life – Memoirs of Madness

Instincts, Echoes, and the Work of Coming Back

2025/12/08Posted in The Daily'sTagged creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-2127, life, love, mental health, mindfulness, The Daily's, writing1 Comment

Of course I trust my instincts. These instincts are the reason I’m still here. They’re the early warning system that kicked in long before I had the language to explain what was happening. They’ve pulled me out of bad situations, terrible decisions, and moments where everything felt razor-thin. Survival sharpens you in ways calm living never will. Yet there are times you wonder if what you’re feeling is actually what’s happening. As someone living with PTSD, even after years of progress, the episodes don’t disappear—they just get quieter, less commanding, but still capable of blindsiding you when life hits at the wrong angle.

That’s the strange part: instincts are made of scar tissue and memory, not magic. They’re a patchwork of everything you’ve lived through—every mistake, every close call, every moment you had to react before you had time to think. And when your past includes trauma, those instincts can carry echoes of things you already survived. Sometimes they show up as alarms, even when there’s no fire in the room. It’s difficult to explain this to people. Not because they don’t care or don’t try, but because they don’t have a point of reference. If someone’s never had their body react to a memory like it’s happening in real time, or never had their nervous system jump to high alert over a sound everyone else barely notices, there’s only so much they can understand.

It’s not their fault. It’s simply the gap between lived experience and good intentions. But sometimes that gap feels like its own form of isolation. You end up minimizing what you feel or staying quiet because explaining it feels like trying to describe color to someone who’s only ever seen in grayscale. Eventually the question becomes: Why bother? And that silence can be its own kind of weight.

Even so, with the right support and coping tools, you really can relearn how to trust—not just your instincts, but yourself. Healing isn’t about shutting off the alarms; it’s about recalibrating them so they stop drowning out everything else. You learn to tell the difference between a real signal and old static. You learn how to talk yourself down without dismissing what your body is trying to say. You realize you’re not fighting your nervous system—you’re retraining it. Support and coping skills create space between the present moment and the past, and that’s the space where self-trust has room to grow.

But healing isn’t linear. There are days when every tool you’ve learned goes out the window. Days when your instincts feel unreliable, when your body reacts before your brain catches up, when everything hits at once and you’re back in old patterns without warning. Those days can make progress feel imaginary. But they aren’t the whole story. Because the very fact that you can name what’s happening now—the fact that you can reach for help, reach for tools, reach for clarity—means you’re not where you used to be.

Trust isn’t a single leap. It’s a series of small choices where you refuse to abandon yourself. Over time, instinct and self-trust start to merge again, the way they were always meant to. You move from surviving to navigating, and eventually, to living with a steadiness that’s earned, not imagined.

It’s not perfect. But it’s real. And real is enough.

Do you trust your instincts?

The Line Between Us and the Wild Is Paper-Thin

2025/12/08Posted in The Daily'sTagged creative non-fiction, creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-2144, Fiction, humor, life, short-story, The Daily's, writing1 Comment

Some days, I feel like the unofficial understudy for Marlon Perkins from Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom—minus the khaki shorts and the camera crew. No judgement here, khaki’s are so comfortable. Wildlife keeps showing up in my life like it’s angling for a recurring role.

A few years back, it was Louie and Smiley—two raccoons who treated my house like a spiritual retreat with free snacks. I returned from visiting my folks to find Louie perched in my office chair reading the Douay-Rheims Bible with the focus of a man reconsidering his sins. Smiley wandered out of the kitchen with a loaf of bread and a pack of cheese like he was prepping for a midnight sermon.

“I found the mother lode!” he said.

“Shut up, Smiley,” Louie muttered—then saw me.
“Louie! He’s back! He’s back!”

Panic. Scramble. Silence.
I expected the Bible to be covered in raccoon glyphs, but it was clean. The kitchen was another story entirely. The kitchen looked like a flour bomb had gone off. And the little bastards were munching on my Cheez-its. Looking back I can’t blame them because Cheez-It’s are righteous. And it’s been over a year since I’ve seen either of them. Strange to admit, but I miss those idiots. You don’t realize how lonely you’ve gotten until you start missing thieves with tails.

These days, everything seems to drift toward “normal”—if that word still means anything. Maybe it’s really just slipping back into the routine that makes sense to you, even if it looks ridiculous to anyone else. My routine involves trying (and failing) to quit smoking while watching the neighborhood wildlife walk around like they pay rent.

Groundhogs strolling like retirees.
Squirrels hustling like Wall Street interns.
Feral cats acting like landlords.

They don’t hide; they don’t wait for the coast to clear. They move like the world belongs to them.

Some mornings, the line between wild and human feels paper-thin.

Lately I’ve been paying attention in a way I never used to—maybe that’s why the animals have gotten bolder.

Because then came the possums.

A pair waddled down my sidewalk one evening, paused, and stared at me like I was the one intruding. As if they were wondering if I was going to hurt them or let them be. I supposed they had decided because one of them lifted a tiny paw and waved.

Then she stood up and said,
“Mangus, don’t act like you don’t see us! Ralph, would you look at this—humans can be so rude.”

Ralph gave the possum equivalent of a shrug.

I figured that was strange enough for the week, but winter has a way of dragging even stranger things to your doorstep.

There’s something about a cold morning—the chill bites you like you walked into the wrong yard. A reminder of the no-no’s of life.

A few mornings later, frost was clinging to everything like regret. I stepped out with a cigarette—a filthy habit, so I’m told. But I’ve lived long enough to see people celebrate worse sins, so I take the judgment with a grain of salt.

That’s when I saw him.

A raccoon was sitting on my stoop, smoking one of my cigarettes, staring into the frost as if it had whispered a prophecy. He jumped when he finally noticed me. His eyes went wide, then settled. If I meant him harm, I’d have done it already.

I lit my own cigarette.
You hear the snow crunching beneath someone’s footsteps. I turned.

“Don’t worry,” the raccoon said without looking back. “That’s just Smoke wondering if you put anything out to eat. You’ve been slipping on that, by the way.”

Smoke—another raccoon—raised a paw in greeting, then kept moving toward the trash can like we were roommates who barely tolerated each other.

I took my first drag.
Ah, the sweet relief of the little lies we tell ourselves.
“Best thing ever.”
Not really—but the small fibs get us through the day.

Cold mornings always pry open old memories. Suddenly, I was thinking about a chocolate cake—dangerously good-looking, baked by someone capable of getting a diabetic canonized or killed. I told myself I’d be a “good diabetic” that day. Truth was, it simply wasn’t the weekend.

I’m not diabetic on the weekends.
A doctor once told me that’s not how it works.
My response: “Watch me, partner.”
Gave him my patented fuck off look. He didn’t know that expression at the time, but he learned fast.

Later, a young woman offering the cake stood beside me—closer than she needed to be. She smelled nice. Held out a plate.

“Yes, you have diabetes,” she whispered. “But you still have to live.”

Best cake ever.

Back on the stoop, the raccoon finally spoke.

“I’m Stu. Stuart Bigelow. That’s what a little girl across town used to call me. Cancer took her. Cancer’s an evil SOB—it comes for us all.”

“I’m Mangus,” I said. “And I have one question.”

“What’s that?”

“Who in the hell told you you could smoke my cigarettes?”

Stu coughed mid-drag, a little smoke curling out like he was half-laughing.
“Well, I figured since you left them outside, it was a party pack.”

Stu’s whiskers twitched after each exhale as if the smoke was burning his nose.

I snorted, then coughed, then burst into laughter.
“So not a party pack, Stu.”

Some mornings, the wild doesn’t feel wild at all.

Daily writing prompt

Do you ever see wild animals?

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Skills from a Graduate of the School of Hard Knocks

2025/12/04Posted in The Daily'sTagged blog, creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-2142, life, love, mental health, The Daily's, writer's life, writers on writing, writing2 Comments

If I’m being honest, the things I’m good at didn’t come from any classroom with fluorescent lights and tidy rows. They came from life pulling me aside, usually at the worst possible moment, and saying, “Pay attention—this part matters.” Most of what I know was earned the long way: scraped knuckles, late nights, and a few seasons where survival wasn’t guaranteed but somehow still happened. These skills didn’t unfold gently. They arrived as consequences, as revelations, as the quiet clarity that follows a storm.

One thing I’ve learned is that I’m better at creating a feeling than I am at delivering a finished product. I don’t sit down to produce anything polished or algorithm-friendly. I write to capture a moment’s temperature—the hush before a confession, the weight of a truth someone’s been carrying too long, the strange peace that settles in when you finally stop pretending everything is fine. I follow the line that tightens my chest because that’s where the real story is hiding. Atmosphere isn’t decoration; it’s the closest thing I have to honesty. And if someone walks into that space and feels seen, then the work did what it was supposed to.

I’ve also learned how to make complicated emotions legible—not tidy, not simple, but real. The heavy stuff never hands you clean language. Grief has its own dialect. Shame speaks in whispers. Loneliness shows up wearing someone else’s coat. Most people run from these things because they think naming them will make them bigger. But I sit with them long enough to understand their shape. Not because I’m brave—because I don’t know how else to move through the world. If I can translate that heaviness into a line that makes someone pause and think, “Yeah… me too,” then maybe the weight becomes shareable.

Another skill I’ve picked up is the ability to hold a ridiculous number of moving parts without letting the whole structure collapse. MKU. MoM. HoT. Fiction arcs. Art projects. QOTD. Image collections. The universe I’m building is messy, sprawling, and sometimes bigger than I intended. But even in the chaos, there’s a thread running through it—something emotional, instinctive, connective. I don’t always know where the thread is leading, but I know when I’ve lost it. And I know how to find my way back by listening to what the work is trying to become. People mistake this for multitasking; it’s really just surviving the storm with both hands open.

I’ve stopped worshipping the first draft. If a piece doesn’t feel right, I tear it apart, not out of self-doubt but out of loyalty—to the truth, to the reader, to the version of myself that refuses to settle for the easy version of anything. Revision is where the honesty happens. It’s where the mask slips. It’s where I notice the lines I wrote to protect myself instead of reveal something. I’ve rebuilt myself enough times to know that tearing something down is just another form of creation.

And finally, I adapt. Quickly. Quietly. Often without applause or acknowledgment. Life didn’t give me the privilege of staying the same for long. Every year demanded a new version of me—some built by choice, others by necessity. Adaptation isn’t a talent; it’s a scar that learned how to walk. When something breaks, I adjust. When something shifts beneath my feet, I move. Reinvention stopped feeling dramatic years ago; now it’s just how I breathe.

These are the skills I’ve gathered on my way through the wreckage. Not glamorous. Not marketable. But real. They weren’t taught—they were carved. And maybe that’s the mark of a true education in the school of hard knocks: you don’t graduate with honors. You graduate with perspective. With endurance. With stories you didn’t ask for but somehow needed.

And when someone asks what you’re good at, you finally have the language to answer—not with pride, but with truth.

The Boy Who Wasn’t Afraid of the Dark

2025/12/02Posted in The Daily'sTagged creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-2140, life, love, mental health, poetry, The Daily's, writing3 Comments

There’s something about the night I’ve never managed to explain without feeling like I’m circling the real truth instead of touching it. It isn’t just the absence of light. It’s the way the world exhales after midnight, how everything settles into a version of itself that feels more honest. If you’re a night person, you already know what I mean—you don’t need me to draw a map to that place.

As a kid, I treated the night like a sanctuary no one else had discovered. The dark didn’t judge, didn’t demand, didn’t tap its foot waiting for me to prove something. I used to get sad when the Dawn arrived—not out of melodrama, but because daybreak felt like someone flipping on the fluorescent lights, telling me to sit up straight and get back in line. Dawn was order. Dawn was expectation. Dawn was the world reminding me I owed it something.

Night never asked for payment.
It just handed me the keys and stepped aside.

I really believed there were no rules after sunset. In the dark, the harsh edges of the day softened. The noise thinned out. My thoughts stopped running defense and finally came out from hiding. The boy I was didn’t have the language for it, but he understood the feeling: Night made room for him in a way life rarely did.

Looking back, I can see how much of that was escape. The night gave me cover—space to imagine, space to feel, space to acknowledge things I wasn’t ready to say out loud. But escape isn’t always cowardice. Sometimes it’s survival. Sometimes it’s the only way a kid can breathe.

And even now—older, carrying more history than I ever expected to survive—I still feel that tug when the sky lightens. There’s a part of me that mourns the end of the hours where I don’t have to pretend to be anything. A part that whispers, Hold on… not yet.
That boy is still in there. He still trusts the dark more than the dawn.

