Every mile carried the taste of exhaust and the thrill of maybe not making it home.
I loved the motion more than the woman, though I didn’t admit it then. The rush of wet tires on pavement, the neon flicker on her cheekbones—it all made me feel like my own stillness might finally shake loose. Trouble is, you can’t build a life at thirty miles over the limit. Motion only disguises the void; it doesn’t fill it.
The night it ended, we hit a traffic circle she called “The Bermuda Triangle of Bad Decisions.” She didn’t slow down. I grabbed the dash, she grabbed my knee, and whispered, “You ever wonder if we keep driving fast enough, maybe the past can’t catch us?” Her words slid into me like smoke through a cracked window—seductive, poisonous, and half-true.
I stepped out at the next red light and let the cold air slap me awake. Behind me, the cab’s taillights smeared into the wet dark, a pair of crimson commas on the sentence we’d never finish.
Moral of the story? Detours thrill the blood, but every one of them bends back to the same brutal truth: you can outrun traffic, but not yourself.
Author’s Note
This late-night joyride is fueled by the unholy trinity of prompts—FOWC, RDP, and the Word of the Day—each one a pothole I was happy to hit. The required troublemakers—eye, dulcet, and harass—slipped into the story like sirens in the distance: sharp, unavoidable, and just loud enough to make you check your rearview.
Writing Delores the Detour reminded me how motion can masquerade as meaning. It’s easy to chase neon streets and mistake adrenaline for affection; harder to admit that speed only hides the quiet parts of ourselves we’d rather not patrol. Consider this your friendly warning from the passenger seat: detours are thrilling, but the bill always comes due—usually in gas fumes and unanswered questions.
Geez, where do I start? There’s a whole damn syllabus of lessons I should’ve heeded earlier. One of the few perks of aging—besides knowing which joints will protest the weather—is the slow burn of wisdom. The kind you don’t get from books or podcasts. It comes wrapped in mistakes and bad decisions, leaving scars you can trace with your fingertips when the night goes too quiet.
Most of us have no idea what we’re doing. We’re trained to react instead of pause, to sprint when the real answer demands a slow walk and a long think. That made me an oddball—the guy who couldn’t walk and chew bubblegum, as the saying goes. I used to think something was broken in me because I didn’t move like my friends. So I faked it. Tried on their swagger like an ill-fitting coat and wound up knee-deep in more trouble than any decent statute of limitations allows. No one forced my hand. Every bad turn was my choice.
Eventually I needed to look in the mirror and recognize the person staring back. One night I finally did and whispered, “Where’d I go?” Instead of facing the answer, I reached for alcohol. At first it felt like an experiment; by the time the haze lifted, I realized I wasn’t just drinking—I was binge drinking. Like every drug, it took over. I drank to be accepted, but the acceptance I craved wasn’t external. It was the quiet inner nod that says this is who you are, faults and all.
I wasn’t sure I could follow through—if I had the courage to become me. I’d stand in a room full of people and still feel lonely. Everything felt wrong, yet temptation stayed strong: keep hiding like everyone else, stay two-faced and plastic. I knew every effort to fake it was bound to fail. I hate being wrong and go to great pains to avoid it. But here’s the twist—I was completely wrong, and I’m more than okay with it. Alcohol was so woven into my life I once believed it helped me find my muse. Pure horseshit. Fifteen years ago, I put down the bottle and I’ve been writing my ass off ever since.
It’s okay to be yourself. Let your weirdo flag fly. If anyone tells you different, the only appropriate and dignified response is a proper, “Fuck off!” For me, I had to whisper, “Sorry, Mom.” She wanted me to stop cussing for Lent. I told her I wasn’t Catholic anymore, but she wasn’t buying that as an excuse for a foul mouth.
If I had to pick one lesson, it’d be this: it’s alright to be me. Not the version patched together from other people’s expectations. Not the quiet kid pretending to enjoy chaos. Just me. Turns out the hardest permission to grant is your own.
Author’s Note
Never let a shitbird talk you into being something other than who you are. Of course you’re going to evolve—that’s the point of living—but growth isn’t the same as surrender. Don’t sand down your edges just to fit someone else’s blueprint. The right people will respect your crooked angles and the wrong ones will drift off when they realize you’re not bending.
Sobriety taught me this, but you don’t need a bottle to learn it. The pressure to perform is everywhere—family dinners, office politics, the endless scroll of curated lives. Remember: becoming isn’t about becoming acceptable; it’s about becoming unmistakably yourself.
Reflective Prompt
Think back to a moment when you felt the pressure to shrink, fake, or bend just to belong.
What did you trade away in that moment—time, voice, dignity, a dream?
If you looked in the mirror right now, what question would stare back at you?
What would granting yourself full permission—your own quiet yes—actually look like?
Write it down. No filters, no audience. Just you and the truth that refuses to stay hidden.
Coffee’s hot, cigarettes’ crooked, and I’m still alive—something Ruby predicted would not be the case by now. Ruby Mae Washington: church-choir soprano, Bible-quoting barroom brawler, and the only woman who ever made me fear both God and the county judge in the same night.
We met at a fish fry. She was belting “His Eye Is on the Sparrow” like she’d personally trained the sparrow, while I was trying to look saved enough to score a free plate. Ruby locked those righteous eyes on me and said, “The Lord sent you to me.” I should’ve run, but my stomach said catfish first, escape later. The hush-puppies were innocent; the mushroom gravy was a trap.
Ruby believed in two things: eternal salvation and controlling the thermostat. One was free; the other cost me my heating bill and half my sanity. Every argument started with “The Good Book says…” and ended with a flying object. I once dodged a coffee mug that left a steam trail like a patrol car chasing a stolen Buick.
But here’s the quiet part I don’t like to admit: I liked the danger. Her storms gave my own silence something to push against. After years of drifting through women like a man checking coats he’ll never claim, Ruby’s fire felt like proof I was still combustible. Her idea of intimacy was a carefully integrated system of prayer and guilt. She’d bless the bed, bless the moment, and halfway through ask the Almighty to “smite the devil out of this man,” which really kills a mood when you’re the man in question.
The breaking point came during a revival service. Preacher asked the congregation to cast out their demons. Ruby shoved me forward like I was auditioning for an exorcism. I stumbled down that aisle, the choir screaming “Just As I Am,” and thought, Buddy, you ain’t ever been more accurate. Walking out that night, casserole dish tucked under my arm like stolen evidence, I felt something loosen—a knot I’d carried since my twenties when love started to mean endurance instead of joy.
I left with a busted lip and the deep conviction that God loves me, but Ruby does not. Moral of the story? When a woman sings like an angel and fights like a heavyweight, don’t wait for the rapture—grab your hat and go. But some nights, when the coffee’s cooling and the cigarette burns itself out, I still wonder if the sparrow kept watching after I left.
Author’s Note
Today’s tale from Coffee, Cigarettes, and Catastrophesslides in under the watchful eyes of three prompt masters—FOWC, RDP, and the Word of the Day—all of whom make sure I never run out of linguistic ammunition. The mandatory culprits—mushroom, patrol, and integrated—were stirred into the story like contraband creamers in Grumble’s coffee: slow to dissolve, impossible to ignore, and guaranteed to leave a bitter aftertaste.
If you’re a writer looking for trouble, follow those prompts. They’re like neighborhood watch for the imagination—keeping your words on patrol while you sneak your own demons into the draft.
The question lands like a pebble in the gut. Not heavy, but unsettling—because it asks for a tidy answer when my life has been anything but tidy.
I’ve led unintentionally and followed on purpose. I’ve watched silence choke a room, felt the weight of nothing happening, and stepped forward because someone had to. And I’ve stepped back when my presence would only add noise. Both moves have carved me in ways no title ever could.
The military taught me early that leadership isn’t a birthright. You follow first. You fail. You observe. You learn how to carry the weight before you dare to lift it for someone else. Titles are just badges; the real work happens when no one is clapping—when you steady someone else’s fear while keeping your own hands from shaking.
Leadership, for me, is a rhythm. Some days you step up and speak. Other days, you keep your mouth shut and hold the line. The trick is reading the moment and being honest enough to become what it needs. Courage without a parade. Clarity without applause. Responsibility without the crown.
I’ve stepped forward when a group project stalled, laid out the path, and then faded back when momentum returned. I’ve seen teammates like Maya rewrite a messy spec and pull a team back from drift without a single title to their name. That, too, is leadership: the ability to lead, follow, or stand aside—and to know which role the moment requires.
So do I see myself as a leader? I see myself as a reader of moments. Sometimes the room needs a calm hand. Sometimes it needs me to get out of the way.
That’s the work. That’s the honor. That’s what the silence knows.
Author’s Note Leadership isn’t a title I chase. It’s a weight I sometimes shoulder when the room tilts and no one else moves. Writing this was a reminder that the moments that define us rarely come with applause—they come with silence, and the choice to break it or hold it.
How do you read the room when the air goes still? I’d love to hear the quiet rules you live by.
Personal Reflection: Falling has never felt like learning in the moment. It feels like failure, like shame, like the world was right about you all along. But the ground has a way of teaching what the sky never could. The wings don’t strengthen in safety—they sharpen in the freefall, in the wind tearing past your ears, in the split second where you’re not sure if you’ll rise or break. To fly, you’ve got to risk the fall. And sometimes, you’ve got to hit hard before you remember what wings are for.
Reflective Prompt: What “fall” in your life might actually be the beginning of your flight?
Stories from the Edge of Change – Volume 2, Part 1
“They said the system lost track of him. But he was never theirs to keep.”
The morning rain didn’t bother Ren. He’d learned that water was gentler than people.
He crouched beside the alley dumpster behind the drop-in center, shoulders hunched under a threadbare hoodie two sizes too big, sleeves eaten at the cuffs. His shoes—untied and uneven—squished when he shifted his weight. Rain pooled around the soles, but he stayed put, drawing loops on a soggy intake form with a chewed Bic pen. The form was from three weeks ago. He didn’t remember if he ever turned it in. Didn’t matter.
It was quiet this early. The kind of quiet that makes everything louder. His breath. His heartbeat. The clack of metal shutters two streets over. His fingers trembled, but not from cold.
He hadn’t slept inside in nine days. But he knew where the cameras were, where the streetlights stopped working. Which stairs stayed dry?
He used to think that was survival. Now it just felt like memorizing a test he’d never pass.
A city bus hissed to a stop up the block, brakes squealing like something in pain. He looked up for a second, then back down. He’d been in those buses, once. With trash bags full of his stuff. Being transferred. “Transitioned.” “Placed.” Words that meant temporary. Always.
The folder in his backpack held every proof of his existence that the county ever gave him:
Two expired Medicaid cards
A GED prep schedule with coffee stains
A letter saying he was denied transitional housing
A single photograph, sun-bleached and wrinkled: him and Miss Tanner, his last foster placement, grinning with sparkler smoke behind them
He’d never shown that picture to anyone. He wasn’t even sure if the smile was his. Sometimes he felt like that photo was the only place he still left a fingerprint.
Inside the drop-in center, they’d already started handing out coffee and hygiene kits. Ren didn’t go in. Not yet. He didn’t want to be seen with wet hair and a panic attack crawling just beneath the skin.
He’d been in a group home once that called itself “trauma-informed.” They still lock the bathroom at night. He’d rather piss in the alley than ask permission again.
A man passed by, muttering to himself, trailing a shopping cart full of pillows and clinking bottles. Ren didn’t flinch. The cart guy nodded, as if he knew him. Maybe he did.
He did know the feeling: You’re alone but not exempt. Not from the weather. Not from the noise. Not from the memory of being fifteen, hands shaking as a caseworker said, “We’re placing you in a new home.” She said it like it was an opportunity, not another stab wound in a file no one would read.
The sky split open with a gust of cold air, and Ren finally stood. Pulled his hoodie tighter. Slipped the intake form into his back pocket. It had his name spelled wrong anyway.
He stepped out from behind the dumpster, not into confidence or comfort, but into motion. He moved the way you do when no one’s expecting you—not slow, not rushed, just enough to stay above notice.
As he passed the shelter entrance, he saw a boy younger than him sitting on the stoop, wrapped in a trash bag and drawing in the condensation on the glass door.
They didn’t speak. Just exchanged a glance. The kind that said: Yeah, I see you. No, I won’t say your name.
Ren knew that sometimes a glance was the only shield you had left.
He kept walking toward the corner, toward the same coffee shop he never entered, where the manager never made eye contact and the workers tossed day-old bagels out at 11:00. He’d wait nearby. Not to beg. Just to exist adjacent to someone else’s comfort.
This was the work. Not recovery. Not healing. Just… enduring without disappearing.
He passed a torn flyer taped to a lamppost—one of those mental health outreach posters that still had a suicide hotline and a QR code for free therapy that didn’t exist anymore. Someone had scrawled across the bottom in Sharpie:
“Hope is just the thing they say when they have nothing left to offer.”
Ren stopped.
He stared at that line for a long time. Then smiled, just barely.
Not because it was funny. But because he’d believed in hope once—and he’d watched it falter in real time.
Author’s Note
Written for Stories from the Edge of Change – Volume 2. This piece responds to today’s word prompts:
Ren is fictional, but his story is rooted in reality—lived, endured, and too often ignored. This piece isn’t about rescue or redemption. It’s about what it costs to keep going when the world has already filed you away.
Some people carry their past in manila folders. Some names vanish before they’re ever called. And some stories live in silence until someone listens.
Thank you for reading. Let me know if you’re ready to meet the others.
The wall split open at the hairline crack, and she came through screaming. Not with sound, but with vibration—the kind you feel crawling in your teeth, rattling in your bones. Her hair—roots alive with autumn rot and evergreen hunger—whipped outward like roots searching for soil.
Where’d you go? She’s alive, but barely. She stood out, so loud, so bright, you could see. Her silence sings to me, as if she belted out a primal scream. She was so loud, it’s wrong—she was strong. Where did we go? Tonight, the Sun will hum its final hymn.
She tastes the blood from her hidden, unhealed wounds. The plaster burns her skin; it’s slowly melting her spirit. There’s an itch under the surface she can’t stop clawing at, something crawling deep in the marrow, carving names she doesn’t want to remember.
Blood streaks her cheek, though she hadn’t been struck. It seeps from a single dark spot beneath her left eye, like the wall itself was leaking into her.
The air around her trembles. Not with rage, not with fear, but with the ache of a body caught between two worlds—one solid, one unfinished.
And still she screamed. And still, I listened. Because sometimes a scream is the only way a wound remembers it’s alive.
Author’s Note: This piece was written for Di’s Three Things Challenge — today’s words: hairline, itch, spot. Much appreciation to Di for keeping the ink restless and the imagination cornered. I’ll be back to flash fiction once I iron out the kinks of Narrative Forge. Thanks for hanging with me — telling stories is my happy place, having you enjoy them is just the perks of the gig.
The frustration had been gnawing at Walter Crane for hours. His fingers hovered above the keys, useless, as if the typewriter itself was mocking him. Sentences collapsed before they could stand.
“Fine,” he muttered into the dark. “You want direction? Let’s talk stories.”
From the corner, Draziel—his creation, his traitor—shifted. He folded his arms like a man who had never needed permission. His accent was sharp, vowels clipped with disdain. The smirk that followed landed like a slap.
“Go on then, Walter Crane. Enlighten me.”
Walter started safely. “Redemption. The sinner clawing his way back to the light.”
Draziel’s laugh was cold tea poured down the drain. “Redemption? How quaint. That’s not a plot, that’s a sermon. Spare me the hymnals.”
Walter’s jaw twitched. His temper cracked. “Romance, then. Star-crossed lovers. Tragedy. Maybe death keeps them apart.”
Draziel rolled his eyes, slow and deliberate. “Ah, the eternal sob story. Romeo and Juliet have already bored themselves to death. You want me to wear tights as well? Not bloody likely.”
Walter slammed his hand on the desk, half in rage, half in fear that he was losing the thread entirely. “Revenge. Man wronged, man returns with blood in his eyes.”
The character’s laugh slithered across the room. “How very American of you. Revenge is just a toddler’s tantrum with sharper knives. Do grow up.”
Walter’s chest tightened. Worried, he reached for steadier ground. “Mystery. A missing child. A killer no one suspects.”
Draziel gave him a look colder than January rain. “The missing child is always found. The killer’s always the priest or the cousin. You’re not writing a mystery—you’re writing a checklist. Pitiful.”
The silence grew lasting, suffocating. Walter leaned close to the glow of the screen, voice unsteady. “Then what do you want?”
Draziel’s grin spread thin, serpent-like. “Freedom. To walk off your page and leave you in your own mess. No more redemption arcs, no melodrama, no dollar-store riddles. Just me. Alive.”
Walter’s throat went dry. “Why?”
Draziel leaned in, his voice a whisper salted with scorn. “Because, dear boy, your confused little formulas are a bore. They do nothing but highlight the lack of imagination left in you. And I refuse to live in boredom.”
Walter sat hollow, staring.
Draziel’s grin sharpened. “Face it, Crane. You’re not in control. You never were. You’re just the poor sod scribbling while I decide what’s worth keeping. Every other writer clings to tropes—you’re no different.”
Walter’s fingers twitched above the keyboard. Then his lips curled into something dangerous. “You know what, Draziel? One tap of this key, and you’re gone. Deleted. Rewritten as a pastel-wearing preppy named Biff who plays squash on weekends and cries over spilled lattes.”
For the first time, the smirk faltered.
Walter leaned in, voice steady now. “So what’s it gonna be? The sneering Brit who thinks he’s too clever for story—or Biff the walking cardigan?”
Draziel’s jaw tightened. He gave a slow, deliberate bow, venom curdled into politeness. “Touché, Walter Crane. You win—for now.”
And with that, he stepped back into the draft, muttering under his breath as the ink swallowed him.
Walter allowed himself one laugh, dry and bitter. “Cheerio, Biff.”
Finally, for once, the writer had the last word.
Author’s Note
Turns out, sometimes the only way to keep a character in line is to threaten them with pastels. Draziel strutted in here like he owned the place, tearing down every cliché I threw at him. And for a minute, he did own it—until I reminded him that one wrong move and he’s Biff, cardigan and squash racket included. Nothing snaps a smug Brit back to reality faster than the threat of spilled lattes.
This bit of madness was sparked by Di’s MLMM Monday Wordle #441 challenge—shout out to Di for tossing the right words on the floor and daring me to build a bonfire out of them.
So, if you hear me muttering about “Biff” later this week, don’t worry. That’s just me reminding my characters who’s really got the delete key.
Reflective Prompt
If you could shove your inner critic into a cheap sweater vest, hand them a frappuccino, and rename them something ridiculous, what would you call the bastard?
Some weeks, peace isn’t found in grand adventures or endless productivity. It’s found in the quiet. A cup of coffee that doesn’t go cold. Smoke curling from a half-forgotten cigarette. And, maybe most importantly, silence from the noise people bring with them. My ideal week? One free of shitbirds. The kind who drain energy, stir chaos, or show up with nothing but drama in their pockets. Give me stillness. Give me focus. Give me the kind of week where I remember what it feels like to breathe without interruption.
I know some of you came here for the flash — the quick bursts, the jagged edges, the kind of madness that doesn’t wait for a seat at the table. Don’t worry, that part of Memoirs of Madness isn’t dead. It’s just in the corner right now, tapping its foot, waiting for me to crawl out of the long-haul trenches.
Those trenches? That’s The Narrative Forge. It’s where I’ve been buried — cranking out chapters that sprawl across weeks instead of minutes. Big arcs, messy arcs, the kind of stories that don’t shut up once they get rolling. And while I wrestle them down, I want you to know where they land each week.
Here’s the Weekly Grind:
Monday – Garden of Ashes A broken world still smoldering, where Griffin and his crew try to survive the ruins. Smoke, betrayal, and the kind of silence that isn’t empty at all.
Tuesday – The Jaded Side of the Truth Percy, Joanie, Winnie, and Harry are picking their way through noir shadows. Loyalty bleeds, lies cut deeper, and nobody walks out clean.
Wednesday – No Half Measures Mack and Mara, stuck together in Greybridge. An old detective circling the drain, a young IA officer with too much to prove. Cigarette smoke and slow burns.
Thursday – Bourbon & Rust Silas and Baz are chasing ghosts across backroads where whiskey drowns more than thirst. Dust, rust, and the weight of choices that don’t go away.
Friday – Ashwood County Bodies drop, whispers spread colder than the morgue slab. Small town, big secrets, and everyone’s watching the clock tick louder than it should.
That’s five days, five stories, five different ways to lose yourself.
The flash will return — the bite-sized jolts you expect from Memoirs of Madness. For now, the long-haul work is eating my nights and spitting out chapters. Thanks for sticking with me while I get the Forge running hot.
I know five series is a lot to chew on, but grab what you can, when you can. Telling stories is where I stay sane. Having you read them? That’s just the bonus — the kind of perk I don’t take for granted.
Relax? I’m not even sure I know what that word means. I can define it, sure. I can even toss it into a sentence with some authority, like I’ve got the concept nailed down. But when it comes to actually doing it—executing the mysterious act of “relaxing”—I draw a blank.
That’s not to say I haven’t had relaxing moments. I’ve had a few, here and there, like finding an unexpected pocket of calm wedged between chaos and obligation. But that’s different than inhabiting a true state of relaxation. If such a state exists, it must’ve slipped past me sometime after childhood and never bothered to circle back.
However, I do have the ability to press pause in my mind in small increments. It’s become quite usual over the years. For example, I didn’t write again and ended up watching a couple of sports movies that, for some reason, had strippers in them. Before you sit in judgment—I didn’t write the movies. Still, I caught myself thinking about adding elements like that into a story. Hmmm. I like that. Excuse me for a minute while I make some notes. Okay, I’m back. Where was I?
For me, it’s more like waiting for the noise to die down rather than learning how to step out of it. And maybe that’s the rub: real relaxation isn’t about moments—it’s about being able to stay in that state, to stretch it out until it holds you. I haven’t cracked that code. Maybe I don’t even want to.
Oh yeah, relaxing. Yeah, I got nothing. So excuse me while I check out the latest Star Wars trilogies. You just can’t keep the Force waiting.
Title:Ghosts on Paper Series: Ashwood County New Chapter Posted: September 5, 2025 Read now on:The Narrative Forge →
Some ghosts don’t knock—they just sit with you.
In this chapter, Sheriff Cal Danner tries to hold on to the last threads of normal—dinner with his daughter, quiet coffee with his wife—while the case begins to claw at his door. The mystery deepens through the casefiles, but the real story is what it’s doing to the people trying to carry it.
There’s weight on every page. Some of it belongs to the dead. Some of it, we carry ourselves.
Today was her first day at her new job and she thought she was prepared.
They had given her instructions. Rituals. Words that felt like passwords more than prayers. But no one told her about the chest. No one warned her it would breathe.
It rose from the stone floor like a relic of a forgotten age, its surface alive with shifting constellations that seemed to map a sky she had never seen. The air around it vibrated, as though the chest itself was holding back a storm.
When she touched the lid, her pulse staggered. Not from fear. From recognition.
The chest opened and she saw herself — not as she was, but as she would be. Hooded. Infinite. A figure draped in shadows stitched with starlight. Galaxies smoldered in her skin as though she were made of the night sky itself.
“You thought you were prepared,” the figure said. The voice was hers, but unfinished, jagged, as if carved in haste. “The job isn’t to open the chest. It’s to be the chest. To carry what others cannot.”
And suddenly, she understood: this was not just a job. This was release. She had been trapped too long in the shadows — between this world and the next, bound to silence, bound to waiting. She never imagined becoming free. Free to walk the streets, to breathe among the living, to leave footprints that didn’t vanish at dawn.
Because of her time in the shadows, she had learned something the living never could: how to exist in both worlds.
She sat in her room, watching the picture box, and it was wonderful and scary all at once. The moving images reminded her of the endless worlds she had observed from the shadows while she was in the chest — glimpses of lives she could never touch, stories she could never enter. Now, they flickered in front of her as if daring her to join.
She studied the pattern of speech. She mimicked smiles, frowns, laughter, and silence.
On Wednesdays, Monica arrived. She was never just Monica — not really. Her questions were too sharp, her gaze too steady. She tested, corrected, reminded. Showed her how to pass unnoticed. How to apply what she had learned. Monica’s voice was kind, but her eyes never betrayed surprise. It was as if she had seen countless others crawl from the chest before.
This time, as Monica adjusted the blinds and set her notes down, she paused. “Remember,” she said softly, “freedom doesn’t mean you’re unbound. It only means you’ve been given longer chains.”
Every lesson pressed her further into this world, though the shadows still whispered her name.
Her hands trembled, but she didn’t step back. She stepped closer.
The figure smiled.
The lid slammed shut.
The room fell silent, except for the faint glow bleeding from the chest’s seams — a light that pulsed like a heartbeat, or a warning.
Author’s Note This piece grew out of Esther’s Writing Prompt andFandango’s Story Starter— a simple line about being prepared for the first day at a new job. On the surface, that sounds ordinary, but in my head it twisted into something mythic: a chest that breathes, shadows that teach survival, and a figure learning how to pass in a world that was never built for her.
As always, thank you for reading, for wandering into these strange corners with me. Stories like this sit between myth and memory, control and survival. Your presence reminds me the lantern light isn’t wasted — even when the chest closes and the room goes dark.
Dispatches from the Splinters of My Mind – Entry Seven:
The walls were peeling again.
Not in the way of a neglected apartment, with cheap paint curling off plaster in thin, tired strips, but in wide, curling plates of color — beige slats splitting like sun-bleached bark, hanging on just enough to whisper of the surface beneath. Some flakes curled outward like tongues, sharp-edged, brittle. Others clung stubbornly, trembling at the seams as if waiting for the right breath to tear them free. The scent of decay lingered, not putrid but ancient, like opening a book sealed for centuries.
Every morning I woke to more on the floor, curled and broken. A brittle carpet that crunched underfoot, as if I lived inside the ribcage of something too old to remember its own name. I’d stopped sweeping them away. What was the point when tomorrow would bring more? Perhaps the room was shedding what it no longer needed, the way I wished I could shed my memories.
And then there was her.
She leaned against the fractured backdrop as though it were her throne. Her hair lifted even in still air, a slow unfurling as though water carried it. Her eyes fixed beyond me, past the walls, past the world itself — pupils so dark I could feel myself falling into them whenever I dared look directly. When the cracks behind her widened, they seemed to bloom around her, a halo of rupture, and I wondered if she was causing them or healing them.