But here’s the thing I keep circling back to: the night didn’t make me free. It made me honest. There’s a difference. The dark gave me room to face myself without all the day’s noise confusing the signal. It let me consider who I was becoming, who I wasn’t, who I might still be if I stopped running long enough to look in the mirror.

And some nights—when the world goes quiet and the air feels like it’s holding its breath—that honesty still slips through. It reminds me why I loved the dark in the first place: not because it hid me, but because it revealed the parts of me I didn’t yet know how to live with in the light.

The Hardest Decision Was Saying Yes to Myself

2025/11/28Posted in The Daily'sTagged blog, creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-2136, life, love, mental health, The Daily's, writing17 Comments

Daily writing prompt

What’s the hardest decision you’ve ever had to make? Why?

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The hardest decision I’ve made recently wasn’t life-or-death. It was deciding to release my work—actually release it. Not hide it in drafts. Not polish it into oblivion. Not drop something small into the void and pretend I didn’t care about the silence afterward. The real battle wasn’t skill or imagination. It was belief—my own.

And I had reason to hesitate. I’d put work out before, here and there. A story, an image, a thought I didn’t mind people ignoring. And they did. The response was minimal or nonexistent, and that kind of quiet gets inside your head. It feeds every story you whisper to yourself at three in the morning: Why do I bother? What does it take to keep going? No one’s reading me anyway. Silence is its own kind of confirmation bias. It tells you you’re forgettable long before you ever get a chance to be known.

Then 2024 hit, and everything went sideways. I was terribly ill—bent, shaken, barely holding myself upright some days. But the blog? Strange as it sounds, it became the one place that felt sane. Real. Safe. My body was chaos, but the work gave my mind somewhere to breathe. I didn’t write because I was inspired. I wrote because it was the only steady ground I had left to stand on.

2025 rolled in with its own question mark hanging over my head. I’d survived—but now what? Who the hell was I supposed to be after everything? No grand gestures; those are just New Year’s resolutions dressed up in fancier language. We make them because we mean well, but half the time we don’t say them out loud. Not because they’re secret—shhh, G-14 classified—but because if we fail, at least the failure stays private. No ridicule. No audience.

Still, I was creating. Since 2023, I’d been grinding like a madman, pushing out content as if volume alone could outrun doubt. But earlier this year, something shifted. I slowed down. I started choosing quality over quantity. Fewer posts, deeper ones. Work that actually had weight. And the analytics—when they finally came—didn’t just pat me on the back. They confirmed it. Memoirs of Madness has had its best year ever. I’m proud of the work, sure. But what hits harder are the unexpected relationships that have come out of this place. That’s the real measure of success. Connection. Not clicks.

Only after all that did I look back at why I never trusted the praise from friends and family. It wasn’t that I doubted their honesty. It’s just that love carries a bias. It’s like being the most beautiful woman in four counties. Everyone knows it, everyone agrees. She leaves home expecting doors to swing open—only to find herself in a city where everyone is beautiful and suddenly she’s average. Not any less beautiful, just no longer exceptional by default. Creative praise works the same way. When the only eyes on your work are the ones already in your corner, it’s easy to confuse affection with validation. And easier still to hide behind that confusion.

But the last seven or eight months changed everything. I kept showing up. The work matured. The engagement grew. Strangers—people with no stake in my ego—connected with pieces I almost didn’t release. It wasn’t validation I was chasing. It was proof that the work could stand in bigger rooms. And for the first time, it could.

Releasing my work wasn’t the victory. That was just the surface.

The real decision—the hard one—was finally trusting that it belonged in the world.
Once I chose that, the rest started falling into place.

That Grown Folk Shit

2025/11/23Posted in TunageTagged creative writing, daily exercise, Jazz, life, love, Melody Gardot, music, music review, Song Lyric Sunday, writing9 Comments

Song Lyric Sunday • Theme: Rivers, Streams, Creeks, Brooks

We got those Sunday Jazz Vibes going. It’s never intentional, but it’s always right. The slow grooves of Grover Washington Jr. set the tone before the coffee even cools. The things that man does with a sax ought to be illegal in a few states.

“East River Drive” rolls in like a slow-moving tide — smooth on the surface, dangerous underneath. It’s one of those tracks that pretends to be background sound until you realize you’ve stopped whatever you were doing just to follow the way he bends a note. That sly confidence, that river-road swagger. The rhythm section lays back like it’s got nowhere to be, while Grover glides above it all, mapping the emotional coastline of a Sunday morning.

A subtle deep groove — the kind that whispers instead of shouts, trusting you’ll lean in.

And somewhere between those warm horn lines and the long exhale of morning, my mind drifted downstream. That’s when the tonal shift hit — jarring in the best possible way.

Sliding from Grover into Melody Gardot is like stepping out of warm light into cool river air. Grover softens the room; Gardot sharpens it. His sax gives you glide. Her voice gives you gravity. With Grover, the river moves. With Gardot, the river speaks.

She pulls you in with that first line:
“Love me like a river does.”

On paper, it’s simple.
In her mouth, it’s a philosophy.

The river isn’t passion.
It’s not urgency.
It’s not the cinematic love-story nonsense we were raised on.

A river flows.
A river returns.
A river shapes the land without ever raising its voice.

She’s not asking for fireworks.
She’s asking for endurance.

Then the quiet boundary:
“Baby don’t rush, you’re no waterfall.”

That’s the deal-breaker disguised as tenderness.
The waterfall is the crash, the spectacle, the “falling in love” that feels good until you’re pulling yourself out of the wreckage.

She wants none of that.

Her voice is soft, but the boundaries are steel.

Strip away the romance of rivers and waterfalls and what she’s really saying is:

“If you’re going to love me, do it in a way that won’t break me.”

That’s not fear.
That’s experience.

The next verse shifts from river to sea — steady flow to swirling depth. Not for drama. For honesty. Intimacy always disorients you a little.

But even in that turbulence, she returns to her anchor: no rushing, no crashing, no spectacle. Even the sea has tides. Even passion needs rhythm.

Then the lens widens — earth, sky, rotation, gravity. Love as cycle, not event. Love that keeps you grounded without pinning you down.

And then back to the whisper:
“Love me, that is all.”

Simple words.
Colossal meaning.

What I love about this track is that it refuses to lie.

It doesn’t speak of love the way movies do — all gush, sparks, and declarations nobody could sustain after the credits roll. Gardot isn’t chasing fireworks. She’s not interested in romance that burns hot and disappears just as fast.

She’s talking about grown-folk love.

The kind that shows up.
The kind that lasts.
The kind built on years, not moments.

Her metaphors — river, sea, earth — aren’t poetic decoration. They’re durability tests:

Can your love flow?
Can it deepen?
Can it cycle?
Can it stay?

She’s asking for a love that tends a lifetime, not a scene. A love shaped by presence, not passion; by commitment, not chaos.

The kind you don’t stumble into.
The kind you earn.

And maybe that’s why this one gets me every time — there’s a difference between love that excites you and love that holds you. I’ve lived long enough to know which one matters more.

And let me say this plainly: this track comes from Melody Gardot’s debut album. Worrisome Heart was her first offering to the world, and I’ve rarely seen that kind of sophistication and grace appear so fully formed on a debut. Most artists spend years trying to grow into this kind of emotional control — the restraint, the nuance, the quiet authority. Gardot walked in with it from day one. No hesitation. No warm-up laps. Just a young artist already carrying the poise of someone who’s lived a lifetime and managed to distill it into song. Truly a marvel.

Before you watch the performance below, a quick note:
This reflection is based on the studio version of “Love Me Like a River Does,” from Worrisome Heart — the quiet, intimate rendition where she whispers the philosophy of grown-folk love straight into your chest. But in the live version you’re about to hear, she opens with something unexpected: the first verse of Nina Simone’s “Don’t Explain.” It’s a deliberate nod — smoky, weary, full of Simone’s emotional steel — and Gardot weaves it in so seamlessly you barely notice the transition until it’s done. One moment you’re in Nina’s world of bruised truth; the next, Gardot slips into her own song like it was always meant to follow. It turns the piece from a gentle plea into something closer to a declaration.

What makes the song hit is how Gardot never pushes. The arrangement stays minimal. The room stays dim. Every breath has space around it.

It’s intimacy without intrusion.
Truth without theater.

A quiet manifesto from someone who knows the cost of loving too fast and too violently.

She’s asking for love like water — not the kind that drowns you, but the kind that carries you and keeps coming back.

A grown-folk kind of love.
A river kind of love.
The kind that lasts because two people choose the flow over the fall.

And maybe that’s the real Sunday lesson — some songs don’t need volume to be heard. Some just need stillness.

Fuzzy Creatures, Women, and the Truth

2025/11/22Posted in The Daily'sTagged blog, blogging, creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-2130, life, mental health, The Daily's, writing4 Comments

Daily writing prompt

Beach or mountains? Which do you prefer? Why?

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I’ve been to several corners of the world. I’ve spent time in places that would make people cringe—hell, they make me cringe when I let my mind drift back there. But when I look at these two choices, it feels like a no-brainer.

Give me the mountains.

Not the postcard kind—the real ones. The ones where the air thins out and you can hear your own pulse arguing with gravity. I’ve sat there wondering how much time it took to carve them into what they are—ancient, stubborn, unapologetically themselves. Walking a trail through them will kick your ass in the most honest way possible, every step a small tax you pay for the privilege of being there.

And when you finally reach whatever passes for a destination? The sense of accomplishment hits different. It’s not victory—it’s communion.

Funny thing is, when I was young, I swore the beach was where it was at. Not because I actually enjoyed it all that much—more because that’s where the women always talked about going. At that age, it was a no-brainer. Youth, and the nonsense we tell ourselves. I played volleyball barefoot in the sand, listened to that guy who only knew one chord on his guitar, watched the girls swoon like he was some kind of desert prophet. We had bonfires, told stories, laughed until the night was serenaded by the dawn.

It was magic in its own chaotic, salt-soaked way.
But even with all that, it doesn’t compare to the mountains for me.

Up there, everything strips down to what matters. You hear the creatures before you see them—felt more than observed. Every now and then one will wander out, give you that slow, measured look, maybe share the moment with you. They’re never fussy. I like that about them.

And somewhere along the way, I figured out there are women up there too.
Fuzzy creatures, women, and breathtaking views—what’s not to like?

Honestly, the animals might be cooler than most people. At least they don’t pretend to be anything other than what they are. People?
What did Morrison say?
People are strange—and he was being polite.

The beach is pretty, sure. But the mountains?
They make you bleed a little for every inch of beauty.
And anything worth keeping has always cost me something.

So yeah—I pick the mountains.
I trust things that don’t lie.

Sometimes Bare Trees Are the Loudest

2025/11/19Posted in TunageTagged creative writing, daily exercise, Fiction, Grooving With Glyn, life, love, mental health, Mixed Music Bag, QOTD, Tunage, writing4 Comments

Groovin’ with Glyn — November, Week 2

Track: “November Trees and Rain” – Marie Dresselhuis

On most November mornings, there’s a chill in the air. Not the kind that grabs you by the collar and shakes you awake, but the subtle kind — the one that lets you know it’s there. It moves slow, almost tender, until your body shivers without asking permission.

I hear the morning before I see it. A woodpecker knocking its code into the trees, winter birds answering in their thin, determined voices. I close my eyes and let the breeze speak for a while — the rustle of fallen leaves, the soft give of the season shifting underfoot. There’s a certain beauty in the bareness of the trees. Something quiet. Something honest. Not something I can describe cleanly in words, but it’s beautiful all the same — the kind of beauty that doesn’t need witnesses.

Then the world shifts again — one of those November moments of return. The air brakes hiss, then squeal, and suddenly the stillness cracks open. Children rush toward the bus, half-awake, half-dressed, somehow always unprepared and always ready. The adventure begins whether they are or not.

I remember my own kids doing the same. I miss those mornings — not with regret, but with that quiet wish a father carries for a different version of himself, a different decision made on a different day.

Guppy’s cry pulls me back. She’s in my chair, staring at me like I’m late. Her way of reminding me that the present is still here, still demanding, still alive. Work waits. Memory wanders. But Guppy doesn’t let me drift too far.

So let us go then, you and I, into this next stop in Groovin’ with Glyn — that mixed music bag I keep rummaging through.

“November Trees and Rain” doesn’t try to dazzle you. It doesn’t fight for attention. It just unfolds — steady, slow-water honest. The title alone feels like a location on a map: somewhere between the last red leaf falling and the moment the season exhales. The guitar comes in like breath; the vocals come in like thought; the whole thing feels like watching the world turn the page while you stand there holding the corner.

This is a song for people who know how to sit with themselves.
Not judge. Not fix. Just sit.