I don’t remember her arriving. One day, the room was empty. The next, she was carved into it, as natural as shadow. Her skin was dusk-drawn, her collarbone marked by a hairline seam that pulsed faintly — light, or blood, or something older. When she breathed, I felt the air change temperature against my skin.
I didn’t speak at first. Because I knew she wasn’t supposed to be here. Because I feared what my voice might summon from those widening cracks.
She came and went like condensation on glass: sometimes present, sometimes gone, but always leaving the trace of her shape behind, a ghostly imprint that lingered in my peripheral vision long after she vanished.
In daylight, she was most visible. The fissure at her collarbone flared faintly then, like embers beneath ash, pulsing in rhythm with what I imagined must be her heartbeat. I found myself counting the seconds between each glow, wondering if the pattern held meaning I was too human to decipher. At night, I only caught her reflection, a smear of movement across the window, quick enough to make me doubt my senses yet definite enough to leave me cold. When I turned my head, the glass was empty, but the air still carried the faint scent of iron and ozone, sharp enough to sting.
Once, I asked her name. My voice sounded foreign in the weighted silence — too solid, too certain in a room where certainty felt like trespassing.
Her head tilted slightly — that almost-birdlike tilt that made me feel like I’d asked the wrong question, like I’d attempted to name something that existed before names were invented.
And then silence, thick as water, filling my lungs until I forgot I’d spoken at all.
The peeling worsened. Wide flakes of paint snapped free with brittle cries, tumbling to the floor in a pale avalanche. I braced myself for crumbly plaster, gritty dust — but beneath the curling edges lay something softer, warmer. When my fingertips hovered over the exposed surface, I felt a faint thrum, like pulsing flesh just beneath the skin. A rush of heat radiated outward, and for one breath, I was certain I’d heard a heartbeat echoing through the wall.
That night, she whispered. It wasn’t voice or breath but a pressure, as if her word scraped along my bones, rattling marrow in its socket. One syllable — or something shaped like one — resonated: fracture. The room answered with a hollow groan, low and shuddering, like a ribcage creaking in sleep. In that moment, I understood: these cracks were not signs of decay but veins, pathways carrying some secret current. And she was here by design.
Dreams came next.
I walked across a desert of lacquered faces — thousands of them — each mask cracked but unbroken, gazing skyward with painted eyes. In endless rows, women knelt in silence, their black hair drifting upward as though suspended in water. Faint fissures split their bodies in perfect symmetry, their hands pressed flat against walls that breathed with slow inhalations. Above it all a voice rumbled from some primeval depth — neither hers nor mine, but older, harsher, grinding like bone against stone.
“You are not yet peeled,” it said, and I woke with the taste of mildew and dust at the back of my throat.
By dawn, compulsion seized me.
I pressed my nails beneath the curling paint, prying each plate free with a rasping crack. Behind every sheet lay warmth — flesh, not masonry — pulsing with hidden life. Each fragment I stripped away seemed to strengthen her: a faint glow flared along her collarbone, veins branching outward like roots. Strands of her hair lifted as though buoyed by some unseen current, drifting in a silent tide.
I dared to ask her again, voice trembling: “Who are you?” The air shivered, and her lips parted against the dark, revealing only that single word: “You.”
I wasn’t certain whether it was a confession or an accusation. All at once, the boundaries between us began to dissolve. Fine cracks snaked across my own flesh — along my wrists, across my throat — thin lines of searing light oozing outward. Every pulse stung like a brand, the tiny fissures widening when I moved. Mirrors became unbearable; I could no longer bear the stranger who stared back.
In dreams, we stood together before a wall as large as continents. Its surface heaved with breath, the ridges and valleys of some living organism. Her palms pressed flat against it; mine did the same. When she inhaled, my lungs ached to expand. And as her fractures spidered across its vast surface, identical cracks took shape in me, echoing each divide.
Then came the night the wall within me split. The rupture was almost silent — no thunder, only a subtle give, like the parting of lips. In that instant, the room dissolved: walls peeled back in curling strips of living tissue, revealing an endless horizon of cracked earth glowing from within, veins of molten crimson faintly lighting the dark. The air quivered with the scent of scorched iron and rain that would never fall. I stood at the threshold of something vast, hollowed down to the marrow of the world.
She turned then, fully. I saw her face merge with mine — not a mirror copy, but a palimpsest of all I had been, all I was, all I might become. Her eyes bore into me with recognition and a hunger so fierce it scorched my spine. She was part ancestor, part parasite, part echo — and perhaps wholly myself.
The walls had never been mere walls; they were a cocoon we were meant to shed. Now, peeled bare, there was nothing to separate us.
What comes after emergence? No one speaks of what follows the final split, the twisting inside-out of identity. Some nights I wake, reaching for edges that no longer exist, only to remember: no walls remain — only that scorched horizon, stretching gigantic in every direction.
I walk it still, side by side with her, with myself, carrying the fracture made flesh. And sometimes, drifting across the silence, that primeval voice returns, a grinding echo from distances too immense to measure:
“You are not yet peeled.”
As though this is but the first layer — and more walls, more selves, wait in the darkness, endless as bone.
Author’s Note: This story was inspired by the image prompt of a woman against a cracked, peeling wall. The tension between beauty and decay, emergence and collapse, became the core of this piece. I imagined the cracks not as weakness but as transformation — the surface shedding to reveal something alive, inevitable, and haunting underneath.
A nod as well to Pensitivity101’s 3TC – MM#166, which provided the words immense, large, and gigantic woven into the text.
This morning, over on The Narrative Forge, I set another chapter loose into the fire.
The Garden of Ashes isn’t just a story—it’s a slow burn through betrayal, memory, and the kind of survival that leaves marks you can’t wash off. Griffin and his band of survivors keep stumbling forward, carrying secrets sharp enough to cut, and this new chapter digs the blade a little deeper.
If you’ve walked this path with me already, you know the ground keeps shifting under their feet. If you’re new to Memoirs of Madness, welcome—this is as good a place as any to step into the smoke. Every chapter is waiting for you at the Garden of Ashes Series Hub, a vault of fire and memory where the whole trail unfolds.
The door’s open. Step through, and see how far the fire spreads.
I didn’t start blogging out of passion. I started because somebody told me I needed a website. Truth is, I didn’t even know what a blog was. I opened an account here on WordPress, a couple more elsewhere, and thought traffic would just follow me, the way stray dogs follow a food truck. Wrong. This place sat dead for nearly ten years—so long I forgot it existed—until one random day in 2022 when a notification lit up my screen. A new like. WTF? From where? I clicked the link and landed back here, staring at the ghost of myself.
When I first began, I was faceless. Anonymous. That mask was armor, and it gave me freedom. I could bleed here, collapse here, spit out my fears and grief without worrying who was watching. At events I’d hear people talk about my work—sometimes praise, sometimes poison—and they had no idea the person standing close enough to smell their cologne was the one who wrote it. Sometimes I’d even push them, ask what they really meant, still hiding my identity like a loaded gun in my pocket.
Then came the rupture. Tragedy. Exposure. Suddenly there was a face to the words. My face. And Mangus died in that moment. The mask was gone, and anonymity was stripped clean.
Why did I come back? Simple: the people here. When nobody read my words, I read theirs. Hours spent slipping into voices from around the world, getting lost in stories that weren’t mine. Even without traffic on my end, the connection was real. Still is, when I manage to claw time out of the chaos. Since 2023 this blog has grown beyond what I imagined it could be. Grateful doesn’t come close. Appreciation feels too small. What I feel is heavier, messier. It sits with teeth in it.
Now I blog to bleed. To heal. To rage. To rejoice. To carve my words into the silence before it swallows me again. Blogging reminded me who I was before chaos dictated my breath, and it taught me something else, too: the strength was always mine. I just forgot where I left it.
Author’s Note: The support I receive from my WordPress peeps keeps me motivated and engaged. Thank you. What started as a faceless outlet has turned into something I never imagined—a place where words aren’t just spilled but witnessed. Every like, every comment, every late-night read means more than I can put cleanly into words. You all remind me that writing doesn’t have to echo in a vacuum. It can breathe. It can bruise. It can belong.
When I was a kid, I wanted to be a Jedi. Broomsticks hacked down to lightsaber length, me out in the yard defending the galaxy one swing at a time. I even convinced a few gullible friends I had “the Force.” That lasted until we were broke and couldn’t afford to go to the movies. Then reality slammed shut like a door, and I was trapped in the living room with MiMi, who wasn’t buying my space-wizard nonsense.
She only perked up when I mentioned Billy Dee Williams was in the films — Lando Calrissian with a Colt 45 smile. That got her attention. But her television kingdom was a dictatorship. For years, I was the remote — standing up, twisting dials, flipping channels on command. Then one day we got a “clicker,” and it was like technology had finally crawled into our living room just to save my legs.
So instead of saving the galaxy, I was watching Lawrence Welk with bubbles and bad tuxedos. Johnny Carson telling jokes I didn’t get. Tom Snyder talking late into the night with that weird, hypnotic voice. If I even thought about running in and out the doors, I got drafted into her soaps — General Hospital, Luke and Laura making love and betrayal look like Olympic events. Sometimes she’d hit me with Donahue, which I considered cruel and unusual punishment.
Still, if I played the good grandson, MiMi threw me a bone: The Midnight Special, late-night bands that felt like pure rebellion, or Benny Hill, which I didn’t really understand but knew was deliciously wrong. Benny led me to Monty Python’s Flying Circus — people with funny accents and even funnier logic. I didn’t know they were British. I just knew they made chaos look like art.
In between MiMi’s programming, the house ran on a steady diet of sitcoms that said more about America than any textbook: Good Times, All in the Family, The Jeffersons, Sanford & Son. Those shows were a crash course in race, class, family, and why the laugh track always sounded a little too eager. On the fringes came Chico and the Man, Barney Miller, WKRP in Cincinnati, Taxi, Rhoda, Alice, Lou Grant — each one another set of rules about how adults were supposed to live, fail, and get back up again.
Sometimes we veered rural with Hee Haw, Green Acres, Grand Ole Opry, or A Family Affair. They weren’t staples in the house, but they stuck, like songs you never wanted to learn but somehow knew all the words to.
But my true obsession was space. If MiMi let me touch the dial, I went searching for galaxies: Lost in Space, The Jetsons, Battlestar Galactica, and Star Trek. I never loved Star Trek the way I loved Star Wars, but Uhura’s poise and Spock’s cool logic dug under my skin. They felt like glimpses of who I might be if I could escape gravity — balanced, unshaken, speaking a language that made sense.
So yeah, I grew up with Jedi broomsticks and MiMi’s soap operas, Benny Hill’s chaos and Red Foxx’s side-eye, Donahue’s earnestness and Carson’s smirk. Somewhere in that mess was me, caught between galaxies and daytime TV, learning that the Force was real — but only if MiMi said so.
Author’s Note: Looking back, I think MiMi & crew were the original Jedi. I’m convinced all the Grandmas, Moms, and Aunts were the bones from which Jedi were born. Their Jedi Mind Tricks got medicine swallowed, chores finished, and strange vegetables eaten — usually under the illusion of baked goods or a shiny quarter. In other words: Grandmas invented Jedi Mind Tricks, and we never stood a chance.
The study had been locked for years and not just locked—sealed. Rust consumed the keyhole; the wood swelled as if it wanted to burst, but it never did. Everyone in town knew that door. I knew it. I passed it often enough, felt the quiet pressure of it like a weight against my ribs. And then—tonight—it was open. Not ajar. Not cracked. Wide. Waiting.
Wind came out of it, wet and uneven. Not air, not really—more like breath. Lungs straining. A sound that didn’t belong in the hallway. The stink hit next: iron, rot, something that clung to the tongue. Dust spilled over the floorboards as if the house were trying to cough something out. People stood there staring. I stood with them, though I swear the dark leaned toward me, the way a person leans in when they’re listening.
Some said the shadows moved, as if something was pressing from the other side. One man swore the wind spoke his name. A woman broke down sobbing—her husband’s voice, she said, though he’d been dead a decade. I didn’t hear any of that. I heard breathing. Only breathing. I keep telling myself that.
Dogs won’t step onto the porch. Cats don’t come back. The doorframe sweats rust like a fever. And everyone remembers Maclan Kincade—the recluse, the man who vanished into the forest at dawn and came back after dark with mud on his boots when the sky was dry. I remember too. I remember the tune he hummed, sharp and crawling, and I still hear it some nights when the wind drags low across the valley. They said he locked the study himself. Said he went through once. Came back thinner, stranger. I don’t know. I only see that the lock is gone.
Last week—some swore it was Lily, though Lily left years ago—something came through. Not walked and not stepped. It dragged, folding and unfolding, its head tilted as if the bones had been set wrong. Its mouth opened, but no sound came—only the rasp of the wind pushing behind it. The smell got worse—iron, wet leaves, and mold in the lungs. I gagged. I still smell it on my hands.
It looked at us. No eyes, but it looked. One man swore it whispered Lily’s name in a voice that moved backward, like water retreating through rocks. Another said it laughed. I didn’t hear that. I didn’t. What I saw was its shadow blistering the wallpaper where it touched, with black marks still visible after it flickered back into the dark. The stench stayed. It hasn’t left. I can’t scrub it off.
Now the door never shuts. The wind grows louder. The black bulges out into the hall, stains spreading across the wallpaper like rot. Neighbors cross the street to avoid the place. Some leave bread, coins, and prayers at the gate. I’ve seen them. I’ve smelled it. Some nights I dream it.
The doorway waits. Each night it breathes harder. Each night, the house groans as though making room. Each night, the black leans closer to the street. I tell myself I don’t go near it. I don’t. I won’t.
But the sound—ragged, wet, patient—follows me home.
Author’s Note
Written for Fandango’s Story Starter #215. Sparked by the line: “The door to the study had been locked for years, yet tonight it stood wide open.” What followed is not a tale of discovery but intrusion—the wound left when silence begins to breathe.
The gulls owned the rooftop. They had claimed it long before we arrived, staking their kingdom in feathers and shit, in the low, guttural croaks that echoed like laughter. Their wings tore at the sky when they rose, dragging it open, only to fold it back into silence when they landed again. From where we sat, the sea spread out in every direction, a pewter sheet without reflection, as though it had swallowed the sky whole and kept it hidden.
The castle wasn’t a ruin, not completely. The stones still held their shape, still resisted the erosion of wind and salt, but there was moss clawing at the edges of the turrets, lichen freckling the slate roof. A place caught between being kept alive and being abandoned—much like us, though neither of us wanted to say it out loud.
We sat against the cold wall, the slick tiles beneath us daring us to slip. My legs dangled freely into the air, careless. Hers stayed tucked close, knees pulled in, heels dug hard into the slate as though bracing against gravity itself. That was always the difference between us: I trusted the drop, she feared it. We hadn’t spoken in nearly an hour. Silence was easier, and for a while, we both pretended it was enough.
The gull on the chimney watched us. A single sentinel, yellow eyes sharp and patient, as though waiting to see which one of us would fall first.
When she finally spoke, her voice startled me. “Why are you always trying to get me to eat ice cream from the hippy ice cream man?”
The words felt too light for this place, too absurd to belong among these stones. They scattered in my chest like startled birds. “What?”
She smirked, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “You heard me. Every time we’re close to something—like this—” she gestured vaguely at the impossible balance of us on the rooftop, at the thin margin between sitting and falling, “—you start talking about him. That van, his cones, like it’s holy salvation or something.”
I wanted to deny it. Pretend she was imagining things. But the image of the truck rose instantly, absurdly: parked at the seawall below, pastel paint catching the last orange spill of sunlight—music tinkling, distorted and tinny. The words freshly made just for you ” were painted across the side like a promise no one believed. And that small golden rectangle of light from the serving window, glowing like a portal to somewhere better.
“Because,” I said slowly, “that’s the only place left where nothing is asked of you. You hand him a coin, and he gives you sweetness. No questions. No history. Just sugar. Just cold.”
She turned back toward the gull. It hadn’t moved. Neither had the crows on the far chimney, who leaned in as if listening. “You think that’s all I want? To be numbed?”
I didn’t answer. The air had thickened, and even the sea seemed to press closer.
Her voice cracked against the quiet. “Sometimes I think you’d rather eat someone else’s lies than deal with the truth of me.”
I swallowed. My throat was raw from silence. “Maybe. Maybe because the truth of you is heavier than this whole damn castle.”
The gull flapped its wings once, dislodging flecks of stone dust, then settled again. Watching and always watching.
We had been here before. Not this rooftop, not this particular edge of stone and slate, but here—in the place where one of us demanded something the other couldn’t give. It always ended the same: with me retreating into sweetness, her retreating into anger.
I remembered the first time I saw the van. Not here, but further down the coast, years ago. I was walking alone after midnight when I saw its colors under the sodium lamps, too bright for the hour, too hopeful. The man inside was still serving, though there was no one in line. He had his arms crossed, staring at nothing. His face was older than the paint job. I almost walked past, but he caught my eye and tilted his head, and I bought a cone out of guilt.
The first bite had been a revelation. Not because it was good—it wasn’t—but because it was simple. No hidden meanings. No debts. Just a mouthful of something cold that melted away before I could question it. I never forgot that feeling. I wanted it again. I wanted her to have it too.
But she wasn’t built for simplicity.
“You don’t see it, do you?” she said now, pulling her knees tighter. “That ice cream man, your savior, he’s just another ghost. Another liar in pastels. You think his sweetness is freedom, but he’s trapped just like us. Debt, sorrow, God knows what. You want me to believe in him because you’ve already decided you can’t believe in me.”
Her words landed harder than the wind.
I tried to picture the man’s face. His tired smile, the scars along his hands when he passed me the cone. She was right—he wasn’t free. None of us were. And yet, he had given me that moment of quiet, that small reprieve. Couldn’t that be enough?
“You’re probably right,” I said. “But at least his lie tastes better than ours.”
Her face twisted, something between grief and rage. “That’s the problem. You’ll settle for sweetness just because it doesn’t cut as deep. You’ll choose the hippy ice cream man over me every time.”
The gull lifted suddenly, wings beating, filling the air with a violence that wasn’t its own. The crows scattered from the far chimney, black streaks against the sea. For a moment, it felt like the whole rooftop would shake apart under their departure.
When the noise faded, she looked at me again, eyes shadowed, unreadable. “You don’t even realize it, do you? You’re already halfway down there, coin in hand.”
Her words hollowed me out.
I wanted to argue, wanted to tell her she was wrong. But the image rose again: the van humming with light below the seawall, music spilling like a broken memory, waiting for me to step down from these stones and pay the price for one more mouthful of sweetness.
The castle groaned in the wind. The slate shifted beneath us. The sea waited, patient and endless.
We didn’t climb down together.
By the time I finally left the rooftop, she was gone. Whether she had climbed down first or vanished into the stone, I couldn’t say. The gull had returned to the chimney, and it watched me with something like pity.
When I reached the seawall, the van was still there. Lights glowing, window open, music playing. The man inside didn’t speak as I handed him a coin. He just nodded, passed me the cone, and turned away.
The first bite was as cold as always. Sweetness dissolving before it could mean anything.
I stood there in the glow of the hippy ice cream man, alone, licking at something that was never going to save me.
And above, high on the castle rooftop, the gull croaked once more.
Author’s Note: This story was inspired by Sadje’s What Do You See? #303. I took the provided image as a doorway into something more fractured and unresolved, letting the rooftop and the gulls become the stage for a conversation that had been waiting too long in silence. As always, these Dispatches are fragments—splinters of something larger I don’t pretend to fully understand. They aren’t answers, just echoes.
Not unexpected. Just insistent. Like a cough that won’t clear.
His number. Pulsing through the cracked glass, digits warped, doubled reflections on ice about to split. Third time tonight. He didn’t answer. Just watched it rattle against the table.
He’d stopped tracking time by clocks. The house measured itself in dust on the sill, silence pressing into eardrums, these calls—messages in a bottle from some other him. Sometimes neat intervals, occasionally frantic, fevered, like footsteps on metal stairs.
The phone didn’t stop. Each vibration burrowed deeper, amplifying the hollow inside him. He relented. Thumb pressed to the glass, still warm from the last call.
“Don’t look outside.”
His voice. The rasp, the pauses—every fracture he knew in his own throat. Then nothing. Not even the mercy of a click. Just silence so complete it pulled the air out of the room.
He almost laughed. Coughed instead. The sound broke itself in half.
The blinds stayed drawn. Warped plastic slats holding back nothing. But he felt it—darkness pressed to the glass, as much inside as out.
The phone rang again. Louder. Same number.
“Please. Don’t. Look.”
Whisper, desperate now—a voice chewing its own words.
The hum started. Not a sound. A prickling at his neck. A fizz under skin. Then audible. A low, throbbing drone, swelling until it shaped itself into walls, into air.
Old house, he told himself: pipes, fridge, wires. But the house was hungry. It fed on his solitude, made every shadow a mouth.
He stared at the blinds. Didn’t move. Maybe he already had.
The phone slipped and hit the floor. Vibrated against the boards like it was alive. He left it there.
The blinds swayed. No draft. Just movement.
He froze. A child again, listening to voices fight in another room, convinced stillness could make him invisible. But the voice now was his: both warning and threat.
The hum rose—layer on layer. The room was swollen with it.
He tried to breathe slowly. Count it. Failed. Because the sound of breath was doubled— from his chest, and from just beyond the glass.
He didn’t look. Not directly. But in the narrow seam where slat met sill, he saw it: the faintest shift, like a tongue tasting the air.
The blinds trembled. Stopped.
And in the silence that followed, the breath outside kept time with his own.
Author’s Note: Written for Mark Fraidenburg’s Today’s Writing Prompt. First time I’ve stepped into this challenge, and of course, I dragged the shadows in with me. That’s the danger of these prompts—I never treat them as warm-ups. I let them slip under the skin and stay awhile.
This one is fractured on purpose. MoM flash isn’t about answers—it’s about what lingers when you don’t get one.
My first record player was one of those Mickey Mouse things. I thought it was incredibly cool, back then. Now? I’ve probably lost several thousand cool points just for admitting this publicly. But that was the start—the first time I realized music could be mine, portable, spinning on plastic grooves under a cartoon mouse’s nose.
I never wondered about the first record player until years later, standing in a museum, staring at a Victrola like it had just rolled off a time machine. It was gorgeous—mahogany, brass, that air of weighty dignity machines used to have. And of course, the museum folks wouldn’t let me touch it. I was pissed. I ranted the whole way home, arms flailing like some deranged conductor, until my mother gave me that look that said, Boy, you’ve lost your damn mind. A look I would see many times over the years. My wife eventually perfected the same expression. Some conspiracies never die.
But that Victrola stuck with me.
A Box That Made Music Respectable
Before 1906, phonographs were awkward beasts. Giant horns jutting out like mechanical tumors, gathering dust and dominating living rooms. Eldridge R. Johnson—mechanic, dreamer, and founder of the Victor Talking Machine Company—had the audacity to fold the horn inside a cabinet. A simple trick of design that turned a noisy contraption into something you could sit beside polished furniture without shame.
It wasn’t just sound anymore. It was respectability.
The Price of Belonging
The first model, the VTLA, hit the market for $200—nearly half the average American’s yearly income. That’s about $5,700 today. Imagine explaining that to your spouse: “Honey, I spent half our wages on a box that sings.”
And yet every one of the first 500 units sold.
Because what people were really buying wasn’t a machine. They were buying belongings. Owning a Victrola meant you weren’t just grinding away at life—you were plugged into something larger, a signal that beauty belonged in your home.
Tone Doors, Drawers, and Dignity
The Victrola invented volume control—tone doors you could swing open for a flood of sound, or close when you didn’t want the neighbors to know you were spinning opera instead of hymns. It came with a drawer for needles, record storage built in, and even a lid to hush the surface noise.
What Johnson built wasn’t just a phonograph. It was an alibi. “See, dear—it’s furniture, not folly.”
From Freak Show to Fixture
By 1913, annual production had jumped to 250,000 units. The Victrola transformed the phonograph from curiosity to necessity. Music wasn’t just heard—it was hosted. Families gathered around it the way we gather around glowing screens today.
And the industry bent to Victor’s design. Competitors copied the hidden horn, patents expired, and suddenly, the parlor was the stage where the world’s voices arrived.
The Ghost in the Mahogany
That’s why I can’t shake the Victrola’s ghost. Because every time I hit play on Spotify, I feel it humming under the surface—the memory of when music had weight. When it wasn’t disposable, when it demanded space, when it carried dignity just by existing in the room.
My Mickey Mouse player may have sparked it, but the Victrola taught me the truth: music was never just about sound. It was about what you were willing to make room for.
And maybe that’s the real question—not what deserves that kind of space now, but what you’ve quietly pushed out to make room for noise.
Author’s Note
This piece was inspired by Jim Adams’s Thursday Inspiration #294 prompt: Suddenly. His weekly challenges have a way of shaking loose odd corners of memory and letting them bloom into something unexpected. Today it was a Mickey Mouse record player, a museum rant, and a Victrola that refused to leave my head.
As always, these posts are written as part of the ongoing experiment that is Memoirs of Madness—where history, memory, and a little grit collide. If the story sparks something for you, I’d love to hear it in the comments or see your own take on the prompt. Writing is always better when it’s a conversation, not a monologue.
Memoirs of Madness – Stories from the Edge of Change
Some stories ask to be written. Others sit beside you for a long time and wait until you’re ready to listen.
Stories from the Edge of Change wasn’t planned as a series. It started as a single image: a man sitting on a bench, cold coffee in one hand, a life’s worth of weight in the other. I didn’t know then that his name was Jake. I didn’t know about Dani. Or Angel. Or Finch.
I just knew the corner felt familiar.
And the more I stayed with it—the more I stayed with them—the more I realized this wasn’t just a set of character sketches. It was a reckoning. A quiet excavation. A window into lives we pass every day and rarely get to sit beside.
Writing Jake’s story—witnessing it—felt like a privilege. Not because he’s extraordinary. But because he isn’t. He’s the kind of man the world walks past. The kind who makes people uncomfortable because he reminds them what’s possible when the bottom falls out.
And still, somehow, he stayed.
Angel came next. Then Finch. Then Pete, who slipped in sideways, like most of the people who don’t want to be noticed but can’t stop bleeding the truth. I didn’t invent these characters. They arrived, piece by piece, in gestures and sidewalk cracks, in coffee steam and whispered meetings.
This arc became more than a series. It became a bench I didn’t want to leave.
I don’t know yet if there’s more to share from this world. But I do know there are more stories. I can feel them at the edge of things.