The Devil’s Voice in the Back of the Room

Not everyone trusts the quiet. They say they do, but not really. They want to be shocked and awed underneath while saying, “it’s so peaceful.” Some people hear a slow song and panic — like silence might reveal something they’ve worked hard to bury. Give them rain and they’ll close the blinds. Give them bare trees and they’ll look at their phones. Give them a morning like this and they won’t hear anything but their own hurry.

A song like “November Trees and Rain” has no chance with them.
Too inward.
Too honest.
Too close to the bone.

But November isn’t for cowards.
And neither is this track.

The Lift — Why It Belongs Here

Because there’s a moment midway through the month when the noise dies down — not the external noise, the internal one. This song fits right into that pocket. It’s the sound of a thought finally forming. The kind of realization you don’t chase; it arrives on its own timetable.

“November Trees and Rain” is what happens when the world stops performing and just is.
Bare.
Wet.
Cold.
True.

It reminds you that not everything beautiful announces itself — some things just endure.

Week 1 woke us.
Week 2 asks us to stay awake.

Because the trees are bare now, the rain has longer stories to tell.
Are you ready to listen?

Can You Read a Person’s Soul in Five Seconds?

2025/11/16Posted in The Daily'sTagged creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-2124, family, humanity, life, love, racism, The Daily's, writing6 Comments

Daily writing prompt

What’s the first impression you want to give people?

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When I was young, they drilled it into us: “First impressions are lasting impressions.”
Dress right, talk right, act right.
Show people the best version of yourself and they’ll treat you accordingly.

Then I stepped into the world as a Black man in America and learned the fine print they never bothered to mention:
some folks made their impressions before I even opened my mouth.
They’d look at me and decide who I was, what I was, and where I belonged.
Then came the compliments disguised as praise—“articulate”—like I’d crawled out of the woods dragging a club and a grunt.

I wish I could say that nonsense is ancient history.
That we’ve evolved past it.
But I’ve lived long enough to know you can pull down statues, rename buildings, and rewrite curriculum, and still never undo the generational damage.
When I was a kid, history class felt like a bragging session: Look what we did to these people.
The day I discovered the truth about President Lincoln—his contradictions, his motives, the myth vs. the man—I blew up in class and got tossed out.
Didn’t help my GPA, but it sure helped my clarity.

Funny thing is, I didn’t let that anger harden me.
I kept reading.
And the more I learned, the more Lincoln felt like someone I could actually respect—someone I could sit down and have coffee with, contradictions and all.

Years later, my daughter came home with a school assignment about Lincoln, and I saw my opening. I had the knowledge. I had the books. I had the truth.
But something said, Slow down.
So I asked her, “Do you want the truth, or what they teach you in school?”
She chose school.
And I understood.
The whitewashing had already reached her generation.
Her innocence was intact.
Her hope was intact.
And I wasn’t ready to be the one to crack it.

That same daughter once refused to watch movies about racism.
Hands on her hips, chin up, she said, “It isn’t like that anymore.”
A moment of pride mixed with dread.
Because I knew she was wrong—not out of foolishness, but out of youth.
I knew one day the world would show her its teeth.
And the worst part?
There wasn’t a damn thing I could do to stop it.

Eventually, she came back to me with another assignment—Malcolm X this time.
She knew exactly what she was doing.
The moment she said his name, I switched on like a breaker panel.
I dragged out every book I had. I told her everything school would never teach her.
That kid didn’t lift a finger for that assignment.
I did the whole damn thing.
Yep—she played me.
I still tease her about it.

But I’d be lying if I said I don’t make snap judgments of my own.
When you’ve lived long enough, patterns get etched into you.
But every now and then, life steps in and reminds me I don’t know everything either.

Once, in Wyoming, I’d forgotten my shower kit and wandered into a general store expecting the usual sideways looks.
Instead, the woman at the register glanced at my items and said, “Honey, you forgot…”
She pointed out what I missed, sent me back for it, and checked everything again when I returned.
“Now you’re ready,” she said.
Simple kindness.
Caught me off guard.
Still makes me smile.

Another time, in Montana, a freak storm trapped us in a Chinese restaurant. Power went out, candles came on, and the kitchen kept rolling like it was nothing new.
I went to the bathroom, and an older gentleman nearly jumped out of his skin when he saw me.
I said, “Hell, I’m not gonna cook you and eat you.”
Let it hang there.
He burst out laughing. We walked out with nods of mutual respect—two strangers caught in something human.

Later that same night, a man walked up to my table—me and my biracial friend—and asked, “You having fun?”
Same words, twice.
Same smile that doesn’t smile.
My friend tensed. I put a hand on him to settle him.
Storm wasn’t going anywhere.
No point making our own.

And here’s the thing:
When America talks race, everything gets framed as Black vs. White.
Two sides. One battlefield.
But history wasn’t that small.

Black folks and White folks just had better publicists.

Because while America was glued to civil rights marches on TV, every marginalized group in this country was fighting their own battles:

Asian immigrants finally broke through racist immigration quotas with the 1965 Immigration and Nationality Act.
The Chicano Movement reshaped labor rights, education, and political identity.
Native activists occupied Alcatraz, formed AIM, and demanded sovereignty.
In 1969, N. Scott Momaday became the first Native American to win the Pulitzer for Fiction.
Japanese Americans were fighting for redress after internment.
Filipino farmworkers sparked the grape strike.
And the Stonewall uprising ignited the modern LGBTQ+ movement.

Everyone was fighting.
Everyone was changing the country.
But America prefers a tidy narrative.
Reality never asked for one.

So let me be clear before someone tries to twist my words:
This isn’t a Black vs. White essay.
Not even close.

Because hate?
Hate is colorblind.

It doesn’t care about race, religion, gender, sexual orientation, or whatever else we invent to justify cruelty.
I learned that the hard way.

I was overseas once—a situation that turned violent fast.
Not combat the way we trained for.
Not patriotic speeches or heroic music.
Just raw hate aimed at a group of Americans who looked like the whole world shrunk into one squad.
Black, white, brown—none of it mattered.
They didn’t hate our skin.
They hated our nationality.
And they came at us like it was sport.

We came home bonded by survival, only to step back into a country where the old assumptions waited like unpaid bills.

These days, I laugh—but not because any of it is funny.
I laugh out of frustration and exhaustion.
Because sometimes that’s the only release valve a man’s got.

So first impressions…
they have their uses, I suppose.
But I’ve seen them lie, and I’ve seen them reveal the whole damn soul of a person.
Sometimes they’re nothing but noise.
Sometimes they expose the heart.
You learn to pay attention—not to the surface, but to the truth leaking around the edges.

And while folks are busy misjudging me on sight, I remind myself of one truth:

We fought to protect “God and Country.”
So if you’re out here treating me falsely,
just remember—
I defended your right to do it.

Damn, I’m good at my job.

I Didn’t Grow Up — I Got Drafted

2025/11/142025/11/14Posted in The Daily'sTagged childhood, creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-2088, family, life, love, mental health, The Daily's, writingLeave a comment

Daily writing prompt

When was the first time you really felt like a grown up (if ever)?

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Some people swear I was never a child. They talk about me like I came out of the womb already irritated with humanity—scowl pre-installed, voice warmed up and ready to yell at strangers. And honestly? I get it. I spent over twenty years raising my voice for a living. Hard to picture a guy like that in a onesie, getting hyped over stickers and suckers.

But I remember it.
I remember rolling my eyes with the kids and grandkids—performing the whole too cool for this act—but also hoping, in that quiet place you don’t admit out loud, that nobody ever broke their hearts or stole their joy. There’s something about watching innocence that makes you want to stand guard, even if you pretend you’re above it.

Still, none of that made me feel grown.
Not the early milestones everyone swears matter. Not the first kiss, the first heartbreak, or the first time I put on a uniform and pretended I knew what I was doing. I hit all the checkpoints without crossing the threshold.

Adulthood didn’t sneak up gently.
It came as a year—a tight, unrelenting twelve months—where mortality stopped being philosophical and started breathing down my neck. I remember one night in particular: stepping outside after an incident, dust still floating in the air, adrenaline refusing to let my hands settle. That was the moment I understood life wasn’t theoretical. It could vanish, just like that.

And somewhere in that stretch, something inside me shifted. Not a big, cinematic revelation. More like an internal fracture you can’t ignore once you hear it.

The kid in me didn’t disappear; he just stopped driving. Maybe he stepped back. Maybe he grew quiet. Maybe he finally understood the stakes.

Because once I walked onto a battlefield, I knew I wasn’t a kid anymore.
You feel the ground vibrating under your boots, and it rearranges something in you. Permanently. After that, youth stops being a phase and becomes a memory.

People love to believe adulthood is a choice—something you claim, or celebrate, or ease into with birthdays and responsibilities.

For me, it arrived in the dirt and the dust and the dark.
A draft notice I never signed, delivered on a day I can’t forget.

I didn’t grow up.
I got drafted.

The Place That Doesn’t Ask Anything of Me

2025/11/14Posted in The Daily'sTagged creative writing, daily exercise, daily-prompt, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-2122, life, Life Lessons, love, mental health, The Daily's, wisdom, writing6 Comments

Daily writing prompt

If you could live anywhere in the world, where would it be?

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If I could live anywhere in the world, I’d choose a place that doesn’t demand explanations or performances. I’ve lived in cities, deserts, the deep woods — turns out I can settle in just about any landscape as long as it leaves me room to disappear a little.

These days, I picture a small town within driving distance of my hideaway. A place where the market clerk nods without prying, and the librarian teases me about my tattered books but respects the depth of them. Guppy wouldn’t trust her at first, naturally. But a few well-timed treats would work faster than diplomacy ever could. Age catches up with all of us, but if anyone’s going on a diet, it’s her.

Most mornings would start the same: a meditation-heavy book cracked open, a good pen waiting, coffee steaming, my thoughts wandering until Guppy yanks me back to earth with a judgmental meow. Just enough contact with the world to keep me grounded — not enough to get invited to supper. (People get touchy when you say no.)

What I’m really chasing is a chance to breathe. A place where the air isn’t sharpened by worry, where everything isn’t a potential threat even when it isn’t one. Somewhere I can write without the static of the world pressing in, where anonymity isn’t loneliness — it’s relief.

And at the end of each day, I’d know I chose right: Guppy stretching and settling into her next perch, the porch light catching dust in the evening air, the quiet presence of night creatures moving around me. They don’t disturb me. I don’t disturb them. Just a mutual agreement to exist without fear.

Hard to ask for more than that.

What I Found, What I Kept, What I Became

2025/11/13Posted in The Daily'sTagged creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-2121, family, life, Life Lessons, love, The Daily's, writing5 Comments

A simple sewing kit, a lifetime of inherited rhythm.

I ended up with my mother’s sewing kit after she crossed over, though “kit” might be too generous a word. It was a simple plastic box the color of old Tupperware, caked in decades of dirt and lint and whatever life had rubbed off on it. I emptied the contents, cleaned it, and put everything back the way I remembered. Funny thing is, I didn’t think I remembered much—until I did. Muscle memory is honest like that.

She used to have me sit beside her while she ran her old Singer like it was a locomotive. Heat built up around that machine. The motor would hum, fabric would spark with static, and the whole room felt charged—like electricity and summer trapped in a small space. My job was simple: keep the needles threaded and the bobbins loaded. I’d keep a couple wound and ready so she’d never have to stop. Every time she hit her groove, something new for my room came out of it. I didn’t buy store-bought sheets until I got married.

I learned to sew, knit, crochet—“girlie things,” the world called them. I say that with a smirk because later, when I had daughters, I taught them the same skills I wasn’t “supposed” to know. Nothing shuts down a stereotype quicker than a man who can backstitch better than you.

After she passed, I didn’t want to use her kit. That box felt like sacred ground. I told myself I’d build my own—fresh basket, fresh tools, fresh start. I even wrote out a supply list. But finding the right basket turned into a ridiculous odyssey. I mentioned the problem to a friend, and she told me, “You know, it’s okay to use your mom’s.”

I refused without thinking.

She didn’t push. She just said softly, “She wouldn’t mind.”

But that was the thing—I minded.

The kit sat there for years. Cleaned, restored, untouched.

The turning point came the day I wandered into a store to look at sewing machines. I wanted something that felt close to her old Singer, though I knew nothing like it existed anymore. The man behind the counter didn’t ask what kind of stitch work I did or what machine I learned on. Didn’t ask about thread tension or feed dogs or bobbin types. He just talked price.
Over and over.
Like money was the point.

I walked out without saying much. If the first thing you bring to me is cost instead of purpose, we have nothing to talk about.

I went home and opened her kit again. Those old Singer needles were still inside—delicate, outdated, impossible to replace. I picked one up and threaded it without thinking, the way she taught me. When I pricked my finger, I could practically hear her: “Where’s your thimble?” The kind of thing she’d say with half-exasperation, half-love. I stuck my finger in my mouth like a kid, and for the first time since she crossed the veil, I smiled.

She once told me, “I’m teaching you all this stuff because knowing you, you’ll marry a woman who doesn’t know how to do anything.” She said it with affection, the way mothers do when they’ve already figured you out.
She was wrong, of course. I didn’t marry a woman like that.

I remember a visit where Mom and my late wife argued—good-natured but firm—about who spoiled me the most. According to them, I was spoiled rotten. According to me, I’m just a man who thinks things ought to be done a certain way.

Hell, right is right, right?

You know, the precision of that first stitch—after all those years—hit me harder than I expected. Something about it was too perfect, too familiar, like my hands remembered a language my mind forgot. And now that I’m older, I find myself full of questions I’d ask my mother and my late wife if the veil worked both ways. It never does. There’s always a million things you want to say to someone once they’re gone.

Looking back, I think teaching me all that sewing and knitting wasn’t just about preparing me for some imaginary woman who couldn’t thread a needle. I think she was keeping my hands busy, slowing down a mind that ran too hot, too fast. At the time, I didn’t believe there was a woman on this planet who couldn’t sew, stitch, or fix something. Then I dated one. Funny thing—I even thought about marrying her. Maybe my mother knew something I didn’t.

There’s something about using my hands that stills me. Crafting, repairing, working with tools—it forces my mind to slow down and focus in a way nothing else does. Writing pulls me outward into worlds that don’t exist yet, chasing the unknown. But when I sew, or mend, or make something real, the world narrows to the size of the task. It started with that old sewing kit on the shelf. But it grew into something much larger. Using her tools isn’t about the past anymore.
It’s how I keep my hands steady enough to build the future

Daily writing prompt

What’s the coolest thing you’ve ever found (and kept)?

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Quote of the Day – 11082025

2025/11/08Posted in Quote of the DayTagged life, love, QOTD, Rumi, spirituality2 Comments

Personal Reflection:
Silence has a weight you can’t measure — only feel. It presses gently against the edges of thought, waiting for you to notice it. Most people rush to fill it, terrified of what it might reveal. But Rumi knew better. Silence doesn’t flatter, it doesn’t negotiate — it just tells the truth. The way still water reflects your face, silence reflects your soul. It’s honest even when you’re not.

We live in a world allergic to quiet. Even our grief has a soundtrack now. We drown in commentary, afraid that stillness might expose how much of what we say is just noise. There’s a strange intimacy in silence — the kind that makes you confront your own mind. You start to hear things you’ve been avoiding: the echo of unfinished forgiveness, the ache beneath your composure, the fear that if you stop speaking, you might finally have to listen. Silence is an unkind teacher, but an honest one. It reminds you that clarity rarely comes with comfort.

And yet, silence also keeps us alive in ways noise never can. It teaches you to wait, to observe, to recognize the faint pulse of what is real. When you sit inside it long enough, it begins to reorder your senses. You stop needing to explain yourself. You start to understand that truth doesn’t need your defense — only your attention.

Maybe silence isn’t absence — maybe it’s the soul’s original dialect. Every time you return to it, you’re reminded that life doesn’t need to be narrated to be lived. The quiet doesn’t lie because it can’t — it has nothing to prove. If you can bear its stillness, it will tell you everything you’ve forgotten to hear: that peace was never lost, only buried under noise; that grace has been waiting for you to shut up long enough to arrive.

Silence doesn’t demand faith — it demands presence. It’s not passive; it’s participatory. It’s you, meeting yourself without a script.

Reflective Prompt:
What truth hides beneath the noise in your life — and what might happen if you stopped filling the silence long enough to hear it?

Confessions of a Horrible Student II: The Connie Winford Diabolical

2025/11/07Posted in The Daily'sTagged creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-2115, family, Fiction, life, love, The Daily's, writing4 Comments

Daily writing prompt

What was your favorite subject in school?

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“Because sometimes the lessons that shape you come folded, ink-stained, and intercepted by your parents.”

The last time we talked, I narrowly escaped the fallout from The Battle.
I still don’t know why my father even put up a fight. In situations like that, Mom wins—she always wins.

Dinner was late that night, and Dad’s last nerve; frayed. He moped around the house like a rejected understudy in his own life. Mom chuckled every time she passed him—quietly, of course, out of his line of sight.

But enough about The Battle. I’m here today to tell you about my next misadventure: The Connie Winford Diabolical.

Suppose you’ve ever been twelve and suddenly realized that girls weren’t carriers of incurable cooties but mysterious, magnificent creatures who smelled like shampoo and danger. In that case, you already know where this story begins. And what were those bumps on their chest? Some mysterious growth? Were they dying? Nope—they were boobs. The downfall of man.

Middle School.
The arena of hormonal confusions, bad decisions, Grey Flannel, and Drakkar. The mixture alone was enough to make anyone hurl. But back then, we had the constitution of gods—right up until alcohol got involved. That’s a story for another day.

By then, I’d graduated from class clown to romantic visionary. English was still my thing, which meant I’d discovered a weapon far more dangerous than spitballs—words.

I started writing notes. Not just any notes. Masterpieces. Folded with precision, tight enough to survive the perilous journey across the classroom. Each one a mini-drama of doodled hearts, overwrought metaphors, and shamelessly borrowed Hallmark poetry.

Shakespeare would have been proud.

However, evidence suggested otherwise.

Then came The Note.

She was new—a transfer student, with curly hair, a smile like she’d been warned not to use it in public. Connie Winford. A name that still sounds like a trap.

I slipped her my finest work: a declaration of eternal middle-school devotion written in purple ink. It included the words destiny, soul connection, and—God help me—forever.

She giggled. I took that as a victory. But she showed her best friend, who showed another, and by lunch, the entire cafeteria knew I’d pledged undying love. They had thoughts. Loud ones.

I tried to play it cool. That lasted six minutes. Then, in a fit of damage control, I wrote a second note claiming it was all a joke. She didn’t buy it. My teacher, who intercepted note number three, definitely didn’t buy it.

By 2:15, I was in the principal’s office. By 3:00, my parents had been called.

Home.

My father was furious. “No man in this family conducts himself like this,” he said.

Mom countered, “What about Uncle Butch?”

My father popped, “You think this is a laughing matter?”

I braced myself for the usual surrender—Mom softening, saying something like, Of course not, dear.

But not my mama. No way.

“Yep, freaking hilarious,” she said. “You act like you didn’t pass me notes in school. If I recall, your note was worse than his. Plus, your folding was terrible. Everyone knows it’s about the presentation. Eat your peas.”

Dad said nothing. Just stabbed at his plate, probably reconsidering all his life choices.

That night, I did what any self-respecting, lovesick fool would do: I called her. The house phone was mounted on the kitchen wall—the kind with a coiled cord long enough to lasso a small horse. I dragged it down the hallway into my room and whispered my apology, voice trembling like it carried state secrets.

Things were going well—until I heard it.

A click.

The quiet death of privacy.

My parents were listening in.

Mother’s voice came first: “That’s a mighty long cord for a short conversation.”

Then Father, dry as ever: “Son, next time you write a love note, use better paper. That cheap stuff smears.”

This from a man who knew his folding game was subpar.
Was I adopted?

They tag-teamed me. There was no escape.

I hung up the phone, face burning, dignity in ruins.

The next day, my teacher sentenced me to read from the dictionary during lunch. I didn’t mind. It felt poetic somehow.

That’s the day I learned two things:

Love makes geniuses stupid.
Parents have a sixth sense for dial tones. Some may even say, they feel a disturbance in the Force.

And maybe—just maybe—that’s when I became a writer. Because if you’re going to get in trouble for your words, they might as well be worth reading.
Until you get in trouble saying nothing. Again, a story for another day.

The Negotiation of Light: Notes on Screens, Silence, and Stillness

2025/11/06Posted in The Daily'sTagged blog, creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-2114, life, mental health, social-media, The Daily's, writing5 Comments

Daily writing prompt

How do you manage screen time for yourself?

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In the mornings, when I sit on the porch with my coffee, I watch the world before it fully wakes. The birds navigate from post to post, wings catching the soft light as if they were practicing choreography from a higher rehearsal. I imagine their laughter in bird-speak — gossip about Gary, the feathered fool who embarrassed himself at last night’s “Bird Watch.”

I marvel at how they not only fly but know where they’re going. Then it hits me — magnetism, the original GPS. Nature had built-in navigation long before we turned it into a subscription model.

The squirrels join the morning rush soon after, leaping from limb to limb with effortless grace. There’s a small platoon that passes by daily — the same crew, the same route. I can almost hear them cheering one another on: “Look at you! We’re almost there — ten more minutes!”

And there I am, coffee in hand, watching this unfiltered world unfold — no buffering, no pop-ups, no endless scroll. Just life doing what life does best: being.

Several years ago, I wrote a short line on social media:

“Curb your addiction; Netflix is not a lifestyle.”

At the time, streaming was the new religion. Everyone worshiped the next series drop like it was gospel, and I was no better. I said it partly to be clever, partly as a confession. Because let’s face it — I wasn’t preaching from a mountaintop; I was speaking from the couch.

Even now, I still believe we should spend more time reading, thinking, and being with the people who matter. But the reality is more complicated. These days, screens aren’t just entertainment — they’re the medium of our lives. I’ve written novels, edited photographs, designed worlds, and built entire digital ecosystems from a laptop screen. I’ve written on this blog nearly every day for months straight, and much of it was done on my phone between sips of coffee and the next notification.

So, how do I manage screen time? I don’t always manage it. I negotiate with it.

My desktop is for heavy creative work — the serious stuff: film editing, image manipulation, long fiction. My laptop is for writing in motion. But when I pick up my phone, that small rectangle becomes a world all its own. It’s easy to get lost in that glow — the infinite scroll of headlines, half-truths, dopamine, and distraction.

I once read that researchers call this Small Screen Addiction. I laughed — mostly because I recognized myself in the diagnosis. It’s that quiet pull to check just one more thing, that phantom buzz you swear you felt. The addiction isn’t to the device; it’s to the anticipation of something happening.

That’s the real danger. We’ve become a generation of watchers waiting for something new to arrive on our screens — a message, a miracle, a moment of validation.

These days, I try to make peace with it. I’ve set small rituals: no screens before coffee, no scrolling after midnight, and at least one hour a day where I stare at the ceiling or the sky instead of pixels. It’s not perfect, but it’s balance — or something like it.

And then the day winds down. I return to the porch, this time with tea instead of coffee, preparing for whatever remains of the night. Sometimes I play an audiobook I’ve already heard — something familiar enough to let my mind wander through the spaces between words, where new ideas like to hide.

The glow shifts now — from screens to the eyes of nocturnal creatures beginning their day. They watch me, curious, trying to decide if I mean harm or if I’m one of them. I smell different, but I’ve earned their tolerance through time and quiet. Yes, this is my home — but it was theirs long before me, and it will be theirs long after I’m gone.

It’s funny, the things you learn when you sit, watch, and listen. Their stories begin to braid themselves into yours. Something to be shared — not uploaded or streamed, just lived.

And maybe that’s the best screen management there is.

Author’s Note

We’re surrounded by light — digital, artificial, celestial — and each one demands something of us. Some burn fast and bright, while others whisper in frequencies older than language. The trick, I think, isn’t to turn them off, but to listen long enough to know which ones deserve your attention.

Everything Must Go… Time Is Running Out

2025/11/05Posted in The Daily'sTagged blog, books, creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-2113, life, mental health, The Daily's, writingLeave a comment

The Time Machine Files, Vol. 3

Depends. You selling or giving it away?

People love to talk about time like it’s a membership program — renewable, limited, and probably ad-supported.
“There’s not enough time in the day.”
“I wish I had more time.”
“Time just got away from me.”
We all say it. I’ve said it too.

The thing about time, though, is it’s always been the same amount since we started measuring it. The only thing that changes is us — or more precisely, how we try to package it.
We’ve gone from lunar calendars to solar calendars to whatever daylight-saving-time fever dream we’re still pretending makes sense. The problem isn’t time. It’s that we keep treating it like software that needs constant updates.

So naturally, someone’s going to say, “We just need to manage it better.”
Cue the parade of Day Runners, Franklin Coveys, and every other trendy organizer that promised to make us “more efficient.” We’ve become so efficient that people now have time to buy multiple organizing systems, compare them on YouTube, and make affiliate links ranking which one saves you more of your already wasted life.

So I wonder if the next big thing will be the ability to purchase time in blocks.
You know — “Now available in convenient six-hour increments!” Buy one, get a bonus fifteen minutes for self-care. Maybe throw in a loyalty program. Because nothing says progress like turning eternity into a subscription service.