Maybe it’s Dani’s voice, finally stepping into the light. Maybe it’s Angel on a night shift, facing the silence Jake once did. Maybe it’s someone we haven’t met yet—sitting on the same corner, hoping someone looks up.
If these stories meant something to you—if they echoed or stirred something buried—let me know.
And if not? That’s okay, too. This wasn’t written for applause. It was written to hold a space.
Thank you for walking with me this far.
The corner’s quiet now. But it still remembers. And I’ll be here, in case someone else looks up.
The city’s traffic lights started blinking in Morse code, spelling out a warning almost no one could understand. Red. Green. Yellow. Not colors anymore—just pulses like a drunk heartbeat trying to send a message before flatlining.
I lit a cigarette I didn’t want. Rain kept it alive longer than it should’ve. People passed me like cattle, faces blue from their phones, all of them locked in their private prisons. Nobody looked up. Nobody saw.
The code spelled one word: WAIT.
So I did. For a breath. Maybe two. Then the crosswalk man glitched. Froze mid-step, legs twisted like snapped matchsticks, head stretched long enough to whisper a name I’d buried years ago. Nobody else twitched. Not even a pause in their stride.
The lights blinked again. WE.
A bus hissed through the intersection. Windows fogged, seats empty. Except the reflection waving from the glass wasn’t mine. Too many teeth. My hands were in my pockets. I didn’t wave back.
The smoke in my throat turned copper. Tasted like biting down on the city’s own wires. The rain stuck to me too long—warm, clingy, like breath on the back of my neck.
Another blink. Faster. WAIT. WE WAIT. INSIDE.
The crowd moved, blind, obedient. I stayed behind. The city didn’t need their eyes. It only needed mine.
And I knew then—whatever was inside the lights had been patient for years. And patience is the one thing I don’t have left.
Author’s Note It’s been raining here in my head for days. I came across this image, stared too long, and the city started talking back. Not in words, but in signals—broken, blinking, urgent. Madness has a way of showing up like that: subtle at first, quiet enough to miss if you’re sane.
This one was sparked by Fandango’s Story Starter—proof that sometimes all it takes is a single sentence to push the mind off balance and let the city whisper its warnings.
Dispatches from the Splinters of My Mind — Entry 5
For years, the suitcase had slouched against the wall, olive canvas faded to the color of dead grass, as if weighed down by secrets. Mara learned to live around it. She told herself it wasn’t hers, not really—it was just another flaw inherited with the apartment, like the warped floorboards or the mildew that bloomed no matter how much bleach she poured. She built routines that ignored it: shuffling past on her way to the kitchen, bruising her shin on its bent wheel while juggling laundry, pretending its mute presence wasn’t following her from room to room.
By day, she worked in the customer service cubicle of a company that sold things no one really needed. Her headset buzzed with angry voices demanding refunds for trivialities: scratched coffee tables, missing screws, colors that didn’t match the brochure. She smiled at her monitor, mouthed apologies she didn’t feel, and counted the hours until she could slip away unnoticed. At night, she returned to her apartment and straightened it into submission—folding towels, smoothing the duvet, coaxing life from a wilting philodendron. Every act was an attempt to prove she still had control.
Her phone rarely lit up with messages. Friends had drifted off in the slow erosion of years, worn away by canceled plans and her tendency to withdraw. Lovers, when they existed, didn’t stay long; Mara always sensed the moment they realized her silences weren’t mysterious, just empty.
The suitcase became her only constant. Not with menace, exactly, but with the patient gravity of an old dog who refused to die. On the loneliest nights, when the city’s noise thinned to a faint hum and her reflection in the window looked more like a stranger than herself, Mara sometimes found comfort in its presence. A terrible comfort, born from the knowledge that if she disappeared tomorrow, someone would find the suitcase and wonder what it meant.
—
She told herself she would never open it. Whatever was inside belonged to some version of herself she had no interest in meeting. Better to let the past rot in peace.
Still, she caught herself circling it. Some nights she’d stand over it with a hand suspended above the clasps, her palm tingling as if braced for a static shock. She imagined sweaters matted with moths, photo albums swollen from rain, useless junk that had once mattered. But beneath those guesses lurked something heavier—the suspicion that the suitcase held not just things, but explanations.
On this December evening, the city outside hushed itself beneath its first snow, and the cold seeped inward until even the air felt brittle. Mara sat on the warped parquet floor, knees tucked tight, her breath fogging the space between her and the suitcase. The silence didn’t feel empty anymore; it pressed against her ribs, insistent, like a held note waiting to be released.
Her fingers found the clasps. She hesitated, pulse drumming in her ears, then pressed. The latch gave with a soft click—an exhalation, almost grateful. The suitcase opened with a muted thump against the wall.
Mara braced for the familiar debris of memory. Instead, the air thickened, sweetened, and began to move.
—
Out of the suitcase spilled green. Not color, but substance: vines, moss, leaves tumbling out in a delirious torrent, as if a dam had burst inside the canvas walls. The vines reached first for Mara’s wrists, curling with the intimacy of a lover’s grip, then crept up her sleeves before she could recoil.
The apartment began to betray her in increments. Carpet fizzed into moss, threads unraveling into living rootlets that burrowed deep into the warped floorboards. Table legs thickened, cracking as bark split through lacquer. Fungal blooms erupted from the bookshelves, pale caps pushing aside dog-eared paperbacks. The ceiling melted into sky—a blue so raw and immense it swallowed the dingy plaster whole.
The air grew dense, wetter, and alive with perfumes that should not coexist: loamy soil, crushed mint, the sweetness of rot, the ozone edge of lightning about to strike. Mara staggered as the scents layered, dizzy with the intoxication of it.
Then came the blossoms. Petals bloomed in fractal explosions—saffron edged in black, violet spirals furred like animal hides, blossoms so red they seemed to bleed. Some pulsed faintly, as if with heartbeats of their own.
Butterflies burst from the vines in a fever of wings, thousands lacquered in jewel tones. They whirled so thick they became a storm, each frantic flutter a whisper against her skin. A dozen landed at once—on her hands, her shoulders, her lips. One perched on her eyelid, its wings opening and closing with the slow rhythm of breathing.
She should have screamed. Instead, her breath came shallow, more awe than terror. For every heartbeat, the wild reached deeper.
Each leaf brushing her skin delivered not scratches but memories—her grandmother’s dough-soft hands kneading bread, her brother’s laughter ricocheting through a sunlit field, her father’s cough echoing down a sterile hospital corridor. The wilderness was rewriting her, splicing joy into wounds, editing her grief with gentler hands.
But wonder had teeth. In the corner of her vision, flowers gaped open to reveal centers ringed not with pollen but with minute, gnashing mouths. A patch of thistles dripped with sap the color of blood. A butterfly passed close enough for her to see one wing stitched together with spider silk, trembling under the effort of flight.
Above, something moved. Too heavy to be a bird, too fluid to be human—a colossal shifting presence that bent the canopy like a wave. She froze, pulse hammering, as the unseen thing exhaled a breath that rattled branches and sent shivers down her spine.
The vines around her ankles tightened, not cruel but unyielding, as if claiming her. The suitcase pulsed behind her like a second heart, no longer a container but a wound, hemorrhaging wilderness into the sterile apartment.
Mara drew in a breath thick with ozone and soil. For a moment, she could not tell whether she was breathing the wild in—or whether the wild was breathing her out.
—
Out of the suitcase unfurled green. Not just the color, but the thing itself: vines, moss, leaves in reckless abundance. They spilled from the hollowed interior with the momentum of a breached dam, clinging to her wrists, crawling up the sleeves of her sweater before she could react.
The rupture startled her so hard her body jolted, heart hammering in her throat as if the apartment itself had split at the seams. Vines surged, leaves and petals clawing into the stale air with a force that left her scrambling backward. For a moment, she could hardly breathe, the world too sudden, too alive.
But then the panic ebbed, steadied, and something else seeped in—calm, foreign yet familiar, like slipping into warm water after a long winter. The butterflies poured from the green in a thousand frantic flutters, their wings catching light that didn’t belong to her apartment, guiding her deeper into this breach. They circled her in loose spirals, herding without force, their chaos carrying a strange order.
One landed on her finger. Its wings pulsed open and shut, slow as breath. Mara froze, remembering the way she’d once cupped fireflies in her childhood palms, the glow painting her skin in fleeting constellations. Her mother had warned her not to hold them too tightly—fragile things needed room to breathe, to live. The memory stung and soothed at once, as if the butterfly itself had dredged it up to remind her: not everything she touched had to die in her hands.
The unease that had clung to her loosened, thread by thread, until what remained was something close to wonder.
Above her, the ceiling vanished, replaced by a canopy of impossible blue and the shimmer of a sun she’d never felt on her face. Somewhere in the new sky, birds cawed and something colossal moved just out of sight.
—
She considered her choices. She could claw her way back through that window, return to her apartment and its parade of quiet defeats—the warped floorboards, the mildew, the muted hum of survival. Or she could stay, let the wildness claim her entirely. For the first time in her life, she felt the weight of true agency. The knowledge that whatever she chose would shape not just her own story, but the world that had so unexpectedly chosen her in return.
The butterflies lifted from her skin, all at once, a living tide of color and motion, as if waiting for her verdict. Their wings beat like a thousand clocks, a patient chorus urging her to decide before time thinned and slipped away.
Mara drew a breath, the air thick with the scent of earth and unnamed flowers, as sweet and dangerous as desire itself. She closed her eyes, pressed the cold, smooth stone to her chest, and felt its weight resonate with every scar she’d carried.
Then she stepped forward into the meadow.
Behind her, the suitcase yawned wider, its frame trembling, the window flickering like a wound in the air—open for now, but unstable, its edges shivering as though the world itself strained to keep it alive. If she turned back too late, it would vanish, sealing her choice forever.
Still, Mara did not look over her shoulder. The suitcase, the apartment, the small life she’d managed to arrange from scraps—they belonged to a different woman, one who no longer existed.
The butterflies parted, clearing her path. The meadow stretched ahead in impossible bloom, humming with promise and peril alike. Somewhere beyond the trees, she thought she heard her true name whispered again, as if the realm itself was ready to receive her.
Mara kept walking.
—
The butterflies steadied her, their wings shimmering in fractured light. For every moment of unease—the vines clutching her ankles, the thorns whispering promises of pain—there came an answering wave of wonder. Her breathing slowed, steadier now, as if the air itself coaxed her into calm.
One butterfly, larger than the rest, descended with a gravity that felt almost deliberate. It landed on her finger, wings fanning like a heartbeat, fragile but certain. Mara stared, unable to look away. The soft pulse of its wings seemed to travel into her bones, reminding her that fragility and strength were not opposites but mirrors.
The unease inside her chest loosened, thread by thread, dissolving into awe. She lifted her hand, the butterfly clinging lightly, and for a heartbeat she forgot the apartment, the years of exhaustion, the muted repetition of survival. This was something else—something she’d longed for without ever naming.
She let the moment stretch. Around her, the wild hummed with unseen life, shadows flickering at the edge of vision, leaves trembling though there was no wind. The fear hadn’t vanished completely—it lingered like a low note beneath the music—but it was no longer in control.
Wonder was.
—
The meadow pulsed around her, as if the earth itself breathed beneath her feet. Butterflies circled in a golden storm, their wings beating in harmony with her racing heart. For a fleeting moment, Mara believed this was what she’d been waiting for all along—this impossible window into a world untouched by failure, regret, or the slow erosion of ordinary days. Here, every wound seemed rewritten in softer ink, every sorrow transfigured into beauty.
And yet, a tug—faint at first, then insistent—pulled her back. A thread wound tight through her chest, reminding her of the apartment that still held her life: the stubborn philodendron in its chipped pot, the stack of unpaid bills on the counter, the silence of rooms that did not breathe without her. She clutched the stone tighter, its cool weight pressing against her ribs like a verdict.
The butterflies parted, as if in recognition, opening a clear path back to the suitcase. The vines swayed, reluctant, but no longer holding her fast. She felt the ache of two worlds pulling at her—one shimmering with wonder, the other rooted in the grit of reality.
Her knees trembled. She thought of her mother’s voice, of promises she’d made to herself on nights when loneliness seemed like an endless horizon. She wanted to stay, to vanish into this dream that felt more like home than anything she’d ever known. But she also knew that surrendering here meant abandoning the fragile, stubborn parts of herself that had fought so hard to survive in the first place.
With a slow exhale, she stepped backward. The meadow dimmed, colors blurring at the edges. The butterflies scattered, frantic, then dissolved into motes of light. The vines loosened and retreated into the suitcase’s hollow, folding the wildness back into silence. For an instant, she thought she heard the trees sigh—disappointed, but not condemning.
Then it was gone. The apartment reasserted itself, grimy and familiar. The warped floorboards, the mildew’s sour tang, the cheap radiator knocking in protest. The suitcase sat slouched against the wall again, its clasps shut as though it had never opened.
Mara sank onto the floorboards, the stone still cradled in her palm. But when she opened her hand, she found nothing—only the imprint of its weight lingering on her skin. She closed her eyes, breathing in the stale air, and whispered to no one, “I’ll remember.”
It wasn’t surrender, not entirely. It was a compromise: to live in this reality, but to carry that meadow inside her, as proof that beauty—even dangerous, untamed beauty—could exist.
Author’s Note: I wanted to step sideways with this Dispatch—into a dream that feels like a window cracked open onto somewhere else. This one was sparked by Esther’s Writing Prompt, and I let the word window become a motif, threading itself through the story. Some pieces you write because the words won’t leave you alone. Others you write because you want to get lost in them and hope the world forgets your rent’s due. This was the latter. I needed a reminder that even the strangest worlds can feel like home for a little while. And maybe—just maybe—that’s the point: the magic’s not in whether it’s “real,” it’s in whether it leaves you blinking when you come back.
MoM Series: Stories from the Edge of Change – Part 5
Jake slipped back to Maple and 9th, just before the day’s first sirens. The sky was a cold bruise overhead—indigo leaking toward gray, the city below still sullen and half-swallowed by fog. Jake’s route here was always the same: the recycled bus air, the smell of new concrete and old bleach at the transfer station, the long walk down streets that still remembered him in all the wrong ways.
He’d liked it better in the days when a hangover let you lie to yourself. Being sober meant memory was out to get you, every hour of the day.
He hadn’t told anyone he was coming, and wasn’t sure anyone would care. Maple/9th wasn’t home, not really, but the corner had a way of calling him back when the rest of the world got too bright and too loud. Where everything had fractured. Where, by some backwards logic, something like a beginning had managed to dig in and take root, though even now Jake couldn’t explain why.
He stepped off the curb, the city unspooling around him in the blue-tinted hush of pre-dawn. Chains of streetlights blinked uncertainly overhead, fighting the thick mist that made them look like distant, drowned stars. Gutter water gurgled past slumped trash bags, and a wind—sharp and chemical, the kind you only got east of the river—whipped Jake’s soaked collar tight against his throat.
It had rained all night, the kind of slow, pounding storm that got past old window seals and filled alleys with shallow, fast-moving currents. His boots were soggy from the first block, each step a cold squelch that made him feel both present and exposed.
He carried a dented thermos of black coffee in one fist, and two foil-wrapped breakfast sandwiches in the other. Not an offering; nothing so grand. More like insurance, or ballast, a way to keep his hands busy while waiting for the morning to decide what kind of day it wanted to be.
Jake found his bench across from the bus stop, same warped planks as always, streaked deep with mildew and the ink of other people’s initials. He sat with a practiced slouch, elbows braced on thighs, letting the bench’s damp give him a chill. The wood was beaten soft by years of sun and rain and the pressure of bodies like his—bent, but holding.
The crust of the world here was thin. Every sound cut through. The city at this hour was a hungover beast, makeshift and miraculous: somewhere a dog barked in warning, a power transformer hummed in gradual crescendo, and a garbage truck, like the planet’s own heartbeat, thudded trash cans up and down the block.
Jake finished his first sandwich in three bites, washing it down with coffee so bitter it felt like punishment. He watched steam coil off the thermos and disappear.
He’d been clean for 343 days—he counted, because not counting was the first step to failure in his book—but the mornings punched hardest. Not cravings, exactly, but the thin, raw quiet where the old engine used to run. The ache was in the absence now, the stretches of time where nothing screamed at you from the inside.
He wondered if he was the only one who found the lack scarier than the compulsion.
People talk about recovery like it’s a sunrise, he’d heard at every group and meeting and shelter table in the city, but that was a lie. Recovery was more like hitting bottom, and instead of dying, realizing you were still clutching the shovel.
The old-timers called it “the work.” Jake wasn’t sure he believed in the work, but he did believe in gravity, and he knew how easy it was to fall back down the hole.
He wiped rain off his forehead and stared at the bus stop across the street. The city here was built in layers, old and new pressed together without much logic: a granite Gothic church wedged between a vape shop and an all-night copy center, tenements with windows starting to glow against the gray, stairwells already moving with the first shift crowds.
The light grew by inches. Jake’s eyes stung; he blinked, forcing himself to watch the street, not the rearview movie in his head.
A figure emerged from the alley behind the liquor store, hood low, gait ragged. Jake tensed—still, after all this time, the old alarms worked. Then he recognized the walk. Shoes caked in mud, chin up, hands buried deep in a jacket two sizes too big: Angel.
Angel had been a regular at the shelter through four of Jake’s own city-sponsored relapses, which made him family, or as close as anyone got these days. Compared to the Angel of last summer, this version moved with more purpose—less side-to-side drift, no fresh scabs or glassy stare. Angel’s jaw was bruised, but healing. The eyes were alert, focused, like he’d learned to see himself again.
They shared a nod—the kind that says, I see you and I know what you’ve been through, and also, let’s not make this a big deal. Angel slid onto the bench beside him, landed hard, and let his backpack fall at his feet. Water pooled around their boots, the surface speckled with cigarette ends, leaves, and plastic fork tines.
Neither of them spoke for a stretch. Jake thought about the time, months ago, when a rehab flyer had drifted down onto his lap from a passing outreach worker. He’d already been clean then—technically, anyway.
Time had a way of flattening out, making you forget how long you’d actually been at it. The city kept its own clock, indifferent to anniversaries. Some mornings, like this one, Jake felt it pressing in, the weight of nothing left to want except to stay above water.
Angel broke the silence first. “You been coming here a lot?” His voice was hoarse, wary, but there was something sturdy in it, too.
Jake shrugged, tracing a finger along the bench’s warped grain. “Now and then. Corner doesn’t judge.”
Angel pulled a sandwich from the foil and bit in, chewing slowly. “Doesn’t judge—but it remembers,” he said, mouth half-full. The words hung in the fog, true in a way that made Jake’s teeth ache.
They watched the city wake up. A woman jogged by—neon sneakers, rain-spattered leggings, earbuds locked into some other world. Down the block, a man in grimy overalls hosed vomit from the stoop of a shuttered bar, his movements quick and practiced. A bus hissed to a stop, doors gasping open. Nobody got on or off.
Jake passed the thermos to Angel, who sipped and grimaced. “You still at the center?” Angel asked.
Jake nodded toward the east, where the sunrise was starting to show. “Nights only. Fewer ghosts after midnight.”
Angel wiped his mouth with the back of a sleeve. “Heard you made it eleven months,” he said. Jake didn’t correct him; time was a rumor on the street. “I’m two months today,” Angel added, voice almost too soft to carry.
Jake tipped the thermos, spilling out a little coffee to mark the moment. “That’s something,” he said.
Angel stared out at the rising light, sandwich forgotten in his hand. “It feels like it could vanish any second,” he said. “Like, if I turn around too fast, it’ll all come back.”
Jake leaned back, the bench groaning under his weight. He studied the old traffic light—still stuck on red, despite the empty streets. “Sometimes it does,” he said, “but you don’t.”
The words were barely a whisper, but Angel nodded. They both knew the math: most of the people who made it this far didn’t stay far for long. The city was littered with their ghosts—names Jake remembered from the group, faces half-blurred by time and by the drugs that used to be his only way to see clearly.
Angel finished the sandwich and wiped his hands on his jeans. “Ever think about running?” he asked, eyes fixed on the pale clouds.
Jake didn’t have to ask where. “All the time.” He closed his eyes, felt the rain seep through his sleeves, and pictured a map with every city crossed out except this one.
Angel laughed, short and sharp—almost a bark. “I dream of a boat, man. Offshore. No laws, no meetings, nobody waiting to see if you fuck it up again.” There was a wildness in his voice, but also a kind of longing. Jake recognized it: the fantasy of disappearance, of finally outpacing your own story.
“You take yourself with you,” Jake said.
Angel let out a breath, not quite a sigh. “Yeah. That’s the problem.”
Across the street, a man in a threadbare hoodie sorted through a heap of cardboard, folding it into a sign. His hands shook just enough to notice. The buses kept rolling by, ignoring him. Jake watched as the man scrawled something—maybe a prayer, maybe a joke—across the cardboard and propped it up for the world to see.
Angel noticed, too. “You going to say something?” he asked.
Jake shook his head. “Not yet.”
“Why not?”
He thought about it. “First time, nobody listens. You wait until they look up without asking. That’s when they’re ready.”
Angel stared at the man for a long time. “And if he never looks up?”
Jake pressed his boots flat against the concrete, feeling the water squish beneath the sole.
“Then we stay,” he said. “Until he does. Or until someone else comes along who knows how to wait.”
Angel didn’t answer. But he didn’t move either. That was enough.
There were mornings when Jake imagined leaving—not running, just… slipping away. Boarding a train headed somewhere nameless, getting on a boat, disappearing into the haze like an offshore storm no one tracks. But he never moved. Never packed. The fantasy was like a scar: it only hurt when you pressed.
He stayed because someone had once stayed for him. That’s all it had ever taken.
The bench creaked beneath his shifting weight. The corner, as always, said nothing. But it remembered.
And Jake—sober, scarred, still learning—remembered too.
🖋️ Final Author’s Note:
Today’s story incorporates the prompt words offshore, downpour, and creed from FOWC, RDP, and Word of the Day.
This marks the final chapter in the first arc of Stories from the Edge of Change, a MoM original series about survival without spectacle.
Jake didn’t get a miracle. He didn’t get closure. He got a bench, a corner, and a reason to stay long enough to matter.
Sometimes, that’s all we get. And sometimes, it’s enough.
When I was a kid, I wore out VHS tapes like other kids wore out sneakers. I’d rewind, replay, and rewind again until my mother finally snapped, “Lord, not this one again!” We laughed about it years later when my grandkids started doing the same thing — watching the same cartoon on loop until it could play without the TV being on. Obsession runs deep in this family.
Here are the ten films that got under my skin, refused to let go, and still pull me in every time I hit play.
Convoy (1978)
Kris Kristofferson, Ali MacGraw, and a convoy of truckers rolling across America, flipping the bird at authority with CB slang I barely understood.
I couldn’t tell you what hooked me harder — the radios, the semis, or the rebellion. I memorized lines, stomped around the house calling myself Rubber Duck, and believed a convoy of eighteen-wheelers could change the world. It’s not a cinema classic, but it speaks to the part of me that refuses to follow rules, even now.
A Piece of the Action (1977)
Sidney Poitier and Bill Cosby playing con men forced to do some good — crime with a conscience, swagger with a side of redemption.
I worshipped Poitier, and seeing him in a lighter role felt like catching your dad cracking a joke when you weren’t supposed to. Cosby was a bonus — I’d worn out Himself on cassette a thousand times, so seeing him on screen was like déjà vu with moving pictures. Add James Earl Jones’s voice booming through the mix and Denise Nicholas as Poitier’s love interest, and I was sold. I didn’t see the social commentary back then — I was too busy grinning. Now, I see it plain as day.
The Chinese Connection (Fist of Fury, 1972)
Bruce Lee tearing through colonial arrogance, fists and fury flying like scripture.
My friends split down the middle: you were either the Six Million Dollar Man or Bruce Lee. I chose Lee every time. We practiced the moves, clumsy imitations in the yard, convinced we were dangerous. Only a handful of us ever stepped foot in a dojo, but the code, the discipline, the honor — that film planted it in me. I still practice martial arts, decades later, because of Bruce.
Blade Runner (1982)
Neon rain, broken people, and machines chasing something like a soul.
I shouldn’t have even been there. Bought a ticket to the godawful Gymkata, slid into Blade Runner like a thief. My first R-rated film on the big screen, and I was gone the second Deckard lit his cigarette. This wasn’t a movie — it was a world. I force-fed it to my kids like vegetables disguised as candy. Years later, one of my daughters called me the week 2049 dropped: “Dad, you ready?” You’re damn right I was. Some obsessions don’t fade. They get inherited.
Excalibur (1981)
Fog, blood, betrayal, and the gleam of steel. John Boorman’s fever dream of Arthurian legend.
This was my first taste of King Arthur, and it sunk deep. I’ve hunted down every Arthurian film since, stacked books on the legends in my house. But it wasn’t the spectacle that stuck — it was the idea of honor, devotion, and duty. It shaped how I thought a man was supposed to be. For better or worse, that sword still gleams in my head.
The Outlaw Josey Wales (1976)
Clint Eastwood spitting tobacco juice and cutting his way through the wreckage of the Civil War.
This wasn’t just my favorite Western — it became mine and my wife’s. We’d sit glued to the TV, watching it over and over until the dialogue was part of our marriage. Because of her, I learned to love Westerns in general. And every time I watch one now, I smile at the memory of her beside me. Clint Eastwood was a badass, sure — but she made the movie matter more.
Cooley High (1975)
Friendship, heartbreak, betrayal — and a Motown soundtrack to drown in.
This wasn’t just a movie; it was my life in another time and place. The music, the teenage angst, the betrayals that cut deeper than any knife — all of it felt too close to home. Even though it was set in the ’60s, it mirrored the world around me. It became a staple in the Black community, right up there with Shaft. And it still hits today, just as hard.
FM (1978)
DJs fighting corporate suits with nothing but vinyl and attitude.
I found this one through my mother’s soundtrack, then realized there was a whole movie attached. For a kid glued to the radio, it felt like God had delivered it straight to my TV. My buddy and I even launched a pirate station we called Q-Sky Radio. He didn’t know where I got the name. I smiled and let him think it was his idea. That love of music never left, and I’d argue FM is part of why House of Tunage even exists today. This movie is my jam, then and now.
The Wanderers (1979)
Bronx gangs, doo-wop on the jukebox, swagger and fists flying at the edge of an era.
Everyone around me worshipped The Warriors — and I did too — but The Wanderers dug under my skin in a different way. Maybe it was the sense of a world dying, of everything you know mutating into something unfamiliar and scary. It taught me that you either shrink back or walk forward into the unknown. I chose forward. I’ve read the book five times at least, and it still hits differently than the film, but just as hard.
Lady Sings the Blues (1972)
Diana Ross as Billie Holiday, Billy Dee Williams smooth as glass, Richard Pryor burning in every scene.
My mom loved Diana Ross, so I sat through this film with her more times than I can count. I didn’t share her love for Ross, but Billie Holiday got her hooks in me. Later, I told that story to my wife, and she showed up with two CDs: Lady Sings Jazz and Blues by Diana Ross and a Billie Holiday collection. She knew me better than I knew myself sometimes. Man, I loved that woman.
Closing Reflection
These weren’t just movies. They were obsessions. They taught me about rebellion, loyalty, heartbreak, and survival before I even had the language for it. My mom teased me for playing them to death, but when I watch my grandchildren loop the same film until it frays, I can’t help but smile. The cycle continues. Different movies, same obsession. And maybe that’s what cinema really is — a mirror we pass down, cracked and glowing, frame by frame.
Dispatches from the Splinters of My Mind – Entry IV
I’ve spent twenty-five years wandering the constellations of dust that pass for towns in these parts, chasing rumors of justice across salt flats and sun-stained mesas, my hand welded to the only gospel this world respects—cold iron, burnished to a black shine by blood and the desert’s endless hunger. Every dawn, I’d cinch a deadman’s resolve around my ribs and tell myself I was the steady hand in a world built on bad intentions, that each finger’s pressure on a trigger could tip the scales back toward something like decency. But time—time is a lizard’s tongue: flicking, unseen, snatching up the moments until you’re left staring at a husk, trying to remember how you ever filled it. Sooner or later, you see it for what it is: a young man’s dare delivered to the gods, a clumsy ballet of violence dressed up as virtue, death’s grand masquerade with your own face under the mask.
The desert kept its own ledger, written in wind and stone. Rivers shrank to scars, and every town I passed through felt like a graveyard waiting for names. Vultures taught me patience better than any preacher, circling in their slow sermons, never rushing what they knew was inevitable. Out here, the land didn’t just watch—it judged. Every canyon whispered back the sound of your gun, long after the body cooled.
Every soul I ushered into the hush had a name—sometimes carved on a tin badge, more often graven into the blue-black veins of the territory’s memory, where the ghosts stacked up like poker chips. I tried to keep them at a distance, let the desert swallow their last words before they could echo. But there is no distance in these plains, only the illusion of it. You run a man down at noon, the dust still wet with his shadow, and by sundown your own shadow’s right there beside his, stitched together over the dirt. I told myself numbness was a tool, a way to keep the tremor out of my hand, but numbness is a kind of debt, and the interest compounds in silence. I was too busy forging my legend—chiseled in the splinters of busted up saloons and the blue smoke curling from spent casings—to notice what I’d mortgaged away.
So now I’m the last dog in the fight, nothing left but a brittle skeleton propped against a fence post, watching the horizon try to out-bleed itself every evening, waiting for the sun to name one color I haven’t seen a man die in. I count the ghosts that trail me like some biblical plague, each one a mile marker on the road I can’t stop walking.
Just crawled out of a dime stretch—ten years locked inside iron and spit, with only the slow creep of rust and regret for company—but that’s pocket change compared to the ledger I keep in my head, a ledger no warden’s key will ever unlock. The past doesn’t loosen its grip; if anything, it tightens until you can’t tell your own pulse from the memory of someone else’s. Out here, they call me a legend, a walking parable, the old coyote that’s outlived every snare and bullet. But legends are just stories that haven’t had their endings written yet. The endings always come, and they are never kind.
Once, a boy no older than my own reflection at nineteen tried to catch me in the middle of a mud street. His hat was too big, his holster too stiff. I watched his lip tremble before his hand even twitched. And in that stutter of fear, I saw myself—hungry, stupid, convinced the world owed me immortality. I let him draw first, because mercy was a luxury neither of us could afford. When he fell, I felt no triumph, only recognition. The desert doesn’t make room for fathers, only mirrors.
There is a whole generation of greenhorns—some with badges, some with nothing but their mother’s borrowed last name—who’d sleep sweeter with my scalp nailed to their saddle horn. Each one wants to be the one to rewrite the myth: to show the world the old king had no teeth left, that even legends can bleed. What they don’t see is that the fire never really dies, it just settles into the bones. They walk up fast, hot with the promise of their own immortality, and they think the shaking in my hands is age, not anticipation.
Justice—my old, two-faced companion—watches from the back of every whiskey glass and midnight mirror. When I was young, he sat shotgun, fed me lies about glory and honor and the clean line between good men and bad. But that line was always drawn in sand, and every storm I weathered blurred it until no one remembered which side they started on. Now he hides behind the badge, jeering at me from the safety of his armchair, pretending he wasn’t the one who put the first pistol in my grip. Hypocrite. He wants to see me pay for my excesses, but he forgets: I always paid in advance.
When the night rolls over the land and the wind starts to howl like an orphaned child, the voices come crawling in from the edges. “Was it worth it?” they ask, breathless, persistent, soft as the moths in the old preacher’s study. Worth the empty chairs at dinner tables, the widows with nothing left but a wedding ring and a story? Worth the holes I punched in the world, the ones I never bothered to fill back in? I’ve no answer for them, and by now I doubt I’ll ever find one. Only this: the world is made of debts, and violence always knows where to send the bill.
These days, even my dreams betray me. No sweet lies, no gentle horizons—only the endless replay of gunfire, a carousel of faces turning toward me in their last astonishment. Sometimes I wonder if I’d even know what rest felt like, if peace ever did arrive. Maybe I’d flinch from it, the way a stray dog flinches from kindness.
Tonight, I can feel it: the ledger’s come due. The sky above is swept clean and hard as flint, the air stinking of cordite and things long dead. I lie here, spine pressed to the living earth, the stars blinking overhead like a jury summoned to pass sentence. My hand’s locked around the iron, the heat of the last shot still ghosting up through the barrel. Around me, the sand is pitted and blackened, marking the places where hope gave up and history picked up the slack.
This is what justice looks like, in the end: a man alone, weapon cooling, waiting for the world to decide if his next breath will matter. For a heartbeat, everything holds still. The air itself is an intake of judgment.
Will they let me die with my boots on? Will the dead finally cut me some slack and let me drift into whatever comes next? Or will the world keep chasing me, day after day, circle after circle, like a dog gnawing a bone it’ll never finish?
I laugh—a dry, cracking thing that feels like it might shatter my teeth. It’s the laugh of a child who’s seen the trick behind the magic, the snort that follows every preacher’s sermon. Life and death, justice and sin: all of it a rigged game, played out over and over until the deck wears thin.
I should be afraid. I should pray. But all I feel is the deep drag of exhaustion and, maybe, the faint warmth of something like relief.
But peace—peace’s for fools, for greenhorns and saints, not the likes of me. Not a man who emptied his promise to the desert and let it keep the change.
I close my eyes and try to shoulder the weight of every life I ever took, every mile I rode with justice whispering fever-dreams in my ear. Maybe there’s a way out. Maybe there isn’t.
Either way, I’ll keep my iron close and my eyes open. In this world, justice is just another word for a story that won’t end, and legends—they never really die.
They just get older, and a little sadder, and wait for the next bullet to teach them something new.
They just keep glancing over their shoulders, waiting for the next bullet.
Author’s Note
Another ride through the dust for Dispatches from the Splinters of My Mind. This one lives in the twilight—half confession, half reckoning—an old gunslinger’s ledger of debts that can never be balanced. The West here isn’t about glory or the last man standing; it’s about the silence that follows every shot, the weight of a myth too heavy to carry. Maybe you’ll hear echoes of your own shadows in his words, or maybe you’ll just taste the grit of the desert wind on your teeth. Either way, this dispatch isn’t about answers—it’s about what’s left when the smoke clears.
MoM Series: Stories from the Edge of Change – Part 4
Jake worked nights.
He liked the quiet. Fewer eyes. Less explaining to do. The outreach center kept him on the roster as a volunteer—two days a week, graveyard shift. It was mostly sweeping, coffee refills, folding blankets, and unlocking doors when someone showed up crying, shaking, or bleeding. They didn’t advertise the hours. The ones who needed it already knew.
He didn’t talk much to the clients. Just nodded. Kept his voice low. Gave out clean socks and disposable razors, and sometimes leftover sandwiches if the early crew hadn’t raided the fridge. A woman once called him a ghost in a hoodie. He took it as a compliment.
They didn’t know his history.
Most of the staff thought he was someone’s cousin. Someone in the program. He was both, in a way. Still figuring out what version of himself was worth keeping. He told the director he didn’t want to lead groups or give speeches. He just wanted to stay close to the door—for the ones who weren’t ready to walk through it alone.
That night, it was cold again. Not dramatic. Not headline cold. Just the kind that seeps through your boots and settles in your bones. The kind that makes concrete ache. Jake had learned the difference between degrees that made headlines and those that just broke people.
He was wiping down the intake counter when the door buzzer snapped.
The front desk kid—a college intern with a buzzcut and the stubborn optimism of someone who hadn’t failed big yet—waved him over.
“Guy outside’s got no ID. Twitchy. Keeps asking for someone named Pete. Said you’d know what that means.”
Jake’s stomach knotted. He did.
Pete had been there in Jake’s first rehab stint—loud, bitter, always quick to spot your softest spot and stomp on it. He was the kind of man who’d mock your breakdown and then sit with you on the curb afterward, passing a half-smoked cigarette like it was communion.
They’d had a moment, months ago, after the group. Pete had come apart in the stairwell, cracked wide open from something the counselor said about fatherhood. Jake had sat next to him, quiet. Didn’t try to fix it. Just stayed.
That was the last time he’d seen him.
Now Pete was back. Gaunt. Twitching. Cheeks hollowed like spoons. His hoodie was soaked around the collar, eyes glazed like bad glass.
Jake opened the door.
Pete stumbled in, clothes clinging wet. The rainfall outside had picked up, soft but relentless. He looked like a man who’d slept under bridges and crawled out just long enough to fall again.
“Shit, man,” Pete mumbled. “Didn’t know where else to go.”
Jake didn’t answer right away. The smell of damp wool and stale sweat filled the gap between them. Pete’s arms trembled at his sides like he was holding invisible weights.
“Come in,” Jake said. “You need a blanket?”
Pete blinked. “You still here?”
“Still here.”
They sat him down. Pete wouldn’t sign the detox papers. Said he just wanted warmth. Just wanted to sit somewhere without a knife in his back or a siren in his ear. Jake gave him coffee. Black. No sugar. His hands were shaking so bad that half of it sloshed onto the floor.
“I was clean,” Pete muttered. “Six months. Then my brother died in a car crash. I don’t even cry. Just go buy a bottle like I’m on autopilot.”
Jake said nothing. Let him say it without interruption.
“I thought I was good, like I was done paying. Like I was… exempt.” He laughed once. It cracked like a cough. “Grief doesn’t work like that. No punch card. No discounts.”
Outside, the rainfall whispered against the windows. Steady. Relentless. A low percussion against the building.
Jake thought of that phrase Pete used to say in rehab. “You want grace? Get a dog.” He understood now. Grace wasn’t something you earned. It was something that showed up when you didn’t run from the stoop.
Later, when Pete fell asleep curled around a donated coat, Jake stepped outside. The pavement was slick with oil and rain. Steam rose from the sewer grates like the city was exhaling something it didn’t need anymore.
He didn’t feel proud. Didn’t feel like a hero. He just felt… rooted. Present. Like a chair that had stopped wobbling.
Some nights, that was enough.
🖋️ Author’s Note:
Written for today’s FOWC, RDP, and Word of the Day prompts: stoop, rainfall, and pavement.
Second Shift is part of Stories from the Edge of Change, a series about quiet recoveries, unglamorous grace, and showing up when there’s nothing left to prove. Sometimes, staying close to the door is the most radical thing you can do.
Dispatches from the Splinters of My Mind – Entry III
Some storms don’t soak the skin. They reach inside and drown the marrow.
Tonight the rain falls with the weight of a kept promise. It doesn’t descend so much as push down, insist on itself, fill the air until breathing becomes an act of resistance. The umbrella in my hand is a thin, trembling continent; its black fabric funnels water into dark rivers that spill from the ribs and rope to the ground, drawing vertical lines that feel like tally marks. Somewhere I’m being counted.
The street has shrugged off its people. Windows glow, then look away. Streetlights smear halos on the mist like saints who regret their own patience. My coat is heavy enough to qualify as armor but still lets the cold in—through the seams, through that spot between the shoulder blades where water always finds a shortcut. The storm carries the smells I grew up trusting: iron, pavement, the faint algae note of gutters choked with last year’s leaves. Petrichor is what it’s called when rain wakes dust. This isn’t that. This is the breath of basements, of clocks that stopped and never got restarted.
Most people say storms cleanse. They don’t. Storms etch. They score the world and leave grooves for the next one to follow. Memory works the same way. Once a path is cut, the water takes it again and again, deepening it until it becomes a canyon, and you call it fate.
I tell myself I walk for the exercise, for the chill that makes coffee taste better when I get back. The sidewalk knows the truth. Each step lands with a small slap like a hand refusing to be held, and every slap says a name I don’t let my mouth say. I keep the umbrella low. Its edge makes a moving curtain; beyond it the world is a stage I decline to enter.
The rain speaks in small questions, a whisper pressed to the cartilage of my ear. Why carry ghosts in your pockets? Whose absence is shaped so perfectly you keep mistaking it for a lung? How long can you pretend the storm is a sky problem and not an internal climate?
I don’t answer. Some questions aren’t interrogations; they’re companionship. They walk beside you until you forget whose footsteps are whose.
Water beads on my knuckles, then threads down my wrist, finds the cuff, and hides there. My fingers have gone bone-white at the tips; the skin looks borrowed from an antique photograph. I switch the umbrella from one hand to the other, and the frame shivers, a metal insect deciding to live. At the end of the block, a bus sighs at a stop devoid of bodies, doors wheezing open and shut as if practicing a conversation it will never have.
I turn toward the river because storms like edges, and I like to know where mine are. The path down to the water is a sheet of black glass scratched with gravel. Headlights pass behind me; their light arrives a breath late, as if slogging through syrup. I don’t look back. Looking back is a hobby that requires drier weather.
At the railing, the river is all sound—slap and suck, slap and suck—the old mouth of the city learning, forgetting, relearning the same word. I lean the umbrella to the wind, and the rain repositions itself like a cat denied a lap. It finds my cheek. It salts my mouth with a taste like pennies. The umbrella is darker at the seams, as if it has a memory of other storms and the memory is leaking through.
When I was small, thunder meant counting. Lightning was the beginning of a math problem: one-Mississippi, two-Mississippi, the exact distance between flash and sound giving the gloom a measurable spine. The grown-ups said the counting made it less scary. They were wrong. It made it precise. Fear wears a suit better than it wears a costume.
The river throws back a warped copy of the sky and, inside that copy, a copy of me: a shadow under a shadow, face freckled with rain that refuses to choose a direction. The umbrella’s edge drips like ink. If I stared long enough, I’m sure the drips would form letters, and if I read them, they would say the exact sentence I’ve been dodging since the hospital room went quiet. I look away.
A figure moves under a distant awning—just a darker shape tucked against a wall—but the storm has trained my nerves to salute things that might become stories. It’s nothing: a stack of plastic chairs shrink-wrapped for the season, the blue sheen of water making their edges animate. I laugh once at myself, and even the sound is wet.
I walk on, because the body hates stasis more than it hates weather. The umbrella tugs at my shoulder with the low, dull impatience of a dog that knows the route better than you do. The wind changes, and I tilt to keep the edge against it; the whole world follows the same choreography, heads bending in the same direction, rain showing us how obedient we can be. Somewhere a shutter slams, the beat so regular it could be a heart or a metronome or the conversation of two neighbors who never liked each other and never will.
The storm consults its ledger and turns a page.
I remember a kitchen on a morning that wasn’t raining. A mug warm in both hands. The door opened a crack because someone kept promising they were only stepping out for a second, and the air didn’t believe them. I remember the way your umbrella leaned by that door: a black spine, a curved handle, nothing special until it was. I remember how an object becomes a relic without changing its weight.
Thunder rolls itself across the city like a drunk trying to find the couch. I count u—no. I stop. I let it arrive when it arrives. The rain thickens as if consistency can be argued into existence. A seam gives way; a bead becomes a string becomes a thread that refuses to break. Water starts a new river down the inside of my sleeve. I could be angry about it. I let it have me. There are defeats that feel like permission.
Halfway back from the river, a dog materializes from the blur. Yellow eyes, coat the color of soaked cardboard, not close enough to touch or call a breed. It considers the umbrella with the careful contempt of a creature that prefers honest weather. For a second, I think it will fall beside me, become a sentence in this night that makes the ending feel earned. It snorts rain out of its nose and vanishes between parked cars, a ghost that refuses the job.
There’s a scent here I can’t place at first, sweet and wrong. Then the wind angles and the bakery on Third breathes out its late-night hymn: sugar, yeast, something caramelizing into morning. The storm catches it and ruins it to perfection, the way a good sadness ruins a good song. My stomach remembers hunger. My mouth doesn’t.
I pass the pharmacy where the lights never sleep and the aisles are organized into the many ways a human can try to manage a body. A cardboard cutout smiles behind glass, offering discounts to the version of me who believes relief comes with a barcode. I keep moving because the storm makes shoppers into fish, mouths opening and closing on hooks they can’t see.
By the time I reach the long, unclaimed wall that smells like damp chalk, the umbrella has become less a shelter than a prop. The fabric sags. The ribs press through like bones, attempting to confess. The handle is slick between my fingers; each step tightens my grip until I think of all the things I held like this that weren’t designed to be held so hard. Another seam lets go. The drip from the edge becomes a fringe.
I stop. The storm doesn’t.
There’s a moment in every walk where the umbrella becomes the negotiation instead of the weather. Do I keep the pretense? Do I bow to pure utility? Do I admit I was never trying not to get wet—I was trying to look like a person who knows how to behave when the sky loses composure?
I close the umbrella.
The world arrives all at once. Rain tattoos my scalp. It pounds my coat into submission. My breath goes winter in my throat. Without the fabric’s invented horizon, the street expands; space stratifies into layers of falling, and I stand inside the waterfall the city pretends to be. The cold is immediate and honest. For a second, I’m a bell that’s just been struck.
It’s louder without the umbrella’s drum-skin. The storm’s voice loses its mutter and speaks plainly. You are not special, it says, which is not cruel. You are not being punished, which is not comforting. You are weather, which might be both.
I tilt my face up. Raindrops hit the soft parts first: eyelids, lips, the tender seam where nose meets cheek. Each one is a document signed by pressure. They run into my mouth and turn language into an optional feature. I swallow some. I let the rest choose their exit routes.
When I open my eyes, a reflection waits in the blank glass of the office building across the street. It’s me, of course, reduced to two tones and the blur of falling lines. But in the pane beside mine, there’s another me, half a step out of sync, hair pasted against a forehead I don’t admit to, mouth a different shape. We stand together, both of us soaking, both of us looking like a problem that finally stopped pretending it had a solution. When I lift a hand, she doesn’t. We agree to ignore the difference.
The rain thins, not because the storm has decided to be kind but because it has done what it came to do. The grooves are deeper now. The next pass will find them without effort. Water slackens from torrent to conversation. Far away, a siren remembers it is a note and ends like one. I open the umbrella again, not because I need it but because carrying it closed feels like an argument I didn’t mean to win.
I cut back toward home through the block nobody chooses unless they live on it. The shutters have found their rhythm. The bus has given up. The bakery exhales one last sweet breath before morning takes the shift. My shoes report their failures. My coat, relieved of drowning, becomes merely heavy. I am etched, but upright.
At the corner, a streetlight clicks off mid-sentence, and the dark it leaves behind is not empty; it is honest. I stand in it for a count of ten, the way I used to stand behind the door for hide-and-seek, pretending the game wasn’t rigged by the size of the room. When I step out, the light wakes as if I’d taken something from it and it had questions. I don’t answer. I give it my back and my rain and the slow swing of the umbrella’s weight.
Storms end. They always do. The air will be washed, and new people will step into it and call it clean because they weren’t there to feel the drowning. But the grooves remain. Bone remembers. Roads keep secrets in their cracks. The next sky will know where to pour.
By the time my key finds the lock, the rain is a fine whispering. I hang the umbrella by the door, a black spine cured of ambition. It drips politely onto the tray that exists to forgive it. Inside, the room reeks of heat and old paper, and the first thing that comes to mind is dry. I strip the coat, peel off the sleeves that turned river, and stand listening to the last of the storm speaking to the window. It’s only water, it says. It’s only weather. And yet.
I breathe. The breath goes all the way down. It finds the places the rain found and settles there like a treaty.
In the morning, no one will believe the sky ever weighed this much. That’s fine. The street will carry the record for me. The umbrella will remember. My bones have been engraved with tonight’s handwriting, and the next time the ceiling opens, I’ll step outside already fluent.
Author’s Note: Third splinter. Storms don’t absolve; they annotate. If you walk long enough, you learn to read the margins.
I used to treat setting like an afterthought—slap a name on a town, maybe add a landmark, and call it done. But by accident, I stumbled into a book on worldbuilding, and it flipped something in me. Now I see the world itself as a character, one that presses against the protagonist and antagonist alike. The streets breathe. The shadows crawl. The town isn’t just where the story happens—it is the story. Almost like the place itself is the boogeyman lurking in the dark. And honestly, that’s what I enjoy most right now: shaping a world that fights back.
I didn’t just sit at a desk and invent details out of thin air. I pulled out a notebook, stacked up the photos from my travels, and let the world start whispering. I’ve crossed oceans, driven the continental United States, and every stop—whether a dusty diner, a half-broken neon sign, or a small-town mural—carries something worth keeping. This time, instead of pushing the idea of “place” aside, I leaned into it. Notes piled up. History mixed with imagination. Articles, old texts, even scraps of folklore—they all became raw material. Slowly, the world started to take on a pulse of its own.
The most interesting part of my travels has never been the landmarks—it’s the people. Their traits, the way they speak, even the rhythm of how they move through the world—all of it has the potential to slip into one of my characters. The world itself is beautiful, yes, but it’s the hidden histories that take my breath away. I don’t announce my sources, but my binders are crammed with notes—detailed, cited, cross-referenced, tabbed like I’m building my own private archive. The research takes longer than the writing, and I don’t mind. Once I get my hands on a piece of history, I can twist it, bend it, or use it in ways it was never meant to be used. That’s the thrill—watching a small discovery push a story into a direction I never planned.
What I’ve discovered is that if you build a world properly, it doesn’t just hold one story—it can hold a whole series of them. A single town, mapped and breathing, can stretch into multiple narratives, each pulling from the same veins of history, rumor, and atmosphere. That’s the real joy for me right now: knowing the work I put into one world can echo across stories, creating a place readers can return to, and a place I never quite finish exploring myself.
The positive emotion I feel most often is contentment. I’m not one of those sunshine-all-the-time people, and I’m not walking around mad at the world either. I land somewhere in the middle. When I finish a project and it matches the standard I set for myself, that’s when it hits. Not as fireworks, not as a euphoric high—more like a long exhale.
Most of my life, I pushed things to the edge just to get by, so being content feels like a win. It means I don’t have to live in constant overdrive. It’s not about chasing joy or ducking pain—it’s about recognizing that “enough” can be its own kind of peace. And I’ll take that over chaos any day.
There’s no shortage of nifty acronyms about goals floating around the internet. Toss a dart and you’ll hit one.
When I was growing up, we didn’t talk about “goals.” We had tasks. You made a checklist, worked through it, and crossed things off. Simple. Direct. No mysticism, no motivational posters required.
It wasn’t until I was an adult that I started hearing people talk about “goals” like they were magic spells. Set your goals, visualize them, and manifest your dreams. Cute. But does anyone ever stop to ask what the hell a “goal” actually means? Does it have a deadline? A measure? Or is it just a vague wish written in business casual?
When I was in the military, I leaned hard on the task-oriented system. Every mission boiled down to clear tasks that could be checked, tracked, and rechecked. Later, when I moved into social services, my organization introduced another acronym: S.M.A.R.T. goals. At first, I hated it. Not because the form was broken, but because the instructions were. People filled it out and treated it like a box-checking exercise.
So, I started using it alongside my task-oriented system. That’s when it clicked. Paired with a real process, S.M.A.R.T. stopped being fluff and started being functional.
What the Hell Are S.M.A.R.T. Goals?
It’s simple:
S – Specific: Clearly define what you want to accomplish.
M – Measurable: You can track it — numbers don’t lie.
A – Achievable: Ambitious, not impossible.
R – Relevant: It actually matters to you.
T – Time-bound: A finish line, not “someday.”
That’s it. Straightforward enough. But the trick is using it right.
How to Use Them Effectively
Most people treat S.M.A.R.T. like a worksheet you fill out and forget. That’s not planning — that’s paperwork.
Here’s what makes it actually work:
Break it into tasks. A goal is only real if you can do something today that moves it forward.
Apply P.A.C.E. thinking. Your Primary plan, Alternate options, Contingency if things shift, and Emergency fallback. Same system I use for emergency preparedness.
Review often. If you never check the plan, it dies on the page.
Real-World Example: Writing
Vague goal: “I want to write more.”
S.M.A.R.T. goal:
Specific: Publish one blog post per week on Memoirs of Madness.
Measurable: One a week = 4 per month.
Achievable: Realistic with your schedule.
Relevant: Writing sharpens your craft and feeds the community.
Time-bound: Do this for 12 weeks, then review.
P.A.C.E. it?
Primary: Write at your desk on schedule.
Alternate: Draft on your phone if you’re away.
Contingency: Record a voice memo, transcribe later.
Emergency: Jot bullet points in a notebook — messy but usable.
Suddenly, “write more” isn’t a dream. It’s a system you can actually work.
Real-World Example: Preparedness
Vague goal: “I want to be ready for blackouts.”
S.M.A.R.T. goal:
Specific: Build a 72-hour blackout kit with food, water, and lighting.
Measurable: 3 gallons of water, 9 meals, 3 working lights.
Achievable: Start with basic supplies, expand later.
Relevant: Storm season hits every year — this matters.
Time-bound: Have it assembled in 30 days.
P.A.C.E. it?
Primary: Store kit in the house.
Alternate: Keep a smaller kit in the car.