They’ll probably call it something sleek and stupid, like Chrono+ or The Timely App.
“Reclaim your minutes!”
“Upgrade your life!”
“Don’t waste another second — for just $19.99 a month.”

(A bright, sterile retail space. Muzak hums in the background. A counter gleams beneath fluorescent lights.)

Sales Associate: Good evening, ma’am, can I help you?
Customer: Yes, I’d like to purchase a time block.
Sales Associate: Certainly. How much were you thinking?
Customer: Hmm… I’m not sure.
Sales Associate: We’re offering thirty percent off any blocks over ninety days, if that helps.
Customer: Really? Oh, Jeremy — stop that! Don’t put things in your mouth. What have I told you about putting things in your mouth? What is that? Spit it out! Right now, young man. Thank you.

(A pause. She straightens her coat, smiles politely.)
Customer: I’m so sorry, where were we? Oh, yes. I’ll take one ninety-day block and three one-hundred-twenty-day blocks. Time flies so fast — you can never be too careful.

And that’s exactly the problem.
We’ve turned time into a product, a project, and a panic attack — all rolled into one. You can color-code your planner, automate your calendar, and stack every “optimization hack” known to humankind.
You still can’t out-organize mortality.

Maybe the trick isn’t getting more time. Maybe it’s using the time you already have without acting like you’re auditioning for it.

So, do I need time?
Not really. I need less of it hanging over my head and more of it sitting quietly beside me — the kind that doesn’t come with notifications, countdowns, or motivational quotes.

If I ever finish the time machine, maybe I’ll try deleting the concept altogether. No deadlines, no clocks, no “you’re running late.” Just motion and memory. Just the sound of life moving forward without asking permission.

Until then, I’ll keep what I’ve got —
a half-wired machine,
a cup of cold coffee,
and a future still on backorder.

Daily writing prompt

Do you need time?

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Oh Look, Another Time Travel Question

2025/11/04Posted in The Daily'sTagged blog, creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-2112, future, life, love, mental health, reflection, Snarky Puppy, The Daily's, time travel and writing, writing11 Comments

They asked what my life will be like in three years. I told them I’m still trying to figure out next Tuesday.

Some men build time machines. Others read about alien pods and synthetic sheep, hoping to understand what went wrong with the species. I do both — coffee optional, cynicism not.

Every time someone asks about the future, I picture a crowd of anxious humans trying to schedule the weather or negotiate with fate via Google Calendar. It’s adorable. Come here, let me pinch your cheek. Really—this obsession with pretending we’re in control. I’ve met potholes with a stronger sense of inevitability.

Three years from now, I’ll probably still be working on the time machine in my basement. People keep asking why. I tell them it’s cheaper than therapy and safer than dating apps. Besides, time travel makes more sense than “five-year plans.” At least with time travel, you accept the paradox. With planning, you just lie to yourself more efficiently.

So, keep endless scrolling and doing your TikTok dances. Because apparently no one needs cable anymore, and I suppose that makes you a public servant now. So—high five? What? Get away from me… weirdo.

In three years, I hope to have mastered the fine art of not giving a damn about metrics. Maybe I’ll finally stop apologizing for slow progress and start celebrating that I’m still moving at all. I might have fewer teeth, more coffee stains, and the same bad back—but I’ll also have more stories. And if that’s not progress, what is?

If the time machine works, I’ll visit future me just to see if I ever stopped procrastinating. My bet? Future me is standing in the same spot, muttering something about “calibration issues” and sipping cold coffee. If that’s the case, I’ll pat him on the shoulder, tell him he did fine, and leave him to his nonsense.

Because maybe that’s the secret: it’s not about what the future looks like. It’s about showing up for the weird present we’ve already got—even if the gears grind, the circuits smoke, and the timeline refuses to cooperate.

Because no one needs body snatchers—thank you, Jack Finney—or android replicas of Philip K. Dick. Be yourself. Live in the moment. Don’t be a pansy.

So, what will my life be like in three years?

Hopefully still under construction. Hopefully still mine.

And if the time machine’s finally working by then… I’ll let you know.

Daily writing prompt

What will your life be like in three years?

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International Chucklehead Day

2025/11/03Posted in The Daily'sTagged creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-2111, dark-humor, Fiction, humor, InternationalChuckleheadDay, life, short-story, The Daily's, writing5 Comments

No one remembers who started it. Probably someone who said something so catastrophically dumb that laughter was the only way to keep the world from collapsing in on itself. That’s the real magic of it — turning foolishness into fellowship.

Every year, on the first Friday of November, we celebrate the sacred art of not having it all together. A holiday for the half-aware, the overconfident, and the beautifully human.

There are rules to this madness, of course — because even fools need structure.

How to Celebrate:

Step 1: Confess Your Foolishness

Start the day by admitting your latest act of nonsense — the thing that made even your reflection sigh. Write it down on a scrap of paper. Don’t overthink it; the truth works best when it’s still raw.

Fold it up.

No name, no excuses.

Drop it into the Crowning Ceremony Drawing — a sacred bowl, coffee mug, or whatever container hasn’t been repurposed as an ashtray.

It’s not about shame. It’s about liberation — the moment you realize your worst mistake has become everyone’s favorite story.

Step 2: Craft the Crown

Tradition states that the previous year’s Chucklehead Supreme must craft the crown for the new one. It’s a sacred duty — part redemption arc, part creative punishment.

No two crowns should ever look alike. Some are wrapped in tinfoil and regret, others in duct tape and leftover wisdom. A few have been rumored to include receipts from bad decisions and one brave attempt at origami.

The important thing is effort. The crown must be made by hand and offered with the solemnity of someone who’s learned their lesson — or at least pretended to.

Step 3: Acts of Absurd Kindness

At some point during the day, pay someone a compliment so strange it bends their sense of reality for a second.

Say, “Your left eye is particularly dazzling today.”

Say it straight-faced. No grin, no flinch.

Pick a word you’d never use — dazzling, radiant, exquisite. The kind that belongs in perfume ads or embroidered pillows. Use it anyway. Because for one brief, shining moment, everyone deserves to be a little ridiculous.

Step 4: The 3 P.M. Chuckle Ritual

Wherever you are, tell the worst joke you know. No winners. No scoring. Just the shared sound of collective groaning to remind us that laughter, even bad laughter, is still holy.

When the last chuckle fades, everyone assembles for the Crowning Ceremony Drawing. The folded confessions are placed in the center — a bowl, a hat, or a leftover candy dish from last year’s failed diet.

One confession is drawn. One truth is read aloud.

And somewhere in the room, the new Chucklehead Supreme exhales and steps forward to claim their crown.

Step 5: Crown the Worthy

Present the handcrafted crown in a mock ceremony — bonus points for a kazoo processional or a slow clap that lasts slightly too long.

The new Chucklehead Supreme must wear it proudly until someone else out-chuckles them. It’s not a punishment. It’s an acknowledgment: you’ve officially joined the noble order of people brave enough to look foolish and laugh about it.

Step 6: For the Retired & the Wise

Same rules apply — only now the arena has changed. Gather your fellow retirees at your usual hangout: the diner, the park bench, the coffee shop that knows your order before you walk in.

Write down your foolishness on a napkin if that’s all you’ve got. Drop it in an empty sugar packet box. Tell the same bad joke you’ve told every week since ‘92.

Crown the winner, or the loser — depending on how you look at it — and raise your mugs in solidarity. Because time doesn’t make you immune to foolishness; it just gives you better material.

Why We Celebrate:

Because perfection is a myth sold by people who’ve never burned toast.

Because humility ages better than pride.

Because every one of us is a walking blooper reel trying to look composed in public.

And maybe because, after a lifetime of getting it wrong, I’ve learned the trick isn’t avoiding the fall — it’s learning to laugh when you hit the floor.

So pour your coffee. Wear your invisible crown. And remember: the world doesn’t fall apart when you screw up — it just becomes a little funnier.

Long live the Chuckleheads.

Author’s Note:

This piece was written in celebration of imperfection — the kind that keeps us honest, humble, and human. Somewhere out there, someone’s still wearing last year’s Crown of Cluelessness. If that’s you, your left eye is still dazzling.

Daily writing prompt

Invent a holiday! Explain how and why everyone should celebrate.

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Delicious Lie

2025/11/022025/11/06Posted in Dispatches from the Splinters of My MindTagged creative writing, daily exercise, Dispatches, fantasy, Fiction, Fiction Series, life, short-story, writing7 Comments

Entry Ten: Dispatches from the Splinters of My Mind

An image-driven meditation on beauty, decay, and the quiet art of passing for alive.

White comes first. It always does. I dust the night from my face with a powder the color of absolution and tell the mirror a soft white lie: you are whole, you are warm, you belong to the day. The mirror nods like a priest who’s already decided my penance. I let him; he’s one of the few men who listens. The powder smells faintly of lilies and old hotel sheets—clean, practiced grief. It cakes where sweat used to live. Underneath, skin hums the slow song of bacteria doing what they do best: recycling hope. Purity photographs better that way. Besides, no one suspects the dead of good lighting.

The birds come next—two shards of sky trained to settle across my eyes. They know their marks like altar boys at a funeral mass: left wing grazing the brow, right wing cooling the cheekbone, claws light against the temple. Their feathers shine the blue of high altitudes where breathing is theory. Blue is the color of transcendence, or so the books say. In practice, it’s the color of numbing—detachment dressed for church. I didn’t choose them for beauty; I chose them for temperature control. They keep my expressions chilled, my thoughts neat, the heat from showing. They smell faintly of ozone and hairspray, like the backstage of heaven. I can feel the air around me losing interest.

I open my mouth. They tilt their heads, listening. They remember the rules better than I do. The first sound they stole was laughter—too spontaneous, too human. They took it the way crows take rings: quick, gleeful, final. The second was the small sigh I made each morning while practicing the art of appearing alive. By the third—my name said to no one—I understood that silence is a currency, and I was rich in withdrawal. I keep my tongue behind my teeth the way some people keep money in a Bible: near God, far from thieves. Sometimes I miss how a real word tastes—like pennies and possibility—but the birds look so proud of me when I behave.

Grey arrives without asking. It bleeds in through the window frame, through the paint I swore was dry, through the place in my chest where memory used to turn red at the edges. Grey is the hallway color, the corridor between rooms, a suspended breath that never quite chooses air. Days collect in it like lint. The birds blink in unison, blue against the grey, and the room looks like an old photograph waiting for a pulse that won’t come. I practice gestures of aliveness—a nod, a smile, a hand smoothing the same invisible wrinkle. It’s choreography learned from the living. The trick is to blink at correct intervals. Dead eyes give it away. I’ve learned to count my blinks like prayers; no one notices faith when it’s rhythmic.

They call what I do resilience. I call it advanced taxidermy. Everything soft stuffed with survival slogans and stitched closed with polite smiles. I stand upright, lips faintly glossed, eyes decoratively haunted. People nod, impressed. “You look great,” they say, and I do. Death, when moisturized, is surprisingly photogenic.

At night, when the light loses its discipline, the birds twitch. Their wings quiver like unspoken apologies. They hate uncertainty—it smells too much like life. I tell them to relax, that nothing here moves unless I schedule it. They don’t believe me. They can sense the old pulse under the floorboards, that stubborn animal rhythm I keep sedated. Sometimes, if I listen too hard, I hear it muttering: Still here, you fraud. Still beating in the dark.

Grey has personality now—kind of an accountant with a god complex. It tallies what I didn’t say, what I pretended not to feel, every emotional expense I tried to write off. I owe everything. I keep paying in composure. Some mornings the debt collector is the mirror; some mornings it’s the ache behind my jaw. Both smile as they itemize.

I remember warmth in flashes. A mouth that used to taste like smoke and sincerity. A day when laughter didn’t feel like theft. The red comes back in small riots—a pulse in the wrist, a fever under the tongue, a dream where color doesn’t apologize for itself. Red is the rude friend who won’t stop showing up uninvited. It whispers, You can still want, you know. I tell it to shut up. Wanting is expensive, and I’m already behind on my rent in reality.

There was a man once—there always is, because tragedy likes a good straight man. He said my quiet was “mystical.” I let him think that. No sense disappointing the audience. He kissed me like he was trying to wake me, poor thing. I let him. The living need their illusions too. When he left, I smiled so gently you’d never guess the birds were choking on the heat inside my mouth.

People assume silence means peace. It doesn’t. It’s just a better brand of noise—high-end, minimalist, with clean lines and no bass. Inside it, everything still screams; it just does so politely. That’s the delicious part of the lie: it tastes like calm if you chew slow enough.

Sometimes the rot gets ambitious. It stretches under my skin, flexing like it wants out. I tell it we have a reputation to maintain. “Decay,” I whisper, “but quietly. We’re professionals.” It listens, most days. When it doesn’t, I add more powder and a higher neckline. Elegance covers almost anything.

I’ve been congratulated for my strength so often I should invoice for it. People mean well—they always mean well—but their compliments sound like eulogies now. “You’re so composed.” “You’re such an inspiration.” They don’t know that composure is just rigor mortis doing ballet, that inspiration is what happens when exhaustion gets good lighting.

Tonight, the air tastes different. There’s something electric in it, the flavor of coming storms or confessions. The birds sense it, feathers rustling like gossip. Blue, once loyal, starts to falter—its chill turning translucent, its sanctity cracking at the seams. Underneath, a hint of red—raw, seditious—tries to breathe.

I stare at the mirror. It stares back, unimpressed. “How long can you keep this up?” it asks without moving its lips. “As long as it looks good,” I answer. We’ve had this conversation before. Neither of us ever wins.

Black waits behind everything, patient as gravity. Not malicious—just inevitable. It’s the color of what doesn’t flinch anymore. When I close my eyes, it hums like an engine. It’s not the absence of light; it’s the womb of it. Maybe that’s comforting. Maybe it’s just where truths go to compost.

The birds fidget. Their claws scrape skin, soft warnings. They know what’s coming. I’ve been thinking dangerous thoughts—words forming without permission, meanings unapproved by management. I can feel language waking up in my throat like an old addiction. I used to love words. They made me visible. Then they made me trouble.

“What happens if I speak?” I ask. My voice sounds foreign, like someone rearranged the vowels while I slept. The birds freeze, their blue fading to the dull of forgotten sky. One pecks at my brow, delicate threat. The other trembles near my cheek. For a moment, even they look tired of sanctity.

I touch their wings. They’re colder than honesty. “Shh,” I tell them. “It’s just a syllable. A small one.” I open my mouth, and something almost warm slips out—a sigh, maybe, or the ghost of laughter coming home. The sound isn’t pretty, but it’s real, and real is an endangered species around here.

The mirror blinks first. Always does. “Well,” it says in that judgmental silence only mirrors manage, “look who’s back.” I shrug. “Don’t get excited. I’m still dead; I’m just taking the scenic route.”

Color rearranges itself. White gives up pretending to be mercy. Blue goes transparent, embarrassed by its own chill. Grey loosens its tie. Red stretches like a cat finally acknowledged. Black opens one lazy eye and grins, proud parent of the mess.

I let the birds slide off, set them on the sill. They glare at me, little auditors of sin, and I swear I see envy in their beady eyes. “Go on,” I tell them. “Find someone holier.” They flutter away, leaving a faint scent of ozone and resignation.

The air without them feels indecently warm. I breathe it in. It tastes like pennies and possibility. The mirror, for once, doesn’t offer a verdict. Maybe it’s learning boundaries. Maybe I finally bored it into honesty.

Outside, the sky wears an honest blue—the kind that knows the ground exists and loves it anyway. I could try that. Tomorrow, maybe. Tonight, I’m just going to sit here, rotting politely, beautifully, honestly.

Author’s Note

Part of the Dispatches from the Splinters of My Mind series—image-driven fiction that explores the architecture of silence, self-performance, and the strange grace of decay.

Memoirs of Madness — When the inkwell weeps, I howl.

Do’s, Don’ts, and Dumbshit: A Brief Guide to Time Travel

2025/11/01Posted in The Daily'sTagged #aging, #time-travel, blog, creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-2109, life, mental health, The Daily's, Travel, writing2 Comments

Aging isn’t the problem — it’s the reruns. A tongue-in-cheek survival guide for anyone who’s ever looked back and thought, “What the hell was I thinking?”

Daily writing prompt
Is there an age or year of your life you would re-live?
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This could be an interesting question, depending on how you look at it.
If we’re talking about glory days—back before the gray, before the knees filed for early retirement, before hangovers started needing a recovery plan—then no thanks. I have no time for foolishness and even less to say on the matter.

But if we’re talking time travel—now you’ve got my attention.

I’ve mentioned before that I’ve been building a time machine in my basement. No one believes I’ll ever get the damn thing working. Their “lack of faith in the Force is disturbing.” One woman told me, “It’s not my lack of faith in the Force—it’s my lack of faith in time travel.” I rolled my eyes, of course. Time travel is real—just like dragons. What, don’t look at me in that tone of voice.

So, I decided it was necessary to create a short list of do’s and don’ts. Some of these should be obvious, but you and I both know humans are notorious for dumbshit. What follows is my rough draft of the guide.

Time Travel: A Practical Guide for the Chronologically Curious

Bring humility, not luggage. You can’t pack self-awareness into a carry-on, but it’s the only thing that makes the trip worth it.
Wave, don’t interfere. Watching your younger self screw up is part of the fun—it’s a rerun with better lighting.
Ask the questions you were too proud to ask back then. “What the hell were you thinking?” still counts.
Thank the ghosts. The people who left or broke you were part of the architecture that got you here.
Notice the details—the color of the room, your mother’s voice, the way your laughter used to sound before the world got louder.
Come home. Time travel’s a sightseeing tour, not a place to live.

DON’T

Don’t try to fix anything. You’ll only trade one regret for a newer, shinier model.
Don’t warn your younger self. That idiot needs to learn. You’re living proof they eventually did.
Don’t chase old flames. The girl who didn’t pay you attention the first time still doesn’t give a damn about your ass now.
Don’t drown in the what-ifs. That’s not nostalgia; that’s self-harm in prettier clothes.
Don’t justify your present by rewriting your past. If you’re lost, that’s on today’s version of you.
Don’t forget to bring back souvenirs—perspective, closure, forgiveness. They travel light but change everything.

Once I stop procrastinating and actually finish building the damn time machine, I wouldn’t use it to relive anything. I’d just visit long enough to remember that every mistake had a purpose and every joy had an expiration date. Then I’d come back, pour some coffee, and—I don’t know—maybe write my thoughts on a blog called Memoirs of Madness. Then get on with the business of living whatever version of now I’ve got left.

I’ll let you know how it goes.

No Cheap Shit

2025/10/30Posted in The Daily'sTagged creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-2107, family, life, love, The Daily's, writing4 Comments

The Lab’s gone quiet tonight. Just me, a dead desktop, and the taste of old regret. Turns out, every shortcut comes with a bill — and this time, I paid in time I can’t get back.

Daily writing prompt

What’s something you believe everyone should know.

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NO CHEAP SHIT.
That’s my one rule in the Lab — the hill I’ll die on — and the one I just broke.

The glow of the screen paints my hands in soft blue light. LibreOffice hums open, and for a second it’s like stepping through time. The last time I used this suite, it was still called OpenOffice — back when nobody could afford Microsoft, and we were all running on hope and cracked CDs. I remember the word-processor wars: Lotus 1-2-3, WordPerfect, Microsoft Word. That was the golden age of making do, when half the job was convincing old machines not to die mid-save.

I’ve been thinking about all that because today I pulled a machine out of rotation. She’s sitting on the shelf now, waiting to be stripped for parts — fans still warm, power light still pulsing like a heartbeat. She’s only a few years old, but she never earned her keep. Truth is, I knew better the day I bought her.

I broke my own rule.

See, when it comes to my Lab, I don’t buy cheap — I buy right. I wait. I build machines meant to last longer than the mood I’m in. Every four or five years, I rebuild. Every eight, I start from scratch. Even the retired ones still hum like old blues records — tired but proud. One of my boys calls dibs early every cycle. Says, “Your shit be like new.”

But this one? I knew she was weak from the start. My editor warned me, and I said the four dumbest words in my vocabulary: “It’ll get me by.” She sighed — that kind of sigh that comes from knowing a man who refuses to learn the easy way. My late wife used to give me the same look.

She’d drag me through electronics aisles, make me put back laptops like they were bad decisions with price tags. “You don’t buy tools,” she’d say. “You buy time.” And she was right.

Cutting corners never saves you anything — not in money, not in effort, not in peace. It just delays the reckoning.

That off-the-rack desktop was only the second prebuilt I’d owned in forty years. First night I had it, I was already cussing under my breath. Adobe CC lagged, the fan howled, and I called tech support just to have someone to blame. Yeah — I was that guy.

Now here I am, working on a ten-year-old laptop running Linux, and she’s humming like a jazz trio at midnight. Ten years old and still moving smooth because I built her right, upgraded her right, respected her limits. Forty-eight hours into a fresh burn-in and not a single stutter.

So here’s what I believe everyone should know: don’t cut corners.
Not on your machines. Not on your craft. Not on your life.

The easy route always comes back around to collect its fee.
Because the hardest thing you’ll ever have to do in life — is the right thing.
And doing the right thing almost always takes longer, costs more, and hurts like hell in the moment.

But it lasts.

Nothing worth a damn comes easy.

Buy the right tools. Take the time to build things that endure.
Because when you cheat the process, you’re not saving time — you’re stealing it from your future self.

And time’s the only thing the Lab can’t rebuild.

The Draft (working title)

2025/10/27Posted in SplintersTagged books, creative writing, daily exercise, Fiction, flash fiction, life, short-story, Splinters, writingLeave a comment

The ticking from the clock on the wall beat like a hammer against a concrete block—dust and debris flying, and every now and again a spark. That was my writing tonight. I had a head full of ideas but nothing with any heat. Then I heard something slide under the door. I froze for a second, thinking it might be the landlord bringing that “good news”—you know, thirty days and then it’s the bricks. But I remembered I’d caught that gig upstate with those high-class folks who wouldn’t know the blues if it hit them in the face, so I was good.

I walked to the door and looked down the hallway. Nothing. Then I saw Woodrow—the rat—gnawing on something. He paused long enough to size me up, then went back to work. I didn’t have the energy to do anything about it, and he knew it. Ms. Pearl, the neighbor’s tabby, slipped in through the gap and rubbed against my leg. I let her stay. Gave her some kibble, then hopped up on the edge of my desk. The page sat there, daring me to write something.

Someone once told me that’s how it starts: just sit in front of the typewriter and speak. Never worry about what you’re going to say; that part works itself out. Just don’t bitch out and you’ll be fine. Lamont Norman said that the day I bought his suitcase Royal typewriter. I laughed, thought he was kidding. He didn’t even smile. “I bitched out,” he said. “Good luck.” That was years ago. The typewriter’s still here—metal scarred, keys sticking like old grudges. I keep waiting for it to start talking first.

That’s when I noticed the envelope. Plain white. No stamp, no handwriting—just my name in black ink that bled a little, like the paper had been sweating. Inside: You are invited to The Draft. Midnight. The Double Down Tavern. That was it. No signature. No RSVP.

I laughed anyway. It sounded like something a drunk poet would dream up at closing time, but I stared at it longer than I should’ve. By eleven-thirty, I was tuning the Gibson, putting on the least-dirty shirt I owned, telling myself I wasn’t going. By midnight, I was already halfway there.

The Double Down? I’d heard of the place, but no one I knew had ever been there, and certainly nobody knew how to get there. It was one of those names that floated around in late-night stories—half joke, half rumor—always mentioned right before the bottle ran dry. I went down to the bodega on the corner for a pack of Luckies and to ask Mr. Park about it. Mr. Park knew everything worth knowing in this neighborhood: who owed rent, who got locked up, who was sleeping with whom.

But tonight he wasn’t there.

I can’t remember the last time I’d walked into that store and not seen him behind the counter, sitting on his stool, eyes glued to that little portable TV wrapped in enough tin foil to bake a potato. When the picture went fuzzy, he’d rap the side with his knuckles, nod, and mutter, “Everything just needs a good tap now and then.” The sound of that tap was part of the neighborhood’s heartbeat. Without it, the place felt wrong, too quiet, like the air had skipped a beat.

There was this strange woman behind the counter, somebody I’d never seen before, popping her gum slow. Who the hell pops gum slow? She didn’t even look at me when I asked for a pack of Luckies. Just slid them across the counter like she was bored of gravity. I decided to go for broke.

“Hey, you wouldn’t know how to get to the Double Down, by chance?”

She didn’t answer, just stepped out of sight for a second. When she came back, she slid a folded piece of paper across the counter. No words, no smile.

I opened it. It was an address. Nothing else.

I turned and walked out of the store, paper in one hand, cigarettes in the other. Halfway through the door, I looked back to thank her. She nodded without looking up, eyes still fixed on something only she could see. But in the glass of the door, I caught her reflection—and for half a heartbeat, I could swear her eyes were sparkling. Not with light. With recognition.