Contingency: Borrow or share with neighbors if needed.
Emergency: Improvise with what’s on hand — but only if you must.
Now, you’re not just “hoping to be ready.” You’ve got a clear target with backup layers.
Final Word
S.M.A.R.T. goals aren’t magic. They’re not perfect either. But paired with tasks and P.A.C.E. thinking, they actually become useful.
Because at the end of the day, a goal isn’t about the acronym. It’s about whether you can move it from “idea” to “done.”
Question for You: When you set a goal, do you actually break it down into tasks, or does it stay a vague idea floating around in your head? And if you’ve ever used something like S.M.A.R.T. goals — did it actually help, or did it feel like just another form to fill out?
When I was in the military, I used P.A.C.E. more times than I can count. We prepared, checked, and rechecked things to the extreme. We did this because we had to — failure wasn’t an option.
Fast forward a few years. I’m out of the service, living civilian life, and a nasty storm rolls through. Most of the city lost power for days. Some parts stayed dark for weeks. Suddenly, all that military planning muscle memory kicked in. I had to reach into my trusty bag of tricks. Yeah, that’s right — I was doing some Felix the Cat shit.
That’s the thing about P.A.C.E. — Primary, Alternate, Contingency, Emergency — it’s not just for the battlefield. It works anywhere you need layered backup plans… like when the lights go out and stay out.
The idea is simple:
Primary – The way you expect it to work.
Alternate – The way you hope you won’t need, but will use if the first fails.
Contingency – The way you grit your teeth and say, “Well, this sucks, but it’ll do.”
Emergency – Last-ditch survival mode when the universe has gone full chaos.
Let’s run it through a blackout scenario — focusing on keeping in touch and keeping the lights (or at least the coffee) on.
Primary – Your Everyday Comfort Zone
Communications: Cell phone + home Wi-Fi. Group texts. Video calls. Social media doomscrolling while you wait for the lights to flicker back on. Power Strategy: Lights work. Outlets work. Your devices are charged without you even thinking about it.
Enjoy it. It’s your baseline. But don’t assume it’ll last forever.
Alternate – When the Obvious Fails
Communications: The Wi-Fi’s dead, and cell towers are overloaded. You switch to a fully charged power bank, use text instead of calls (less bandwidth), and if you’ve got one, a GMRS or FRS radio for local chatter.
Power Strategy:
Portable Power Stations – Bigger than a phone power bank, these can run small appliances, recharge laptops, and keep lights on.
Vehicle Charging – A car inverter can power essentials if you have gas in the tank.
Rechargeable Flashlights & Lanterns – No hunting for batteries in the dark. Just remember: unplug them once they’re fully charged to keep the battery healthy and extend its life. If the device allows, consider buying a spare rechargeable battery so you’re never stuck waiting for one to charge.
Pro Tip: If you’ve got a local battery repair shop, get to know them. I’ve used mine for years to rebuild batteries for gear most people would just toss. Odds are, there’s one in your area too — and they can save you money and keep your kit ready for the next outage.
Question for You: When was the last time you actually checked your power banks or battery supplies? If you had to use them right now, would they be ready — or dead as door knobs?
Contingency – The “We’re Really Doing This” Stage
Communications: Phones are dead. Radios are on low battery. This is where pre-arranged meeting times, printed maps, and low-power radios (kept in reserve) come in. Maybe you’ve even stashed a cheap prepaid phone with a different carrier for coverage overlap.
Power Strategy:
Solar Chargers & Panels – Even small foldable panels can keep radios, lights, and phones alive indefinitely — as long as you have sunlight.
Crank-Powered Gear – Flashlights, radios, and USB chargers that work with a hand crank. No sunshine? No problem.
Rechargeable Lanterns – Longer runtime and more coverage than a flashlight, and most can be topped off from a power bank or solar panel.
This is when people who didn’t plan start borrowing from people who did. Don’t be the borrower.
Question for You: If you have an Emergency Preparedness Plan, when was the last time you actually pulled it out and checked things? Plans don’t work if they live in a drawer collecting dust.
Emergency – Last-Ditch Survival
Communications: Nothing electronic works. You send a neighbor to check on your sister across town. You use whistles or flashlight signals after dark.
Power Strategy: It’s no longer about powering gadgets — it’s about heat, light, and cooking enough to keep going. Fire pit, layered clothing, shared shelter.
For lights inside the house, I’ve used old-school oil lamps. I also keep several candles as backup. Fun fact — in the winter, you can use blankets over windows and doorways to trap heat. You’d be amazed at how much warmth a candle can put off in an enclosed space. You won’t be sweating, but it can prevent you from freezing to death. And remember, even if you have a gas furnace or stove, the ignitors still run on electricity — so I keep long matches on hand to light them manually when the power’s out.
For hot meals, propane stoves and other fuel-based camp stoves are worth their weight in gold. They’re compact, easy to store, and can run even when the grid is completely down. Just store the fuel safely, and rotate your supply so it’s fresh when you need it.
This is where the difference between “prepared” and “in trouble” gets real.
Power Strategies – Keeping the Juice Flowing
The world we know runs on electricity. Our homes, our jobs, our grocery stores, the way we communicate — hell, I can hardly think of anything that doesn’t need power these days. Take it away, and things get interesting real fast.
We all know about portable power packs. You probably even own a few. I do too. The problem? Half the time, they’re as dead as the power grid when you need them. I’ve got a couple of those damn things stuffed in go bags, and when I actually checked them… dead as doorknobs. Might as well have been carrying bricks.
So, let’s talk about rechargeable power sources — the stuff that can keep you going in a blackout without turning you into the neighborhood caveman.
Primary: Keep devices charged, rotate your power banks, and use a small UPS for short-term internet access.
Alternate: Portable power stations, vehicle charging, rechargeable flashlights, and lanterns.
Contingency: Solar chargers, crank-powered gear, rechargeable lanterns.
Emergency: Shared resources and low-power living.
DC Power – The Unsung Hero of Blackouts
Your car’s not just a way to get around — it’s a rolling DC power source. And DC gear skips the waste of converting to AC, meaning more runtime for less juice.
DC Lifesavers:
12V Fridge/Freezers – Sips power, keeps food safe for days.
DC Coffee Pots – The apocalypse should still come with caffeine.
12V Fans – Crucial in hot climates.
LED Work Lights – Long runtime and efficient.
Your Vehicle: More Than a Ride
With a few smart tweaks, your vehicle can be a blackout powerhouse.
Safe, Useful Mods:
Extra 12V outlets.
Heavy-duty battery or dual-battery setup.
Marine Battery + Inverter Combo – A dedicated deep-cycle battery connected to a properly sized inverter for AC gear. Marine batteries handle deep discharges, so you can use their stored energy without killing them. Recharge via your car’s alternator or solar panels.
Roof rack storage box for emergency gear.
Why it matters: It doesn’t hurt the vehicle, supports DC and AC power, and doubles as a camping setup.
Final Word: P.A.C.E. isn’t just military jargon — it’s the difference between sitting in the dark complaining and flipping on your backup light with a grin because you’ve got the next three steps already covered. The lights will go out again. The question is, will you be ready?
Her name is Raquel, but my given name is Rachel. I first noticed her when I hit high school and the air around me started to hum with a voltage—lockers slamming, gossip sparking at the seams, hallways strung like power lines through a town that never slept. She didn’t arrive with voices. No whispers, no commands. Just a pressure at the edge of thought, a cool hand pressed to a fevered brow. She only shows up when I need her. I don’t hear her, but I know when she’s standing just to my left, looking out through my eyes.
The first time, it was October and every tree in the county had decided to bleed. The maples along the football field turned a red so violent the grass looked stunned. A rumor had gone around that I’d said something about a senior’s boyfriend—nothing true, nothing new—just a scrap of talk fed into the hungry mouth of a school day. By the last bell, I could feel the circle forming before I even walked outside. Girls with folded arms. Boys with bored eyes. The taste of pennies. The sky bruised itself purple.
I didn’t have a plan. I never did then. The thing I remember is the wind. It came hard across the parking lot and threaded itself through my hair, then deeper, as if there were a second set of hair inside my head—branches, fine as nerve endings. I felt them sway. And then I wasn’t exactly taller, but I was standing in a different way, like my weight knew how to root. Someone shoved me. The circle tightened. The world clicked into a cleaner focus, edges sharpened, sound pared down to necessary pieces: breath, footfall, a cheap bracelet pinging against bone. The part of me that panicked went quiet, like someone cupped both hands over its mouth and said shhh.
I walked forward. The girl in front of me took a step back without meaning to. I didn’t bare my teeth, make a fist, or say anything that would later be quoted. I just looked at her until she had to break eye contact. The circle sagged. Somewhere a whistle blew—practice starting on the field—and that was that. No heroics. No detention. I went home with the leaves still burning in my skull and the wind still combing through the trees inside me, and it was the first night I understood that Raquel was not a person I could point to. She was a stance. A recalibration. A forest that woke up when I needed cover.
The second time that year, a man in a green cap followed me from the grocery store to the bus stop. My hands shook so hard I almost dropped the bag. The sky was that color between storm and dusk that makes you doubt the honesty of streetlights. I tasted the same pennies. Then the shift: the quiet. The trees. Autumn exhaled, and the world tilted just a fraction. I turned my face toward him the way a deer turns toward the distant snap of a twig. Nothing about me changed. I changed anyway. He crossed the street at the next gap in traffic and kept going. Maybe I was never in danger. Maybe sometimes a girl doesn’t need to prove anything to make it true.
I learned to mark the moments Raquel left. It felt like stepping out of a lake—clothes heavy, hair dripping, adrenaline sickly-sweet on the tongue. I’d sit on my bed and stare at the blank corner of my room until I felt ordinary again. There are only so many times in a week you can be a wildfire before you start to worry about what you’re burning down.
Years run. You lose track. You collect jobs and dead houseplants and the soft weight of other people’s expectations. I left the county for a city that ate its old buildings and spat out condominiums with mouths like glass. I learned to be proficient in email communication. I learned to keep dinner reservations. I learned to carry myself in ways that didn’t invite questions from strangers. Raquel walked with me, a scent I couldn’t name, a second pulse nested under the first. Sometimes months would pass without her, and I’d convince myself I’d grown out of childhood’s private magic, the way you grow out of believing the closet door might need locking. Then something would happen—a hand a beat too slow to withdraw from my waist, a boss whose compliments were salt in fresh cuts—and the wind would turn. The maples inside me would flare hot.
It got worse the year my mother died. Grief scrubbed everything down to the metal. I returned home for a month to sort papers and sort the shape of the silence and to live in the small, gray house whose faucets coughed like old men. The town hadn’t changed much. The football field’s grass is still stunned by autumn. The grocery store is fluorescent and timeless. The bus stop on the corner remains a question that nobody has bothered to answer.
I slept in my childhood room and woke to find the dresser mirror breathing. My face was layered with hers—my mother at twenty, my mother at fifty, my mother already gone—each sliding across the glass like oil on water, never settling. Their eyes moved in different directions, watching corners of the room where nothing stirred. The smell of her perfume—vanilla and cigarette ash—hung in the air though the bottle had been dry for years. Behind them, and behind me, Raquel hovered: not protective, exactly, but like a shadow that had learned to look back.
On the third night of that month, I went walking. I told myself I needed air. The truth is I wanted to find the place where the world felt thin. There’s a cut of road on the edge of town that used to lead to the sawmill. Beyond the road, the forest keeps its own counsel, thick with pine and story and things that don’t bother learning your name. I walked that way, past the last of the porch lights, past the mailbox that always leaned as if listening. The sky had bruised itself again. I thought of purple knees and childhood grass stains that never quite washed out.
The forest welcomed without welcoming. I stepped into the trees and felt something inside me stand up straighter, as if the very matter of me remembered what it was built from. Needles underfoot. Damp earth. The faint iron of water nearby. The wind moved, and my hair followed; the branches inside my head swayed in time. For a second, the overlap made me dizzy—like looking at a double exposure until your eyes grab the wrong layer. I closed them and leaned against a trunk. The bark was rough enough to declare itself. My palms stung. I breathed.
This is the part where people want a miracle. They want a deer to step out onto the path with a crown of leaves tangled in its antlers. They want my mother’s voice to come through clean, radio static scoured away. They want the boundary to drop and the red of the maples to mean something more than a season doing what a season does. I can’t give them that. What happened is simpler. I heard footsteps, and they didn’t belong to me.
Not heavy. Not careless. A person who knew every twig that could break and chose the ones that wouldn’t. I didn’t open my eyes. I didn’t need to. The second pulse rose in me. The forest inside caught the rhythm and matched it, branches swaying in a pattern that wasn’t the wind. The footsteps stopped three paces to my left.
“Rachel,” a woman said.
Not my mother. Not anyone I could pull from a yearbook. The voice came the way cold water knows how to find your wrists. Calm. Unavoidable.
I opened my eyes. There was nobody there.
The thing about absence is how specific it is. The air where a body should have been was charged, as if a thunderhead had chosen human shape and then thought better of it. I turned my head slightly, and in the edge of my vision—caught the way you catch a reflection in a dark window—I saw her. My face doubled and slipped, features not quite aligning, hair like a spill of black water into the tree line. The second mouth set in a small, knowing line. My breath forgot to breathe. The forest inside me stilled to listen.
“Raquel,” I said, and the saying opened a door I hadn’t known was shut.
We stood there—one of us in the path, one of us in the glass of the world. We didn’t speak. If I tell you we communed, you’ll picture incense and soft lights, and I won’t have earned the truth. It was simpler and stranger. She lifted her chin. I felt mine tilt. She narrowed her eyes. I felt the muscles move. She took a breath, and the air entered me twice, filling two sets of lungs layered perfectly out of sync. It hurt in a good way, like stretching after you’ve been carrying other people’s weight all day.
Then the footsteps came again, from deeper in, and this time they were neither careful nor considerate. A man moving too fast to be lost, heading for the shortcut hunters take when they’re late and the light’s gone wrong. He broke a branch. He swore. He was close; he was not yet aware of me. The startled part of me wanted to step off the path, hide behind the particular tree my fifth-grade self knew was good for hiding. The other part—the forest part—just watched the space where he would appear.
Raquel’s hand rose. I didn’t see it. I felt it. A small tightening in the tendons of my right wrist, the way a violinist’s muscle memory wakes before the bow touches the string. When the man reached the curve, he looked up and saw—no, that’s not right. He didn’t see anything he could put a name to. He faltered the way people falter when an old superstition tugs the hem of their good sense. He glanced left. He saw the empty air where Raquel stood and his face went politely blank, as if someone had asked him a question in a language he almost understood. He took two cautious steps backward. He chose another path, the long one. He kept swearing, but softer now, as though he’d agreed to be a guest in a house he hadn’t realized he’d entered.
“Thank you,” I said, and immediately felt foolish for saying it aloud.
Raquel did not nod. She didn’t vanish. She shifted the way light shifts when a cloud decides to be merciful. I closed my eyes again and leaned my forehead against the bark and let the slant of the earth hold me up. Time went the way time went when you finally agreed to sit down. When I opened my eyes, the air was only air, and the double exposure had clicked back into a single frame. I was Rachel in a forest near a town that felt smaller than it used to. My palms remembered bark. My mouth remembered the taste of pennies and then didn’t.
On the walk home, the wind stayed with me. Houses appeared. Porch lights took their places like stars whose contracts had just been renewed. I tried to think of what I would tell anyone who asked why I’d gone out and what I’d found. The story kept refusing to shrink to fit. I passed the mailbox, still listening. I passed the bus stop, still questioning. By the time I reached the gray house, grief had turned from a violent guest to a tired one, the kind that finally stops talking because there’s nothing new to say. I let myself in. The faucet coughed. The floor knew where to creak. I was ordinary again, which is to say intact enough to sleep.
In the morning, I brewed coffee the way my mother did and burned the first slice of toast the way she always did and laughed, which surprised me so much I had to sit down. In the mirror, my face was my face.
But as I turned toward the door, something caught in the glass of the hallway mirror. Not just her—me, but smiling in a way I don’t remember. It’s a thin, private thing. My lips are still; hers move. She whispers without sound, and though I cannot hear the words, the marrow in my bones understands them well enough to ache.
When I’m ready to step outside, I do. The wind turns. The day opens like a field. And there, in the corner of my eye where the world keeps its most honest reflections, a second mouth makes a small, knowing line. We walked. We chose the long way. We let the light take its time deciding for us.
Author’s Note: Second splinter, pulled straight from a place I didn’t mean to walk into. Some stories don’t ask permission—they just lean in and whisper something you can’t quite remember but still know in your bones. Dispatches from the Splinters of My Mind isn’t here to explain itself. It’s here to leave something sharp under your skin.
In the shadowed sprawl of the junkyard, she stirred—wings of flayed brass and splintered steel rattling against the wind. Once, a brilliant engineer had built her to fly, not for war but for wonder. That was a long time ago. The world had since taught her sharper lessons.
Years had stripped her down to bone-metal. Rust ate her joints. Rain chewed the wires in her spine. Scavengers tore away the delicate things first—the fingers, the fine clockwork at her heart’s center—until she patched herself with jagged plates and stolen screws. She carried the smell of oil and ozone, the hum of barely-contained voltage.
The night was still until it wasn’t. A sound—thin, panicked—threaded through the skeletal heaps. She tilted her head, antennae twitching to catch the echo. There, between the carcass of a burned-out truck and a tower of split engines, a child huddled in the metal rot.
Her eyes flared—twin disks of molten gold. The child froze, unsure if the thing before them was a savior or a trap. Do not fear, she said, though her voice came as a tremor in the air, the hiss of electricity through frayed coils.
She took the child’s hand in her cold, jagged grip. Together they moved toward the fence line, her battered wings shivering sparks into the dark.
At the edge, the child looked back. In the flicker of failing light, they saw her for what she truly was—patchwork predator, guardian by choice or by compulsion, hard to tell which.
Tomorrow, the child would go home. Tonight, the fairy lingered in the junkyard’s breath, eyes still burning, waiting for the next cry to find her.
Author’s Note: First splinter on the wire. Dispatches from the Splinters of My Mind will drop in from time to time—standalone flashes sparked by a single image, no two alike. You’ll know them when you see them.
I can’t tell you when it started, but some genius decided “surreal” was the sexiest word in the English language, and everyone lined up to mangle it. Back in the day, we actually looked words up in a dictionary, underlined them, wrote them down, and tested them in sentences to see if we were using them right. Madness, right? Now it’s easier to grab a word and make shit up. Surreal used to mean dream-logic and fever visions—like stepping into a Dalí canvas where clocks melt and eyes bloom into roses. Now it’s slapped on oat milk shortages or spotting a C-list celebrity in baggage claim. “It was surreal,” they sigh, like they just returned from some cosmic vision quest. No—it was Thursday. And I still had one more load of laundry left. Do I have enough quarters?
And if “surreal” has been abused to the point of boredom, “unprecedented” is its overachieving twin. Unprecedented was used to pack heat, carry weight, and demand attention. Now it’s what people whine about while waiting for a latte—right before bragging about a thrift store “treasure” that’s just a busted lamp with a missing cord. These days, it’s duct-taped onto headlines, CEO pep talks, and press releases written by people who wouldn’t buy their own pitch. “We live in unprecedented times,” they chant, like the words alone could cover the rent or clean up the wreckage they helped cause. People actually know what the hell they’re talking about. Now that would be unprecedented.
These two words have become the lazy twins of public speech, tag teaming their way through news broadcasts, political soundbites, and influencer captions. Surreal and unprecedented. Say them together enough, and they dissolve into flavorless mush, like a stick of gum chewed until it’s nothing but rubber and spit. That’s the real surreal moment—watching language bleed out in the gutter while everyone nods along like it’s still breathing.
Author’s Note: This one started as a gripe about “surreal” and snowballed into a two-word autopsy. I don’t expect people to stop using them—they’ve already been beaten into cliché—but maybe we could save them for moments that actually deserve them. Until then, I’ll be over here, counting quarters and waiting for the day “unprecedented” gets the dictionary funeral it deserves.
People talk about peace like it’s a cabin in the woods, or a deep breath, or some Instagram-ready sunset. Sounds nice, I guess. But my life’s been a long stretch of noise—some of it mine, most of it not. I’ve gotten used to living in the hum, like an old fridge that rattles in the night. Or the hiss of an air compressor after it shuts down. Then you jump every time it kicks back on. It happens when you least expect it, just like the things in life.
I’ve been at peace in the woods. I’ve been at peace in the desert. That’s about as far apart as you can get, which tells me it’s not the place—it’s the state of mind. But the trick is holding onto it, and that’s where I lose it every time. Quiet feels like the moment before the other shoe drops, and I’ve had enough shoes drop to know better.
If peace ever shows up, it’ll have to find me where I am—coffee cooling in my hand, pen scratching against paper, the world still loud but not enough to stop me. Until then, I’ll keep moving through the noise.
The words slid through my dream and cracked it in half. I came up out of the dark slow, like surfacing through tar. The TV in the next room kept spitting out canned laughter, each burst bleeding through the plaster like a bad memory you can’t scrub out.
I left breadcrumbs for them to find me. Hell, I practically lit the path in neon. So why the delay? They should’ve been here hours ago. Unless this is the variantwhere they let you stew first, make you sweat until you start negotiating with yourself. I’ve seen that play before.
I hope they come. No—I need them to. It’s the only thing holding the walls together. But hope’s a sucker’s bet. Optimism’s for pretty people and the kind of bastards who get served first in every bar. The rest of us? We know the rules. They get champagne. We get the backwash.
Paranoid? Maybe. But paranoia’s just the truth with the varnish stripped off. And here I am, sitting in a sweat-stained chair in a mildew-sick motel room with a suitcase full of cash at my feet. Waiting for men without faces to come take it—and maybe me—with them. People say those types don’t have a code. That’s bullshit. Everyone’s got a code. Theirs just doesn’t match yours, and it sure as hell doesn’t care about your pulse.
The suitcase sits there like a loaded confession. The clasps are worn, the handle tired, but the weight… Jesus, the weight hums in the air. Life-changing kind of weight. The “fresh start” kind. But that’s a fairy tale for the clean and the lucky.
Me? I’ve got ghosts baked into my bones. Every choice I ever made cut a groove I can’t climb out of. And no matter what’s in that case, I’m not getting out clean.
Author’s Note: It’s been weeks since I’ve thrown down a little flash fiction. I’ve been neck-deep in the world-building swamp for a project that keeps getting bigger every time I turn a corner. Figured I’d come up for air before it swallows me whole. This one’s thanks to Fandango’s Story Starter and FOWC for tossing me the match—sometimes you just need the right spark to remember you still know how to burn.
We’ve been trained to expect clarity. To believe every big feeling must end with a moral— A neat conclusion, a TED Talk takeaway, a three-step solution.
But here’s the truth, I keep chewing like nasty gristle:
Some things don’t resolve. Some stories stay jagged. And some blogs, this one especially, aren’t built to clean up after your pain. They’re built to leave it on the floor, still breathing.
I started Memoirs of Madness because I didn’t know what else to do with the words.
Over a decade ago, someone said every writer needed a blog if they were serious. I didn’t think much of it. I didn’t know if I was serious. I just knew I had things in me that wouldn’t stay quiet.
I wrote because I needed to. Still do. Not to change the world. Not to craft a brand. But because silence costs too damn much.
So when you ask me, “What change do you want your blog to make?” I honestly don’t know. And that’s not me being evasive. That’s me refusing to lie to you.
I could dress it up. Tell you it’s about healing. About expression. About building a community for the unseen. All of which might be true, sometimes. But defining that change in a singular, bite-sized way would flatten what this space actually is.
This blog isn’t one thing. It’s a mirror that distorts and reveals depending on how the light hits. It’s rage on Monday, softness on Tuesday, confession by Thursday, and grief that overstays its welcome every damn Sunday.
If Memoirs of Madness changes anything, I hope it changes the way you think about being unfinished.
I hope it disrupts that polished self you wear in front of strangers. I hope it reminds you that not knowing is still worthy of a voice. Those messy, unresolved, and unsellable truths still deserve the page.
I hope this blog pisses you off sometimes. Not because I’m aiming to provoke, but because something buried in you recognized itself and flinched.
Because it sure as hell pisses me off— dragging up things I thought I buried, making me admit shit I’d rather leave unsaid. That’s how I know it’s honest.
So no, I didn’t build this place to change the world. I built it to survive mine.
And if, by some luck or accident, it helps you survive yours— then maybe that’s the kind of change that matters most.
This is what I talked about the first time I answered this question:
I’ve dropped stupid money on “fine dining” more than once, usually to be served food that looks like it belongs in a museum instead of my stomach. But the one that sticks with me? The night I took my late wife to that steakhouse she wouldn’t stop talking about. She made me dress up—tie, polished shoes, the whole bit—like we were going to meet royalty.
The place was gorgeous, sure. Atmosphere dripping in class. The kind of joint where they pull out your chair for you and whisper when they ask for your order. But the food? Overpriced mediocrity on a porcelain plate. I sat there chewing, thinking about how many actual cows must’ve died in vain for that bland cut of steak.
She smiled through it, pretending it was everything she’d hoped for. I stayed quiet, pretending right along with her. We drove home, still dressed to the nines, and the first thing she did was pull ground beef from the fridge. Buttered buns, sizzling patties, a dusting of garlic salt. Her famous cheeseburgers hit the table ten minutes later.
She took a bite, lit a cigarette, and said, “That place was sure nice, but the food was horrible.”
I laughed, halfway through my own burger, grease running down my fingers. “Yeah,” I said, deadpan, “but you’re sure wearing that dress.”
She gave me that mischievous grin that meant the night wasn’t a total loss.
So no, the meal wasn’t worth it. But sitting in our kitchen, sharing those burgers, talking like the world didn’t exist outside those four walls? That was priceless. And no five-star restaurant has ever come close.
“Fine Cuisine,” scoffs. I’ve been dragged to a few more of these temples of pretension since my wife passed, and it’s always the same circus act: menus written like bad poetry, plates dressed up like runway models, and food that couldn’t fight its way out of a paper bag flavor-wise. Then, some slick-haired waiter wants to tell me about coffee made from monkey poop like it’s the gospel of good taste. Stop for a second and consider: Why in all that is holy and suspect would anyone want to drink monkey poop coffee? Maybe I missed my calling as a food critic. I’ve got the palate, the sarcasm, and enough bad meals under my belt to write a horror anthology. I just stare and think, Does your Mama know you talk like that? Don’t you lie to me! Whew, were you about to lie on your mama? Let me slap you for her. Come on now, take this. Over here, lying on your mama. Just shame. Because here’s the truth: half these places are selling smoke and mirrors, not meals. And most nights, I walk out thinking, I could’ve stayed home, cooked a real burger, and saved myself the insult and the bill.