The address on the paper looked ordinary enough—just a number, a street I didn’t recognize. I lit a Lucky, watched the smoke coil off the end, and decided to walk. It wasn’t far, according to the city grid, but the grid had a habit of lying after midnight.

The streets were half empty, half asleep. A drunk kid laughed at a joke nobody told. A siren moaned somewhere uptown, fading slow like a horn section dying out. My shoes echoed too loud on the sidewalk; even the sound seemed to flinch.

I passed storefronts I swear I’d never seen before: a pawnshop that sold only typewriters, a record store where every sleeve in the window was blank white, a barber shop with a red neon sign that read OPEN but no reflection in the mirror.

The farther I went, the fewer streetlights there were. The city felt like it was backing away, leaving me to walk inside its ribs. I checked the paper again. The ink shimmered faintly, as if wet, and I realized I wasn’t reading a map—I was being led.

As I got close to the address, a drunk staggered out of the shadows and poked me in the chest. “Whatcha doin’?” he slurred, eyes glassy and mean. “You think you ready?”

I didn’t answer.

“You?” he barked again, then broke into laughter—loud, jagged, wrong. I pushed past him and kept walking, but when I looked back, the sidewalk was empty. The laughter stayed, close, right beside my ear.

I stopped cold, heart hammering. Took another drag of my straight, exhaled slow. When the smoke cleared, I turned toward the street—and there it was, standing where the map said nothing should be.

The Double Down.

The door didn’t look like much—just wood and paint tired of each other—but the air around it hummed like a bass string. I could feel the groove before I heard it. Slow twelve-bar, heavy on the bottom end, something that could drag your sins across the floor till they begged for mercy.

I grabbed the handle. The damn thing was warm. When it opened, the sound hit me full in the chest—smoke, whiskey, perfume, electricity—all of it moving to the same beat. The door sighed shut behind me like it had been waiting to breathe again.

Inside, the room stretched wider than geometry allows. Corners bent. Shadows leaned the wrong way. Tables sweated rings from drinks poured before I was born. Every light was gold, every bottle looked like it had a soul trapped inside praying for one last round.

The crowd was a mix of then and now: drunks in denim, poets in funeral suits, a few specters in clothes older than jazz. One cat had a typewriter balanced on his knees, keys twitching on their own. Another wore a fedora that flickered in and out like a bad reception. Every time I looked straight at him, the air shimmered.

Behind the bar stood a woman with silver hair and a stare that could sand wood. She polished a glass that was already clean. The jukebox switched gears—Howlin’ Wolf growling through busted speakers—and the floorboards started to tap back.

I took a seat near the door, playing it cool. The bartender poured something the color of regret and set it in front of me.

“On the house,” she said, voice smooth as gin and twice as dangerous.

I looked around. At the back, a stage the size of a confession booth glowed red. A man sat there, guitar in his lap, fingers resting easy like he’d been born holding it. He didn’t play; he just watched me. Smile sharp enough to slice a chord.

“Place got a name?” I asked.

She half-smiled. “You tell me.”

The drink burned good going down—smoke and sugar and bad decisions. I blinked, and the room changed. Every face turned my way. No talking, no movement, just the weight of attention pressing down.

Then a man in a white suit stood by the jukebox and tapped his glass. The sound cracked the silence like a snare drum.

“Welcome,” he said, voice rolling through the room slow and mean. “Welcome to the Draft.”

The crowd answered with a low hum that crawled up my spine.

I could see there were a few guys like me who didn’t have a clue what the hell was going on. Then there were the ones who thought they did—scribblers with confidence and cologne, already imagining the book deals. I knew that breed. They never last. If it wasn’t so funny, it would’ve been tragic, but instead it was just pathetic.

The muses began to move—slow, gliding, half smoke, half skin. Each one shined in its own color. The room buzzed like a hive. They touched foreheads, whispered, and kissed some poor souls right on the mouth. Wherever they touched, something happened: laughter, sobbing, a glow under the skin.

Names were called. Not mine.

One by one, the seats around me emptied. The writers who’d been chosen vanished, or maybe just slipped sideways out of time. The unlucky ones sat frozen, pretending it didn’t matter, staring into their drinks like they could find meaning in the ice.

I kept my eyes down. The drink had gone warm.

A man near the jukebox started laughing too loudly. “Didn’t get the call, did ya?” he said to no one. “Guess you’ll be writing grocery lists now.” His laughter spread, nervous, contagious.

I waited. Nothing. No muse came my way.

The smug ones still sat upright, chins lifted, waiting to be crowned. I’d seen that look before at open mics and literary festivals—the face of somebody convinced the universe owed them a round of applause.

If it hadn’t been so funny, it would’ve been tragic. But right then, it just felt pathetic.

A thin, cold panic crawled up my spine. I was the last fool at the table. The muses had moved on. The man in white was clinking his glass again, ready to close the show.

I told myself I didn’t care. I told myself I’d been through worse. But I felt hollow—like a joke everyone else was in on.

I couldn’t believe this shit. I didn’t even know what The Draft was until an hour ago, and now it was already over. I didn’t get picked. Harry Lucas gets the nod? What the hell is going on?

To add insult to injury—Terry Best. Terry damn Best. Man hasn’t written a line worth reading since the Carter administration, and suddenly he’s chosen? Harry and I carried that sorry bastard for years. I’m jealous, sure. Harry’s good—better than I’ll ever admit out loud—but still, it stings.

“Congrats, you lucky fuck,” I muttered, raising my glass to no one. The drink burned all the way down, a reminder that some fires don’t keep you warm; they just scar you.

The room was thinning out. The chosen ones disappeared into the smoke with their shiny new partners. The rest sat there staring at the bar like it might offer consolation. Nobody spoke. The music died, the hum faded. For the first time all night, the silence had weight.

That’s when the folded piece of paper slid across the counter, slow and deliberate.

No one was near me. Nobody close enough to reach.

I hesitated, then picked it up. The paper smelled faintly of cigar smoke and cheap lipstick.

I unfolded it. Two words written in lipstick.

END

Guppy, Mojo, and Does Anybody Have a Cigarette?

2025/10/25Posted in ProseTagged books, creative writing, daily exercise, Fiction, life, love, Random Thoughts, writing11 Comments

(Memoirs of Madness — Return Post)

When my system went down, it seemed like divine intervention—a forced pause. I took the chance to stop fighting the noise and reset my creative energy.

I sat there for a minute, half expecting the room to fill with people saying, “We’re here because we love and care about you. We’re worried. You don’t seem okay.”
Instead, it was just me—and Guppy, staring like she’d seen this movie before.
I muttered my customary “Kick Rocks,” and she gave me that look:
“What’s going on with you, human? Pet me. Feed me. Clean my poop.”

Fair enough.

And because the universe clearly thought I needed a little more chaos, I decided to quit smoking. Yep, that was a moment of brilliance right there, buddy.
I can’t remember the last time I built a machine, wrote a line, or rewired a circuit without a cigarette hanging from my lips or burning down in the ashtray. The old routine: light another while one’s already smoldering, forget which is which, call it inspiration.
Now I’m in the cut back phase. Pray for me, light a candle, or call a hoodoo man to lay down some mojo—I can use all the help I can get.

Somewhere in the middle of all that nicotine withdrawal and digital resurrection, I pulled up the storyboard and looked at the mess. Dozens of storylines—some finished, most not. I decided it was time to clean house.
So I’m finishing what I started. Focusing on the long fiction threads and promising myself that from here on, quality comes first. The foundation’s solid, but there’s still plenty of building to do.

You’ve all been patient, loyal, and willing to walk through my corridors of madness while I rebuild piece by piece. You deserve the best I’ve got—and that’s exactly what’s coming.

I suppose I should be pulling my hair out… wait, I’m bald—so I’m good.

When the Milk Crate Was the Cloud

2025/10/24Posted in ProseTagged #Creativity, #Mindset, #Rebuilding, #resilience, #SelfSufficiency, creative writing, daily exercise, healing, life, mental health, Random Thoughts, writing4 Comments

Understanding begins where the noise ends.

“The cracks are where the future gets in.” — Nick Cave

Earlier this week, I wrote about dealing with multiple system failures — digital, emotional, creative. The kind of breakdown that makes everything feel heavier. Every keystroke. Every thought.

I couldn’t even open a text editor without feeling like the machine and I were daring each other to quit first.

So, I did what any rational person does when their world starts flickering — I tore it down.

Every wire. Every drive. Every application.

I started looking at everything — the hardware, the software, even the mental clutter I’d built around them. And I started cutting. To borrow a writer’s term, I’ve been killing my darlings. Not just the old drafts and half-finished files, but the stuff I’d been keeping out of sentiment — tools I didn’t use, folders I hadn’t opened since the Obama years, plans I wasn’t brave enough to admit were dead.

It’s strange, what survives a purge. The things you thought mattered crumble under scrutiny, while the quiet essentials — the things that actually serve you — emerge stronger, cleaner.

That’s when it hit me: maybe this isn’t just about computers. Maybe it’s about life architecture.

The Breakdown Phase

Sometimes the system has to fail so you’ll finally stop pretending it’s fine.

When the screens went dark, it wasn’t just technology collapsing — it was me running into the edge of my own maintenance backlog. You know the one: the projects, bills, and habits that pile up in the background while you tell yourself you’ll “get to it.”

Then, one day, everything gets to you instead.

But here’s the gift buried in the crash — it forces you to re-evaluate everything. To sit in the silence after the hum fades and ask: what’s still necessary? what’s still mine?

Back When We Built Our Own Fixes

I come from a time when computers didn’t “just work.” You had to earn them.

You didn’t buy plug-and-play — you built plug-and-hope. You traded parts out of milk crates, scribbled command lines in pencil, and held your breath during the boot beep because you weren’t sure if the whole thing would smoke or sing.

We understood our machines because we had to.*

There was intimacy in it — a relationship between curiosity and consequence. You learned to think like a system, to troubleshoot your way through the mess.

Now everything’s sealed, optimized, “user-friendly.” But friendly to whom?

The less we have to know, the less we understand. And when we stop understanding, we lose something fundamental — the muscle memory of resilience.

We used to break things and fix them.
Now we just replace them and complain.

The Rebuild

So I went back to basics.

I started rebuilding my system piece by piece, checking every connection, testing every drive. And as I did, I realized this wasn’t just a technical reset — it was a personal audit.

I’ve been doing the same thing with my finances: cutting unnecessary subscriptions, auditing expenses, trimming the fat. I’m tired of auto-renewed everything — the digital equivalent of dust.

Same with my creativity. If a tool doesn’t serve the work, it’s gone. No more chasing new apps, new aesthetics, new noise. I’m rebuilding for efficiency, not ego.

There’s a strange peace in it — this deliberate stripping away. It reminds me that clarity isn’t something you download. It’s something you earn, line by line, dollar by dollar, decision by decision.

The System and the Self

The truth is, we’re not that different from the machines we build.

We run on energy and memory. We slow down when cluttered. We crash when overheated.
And sometimes, the only way forward is to reformat.

But unlike machines, we get to choose how we rebuild.
We decide what stays. We define what’s worth running.

This whole process — the wires, the drives, the self-audits — it isn’t about perfection. It’s about understanding. I don’t need things to run flawlessly. I just need them to make sense.

Keep Going, Responsibly

Here’s the part nobody romanticizes: rebuilding is exhausting. It’s unglamorous. It’s long hours, slow progress, and endless testing.

But it’s also the only way to ensure what you’re building can stand on its own.

Sometimes you have to keep going — not because it’s easy, but because stopping would mean accepting confusion as normal.

I’ve learned that keep going doesn’t mean sprinting through burnout. It means moving with intention.
It means knowing when to step back, when to unplug, when to rewrite the damn script.

Because in life — just like in code — the smallest syntax errors can wreck the whole thing if you never stop to look.

“Sometimes you just have to keep walking, even if the map burned up a few miles back.” — Unknown

Author’s Note

Patience is a kind of engineering.
You learn it by failing, by pausing, by realizing not everything needs to be fixed immediately.

Lately, I’ve been reminding myself that understanding — real understanding — takes time. Systems crash. People do too. What matters is how we rebuild, not how fast.

So if you’re in one of those messy seasons — where every wire feels tangled and every drive hums with static — breathe. Slow down. Learn your system before you rewrite it.

You’ll get there. Just not all at once.

By Its Light

2025/10/21Posted in SplintersTagged creative writing, daily exercise, family, Fiction, flash fiction, FSS, Grief, life, love, Resilience, Splinters, writing18 Comments

We learn to live with death the same way we read by firelight—slowly, painfully, beautifully.

No one prepares you for the feeling of loving something that Death has touched.