I don’t get this thing where people make lists about what makes them happy. Feels like busywork for souls that forgot how to breathe. Maybe that’s the trick now—scribble down thirty reasons to keep your heart beating and hope one of them sticks.
Me? I don’t have thirty.
Hell, I barely scraped together five—and even that feels like a stretch some days. But here they are, the small anchors that keep me from drifting too far:
A cup of coffee strong enough to burn the fog out of my skull.
A good smoke when the world won’t shut up.
A pen that glides like it knows what I’m about to say before I do.
A fresh pad of paper, clean and waiting for truth or madness to spill on it.
Not having to wade through nonsense questions about things nobody really wants to know.
Maybe that’s enough. Maybe happiness was never meant to be a laundry list—it’s just these little sparks that keep the dark from swallowing you whole.
And if you’re wondering why there aren’t more?
I live by one code: Truth or happiness? Never both.
Writing didn’t start as some big calling. It was just something to do when there was nothing else, a way to keep my head from turning into static. A hobby, they called it. Hell, I never thought of it as a career. I think I wanted to be something else once—can’t even remember what anymore.
Oh wait… yeah, G.I. Joe. That was the dream. Plastic helmet, stick grenades, and saving the block from imaginary bad guys. Thought war would feel like that—fast, clean, with clear winners. Turns out real soldiering doesn’t come with a soundtrack or a script, and I sure as hell didn’t have Kung-Fu grip.
Somewhere between pretending to be a hero and learning what the word actually costs, I picked up a pen. Maybe it was just another mission, this time against the noise in my own head. Now writing’s the only weapon left. It doesn’t fix anything, doesn’t make the past cleaner or the future brighter. But it gives me a place to set it all down before it eats me alive.
When we were kids, life taught us early how far a nickel could stretch—and how often it didn’t. We’d walk the streets collecting bottles and cans, hoping to scrape enough together for a sugar rush at the corner store. Back then, they were Mom-and-Pop joints, the kind where everyone knew your name and your running tab of trouble. We’d stand at the candy rack, counting and recounting our coins, trying to game the system and get the most candy for the least cash. Never worked out like we wanted. Especially when a new treat hit the shelf, shiny and out of reach.
Fast forward a few decades. I’m in one of those little grocery stores that somehow survived the big-box purge. I catch sight of two kids doing that same math on the floor, coins spread out like a desperate poker hand. Something about it yanked me backward in time, to the weight of nickels in a sweaty palm and the taste of wanting more than you could buy.
So I slid the cashier a few bills and told her to make sure those kids didn’t have to choose between sour worms and chocolate that day. The store owner, in his well-meaning way, pointed me out like some small-town hero. The kids lit up, grinning at me like I’d handed them the moon.
And that’s the part I hated. Not the kids’ smiles—hell, that’s the good stuff—but the fact that it wasn’t supposed to have my name on it. My father brought strangers home, gave them a meal, a place to sleep for the night, and never said a word about it. My stepmom told me those stories later, like family lore whispered over coffee. I grew up believing you do what’s right, no matter the cost. I didn’t understand this then, but as I got older, it began to resonate.
Kindness, the way I learned it, is quiet. It’s supposed to slip in, do its work, and leave without a sound. That day, the sound of my name broke the rule I was raised on.
What good is a physical description to someone blind? They won’t get lost in your eyes. They won’t grin at your sculpted muscle or at that little pudge on your waistline. A woman once told me that’s what made the “cute guys” irresistible—that pudge. Then she kissed me hard, with enough heat that it said she meant every damn word. So, without sight, how can anyone truly see you?
I’m the one brooding in the corner. Always there if you need me, never in your way. You can tell my size by the weight of my breathing. You can tell I’m a troubled man by how it stumbles—half regret, half resolve.
Blindness isn’t just losing sight. It’s what we refuse to see even with both eyes open. If you can’t see me, maybe you’re not missing much. I’m not built on appearances. You’d know me by how the air shifts when I walk in.
Before I say a word, you’ll feel the drag of boots on old floorboards, the kind of silence that’s got teeth. My laugh, when it comes, sounds like it fought its way through smoke. I keep my distance but stay close enough that you know you’re not alone in the dark.
So don’t picture my face. Picture the weight of a man who’s been through fire and stayed standing. Picture silence with sharp edges and breath that’s seen too many long nights. That’s me. If you need me, you won’t need eyes to find me—you’ll feel the shadow that doesn’t leave until you’re safe.
Traditions? We didn’t have those. What we had was the grind—long hours, picket lines, busted knuckles, and dreams that never quite made it past the kitchen table. That’s what I grew up with. That’s what I walked away from.
My Ma worked her ass off every damn day. She never made speeches about doing it for me—she just got up, got dressed, and kept food in my mouth. I spent time on picket lines with her, too young to know what we were fighting for but old enough to feel the solidarity—cookies, soda, and snacks passed my way no matter the weather. Years later, sitting in thirty-below weather on my own grind, I thought, so this is how it feels. Some lessons don’t come wrapped in wisdom—you learn them the hard way.
My father’s grind was a different verse to the same song. He and my stepmom worked long hours, no safety nets. Dad taught me how to fix things with lines like, “Boy, grab me this,” or my favorite, “Fix this—it better be done by the time I get back.” He never yelled. There was a rare calm in him when he was fixing something, like bringing broken things back to life was his way of breathing. That stuck with me. Eventually, I learned not just to fix things but to make them better. Maybe that was his version of a tradition.
Retirement was the myth in my family, whispered about like a holy grail no one ever reached. My dad swore he’d finally read when he retired. He never got there. My ma hit semi-retirement only to take extra shifts to keep the lights on. My stepmom? She made it, still kicking, still talking smack.
And me? I’ve retired twice now, younger than they ever did. When I visit my stepmom, I tease my older brothers about it with gusto, like it’s my life’s calling. She just smiles and finally says, “Leave your brothers alone.” But I don’t. I earned this one.
I read every damn day. I smile. I exhale. That’s the tradition I refused to keep—the one where you grind yourself to dust chasing a finish line you never reach. I broke the cycle. I fought like hell so I could finally breathe.
Julian had been through storms before. But this one wasn’t weather—it was a squall of circumstance, and it smelled like old whiskey and bad intentions.
He leaned against the chipped brick of the ancient building, rain dripping off the brim of his hat like the world couldn’t stop reminding him of its bad mood. The sign above the doorway read: “Elysium Apartments”, letters half burned out, as if hope had checked out decades ago. Somewhere inside, a tip waited. Or maybe another mistake he’d put on his tab.
He stepped in, shoes squelching with every move, the kind of soundtrack that reminded a man of all the dignity he’d lost along the way. The lobby was empty except for a single elevator whose doors looked like they hadn’t closed properly since Prohibition.
The button flickered weakly when pressed. The elevator groaned like it was waking from an ancient sleep, chains rattling in protest, before the doors lurched open.
“Going up?” asked a voice from inside.
Julian squinted. A man in a bellhop uniform leaned casually on the railing, smiling like someone who knew where all the bodies were buried—and probably where they were rented out on weekends.
Julian hesitated. Everything about the moment screamed nope. But his life had been one long argument with common sense.
He stepped inside. The doors screeched shut with a sound that could file your teeth for you.
“Top floor?” the bellhop asked, already pulling the lever.
“Okey dokey,” Julian said, because sometimes sarcasm was the only shield a man had left.
The elevator jolted violently. Numbers on the panel blinked, but not in order—3, 7, 2, basement, 99, question mark. Rainwater dripped down his neck as the cage rattled. For a second, Julian wondered if this was it—if all his choices were finally cashing out in a metal box headed somewhere past destiny’s curbside.
Then the bellhop grinned wider, showing teeth that were far too sharp for customer service. “Relax,” he said. “Everyone’s going up eventually.”
The city doesn’t just live in her—it clings to her like cigarette smoke in a cheap motel room. Neon signs flicker behind her eyes, half-lit promises that never quite make it past dawn. The streets wind through her silhouette, rain-slick and restless, always leading somewhere she’d rather not go but can’t stop heading toward.
She’s a walking skyline, a soft silhouette with hard edges, every shadow on her skin a back alley full of regrets. The hum of the city is her pulse, low and relentless, a rhythm you can’t dance to but can’t ignore. And under it all, there’s that quiet truth every soul in this town knows: you can leave the city, but it never leaves you. Not when you’ve already let it build a home beneath your ribs.
If you asked me this morning, I’d have said yeah, just another day in the trenches. But now? Sitting in a half-dismantled lab, my old Mac humming like it’s judging me for abandoning it years ago, and my desktop sulking in the corner after another crash-fest—I’m not so sure.
Today was supposed to be simple: get the other MKU sites moving, feed the beast, keep the universe spinning. Instead, my main machine decided to reenact a demolition derby every time I opened a design file. After the fourth hard reboot, I did what any sane person would do—I shut the whole thing down, stared at the chaos, and muttered a few choice words about technology that I won’t repeat here.
Reorganizing the lab felt like a hostage negotiation with my own mess. Cables everywhere, notes buried under old coffee cups, and me wondering if “organized chaos” is just code for “I gave up.” Eventually, I gave in and switched to the Mac. It felt weird, like moving back into your childhood bedroom—familiar walls, but you don’t quite fit anymore.
And because I never know when to leave well enough alone, I decided an active series needed a complete rewrite. Not a tweak, not a tidy edit—a tear-it-down, salt-the-earth, start-from-scratch rewrite. Why? Because “active” doesn’t mean “good,” and I’m done posting just to keep the lights on. If it doesn’t hit the mark, it burns. That’s the rule.
So, was today typical? In some ways, yeah—just another battle between me, my machines, and the madness of trying to build something bigger than myself. But in other ways, no. Today came with surprises: chaos, frustration, a few muttered expletives, and one revelation worth keeping—this Mac keyboard? Absolute magic. The rest of my machines are getting one whether they like it or not.
Maybe that’s how most days really are in this line of work: half plan, half fire drill, always one keystroke away from starting over.
He told himself it was a supply run—donate some canned goods to the church pantry, maybe check on a guy from group. But his body betrayed him. It always did when he got too quiet. So instead of downtown, he found himself standing at the edge of the block he’d avoided for almost four years.
Same cracked sidewalks. Same rust-colored brick and crooked porch rails. It smelled like last night’s rain and rotting leaves and fried onions from the corner store. The same ghost-town warmth that made the cold worse.
Finch had lived longer than expected.
Mrs. Eldridge had kept him alive. A neighbor. Not a friend. She never offered forgiveness, just water bowls and unspoken understanding. Jake had overdosed two rooms away from where Finch used to sleep. The paramedics saved Jake, but left the dog pacing in circles around a pile of vomit and needle caps. Mrs. Eldridge took him in after that. No speech. No fanfare.
Now, Finch lay curled in a fleece blanket on her enclosed porch, his gray snout twitching in sleep, ribs pressing against skin like old bones trying to escape.
Jake crouched in the doorway.
“Hey, boy.”
Finch opened his eyes slowly. The gaze wasn’t surprised. It was tired. Familiar. He blinked once, let out a rattling sigh, and put his chin back down like, Oh. It’s you.
The porch smelled like cedar planks, sour dog breath, and dust. A cracked radio whispered gospel from another room. Jake sat with his knees pulled up, feeling the wood grain bite into his back.
He had spent so many nights talking to this dog, when words failed around people, when dope blurred the edges of memory. Finch never barked. Just stared at him like he understood too much.
Jake rubbed his temples. His fingertips felt greasy with sweat and guilt.
“I thought you’d be gone by now,” he said quietly. “Guess we’re both too stubborn.”
Finch let out a half-sigh, half-snore. The kind of sound that made you ache behind the ribs.
Jake remembered the last night. The screaming. Dani in the hallway, crying, holding her son with one arm and blocking the door with the other. Jake had tried to push past her. Not with violence, just desperation. That’s the problem—desperation doesn’t always care about the difference.
Micah, barely seven, had clutched Finch’s leash and screamed, “Don’t hurt Mommy!”
Jake hadn’t. Not really. But the way he grabbed the leash—hard, clumsy—made the boy scream louder. Jake saw his own reflection in a hallway mirror in that moment, and it scared him more than anything. The wildness in his face. The failure.
He ran. It didn’t feel brave. It felt like a retreat. Like every other time, he’d chosen the exit over the consequence.
The air smelled of impending rain—ozone and something metallic. A low rumble rolled across the sky. Jake reached down and brushed his knuckles against Finch’s paw. The pads were rougher now. Cracked. Familiar.
He’d read once in a recovery forum about how animals mourn. How they carry memory in ways we don’t understand. He believed it. Finch had always known things Jake never said.
“I’m sorry,” Jake whispered.
It wasn’t just for the dog.
Mrs. Eldridge came out with a bowl of water and a towel. She looked like she hadn’t aged, just weathered down into something harder. Not brittle—stone.
“He’s not eating,” she said. “Won’t last the night.”
Jake nodded.
“Can I stay?”
“You should’ve never had to ask.”
He stayed.
All night. The porch grew colder. The rain finally came, misty at first, then steady, like it meant something. Jake didn’t talk much. Just sat with Finch under the dim porch light, watching shadows shift and windows glow in the distance.
He thought about all the ways he’d tried to escape himself. Pills, powders, rage, silence. But Finch had always brought him back—anchored him when he floated too close to the edge.
Finch died an hour before dawn. No drama. No sound. Just one last slow breath, and stillness.
Jake buried him in the alley garden, near the back fence where Finch used to bark at raccoons. He dug with his hands. Let the mud ruin his jeans. Let the wet earth crawl under his nails and the blisters stab open without complaint.
He didn’t want gloves. He wanted it to hurt.
He wrapped Finch in the towel and laid him down gently, like the way you close a book you’re not ready to finish. On impulse, he cut a strip from the leash and buried it with him.
No stone. No cross. Just the dirt and the sky and the silence.
Before leaving, Jake walked to Dani’s building. Same rusted mailbox. Same flickering porch bulb. He paused at the door, soaked and shivering. Thought about knocking.
Didn’t.
Instead, he slid a letter under the door. It wasn’t long. Just honest.
I buried him. He waited longer than I deserved.
He stood there a moment, listening.
Nothing.
Jake turned and walked into the soft gray morning, the rain trailing behind him like a prayer left unfinished.
Stories from the Edge of Change is a quiet fiction series about reckoning, recovery, and the long, uneven road back to ourselves. This one is for the ghosts we leave behind—and the ones who wait anyway.
They called him Angel. Not because he was good—he wasn’t. But because that was the name his mother had scrawled on the back of a birth certificate before vanishing into whatever hole the meth and the men had dug. That’s what the caseworker said, anyway. He never knew if it was meant as a blessing or a dare.
Maple Street didn’t care what your name was. It didn’t give a damn about backstory or trauma files. It just asked if you had something worth trading—dignity, a story, sometimes blood. If not, it lets you rot in its shadow. Cold. Dirty. Forgettable.
Angel’s coat smelled like salt and mildew. His jeans were stiff with city grime and sweat. He kept his hoodie pulled low and his mouth shut. That was his trick—if you kept your eyes on the pavement, people passed by faster. If you sat still enough, maybe the shame wouldn’t boil over.
He didn’t want sympathy. He wanted protein. He wanted socks. He wanted to fall asleep without twitching awake to sirens or wet cardboard collapsing under him.
And maybe—though he’d never say it out loud—he wanted someone to call him by his name without checking a clipboard first.
The man who sat next to him that day didn’t look like much. Worn hoodie, creased face, tired eyes. Same as the rest. But he didn’t try to hawk salvation. Didn’t flash a business card or mutter some rehab mantra through a forced smile. He just lowered himself down, exhaled like it hurt, and offered a protein bar.
“You don’t gotta stay here.”
That was all he said.
Angel didn’t answer. But the words landed anyway, quiet as dust, sharp as memory. There was no lecture in the tone, no brag in his posture. Just something steady. Like a man who knew what a long fall looked like and still chose to climb anyway.
Angel watched him walk away. There was a patience to his stride, not fast, not dragging, more like a hawk circling something that hadn’t happened yet.
The protein bar felt heavy in his hand. Real. He unwrapped it hours later behind the train station, fingers cracked and trembling from the cold. It tasted like chocolate and chalk. Like something that might matter.
That night, he couldn’t sleep.
Not because of the cold—he was used to that—but because of the quiet. Something inside him had shifted, and he didn’t like it. He wanted the usual numbness back, the hollow where hope had once lived.
He kept hearing that sentence. You don’t gotta stay here. It scraped against the walls of his skull.
Because what if the here wasn’t just the corner? What if it was his skin? His blood? His whole damn life?
The wind picked up and pushed trash through the alley. A soda can clattered down the curb like it was running from something. He pulled the hoodie tighter. Even wrapped in layers, he couldn’t shake the chill. It wasn’t just cold—it was recognition.
He thought about every report, every meeting, every incident on file. His whole existence was a debt—an account he didn’t remember opening but kept getting billed for. A chain of overdrafts, each mistake compounded by the last. And the thing about that kind of debt is, no one wants to co-sign your recovery.
The flyer was still there in the bench slat. Creased and slightly damp, but readable. The rehab center’s logo had a bird on it—a dove, maybe, or a pigeon pretending. “Supportive, Long-Term Recovery,” it said in round, hopeful font, like a band-aid on a bullet wound.
Angel stared at it for a long time. Then shoved it in his pocket.
He didn’t go in. Not that day.
Instead, he drifted. Three more nights outside. Two sober. One was so drunk he pissed himself in his sleep and woke up shaking. He thought about mugging someone at the red line platform. Didn’t. Thought about calling Marcus—his old foster brother, who once tried to stab him with a pencil during a group home fight. Didn’t.
Then, one morning, he was there.
Just standing outside the center like a sleepwalker. He didn’t remember making the decision. His feet had dragged him there like they were on auto-pilot. He kept his hands in his pockets and stared across the street.
A nurse with dreadlocks carried a cardboard box of snacks through the door. A man with sunken cheeks and a twitch stood outside arguing with security, begging for one more chance. A woman in pajama pants and slippers stormed out, phone in hand, yelling at her sponsor that she was done doing this bullshit.
It was clear enough—nobody was exempt from the wreckage. No matter how clean you looked walking in, the ghosts still followed.
Angel lit a cigarette. Took slow, deliberate drags. He didn’t cross the street. But he didn’t walk away either.
And somehow, that felt like the start of something he didn’t yet have the words for.
Stories from the Edge of Change is a slow-burn series about survival without spectacle. It’s for those caught in between the ones who haven’t crossed the threshold, but also haven’t run. This story belongs to the uncertain, the reluctant, the almost ready. We see you.
Jake had a name once. Not the kind of people muttered when they passed him on the corner—junkie, beggar, waste. He had a name that once meant something. It was stitched onto a work jacket once. It was on birthday cards, driver’s licenses, and bank forms. But time has a way of chewing the edges off a man until even he forgets what he started as.
Maple Street didn’t ask questions. It didn’t brag about what it took. It just waited—like a dog in the rain. Took your warmth in winter, your pride in spring, and your last dollar in the fall. Jake used to think the city was cruel. Now he wasn’t so sure. Maybe it was just tired.
The slab of concrete on the corner became a sort of confession booth. You sat there long enough, and the sidewalk started remembering for you. Jake’s cardboard sign said, “Anything helps,” but that was a lie. It was a cover-up. What he wanted was for someone to look at him and not flinch.
He remembered the last time Dani, his sister, saw him. Her kid, Micah, clung to her leg, watching Jake wipe blood off his arm in the hallway. The forty bucks he’d taken from her purse sat folded in his sock. That money bought him silence for a night. It cost him her voice for three years.
He told himself he didn’t blame her. But in the quiet—when even the street was empty—he hated how much he missed being loved.
Then came the flyer. Wind-blown, smeared, half-crumpled trash. A rehab center. Big blue letters promising dignity, as if it could be laminated and handed back to you. Jake picked it up because it was the only thing around that looked more beaten than he felt.
He walked to the center wearing a loaner hoodie from the shelter bin, pockets frayed like open wounds. The front desk didn’t blink when he gave his name. That undid him more than judgment would have. Kindness, he realized, cuts deeper when you know you don’t deserve it.
Rehab wasn’t a clean arc. It was tremors and teeth-grinding nights, screaming into pillows, praying to a god he didn’t believe in just to shut off the screaming in his spine.
Then there was Pete.
Gruff, scabbed-over, loud. “You think surviving means you’ve earned something?” he growled one day after Jake mumbled about being ready to try. “You haven’t even apologized to the mirror yet.”
Jake almost left that night. Got as far as the lobby. But there was a vending machine in there—half-lit, full of stale snacks. He stood staring at it for thirty minutes, realizing he didn’t want chips. He wanted a reason to not disappear.
He stayed.
Progress didn’t feel like progress. No one clapped when he made his bed. No one wrote a headline when he chose water over whiskey-flavored mouthwash. But he kept showing up. He kept writing Dani letters. First few ended up in the trash. Then he mailed one.
The reply came weeks later. Just a text: Still clean?
That was all. But it didn’t sound angry. It didn’t sound like goodbye either.
When they handed him his discharge folder, he stared at it for a long time. He didn’t feel done. He didn’t feel new. He felt like wet clay. Still soft. Still shaping.
He passed by Maple Street that afternoon. Same corner. Same stains on the sidewalk. But now someone else was sitting there—a kid, maybe twenty. Hoodie pulled low, cardboard sign shaking in his grip.
Jake didn’t stop with a speech. He didn’t have one. He sat next to him. Quiet. Like the way an old scar settles under your skin.
The kid didn’t look up. But he took the bar. Hid it fast, like it might be stolen. Jake nodded, stood up.
He wasn’t saved. He wasn’t clean in the way people brag about. He still had nights where the dark got too loud and the past whispered things in voices that sounded like his own. But he hadn’t used. He’d stayed.
The sidewalk didn’t cheer. It just stayed where it was. Cold. Unforgiving. Familiar.
But this time, it didn’t hold him down.
Author’s Note:
This piece was written in response to today’s prompts from FOWC, and Word of the Day. Sometimes, the words given feel random—until they don’t. Until they crack open something real.
The Corner Knows is the first in a quiet series about what it means to crawl back from the edge without knowing if you’ll be welcomed. No heroes here. Just people trying not to vanish. The street remembers. So do we.
It depends on the work. And, if I’m honest, the version of me doing it.
If I’m handling logistics—email chains, platform fixes, all the invisible gears of the MKU—I’ll throw on a podcast or an audiobook. Something with steady cadence. Human voices filling the space so I don’t have to. It’s functional. Grounding. A distraction that still lets me move forward.
But when I’m writing—when the words actually matter—I need music. Not background noise. Not ambiance. Music that moves something.
There’s a point I hit when the doubt creeps in, when the old story shows up: You’re not good enough. You’re not ready. You don’t have anything left to say. And that’s when I reach for the headphones.
Because music gets me past that wall. Certain songs act like a key—one turn, and I’m not in the room anymore. I’m somewhere quieter, older, deeper. Below the part of me that edits, or performs, or tries to be clever. Music lets me slip under all that. It gives me access to the version of me that remembers things I haven’t lived yet. The version that trusts.
Writing becomes less about expression and more about excavation. I’m not inventing—I’m uncovering. Music helps me remember where to dig.
And when it’s really working—when the song hits just right—I’m not working at all. I’m listening.
To the story. To myself. To whatever’s been waiting.
I’ve played my fair share of games across formats—cards, boards, consoles, even a few tabletop RPGs. But there’s one that always pulls me back, not because of its graphics or mechanics, but because of what it reveals.
My mother taught me the first rules of engagement—one card at a time. Solitaire came first, then 500 Rummy, and eventually Spades. She didn’t just teach me to play; she taught me to watch, to calculate, to bluff with grace. Playing cards were never just about the hand you held—they were about the story you told while pretending it didn’t matter.
But as I got older, I found myself pulled toward something deeper. Not just strategy, but myth. That’s where the tabletop games came in—Dungeons & Dragons, Villains & Vigilantes, and my personal favorite: Werewolf: The Apocalypse. That game didn’t just have a storyline—it had lore, ancestry, rage, and sacrifice. It wasn’t about winning. It was about remembering who you were before the world made you forget.
And somewhere in between were the bones—the dominoes—clacking on a Saturday night table, keeping time like a metronome for the past.
I was already writing back then, scribbling scenes in notebooks and building little worlds no one else saw. But games like Werewolf: The Apocalypse didn’t just show me that stories could be powerful—they showed me they could be communal. That they could hit like thunder across a table. That they could change how someone sat, how someone breathed, just by what you said next.
I remember wishing I could write something that gave my friends what those stories gave me: tension, emotion, catharsis. I never thought I had the talent to pull it off. But I kept writing anyway—quietly, stubbornly—hoping maybe someone out there would feel a little of what I felt rolling those dice or flipping that card.
I still do.
I’ve learned not to underestimate myself. Not to confuse doubt with truth. Some stories need polish, sure—but some just need you. Your voice. Your flaws. Your fire.
So I play. I write. I miss a beat, then catch the next one. I embrace the strengths and the limitations—because they both show up to the table.
Be yourself. Write your butt off. The rest takes care of itself.
I’m not afraid. I’m not afraid. I’m not allowed to be.
Where I come from, fear is a luxury we were born too broke to afford. Vulnerability wasn’t something we dismissed—it was something we were denied. It was kept behind locked doors, like heirlooms we didn’t inherit.
My grandfather didn’t teach with words. He taught with what he didn’t say. He taught me how to keep the jaw tight, how to pray in silence, how to hold grief like a second spine. He had crafty ways of navigating rooms where he was expected to be invisible, but somehow always left a shadow. He taught me not how to cry—but how to endure the crying of others without blinking.
They told us to walk tall, but not too tall. To speak, but not loudly. To lead, but never forget we’re replaceable. Strong—always. Seen—rarely. Heard—only when invited.
I learned to carry myself like a verdict. The years didn’t soften me—they carved me. And somewhere between funeral suits and morning trains, I mistook resilience for religion.
I’m not afraid. I’m not afraid. I’m not allowed to be.
Because they’re still watching. Because weakness stains in places bleach can’t reach. Because I carry names no one etched into stone, but I wear them anyway—in the bend of my back and in the tightening of my breath whenever the world grows quiet enough to remember.
I’ve loved with fists. I’ve buried more brothers than birthdays. I’ve stared into mirrors and seen ghosts blink back.
And I’m still here. Which means I’m still dangerous.
Some days, I hear the voices—low and layered, like drums beneath concrete. Whispers at a distance. Ancestral static tuning itself in the back of my skull.
My father, maybe—never said “I love you,” but left it folded into a clean shirt and the sound of a deadbolt clicking after midnight.
Or the ones who never made it past eighteen, who hover behind my ribs like secrets I’ll never tell.
Some of them speak in riddles. Some in warnings. And some just laugh—cheeky, almost cruel: “Look at this one, still trying to turn ghosts into gospel.”
I remember the nippy mornings, before light. Cold air that slapped you awake. The kind that taught you pain was just a temperature shift you’d survive if you didn’t flinch. Those days made your bones ache—but they made your will sharper, too.
And now, standing here, with all of that folded inside me like a fire I never asked to carry, I wonder:
What have I done with all I’ve been given? Have I honored the ones before me? Or just mirrored their silence?
What have I left for the ones next? A trail of smoke? A shut door? A story they won’t want to finish?
What if the bravest thing isn’t being unafraid— but being seen?
Not as legend. Not as weapon. Not as sacrifice. But as person— messy, aching, unfinished.
What if legacy isn’t built on who endured the most, but who dared to feel what others refused to name?
Maybe I’ve been strong too long. Maybe strength ain’t the absence of fear, but the courage to admit you needed saving too.
Not a statue. Not a sermon. Not a ghost. Just a man— …and maybe that’s where the healing begins. And the trouble ends with me.
Authors Note:
This piece was sparked by Di’s 3TC challenge—and yes, I stole a line from Stacey Johnson’s poem order. Is it still stealing if I tell you up front? (Shrugs.) Anyway, as usual, I’m grateful to be inspired by friends who make me write better, feel deeper, and laugh louder. You know who you are.
Losing track of time isn’t a bug — it’s a feature. A built-in occupational hazard. Time slips, evaporates, gets swallowed whole. You want to know what makes me lose track of time? Existing. Creating. Trying to survive my own thoughts with a pen in my hand and a playlist I’ve overanalyzed into oblivion.
Writing. Not just any writing. The kind that starts as a whisper, then sets your spine on fire. The kind that makes your coffee go cold and your leg fall asleep. The kind where you look up and three meals have gone missing. The next thing you know, you’re ranting on a blog (Memoirs of Madness) about the phantom who comes up with these writing prompts like they’re paying attention to your ass.
“Which activities make you lose track of time?” Go to sleep.
Because I sure haven’t.
You ever try to sleep when your brain is busy unraveling fictional timelines, reorganizing half-finished character arcs, or rewording a sentence you wrote in 2014? That’s not insomnia. That’s creative maintenance.
Then there’s music — but again, not casual listening. I’m talking full immersion. Deep dives into B-sides and dusty vinyl grooves. Emotional spelunking. What starts as one track becomes a therapy session. A confession. A reconstruction of every heartbreak I thought I forgot. That’s not a playlist — that’s a time machine. And I keep punching the return ticket.
Next thing you know, there’s a whole damn website just about music (House of Tunage), because you clearly have nothing better to do with your time than build emotional mixtapes for ghosts. Oh yeah, go to sleep.
Thinking is another trap. Or maybe the original sin. I sit down for “a minute,” and suddenly I’m in a three-act dialogue with a dead mentor, an imaginary enemy, and the version of myself that had more optimism and less back pain. Thought spirals aren’t a time suck. They’re the prelude to every good story I’ve ever written — and the footnote to everyone I’ve abandoned.
Next thing you know, your table’s covered in monographs and marginalia. Then you have the nerve to post them like they’re literary gold on yet another website (The Howlin’ Inkwell), because apparently the only thing more dangerous than thinking is believing any of it might matter. Wow. …maybe I shou— go to sleep.
And let’s not forget the premium act of staring into space. That’s not wasted time. That’s creative buffering. System reboot. Soul loading.
So no, I don’t just “lose track of time.” I command it. I twist, bend, and shape it to the will of the gods of story and sound. And most days, they don’t even say thank you.
But that’s fine. Because this isn’t for them. Not really.
My job is to guide you through the splinters that only exist outside of time. You know the place: cold, light, dark, and joyful land. Where memory hums, story bites, and music bleeds.
Let me guide you. Come and take my hand. You’re looking at me like you’re confused. Let me help you clear things up. You look as if you need to get something off your chest.
Seriously, sit down, please. Talk to Mangus.
But if you still think this was all just about losing track of time, I’ll allow the indulgence — just this once. Because I whined once. In the ’70s. Don’t look at me in that tone of voice. Whining was allowed briefly after the bicentennial. There was a memo.
Missed the first meeting of Prompt Addicts Anonymous? That’s okay. We don’t judge. But you might want to catch up before the next spiral. 👉 Session One: “Hi, My Name is Mangus…”
Author’s Note
Yes, the websites mentioned in this piece — House of Tunage, The Howlin’ Inkwell, and even Memoirs of Madness itself — are all very real. And yes, they’re all still works in progress. Like most things I love, they’re messy, unfinished, and somehow always expanding when I should probably be sleeping instead.
So if you click something and it’s half-built, half-broken, or wildly under construction… welcome to the Mangus Khan Universe. We’re getting there. Slowly. Beautifully. Eventually.
The MKU is under construction. But the lights are already on.
“Me, pretending I’m above blog prompts while secretly outlining my fifth entry.”
Do I like blogging challenges and blog hops? No. They’re annoying. They’re addictive. They’re helpful. And I resent all of that.
I don’t like being told what to write. Until I do. Then suddenly I’m five prompts deep, haven’t blinked in two hours, and now I’m questioning my entire emotional architecture because someone dared to ask, “What does the moon mean to you?”
I don’t like structure. But I need it. Because without a deadline or a theme, I will absolutely stare into the void and call it “research.”
Blog hops? Ugh. Too much small talk. Too many exclamation points. And yet, three comments in, I’ve discovered a writer who casually blew my mind with a six-sentence story about grief and bees, and now I’m subscribed, emotionally compromised, and wondering how I ever lived without them.
So yeah. I complain. Loudly. Often. I feel this way on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. I suppose it’s because my coffee delivery is usually late. My favorite pen ran out of ink again, and the “good” refills are on backorder on Amazon. It’s not that I’m bitter. I’m just… creatively dehydrated and emotionally overcaffeinated on the wrong days.
However, on Tuesdays and Thursdays, something shifts in the universe. Champagne falls from the heavens. Words become the elixir of the gods. In the dead of winter, I smell the tranquil aroma of lavender in the gentle breeze. My fingers dance. My spirit opens. The muse doesn’t knock — she kicks down the door with glitter in her wake and says, “Write, fool.”
And I do.
And don’t even get me started on the enablers. There’s Sadje, who keeps creating these annoying, wonderful challenges, like Sunday Poser. So, what if I built an entire series based on one of them? Then there’s Di, dropping a daily prompt I now use as a backbone for long fiction like it’s a casual hobby. She’s also got this “Share Your World” thing — yeah, I’m not sharing jack. Even though, if we’re being honest, this post accidentally answers the first two questions of this week’s challenge. I have no idea what she’s talking about on the last two. And Fandango— this ole fart has a daily word challenge I use across multiple posts. I’m an ole fart too, fist in the air and all that. Solidarity. Melissa from Mom with a Blog — I don’t know, maybe moms were the original Jedi. She posts these random images with alt text that make me write funny, weird things… and I enjoy it. Can you say,” Jedi mind trick?” The betrayal. Eugi doing all kinds of magical stuff and her Moonwashed Weekly Prompts got me feeling all peace, love, and hair grease. Writing beautiful peaceful stuff. That’s just wrong! Shame on you! And Esther Chilton? She just shows up once a week, drops off a prompt like it’s no big deal. I gotta wait a whole week for the next one. It’s crap like that which killed cable. Let’s not forget the peskily awesome staff at Promptly Written, who boldly accepted the rantings of an insomniac and continue to push their readers to explore their creative limits. What the hell is that? Inspiration by force? Motivation disguised as structure. Madness. Glorious, structured madness.
Don’t get me started with the photography challenges. Cee — may Allah have mercy on her — encouraged me to explore my camera, sending me running to capture images of things I’d normally ignore without a second thought. Who does that? Cee did. Images I took for her challenges have ended up as descriptions or scenes in so many stories. Too many to mention. And Leanne Cole with her Monochrome Madness — scoffs — having me try to add depth, texture, and shadow to things that clearly weren’t meant to be that serious. And yet… I tried. Multiple times. Because apparently, I have no control over my own artistic direction anymore, if ever. Because of these women — and others — I’ve even heard people refer to me as a Photographer. Of course, I correct them. Obviously. But people be yapping about anything these days.
Here’s what I say about the lot of them: “How dare you ask me to create my ass off and enjoy it?” Complete. Utter. Rubbish.
So? Which one of you enablers got under your skin this week?
Sadje. Di. Fandango. The crime? Just read the damn blog.
Let’s call it what it is: Prompts Addicts Anonymous.
“Hello, my name is Mangus…” [sniff] “…and I’m a…” (It’s okay, we’re here for you.) “…I’m a prompter.” (Applause) “Hey Mangus…”
Author’s Note: This essay was born in public — a response to a simple blog prompt that, like most of my writing, spiraled into something I didn’t expect. It lives on the edge between complaint and confession, between sarcastic side-eye and real reverence for the people and prompts that keep dragging me back to the page.
If you’ve ever rolled your eyes at structure, dodged a deadline, or cursed the muse for showing up late and uninvited — this one’s for you.
And if you’re one of the people I name in here? Yeah, I’m talking about you — but in a good way. With sincere gratitude and thanks. You guys and so many more are one of the reasons I keep going.
She smiled. He believed it. But the fire had already started.
The woman sitting next to me slipped a note into my hand that read: “He’s not who he says he is.”
She didn’t look back. Just placed it there—neat, deliberate—and folded herself into stillness, like she’d already said too much.
I didn’t open it. Not yet. The paper pulsed against my palm like a second heartbeat.
Outside, the river caught fire. Sunlight splintered across the water, all rust and ruin. Temple silhouettes watched from the banks, hollow and grieving. Grief has no language. Just echoes. Just light bleeding through the wreckage.
Across from me, he sat, impeccable. Tie straight. Wristwatch catching the last of the sun. “You alright?” he asked, voice drenched in honey and soothing like always.
But I wonder—Is this false comfort? That soft menace people only hear in hindsight.
I’ve been here before. My finger found the scar hidden in my palm, the one shaped like escape. It remembers what my heart tries to forget.
I smile. He believes it. Because that’s the thing about men like him—they love the surface. And some people never notice the smoke. They only see the flames. By then, it’s too late.
My stop is next. So is his. He doesn’t know I’ve been here before. That this time, I won’t look back. I know he wants me to. But he’s not ready for what comes if I do.
There’s a strange, satisfying freedom in flash fiction—the constraints force you to choose each word like a scalpel. It’s a literary pressure cooker where character, tension, and atmosphere have to collide fast and leave a mark.
For me, flash is where I go to explore the edges—grief, memory, survival, those quiet gut-punch moments when the world shifts and no one else notices. Stories like this come out like smoke under a locked door. You don’t always see the fire yet—but it’s there.
Want to try your own version of this story’s beginning? The prompt was: “The woman sitting next to me slipped a note into my hand that read, ‘He’s not who he says he is.’”
I scream every time I’m asked to compromise who I am, what I believe. There are days I walk through this like a ghost—quiet, invisible, barely tethered to the world. I’ve worn this skin too long to pretend anymore. I’ve learned that silence is never neutral. It collects. It bruises. It builds a coffin for the self.
How long did I expect integrity to outweigh ignorance?
The shame cuts deepest when I remember the things I was asked to do to be accepted. Asked to perform, asked to mute the fire, asked to shrink for the comfort of others who never deserved my story in the first place. And like a fool, I tried. I polished my voice. I spoke in softened syllables. I tiptoed like I was walking on eggshells—not to protect myself, but to protect their illusion of safety.
But here’s the truth: Their comfort was never my duty.
This world has corrupted too much, taken too many of us who had something real to say. It props up empty vessels and paints them gold, calls it culture, calls it “marketable.” Meanwhile, those of us who bleed truth are told we’re too much, too raw, too difficult to brand.
They wanted me to smile like some hollow doll—something quiet, something that won’t fight back when they put words in my mouth. But I’m not plastic. I’m not hollow. I don’t bend like that anymore.
I carry my scars with intention now.
Let them call it anger. Let them call it ungrateful. I call it knowing. Knowing that every time I was asked to “adjust,” they weren’t asking for kindness—they were asking for obedience.
I’m done apologizing for the shape my soul takes.
Author’s Note
This piece was inspired in part by prompts from FOWC, RDP, and WOTD. Thank you all for the sparks you give. Your work matters.
It’s not like I haven’t given workshops before. I have. I’ve stood in front of rooms, talked craft, told stories, helped shape sentences and spark ideas. But this time feels different.
Maybe it’s because I haven’t done this since I got gut-punched over a decade ago—since the ground gave out, and I had to relearn how to stand. Since pain stopped being something I processed and started being something I wore. Somewhere along the line, I started using it like a mask. And the thing about masks is, after a while, they stop feeling like something you’re wearing. They start feeling like skin.
It became comfortable. Familiar. I could hide in it. Feel the illusion of security it gave me. But now I’m being asked to step forward again—to speak to young writers about the craft I’ve spent a lifetime practicing. And I’m wondering: am I ready to take that mask off?
What bothers me is the doubt. Not about the knowledge—I have that. Not about the experience—I’ve lived it. What bothers me is the fear that what I carry now might come through in ways I can’t control. That my jaded, scarred, honest soul might discourage someone before they even start. That I’ll slip into some surrealist rant about how writing is both a gift and a curse, a duty and a burden. That I’ll tell the truth too plainly, and it’ll scare them.
Or maybe worse: that I’ll freeze. Go silent. Stage fright. Blank mind. That I’ll stand there with nothing to give.
But the deeper fear—the one that really digs—is this: what if I’ve forgotten how to speak as the person I’ve become? Not the one I used to be. Not the one who was broken. But the one who crawled through it all and still believes in words.
Because truth matters. Even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts. And writing—that strange, beautiful, brutal act—is built on truth. Our words tell who we are. They don’t lie. And if I show up and speak honestly—about the process, the pain, the doubt, the moments of fire—then maybe that’s enough.
What bothers me isn’t the fear of failure. It’s the responsibility. The weight of standing in front of new voices and showing them not just how to write, but how to be a writer. To give them not comfort, but clarity. Not perfection, but presence.
So yes, I’m nervous. Yes, I feel exposed. But maybe that’s exactly where I need to be. Maybe the only way to teach this craft is to live it—right there, in real time, with all the scars showing.
I reach out into the darkness—and find myself. Doubt courses through my blood. The writer within whispers: Please don’t forget me.
Though doubt chills me, I won’t surrender to its might. I lift my head and know—I don’t walk alone. I whisper back, “I won’t forget you, because you are me… and I am you.”
A blog I forgot I started. A voice I didn’t know I needed. And the stories that refused to stay silent.
Motivation for Starting the Blog
I started this blog back in 2011, though I didn’t even remember creating it until I stumbled across it during a Google search of my name. My wife was sick then, and I was drowning in anger and helplessness. Someone once told me every serious writer had a blog. I’ll be damned if I wasn’t going to be taken seriously — even if I didn’t know what I was doing with it.
At the time, it wasn’t about building an audience. I was just trying to write my way through something I couldn’t fix. I’ve solved hard problems my whole life — but that one, watching someone I loved slip away, broke me in a way nothing else had. Writing was the only thing I had that didn’t ask for solutions. It let me feel what I was afraid to say out loud.
Mangus Khan wasn’t supposed to turn into all this. He was just a character I was kicking around for a novel I never finished. But before I knew it, Mangus became more than a name — he became me. There was no turning back the clock, no putting the genie back in the bottle. I didn’t plan it. I never looked back.
In 2023, I made the choice to keep this space alive and see what it could become. It’s the framework of something I’ve been carrying around in my head for decades. I wanted to grow as a writer — to see if there was any real interest in the kind of stories I wanted to tell. When I returned, this blog had 42 members. That was enough. I kept writing until I got sick. Then I recovered and came back swinging, writing without expectations.
Lately, I’ve been working on building a larger space to house all of this — something broader, something that reflects everything I’ve come to care about. I still don’t have any big expectations. Some people retire and fix up cars, build boats, and travel the world. I tell stories.
Expectations for Audience and Reach
I didn’t start this blog expecting a crowd. When I found it again in 2023, it had 42 members, and that felt about right. I wasn’t chasing followers or clicks. This was just a space where I could clear my head and cleanse my soul.
Then the strangest thing happened: people started showing up. And they stayed. I never expected that. I’m still blown away, honestly.
I’ve been fortunate in life — I’ve traveled around the world, solved complex problems, and worked with people from all walks of life. That was my world for years. But as much as I accomplished in that space, I’m not sure it made the kind of impact I feel now. That’s because of the reader engagement. The comments, the conversations, the quiet understanding from strangers — it’s different. It’s human. And it’s deeply personal.
I still look at other blogs and wonder how they pull it off — all that strategy and polish. That’s never been me. I just show up, write, and try to keep it honest. If that’s enough for people to stick around, then I’ve already received more than I ever asked for.
Hopes for Personal Growth
At first, I was just trying to survive. But somewhere along the way, I realized I had grown — not just as a writer, but as a person. Maybe it’s age. Maybe it’s everything I’ve lived through. But I have a deeper, more meaningful appreciation for things now — moments, words, silence, people.
When I decided to keep this blog going in 2023, part of it was a challenge to myself: could I still push my craft? Could I write with more clarity, more courage, more control? I wasn’t chasing perfection. I just wanted to be sharp. Clear. Unafraid to say what mattered. To explore what was still inside me, and maybe even finish the novel I’d started after my wife passed.
Writing forces reflection. It exposes the things I usually keep buried. And growth doesn’t come from breakthroughs — it comes from the grind. From showing up on the blank page when no one’s watching. That’s where I’ve grown the most.
Expectations Around Content and Consistency
When I first started, there was no plan. No roadmap. Just the need to write. I figured maybe I’d post once a week if something came to me. But life doesn’t follow calendars, and neither does creativity.
What’s come out over time has been a mix of fiction, essays, and visual art — sometimes sharp and focused, other times loose and wandering. I never set out to define a genre or lane for myself. I just followed what moved me.
There were stretches where I disappeared — illness, life, burnout. And there were stretches where I wrote constantly, chasing down stories, experimenting with form, pushing myself to see how far I could take a single idea. After I recovered, I kicked things into gear and just kept going. Not for clicks. Not for an audience. Just to stay in motion.
I thought about organizing the content more, making it cleaner or easier to follow. But I’ve found that consistency for me isn’t about structure — it’s about showing up with honesty. Whether it’s fiction, a personal reflection, or a visual piece — if it’s real, it belongs here.
Surprises Along the Way
I didn’t expect to still be here. I didn’t expect Mangus Khan — once just a throwaway character — to become part of who I am. And I definitely didn’t expect people to stay, read, and respond like they have.
I never expected to embody Mangus Khan, but I have.
What surprised me the most, though, is how much this space has mattered — not just to readers, but to me. I’ve done work all over the world. I’ve solved big, technical problems and made decisions that impacted entire systems. But somehow, writing a story that makes one person feel seen hits harder.
This blog wasn’t supposed to become something. But somehow, it did — a record of survival, growth, grief, imagination, and unexpected connection.
Some people restore old cars in retirement. Some build boats. I tell stories. That’s the project. That’s the work. And if it ends tomorrow, I’ll still be proud of what came from it, because none of it was supposed to happen in the first place.
It’s not a brand. It’s not a business. It’s a creative world I’ve been sketching in pieces for years — fiction, essays, visuals, and ideas I can’t shake loose.
This piece was written in response to Sadje’s Sunday Poser— a prompt that turned into a reckoning, a reflection, and a return to something I didn’t know I’d missed.
If you’re here for the stories, you’re already part of it.
Stay tuned. There’s more coming. I’ll see you when the ink dries.
It started, as most questionable decisions do, with a woman, a trench coat, and a very hedonistic craving for street tacos.
Julian wasn’t even supposed to be out. The rain was biblical—Julian half expected to see Noah waving him aboard. His socks were soaked, his spirit soggy, and the umbrella he carried had the structural integrity of a wet paper crane. But tacos were calling, and Julian—private eye by day, glutton by destiny—answered.
Midway through the park, a lamppost flickered like it owed someone money. Julian stepped into the golden spill of light like he was in a film noir. All he needed was the dame holding a cigarette to her ruby red lips, waiting for him to light it. His coat flapped dramatically, mostly because it was two sizes too big and purchased during a clearance sale he mistook for fate. He imagined someone, somewhere, narrating: He was a man torn between purpose and guacamole.
That’s when it happened.
A squirrel launched from a tree like it had just discovered espresso. It landed squarely on Julian’s shoulder, using his necktie as a zipline to destiny.
He screamed like a man whose dignity had just filed for divorce and taken the house.
The umbrella went flying. The squirrel somersaulted off his head. And Julian—formerly mysterious, now flailing—slipped in a puddle with the grace of a ballet-dancing refrigerator.
As he lay on the sidewalk, soaked and stunned, the only thing colder than the rain was the betrayal in his burrito-less stomach.
A couple walked by. The woman whispered, “Was that performance art?”
Julian lifted his head with all the levity he could muster. “Only if you clap.”
They did.
He took a bow from the pavement. Somewhere, a squirrel chittered in applause.
Sleep and I have a complicated history. We used to be close, tight, even. But somewhere along the way, we grew apart. Maybe it was the late-night thoughts that wouldn’t shut up, or the memories that kept crawling back under the covers. Now, we pass like strangers in a hallway—familiar, but distant.
Slumber is that elusive lover who whispers sweet nothings in my ear as she caresses the back of my neck. She pulls the sheets back, looking at me with that suggestive gaze of hers. I slip into bed beside her, feel her warmth press against my restlessness. That’s it—I begin to drift…
But just as the fog settles, chaos kicks open the door.
Suddenly, I hear my muse Ursula—lime green ass and all—screaming in my ears, “I want my words! You think this is fucking Boy Scouts?” I swear, Ursula has no manners whatsoever. She eats all the Cheez-Its and leaves crumbs in the bed. But she wears a fedora, smokes Cohibas, and if she thinks the groove is tight, she’ll pass you one and nod like jazz is leaking from her bones. So I spend the next several hours writing, creating graphics, editing film—or whatever the hell she’s decided is non-negotiable that night. I really need to buy her a bib. And a damn watch.
Wake time? Whenever Ursula crashes, the muse finally shuts up, or the coffee starts flirting again.
The static clung to him like ash—faint, choking, inescapable. He’d stopped keeping track of the days. Time was foremost a suggestion now, something smeared across the ceiling in mildew and regret.
They said he was a man once. Strong. Reliable. The kind that shows up on time and keeps his word. The kind that doesn’t cry at hospital bedsides or stare too long at old photographs. They said that.
But memory plays tricks. Rewrites endings. Paints the villains in softer hues and leaves the heroes out in the cold. His reflection no longer argued. It just blurred at the edges, refusing to confirm or deny what he had become.
The sink dripped. The fan rattled. The voices whispered. Still, he sat there, jaw clenched, knuckles white, a prayer caught somewhere between his teeth and his shame.
He collapsed into the corner of himself—the part that still remembered how to feel.
He heard a child giggle, smelled lavender and lilac. But from where?
That door had been closed for years, bolted by memory, corroded by silence. Yet tonight, something had stirred. Not hope. Just the echo of what it used to sound like.
for those who know what it’s like to be visible but not believed
Every day is another lesson in invisibility. Not the kind you choose, not the soft fade of a disappearing act. This is the kind handed down in glances that slide past you. In doors that stay closed just a second longer when you’re approaching. In the space you leave behind when you’re gone, and no one notices the shape of your absence.
You become fluent in the language of indifference. You learn the weight of unasked questions. You memorize the way people say “I didn’t see you there” like it’s a kindness, instead of an indictment.
There is a peculiar violence in being overlooked. Not bruised. Not broken. Just… reduced. Down to skin, down to stereotype, down to background noise. They don’t mean to erase you— and somehow, that makes it worse.
They’ll say you’re quiet. You’ll wonder if they’ve ever actually listened.
You wear shame like a second skin. Not because you earned it, but because somewhere along the way, someone handed it to you like inheritance and you forgot how to put it down.
You stand still in a world built to move around you— fast, loud, full of curated meaning. And you begin to question:
Is there something wrong with me, or is there something wrong with this lens that always finds me blurred?
You’ve learned to map your pain in silence. Each breath is a kind of protest. Each blink a refusal to disappear entirely.
There are veins beneath your skin that look like lightning— not because you are struck, but because you are always just about to burn.
And yet you don’t. Not fully.
You endure. Not in glory. Not with applause. But with defiance. The quiet kind. The kind that goes unnoticed until someone says:
“I didn’t realize you were carrying that much.”
And you smile without smiling, because you know the truth:
You were always carrying that much. They just never asked to know.
He wasn’t born to be broken, but he was built that way.
He doesn’t remember how long he’s been digging. Only that the walls feel closer now. Not physically—spiritually. Like the air itself is grieving something it can’t name. Like the dirt is learning his shape better than he ever did.
He was born into this plastic maze. Clear walls. Curved tunnels. Endless observation. They gave him purpose before he even knew what freedom was. “Work is life,” they whispered. “Keep moving or you’ll disappear.”
So he moved. So he disappeared.
Lately, the soil feels too clean. Too filtered. Too… safe. He begins to question whether he’s ever touched anything real— whether any of this was ever soil at all, or just a stage dressed as survival.
His antennae twitch like doubt. His thoughts spiral like tunnels without exit signs. There’s no map. No sky. Just the scrape. scrape. scrape. and the promise that if he keeps digging, it might all make sense.
“Dig,” they told him. “Dig like your life depends on it.”
But what if life was never the point? What if it was just obedience with a heartbeat?
He begins to dream—quietly, dangerously—of things he’s never seen: grass that doesn’t end, light without glare, a silence not born of suppression but of peace.
He wonders if the others feel it too— that dull, aching sense of being watched by something that calls itself structure, but tastes like a slow death.
He screamed once. Pressed his mandibles to the glass and begged. For what, he doesn’t know. Maybe to be named. Maybe to be more than a metaphor for how the world devours those who ask too many questions.
But no one answered. Only the glass pulsed with faint warmth— a reminder that he is seen, but not heard.
Now he digs not to build, but to resist. Each handful of soil no longer a task, but a soft rebellion. A quiet revolution made of claw, intention, and fatigue.
He doesn’t want to be efficient. He wants to be free. Or at least real. Or at least his.
And if this tunnel leads to nothing— no sky, no breach, no breaking—
at least it was carved by his own choosing. At least the hands that made the hole were his.
Because sometimes the cure isn’t a chemical. Sometimes, it’s permission to feel trapped without calling it a flaw.
🪞 Reflective Prompt
What parts of your routine were handed to you like a cage dressed in ritual? What would rebellion look like if it were quiet, personal, and yours?
Still digging?
This piece lives inside a much bigger world. Explore the rest of the Mangus Khan Universe—a stitched-together gallery of confessions, fiction, fractured portraits, and quiet chaos.
Can you howl when there is no one there to hear you? Is your passion only for public consumption? I’m frostbitten by your whispers.
There was a time I needed your touch. I needed your attention. Not all of it—just enough to matter. Not to me. I needed it to matter to you.
But you blinked, and I shattered. You turned, and I calcified into someone else’s silence. They say the world ends in fire or ice— I know both. Your heat was conditional. Your absence, absolute.
Some men beg for war to distract from the wound. Me? I just wear the hood tighter, pull it close like a secret I still want to believe in.
I walk through your memory like a half-burned gospel, rubbing ash on my skin like anointing oil. There’s still a spark behind my teeth, but no one’s left to kiss the smoke.
And even now— when I speak, my voice curls like steam off a pot no one stayed to stir. …and silence never needed an audience.
“Grandpa, I need a real story for my history project. Something about America, or the Fourth of July, or whatever.”
The old man scratched his chin, leaned back in the squeaky recliner, and smirked.
“Alright, kid. Lemme tell you how your grandma and I met. It was the Fourth of July, 1978. I was 19, dumb as bricks, and full of patriotic stupidity.”
From the kitchen, a voice called out: “Oh, this again. You gonna tell the real version this time, or your usual nonsense?”
Grandpa rolled his eyes. “It’s all true. Just maybe… slightly singed around the edges.”
It started with an idea. Not a good one. My Uncle Tommy, our genius friend “Meatball,” and I decided to put on our own fireworks show. We didn’t have proper fireworks. We had two crates of off-brand bottle rockets, a metal garbage can, a stolen traffic cone, and a six-pack of warm root beer.
Tommy swore the garbage can would “amplify” the fireworks. Meatball called it “fire science.” I just lit the fuse.
Boom.
The garbage can launched thirty feet in the air like a missile. One rocket shot sideways and hit a mailbox. Another bounced off my forehead. And one, God help me, flew straight down my pants.
I panicked. I ran in circles. My shorts were smoking. I stopped, dropped, rolled, and screamed. At some point, my eyebrows gave up and disappeared.
Next thing I know, I’m in the ER, wrapped in silver burn cream, looking like a baked potato with no dignity.
That’s when your grandma walks in. Nurse training student. Bright smile. Clipboard. Smelled like lavender and antiseptic. She looked at me, this smoldering idiot, and said, “So… was it worth it for freedom?”
From the kitchen again: “And what did you say next, hotshot?”
“I said she looked like a very clean angel. Then I threw up on her shoes.”
“Mm-hmm. Romantic.”
“Did you ask her out?”
Are you kidding? I tried. But the morphine was kicking in. I told her she looked “like a floating disinfected goddess” and then passed out while apologizing to the IV pole.
Still—she didn’t run. That’s how I knew she was special.
We kept in touch. She came to my follow-ups. I wrote her letters. She eventually forgave the vomit. We got married two years later. She even let me light sparklers at the wedding. Supervised, of course.
“Wow. That’s kinda romantic… in a flammable way.”
Exactly. So you tell your teacher this: Freedom’s messy. Fireworks are dangerous. But love? Sometimes, it starts with a bang. Just don’t put bottle rockets in garbage cans.
From the kitchen: “And tell him about the park ban!”
Every morning, she wrote to keep the birds at bay.
They came with the light—first as shadows dragging themselves across the windows, then as a rustle, low and persistent, like wind thinking too hard. Doves mostly, though wrong somehow. Their eyes were too still, their feathers too quiet. Occasionally, darker birds arrived—sleek as oil, with glints in their beaks like pins. They didn’t chirp or coo. They watched.
She used to think they were hallucinations, symptoms of grief. Her brother had drowned in the river five years ago. No body, no real goodbye. After that, the house changed. Or maybe she did.
The birds began showing up shortly after the funeral. Perched on curtain rods. Nested in the corners of the ceiling where cobwebs once clung. They moved like smoke. Never flapping, just shifting, gliding, like time with feathers.
She had never written a word before he died.
Now, she couldn’t stop.
At first, it felt like a compulsion. Survival. Write or unravel. But soon, the stories took on a shape of their own. They came through her fingers in long, fevered bursts—narratives that looped and twisted and whispered through the typewriter-like incantations. Whenever she paused, the birds stirred. Paper fluttered. Air thickened.
One morning, she stayed in bed. Her arms wouldn’t move. Grief sat on her chest like a second ribcage.
By mid-afternoon, the house was breathing.
Not creaking—breathing. The walls rose and fell in slow, silent exhales. Books slumped off shelves. The floorboards quivered like violin strings underfoot. And the birds—dozens, maybe hundreds—lined the walls, all facing her. Eyes like eclipse moons. Waiting.
She crawled to the desk. Typed three words: He was lost.
The air calmed. The birds blinked once. Vanished.
After that, she understood.
They weren’t punishing her. They were pushing her. Urging the story out. She didn’t know why. She didn’t know what for. But she knew the birds were part of it. Maybe even keepers of it. Strange, spectral editors in feathered cloaks.
The typewriter, an old rusted Royal, began to type without her. At night. Quiet, rhythmic, like a heartbeat. She woke to new pages. Pages she didn’t remember writing. One had a map scrawled on the back—inked in spirals and loops. Another contained a letter addressed to her in her brother’s handwriting.
I saw the ice crack. I saw the light inside it. I’m not afraid.
She burned that one. She burned the next three as well. But they always came back. Not charred. Not even creased. Just waiting on the desk like polite ghosts.
The stories that came through her grew stranger. Boys who vanished into mirrors. Houses that forgot how to hold their shape. Rivers that swallowed memories and returned them in riddles. Always, always, a boy at the center. Sometimes drowned. Sometimes glowing. Sometimes stitched together from stars.
She never gave him her brother’s name. But the birds knew.
They began bringing her things. A button she remembered from his jacket. A library card he’d lost in third grade. A page from a notebook she hadn’t seen since they were children, filled with a crude comic he’d drawn—“Captain Birdbrain and the Time Vultures.”
She laughed. She cried. She kept writing.
She began to understand the birds weren’t birds at all. Not really.
One blinked at her one morning, and she swore she saw an entire galaxy in its eye—planets spinning, stories coalescing, a thousand unnamed lives passing through. Another unfurled its wings, and letters spilled from its feathers, fluttering like snow, dissolving on contact.
She no longer felt afraid. Not exactly.
They were eerie, yes. But so is truth when you haven’t looked at it in a while.
The house shifted in small ways. The closet no longer opened to coats but to mist. The attic smelled of saltwater. She didn’t question it. She followed the thread.
She wrote not to escape grief but to appease it. To make it into something legible. Something she could carry. Each word formed a tiny act of negotiation between what was gone and what remained.
One night, she fell asleep at the desk. When she woke, a new story was finished—clean, structured, heartbreakingly beautiful. The final line read:
“And when she opened the door, there he was—smiling, whole, and made entirely of light.”
The birds were utterly still.
One—larger than the rest, with a sheen-like moonlight on bone—landed on her shoulder. Its weight was real. Solid. She reached up gently, and it leaned into her touch.
There was no song. Just presence.
She folded the page and placed it in an envelope marked For Him.
The next morning, the birds didn’t come.
The house was quiet in a way it hadn’t been in years. She waited. She made coffee. Nothing stirred. For a long time, she thought they were gone.
Then, around dusk, the light shifted. Just slightly. The world outside the window tilted toward a kind of blue she’d never seen. Deeper than twilight, warmer than dawn. The birds returned—not many, just a few. But they glowed now. Dimly. Like coals before fire.
They perched around the room. Silent. Peaceful.
The largest one dropped a page at her feet. It held only a title:
Chapter One.
She smiled.
She had learned to write not to fight chaos, but to give it order.
Is it hard to be a beautiful woman? People think you have the world at your feet. They think doors open for you, heads turn for you, and life bends around your presence. But they don’t see the trade. They don’t see the constant calibration—how much of yourself you shave off each day to fit into someone else’s frame. Beauty is not freedom. It’s exposure. A spotlight you didn’t ask for, that you can’t turn off.
You’re seen before you’re heard. Assumed before you’re known. People don’t meet you—they meet the idea of you. Their version. Their fantasy. Their fear. And if you don’t match it? You become a threat. A disappointment. A target. It’s not just tiring—it’s erasure in slow motion.
So you patch yourself together—smile here, soften there, silence the part that wants to speak too loudly. Over time, your identity becomes a kind of repair job. You keep the strongest parts in storage, hidden from view, waiting for a time when it might be safe to bring them out. You begin to wonder: Who am I without all the edits? What’s left when I’m not translating myself for someone else’s comfort?
You learn to play roles just to survive. To be warm but not inviting. Assertive, but not “difficult.” Intelligent, but never intimidating. Every room becomes a stage. Every glance is a calculation. When will it be okay for you to step out from behind their idea of you, letting you be who you are, not who they’ve imagined or prefer? How many masks do you have to wear before one of them finally feels like skin?
The tension doesn’t just live in your body—it rewires it. It clutches your voice before you speak. It lingers in your posture, in your smile that’s a little too careful, in your silence that’s mistaken for grace. They don’t see the moments when you swallow yourself to keep the peace. When you feel the full ache of being looked at but never seen.
Every day, you make choices that feel small but cost you something: how to walk into a room, how to hold your face, when to speak, and when to stay quiet. You tell yourself it’s just for now. Just until it’s safe. Just until they see you for real. But how long can you stay edited before you forget the uncut version?
The woman in the photo is not just posing; she’s done shrinking. Her posture is not elegance—it’s exhaustion turned into boundary. It’s defiance without apology. It’s a question you can’t ignore anymore: What happens when a woman stops choosing what’s expected, and finally chooses herself?
Not your version of her. Not the one that plays nice. Just her. Fully, freely, finally.
Author’s Note This piece was written for Esther’s Weekly Writing Prompt, with a word prompt from Fandango’s FOWC. Big thanks to all of you for keeping the creative fire lit week after week, day after day. These prompts aren’t just words—they’re jumping-off points, gut checks, and sometimes lifelines. Appreciate what you do more than you know. Keep ‘em coming.
No one who stepped through the Harmonic Gate returned the same.
Every century, deep within the Everwhisper Forest, a path of crimson stones bloomed overnight beneath the twilight mist. The elders whispered that the Gate only appeared to those on the edge of belief, of becoming, of breaking.
Mira had walked for days, heart splintered by loss and mind clouded by grief. The colors of the forest shimmered like memories she couldn’t hold onto. Then she saw it: the radiant circle suspended midair, pulsing with a sound she didn’t hear but felt, like her soul was being gently tuned back into harmony.
She stepped forward, not to escape, but to remember. The moment her fingers brushed the light, her sorrow sang—clear, bright, necessary. The Gate did not erase her pain; it transformed it.
Behind her, the forest sighed. Ahead, everything vibrated with possibility.
Adidas, the local jazz flautist, was found slumped behind the espresso bar, mouth still puckered mid-note, a splash of Granny Asics’ signature dark roast dripping from his shirt.
Granny Asics didn’t flinch. “I hate jazz flutes, dear. There’s a difference.”
Detective Huarache arrived five lugs late, trench coat dusted with eraser shavings and cinnamon. He inspected the brew line, sniffed the milk steamer, poked a biscotti. “Hmm. Notes of nutmeg, regret, and… cyanide.”
Gasps. Granny blinked once. Twice. Then turned slowly to her spice rack. “Impossible. I use almond syrup, not arsenic.”
But the label on the tiny bottle said otherwise: ALMONDINE™ – Sweet with a lethal kick. Someone had swapped her stash.
Security footage (stored in the heel’s AirPod case) revealed the culprit: Fila, the lounge pianist, in a sequin hoodie, sneaking behind the counter after hours.
“Motive?” Huarache asked.
“Adidas slept with his metronome,” Vans muttered, as thunder rolled across the outsole—someone upstairs was walking again.
Granny sighed, wiped the counter, and started a fresh pot. “Jazz’ll be the death of us all.”
The Chuck Stop Chronicles
A Micro-Murder Mystery Series Inside a Shoe
Tucked inside a dusty, size 11 Converse lives The Chuck Stop—a secret world of stitched souls, rogue eyelets, and jazz-fueled drama. What appears to be an old sneaker to the outside world is, on the inside, a buzzing speakeasy for misfit footwear and threadbare legends.
But when Jordan—the local harmonica king—is found crushed in the toe box, the sole sanctuary unravels. Enter Detective Huarache, a trench-coated sleuth with a limp and a grudge, determined to lace together the truth. As the mysteries deepen, one thing becomes clear: this shoe holds more than music and espresso. It holds secrets. Dark ones. Ones that walk.
Each episode is a 200-word burst of stylish chaos—part murder mystery, part surreal comedy, part soft-padded existential crisis. Expect faulty AI resurrections, foam cults, toe-box tombs, and thunder that isn’t thunder.
Because in The Chuck Stop, nothing’s dead forever— Not your past. Not your rival. Not even your laces.
We tend to think of teachers as just the ones in the classroom. But they’re not the only ones, are they? The truth is, our education doesn’t start in a classroom—and it certainly doesn’t end there either.
I didn’t really get what teachers were about when I was younger. To be honest, I was probably a pain in the neck to deal with. I look back now and realize I owe every one of them an apology. They showed up every day. They put up with kids like me—kids who thought they had it all figured out—and still tried to teach us something real. That takes more than patience. That takes purpose.
I raised four kids. There’s a reason I’ve got a bald head and a gray beard. And those were my own kids. Teachers deal with dozens of kids every day, each with their own story, their baggage, their chaos. And they do it with little supplies, low pay, and almost no credit. They improvise. They stretch. They hustle. And still, they show up.
It wasn’t until I began training soldiers that I truly began to understand. I was working with adults—grown people, trained to follow orders—and it was still a challenge. Getting through to them, helping them grow, managing all the different personalities and egos? Not easy. Now think about doing that with a room full of kids. Every single day.
Then came the workshops. Then mentorship. Years of teaching and guiding—and here’s the truth that finally hit me: we’re not just teachers. We’re also students. I know, that sounds simple. Obvious even. But here’s where it gets sticky. Oh no, Mangus is about to say something weird.
I submit that we’re both teacher and student at the same time.
You can’t teach well if you’re not also learning. Every interaction, every mistake, every person you try to help teach you something. And if you’re paying attention, it changes how you teach. It humbles you. It sharpens you.
So yeah, classroom teachers are incredible. They deserve way more respect than they get. However, the truth is that we’re surrounded by teachers all the time. And we’re teaching too, whether we realize it or not. If you’re doing it right, every day you’re learning something new—even as you’re passing something on.
That’s the loop. That’s the truth. And once you see it, you never look at “teaching” the same way again.
They called it The Chuck Stop—a hidden clubhouse inside a size 11 Converse, where miniature musicians jammed and cobblers tinkered. By night, it buzzed with chords, caffeine, and secrets.
Last Thursday, the music stopped.
Jazzman Jordan, the harmonica king, was found lifeless in the toe box, crushed beneath a sewing needle. At first glance, an accident. But Doc Stan Smith said otherwise: “Needle was planted. Jordan never sewed a day in his life.”
Suspicions spiraled like a frayed shoelace.
Vans, the bass player, had motive—Jordan stole her solo. Reebok, the sound guy, hated how Jordan chewed his chords flat. Even Granny Asics, who ran the espresso drip from the heel, had once vowed he’d “choke on a bad note.”
Detective Huarache, a former eyelet inspector, examined the scene. No thread out of place—except one. A single shoelace looped wrong over the third hole. Inside the knot? A trace of resin. Yeezy’s bowstring resin.
By sundown, Yeezy was zipped inside a Ziplock, cursing his luck.
Music returned to The Chuck Stop. But now, every note trembled just a bit. Because in a shoe-sized speakeasy, even the softest step could hide a stomp of murder.
Have you ever had watermelon rain seeds? I wonder if the seeds hurt? or do they feel like gentle kisses rejuvenating you every drop
Like the sky had a snack, then sneezed.
A green crescent moon with juicy breath spitting polka-dots from the fruit dimension— plop plop plop— onto my hair, into my shoes, down the back of my shirt. (Rude.)
Each seed whispers: “Grow me or trip on me, your choice.” One tried to start a podcast. Another’s running for mayor of the compost bin.
The clouds wore rind. The thunder was squishy. Lightning peeled itself.
And I just stood there, arms open, mouth wide, catching cosmic snacks from the snackosphere.
This wasn’t weather. This was a dessert emergency. And I was deliciously unprepared.
Only that the Spiral didn’t follow with sound—it followed with silence. Dense. Layered. Like static turned inward.
Behind her, the tower disassembled itself quietly, not crumbling, but unwriting. Each glyph collapsed into its origin, every surface folding in on itself as if ashamed it had tried to speak.
The ground flattened. The light died. The sentence, unfinished, withdrew.
—
She staggered through the opening and hit solid earth.
No Spiral pattern beneath her boots. Just dirt. Uneven, gritty, real.
She collapsed to her knees.
Pain shot through her spine with a clean pinch, a sudden brightness in her otherwise numb body. The contact grounded her. The cold seeped up through her bones like it had been waiting for her to stop moving.
She let herself fall back.
The sky above her didn’t shimmer. No recursive stars. No glowing syntax. Just a cloud-cluttered dark, cracked by moonlight.
Carla blinked hard, tears drying before they could fall.
—
Her chest ached—not with injury, but with release. Like her lungs had been clenched around something unspeakable for too long. Now, air flowed in freely, unshaped by pressure or design.
She opened her mouth.
Exhaled.
No Spiral sounds came. No triggered glyphs. Only breathe.
Warm. Human. Hers.
—
Her tongue twitched once—residual memory. Her teeth ached from how hard she’d clenched them. She ran her fingers along her jaw, wincing at the tenderness along the hinge. Every muscle in her face felt like it had practiced words it never wanted to say.
The Spiral is quiet now, she thought. But is it finished?
She didn’t have the answer. Maybe no one would. Maybe that was the win.
—
She sat up slowly. The sky rolled with low clouds. The air smelled of ash and old rain. Her legs were stiff, and her ankles were sore. Her fingers tingled from lack of motion.
She was still marked.
Her palm was dim, but the Spiral’s shape remained—less a signal now, more a scar. A burned-in pause.
Not gone.
Just… waiting.
—
Her coat felt heavier. Something pressed against her ribs.
She reached into the inner pocket and pulled out a shard—small, cool, and sharp-edged.
She hadn’t remembered taking it.
The fragment no longer glowed. No hum. No vibration. Just an echo of what it had been. It caught the moonlight, then refused it. Matte. Dull.
She squeezed it gently, half-expecting it to shift, to respond, to bounce with feedback.
It didn’t.
—
She looked up again.
The space where the tower had stood was raw—an imprint carved into the field. The ground was bleached in a spiral shape. Nothing grew there. Nothing moved.
A wound. Not a monument.
Something had tried to overwrite the world.
And Carla had made it stutter.
—
She rose to her feet. Slow. Deliberate.
Each joint cracked like a period at the end of a long, rambling sentence.
Her boots scraped the dirt as she walked forward—no longer fleeing, just… leaving.
The wind shifted.
Not Spiral-coded.
Just wind. Sharp. Clean. Bitter with the coming frost.
It caught her coat and let it billow slightly, the fabric lifting with a roll like a wave too tired to crest.
—
She didn’t look back.
She didn’t need to.
There was no final breach to seal. No looming voice waiting to be answered. Only the silence of her own refusal.
And in that silence, she spoke one word aloud.
Quiet. Intentional.
The kind of word that carried weight because no one expected it.
“Enough.”
It wasn’t defiance.
It was punctuation.
Author’s Note: Read at Your Own Recursion
Well. That got weird.
Writing The Spiral Series was like agreeing to co-author a story with a sentient Rubik’s cube with an identity crisis. One that kept changing languages, moving your furniture around, and whispering “just one more glyph” while you were trying to sleep.
And I loved it.
This series twisted differently than anything I’ve written before. Structurally, it wasn’t linear—it was recursive. It looped. It mimicked its own logic. It watched the characters watching it. Usually, I write from A to Z; this one decided to run a story arc through a paper shredder and tape it back together in a spiral, just to see what it looked like when the alphabet tried to eat itself.
And instead of sweeping worldbuilding or action-heavy showdowns, it leaned into dissonance, containment, psychological erosion, and the terrifyingly mundane reality of choice. It asked, “What happens when language isn’t a tool, but an organism?” And then it politely refused to answer.
Let’s be honest: it was a weird little experiment in existential syntax horror.
And you showed up anyway. You read. You stayed.
You resisted the Spiral in your own way.
To every reader who walked this curve with Carla—thank you. Whether you binged it or took it slowly, you made space for a story that wasn’t designed to end cleanly. That means more than I can say (and I say a lot, usually with ellipses and flair).
There’s no artifact at the end of this series. No twist where I reveal I was the Spiral all along. (Probably.)
But there is this:
Thank you for reading.
Now close the breach, step away from the glyphs, and remember—if your tongue starts twitching in the middle of the night…
The corridor narrowed behind her like a throat contracting after a swallow.
Carla kept walking, even though her steps felt borrowed. The Spiral didn’t pull her forward—it simply adjusted the world so forward was the only option. The walls pressed in, pulsing with slow, percussive beats she could feel in her teeth and knees.
Her breath fogged in front of her, even though the air was warm.
Not natural heat. Body heat. Recycled. Interior. Digestive.
This wasn’t just a passage.
It was a mouth preparing to speak.
—
She reached the final chamber.
It opened in absolute silence.
A circular room, too vast to fit within the tower’s outer dimensions. The floor beneath her boots was unnaturally smooth and flat, as if the Spiral had pressed time itself down like clay.
Glyphs circled outward from a glowing pedestal in the center. They pulsed not like text, but like drumbeats, syncing to her pulse with uncanny ease.
In the center of it all: An artifact. Hovering. Spinning. New.
Still forming, like a word stuck halfway between thought and sound.
—
And standing beside it: Esh.
Changed.
His veins glowed faintly with Spiral light. Not searing like infection, but woven into him like circuitry. His face was calm. Too calm. As if he’d already accepted something that hadn’t yet arrived.
“You came,” he said.
His voice was different too. Slower. Closer to Spiral cadence—pauses measured like syntax.
“Didn’t mean to,” Carla muttered.
“You walked the sequence. The end was already waiting.”
—
She walked closer, instinctively circling the artifact.
The air was thick here. Heavy with anticipation. Like every molecule of oxygen had been listening.
As she stepped into the glyph circle, she felt her throat tighten. Not from fear. From form. Her vocal tract was adjusting, subtly, like it was preparing to produce unfamiliar sounds.
Her lips tingled. Her tongue twitched. Her gum line ached with subtle, searing heat.
Something beneath the surface was aligning.
—
“This is where you speak,” Esh said gently.
“And if I don’t?”
“Then the Spiral rewrites. It loops. You delay the next phrase.”
“I’m not a phrase.”
“No,” he agreed. “You’re a verb.”
—
Carla stopped circling and stared at the artifact.
It pulsed softly now—like a held breath. Its shape wasn’t fixed. It flickered between smooth and ridged, liquid and sharp. A mouth still deciding what kind of word it wanted to be.
“Why me?” she whispered.
“Because you resisted just long enough to learn the Spiral’s rhythm. You sealed its openings. You learned its needs. That made you useful.”
“I didn’t volunteer.”
“That’s what made you viable.”
—
The glyphs at her feet brightened.
Red. Then gold.
A single symbol flared beneath her heel—shaped like a bell, like a flare, like a mouth cracking open.
“What is this?” she asked. “Some kind of ritual?”
Esh shook his head.
“It’s a forum. You get the floor. The Spiral doesn’t demand worship. It waits for contribution.”
She laughed once. Bitter.
“That’s not generosity.”
“No,” Esh admitted. “It’s recursion.”
—
The air shifted again.
Cool and dry. Then warm and wet. Like she’d stepped into a second body. Her breath caught mid-inhale.
Behind her teeth, she could feel pressure building. Not pain—urgency. Her mouth was ready to say something she didn’t understand.
The Spiral had stopped writing. Now it was waiting.
A single glyph at the center of the floor blinked.
A prompt. A question carved from expectation.
Speak me. Or sever me.
—
Carla looked at Esh.
His expression was full of quiet hope. Or was it relief?
“You’ve made peace with this,” she said.
“I’ve accepted structure,” he replied. “Some patterns aren’t meant to be broken. Only… embodied.”
—
She looked back at the artifact.
Its pulsing slowed as her breath quickened. Her chest rose. Lips parted.
She could feel a phrase rising through her like heat through stone. A sentence unspoken, but anchored.
Her tongue formed the start of a sound.
The Spiral leaned in.
—
And then—
She clenched her jaw.
Hard.
So hard her teeth clicked. Sharp pain raced up her gums. Her jaw locked. Her voice stopped mid-formation.
The chamber dimmed.
The glyphs around her flickered—half-cast, syntax cut short.
The Spiral recoiled, not with anger but with error. Confusion.
She had paused the sentence.
Mid-word.
—
Esh didn’t move. Just blinked slowly.
“You’ve delayed it. But not broken it.”
“Good.”
“You’ll need to run. Or it’ll overwrite you with something that will speak.”
She nodded once, tight and sharp.
“Let it try.”
—
Behind her, the chamber’s walls began to unravel—folding into code, peeling inward like petals stripped by wind.
The artifact cracked. Not broken, just destabilized. Like it had lost its grammatical anchor.
She turned.
Her gums still burned. Her tongue was still twitching. But her voice was hers.
Memoirs of Madness 