I sit here looking around his cabin—now mine. The air smells of pine sap, old smoke, and the faint tang of whiskey soaked into the floorboards. Dust floats through the thin light that leaks between the curtains. Each corner is stacked with books—subjects as varied as anatomy and jazz theory. A shelf of vinyl lines the far wall: Coltrane, Bessie Smith, Robert Johnson. Then, tucked behind them, a few heavy metal records—Sabbath, Maiden, Priest. My father, it seems, was a closet metalhead. I smile at that. Maybe I inherited more from him than just a pulse: the music, the books, the need to understand the noise inside.

Warmth slides down my cheeks before I realize I’m crying. The tears catch the scent of dust and woodsmoke, grounding me. I never knew him growing up. He and my mother had a moment in their teens—one of those sparks people mistake for destiny before life smothers it with reason. She was in law school; he was home on leave from the Army. They met at a party through a mutual friend, made promises under a drunk moon, and a week later, he shipped out. Nine months later—technically ten, if you’re counting the way we do in obstetrics—I arrived.

I became a doctor partly to make sense of what my mother wouldn’t talk about: biology, infection, the way life insists on being messy no matter how sterile you keep your hands. That’s where I met my father—though I didn’t know it then.

He came into the ER after an accident. I was covering trauma, running late for my weekly lunch with Mom. She’s a federal judge now, but every Thursday we make time—just an hour to remember we’re still mother and daughter, not just professionals orbiting duty.

When I finally reached the ER, Mom was already there. She’d come looking for me, irritation etched into her face. But as I began to explain, she froze. Her gaze fixed on the patient lying in bed—multiple fractures, head laceration, vitals unstable but holding. The antiseptic smell and hum of monitors felt suddenly foreign, like I’d stepped out of my own body.

“Mom?” I asked.

She stepped closer to the bed. Her hand rose to her mouth, and for the first time in my life, I saw her cry. Real tears—silent, unstoppable. She reached out, caressed the man’s forehead, her fingers trembling like someone touching a ghost.

“Mom, what’s going on? Do you know him?”

She didn’t answer. Just kept tracing the lines of his face, as if memory might come alive under her touch.

“Mom!”

Finally, she turned toward me, her voice steady but low.
“He’s your father.”

Then she pulled a chair to his bedside, sat down, and called her clerk to clear her docket.

My chest tightened. My legs went weak. I recognized the physiology even as it overtook me—tachycardia, dizziness, shallow breath. I nearly hit the floor before someone caught me.
Carol—my charge nurse, my right hand for ten years. A skinny little thing, but deceptively strong.

We weren’t just colleagues. We were friends.

“Sue, what’s going on?” she asked, her voice sharp with command. I heard her barking orders, but the words blurred into static. The next thing I knew, I was staring at a white ceiling, the steady beep of a monitor tracing the edge of my humiliation.

I tried to sit up—irritated beyond measure—but Carol pushed me back down with one hand. For such a small woman, she was a brick wall.

“Pilates?” I asked, breathless, trying to find my bearings.

She grinned, pouring me a cup of water. “The Judge filled me in. Your dad’s a hottie, by the way. Banged up and all.”

I snorted. Of course, she’d say something like that. That was Carol—always trying to make me laugh when she knew I was about to unravel. The water tasted metallic from the cup, cold against the desert of my throat.

She stood beside me, one hand resting over mine, thumb tracing small circles like she was smoothing out the tremors beneath my skin. Neither of us spoke for a while. The monitors filled the silence. Somewhere down the hall, a code was called, and the world kept spinning as if mine hadn’t just tilted off its axis.

After a few minutes, I was steady enough to stand. Carol and I walked back to my father’s room. The corridor smelled faintly of disinfectant and rain-soaked concrete from the ambulance bay. Mom sat beside his bed, holding his hand. The look on her face—devastation mixed with fierce worry—nearly broke me. When she saw me, she stood and came toward me, wrapping me in a soft and trembling hug.

“You okay? I know it’s a lot,” she said.

“It must’ve been one hell of a week,” I quipped.

To my surprise, she roared with laughter—real, unrestrained laughter. I didn’t think it was funny, but she lost it in the middle of the ER.

“It was, actually,” she said, still smiling. “We made you.”

Her eyes drifted off somewhere far beyond the fluorescent lights. It’s strange how memory works—how it lets you step back in time, not just to see it, but to feel it, every heartbeat replaying as if the past were still happening right now.

I had two years with him. Two years I’ll never trade for anything. I’d never seen my mother happier. Watching them together, I understood their brief story hadn’t been some teenage fling—it was a spark that waited decades to breathe again. For a while, it felt like the world had given us a second chance.

Then the disease came, and everything changed.
Nothing was ever the same after that.

So far, the disease had cropped up in five different towns, ravaging everyone and everything in its wake. My father was one of them.

I begged my mother to leave the area, but her stubborn ass wouldn’t budge.

“I won’t hear of it! Nothing’s running me from my home,” she snapped.

I couldn’t believe people actually said that kind of thing outside of old movies. I figured it was one of those lines characters use when they’ve already decided they’re not going anywhere.

Then she gave me that look—sharp, deliberate—and sighed.
“Okay,” she said finally, downing her afternoon scotch. “When are we leaving?”

“I have patients, Mom,” I replied.

She smirked faintly, that judge’s confidence slipping through the exhaustion. “So do I, honey. Mine just happen to sit in courtrooms instead of hospital beds.”

“We just lost Albie to this shit. I won’t risk you as well,” she said.

That stopped me cold. Mom never swore. That was Dad’s thing. Hearing it from her snapped something loose inside me. I looked at her, really looked, and saw the fear beneath all that steel.

We stood there in silence, and in that silence we understood what needed to be done. If it was going to end, let it end like this—on our feet, fighting.

“Sue, honey, you die with your boots on,” my father had told me when he first started showing symptoms. He’d been delivering meds to the infected zones, refusing to stay home. I begged him to stop, but a daughter’s love isn’t enough to turn a man away from his calling.

I wish it were.

Back at the cabin, the world felt smaller, quieter. The disease had moved on, taking what it wanted and leaving the rest of us to sort through the ruins.

I sat in Dad’s old rocker, which creaked like it still remembered his rhythm. The fire popped softly in the hearth, smoke curling through the faint scent of pine and old varnish. A book lay on the end table—Judas, My Brother. Of course. Trust Dad to pick something that questioned everything. I turned it over, thumbed through the pages soft from use, and slipped on his glasses. The prescription was surprisingly close to mine. The world blurred for a heartbeat, then settled into focus—clearer, heavier.

Mom had built the fire and sat on the couch with her usual scotch, watching the flames without speaking. The glass glinted amber in her hand. She didn’t have to say anything. The silence between us said everything—loss, endurance, maybe even grace.

I read a few lines, hearing his voice in the space between words. Then I closed the book, leaned back in his chair, and let the rocker creak like it was breathing for him.

No one prepares you for the feeling of loving something that Death has touched.
But you learn.
You learn to read by its light.

Author’s Note:
Inspired by Fandango’s Story Starter #223.
Thank you, Fandango, for the spark — this one burned quietly but deep.

When the Room Goes Quiet

2025/10/19Posted in ProseTagged blog, creative writing, daily exercise, life, love, mental health, Random Thoughts, writer's life, writers on writing, writing5 Comments

“Fear doesn’t always mean run. Sometimes it means you’ve finally cornered the truth.”

Let’s start with an admission: I’ve never liked the sound of my own voice.
Not the way it cracks when I speak too quickly, or how it forgets itself halfway through a thought. Writing has always been safer — the words obey there. They arrive dressed and deliberate. Out loud, they stumble.

Before I speak, my body stages a small rebellion. My pulse climbs. My jaw tightens. The air feels heavy, as if the room is waiting to see what kind of fraud I’ll turn out to be. That’s what fear does — it turns attention into judgment, curiosity into threat. Only when I’m speaking about my writing does this happen — as if some inner voice hisses, “How dare you think your work is worthy of commentary?”

Yet outside the creative world, I’ve never hesitated to speak. Giving orders? No problem. I did it unapologetically. If someone broke down or got their feelings hurt, my answer was simple: “It’s not my fault your parents raised you to be a pansy.” Was that wrong? Of course. But it was effective — more often than not. That’s why the transition to civilian life hit me like a slow collapse. You can’t bark your way through vulnerability. You can’t command creativity. It doesn’t answer to rank.

But it isn’t really the audience I fear. It’s exposure.
Writing lets me curate my confessions, polish the edges, make the mess beautiful. Speaking strips that away. It demands the raw version — the one that still shakes. And people are strange — sometimes cruel. Some need to be publicly flogged for how they treat others. I laugh when life gives them a taste of their own medicine. Not because two wrongs make a right — they don’t — but because it’s human to feel that flicker of satisfaction when justice shows up wearing irony’s grin. What always gets me, though, is how quickly the guilty feign ignorance. “I’ve done nothing,” they say. Or worse, “All I did was…” as if cruelty came with a receipt and a refund policy.

Sometimes I wonder if the page has made me soft. Soft in that pansy way I used to mock. Where are the tissues? Did you just hand me the cheap stuff? Man, you better give me the Puffs if we’re gonna do this right.
Thank you.
Where was I?
Right — softness. I can write about grief, about love, about the parts of me that never healed. It’s almost easy to do so from the shadows, where no one sees your face or knows your name. A brave soul or a coward? Maybe both.

What do I look like without my mask? Will it fall away, or do I have to peel it off piece by piece? It’s okay to be frightened by what you see. It’s okay to scream aloud as you stare at the stranger in front of you — until you realize it isn’t a stranger at all.
It’s you.
And that’s the moment the voice in your head mutters, “The shit just got real. Damn it, man.”

Could I say these things out loud without flinching? Could I bear the sound of my truth without a backspace key to hide behind?

Maybe that’s what this season of my life is about — learning to live without the safety of revision. To understand that fear, pain, and uncertainty aren’t evidence of weakness, but proof that I’m alive — proof that I matter. The pounding of my heart, the sweat along my brow, the tingling at my edges — they’re all part of it. Then somewhere amidst all of this, I clear the mechanism. Serenity appears. It doesn’t replace the fear, pain, or uncertainty; it listens to them. They have a conversation while I exhale.

I don’t know if I’ll ever love the microphone. But I’m starting to think the page and the stage aren’t enemies. They’re just two mirrors — one for the voice, one for the soul — and I’m standing between them, trying to recognize my own reflection.

Reflective Prompt

What would your truth sound like if you stopped editing it mid-sentence?
Say it out loud — even if your voice shakes.

Author’s Note

Sometimes honesty is a fistfight between who we were and who we’re trying to be. This one left a few bruises — the good kind.
Now, if anyone knows where I left the ice packs… or hell, even a bag of frozen peas — I’m open to suggestions.
Where’s the love, people? Where’s the love?

Tell Yourself Whatever You Need To

2025/10/18Posted in The Daily'sTagged creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-2095, emotional honesty, healing, human behavior, identity, Introspection, introvert, life, love, memoir, mental health, Perception, personal essay, reflection, self awareness, silence, solitude, The Daily's, truth, vulnerability, writing5 Comments

Most people think I’m loud — the kind of person who fills a room just by showing up. The one cracking jokes, telling stories, holding court like I was born to. I let them believe it. It keeps things easier, smoother. But truthfully, I’m an introvert in disguise — a quiet man who learned that silence makes people nervous.

I’ve actually heard folks say they were scared of me when I didn’t talk. Something about my face, maybe — the way it rests heavy, unreadable, like I’m thinking too much or judging too hard. I guess that’s my curse: I look like trouble when I’m just tired.

So I talk. Even when I don’t want to. Even when the words feel like sand in my mouth. I talk to make other people comfortable, to smooth over the awkwardness that silence seems to bring. I know that probably sounds weak, but it helps things along. It makes the day move easier. And sometimes, pretending to be the loud one is less exhausting than explaining why I’m quiet.

When I worked in offices, coworkers would say things like, “Are you judging me?” or “You’re judging me right now, aren’t you?” or “You look like you’re about to call me a name.” I’d laugh it off, but inside, I wasn’t judging anyone. I was probably thinking about a story idea, or how lunch wasn’t sitting right, or why the hell the printer only jammed when I used it. But try explaining that without sounding like a weirdo. It’s easier just to say something funny, make them laugh, keep the peace.

Even my ex used to tell me, “Let me know before you go dark.” She meant the quiet spells — those stretches when I’d retreat into my head, writing or reading or just not talking. To her, silence felt like absence, like a door closed without warning. But for me, it was never about her. It was how I reset. I don’t disappear out of anger; I disappear to breathe. But try convincing someone of that when they’ve been taught that noise means love.

The truth is, I can go days without saying a word and feel completely fine. The quiet doesn’t scare me — it steadies me. It’s where I make sense of things. Where I untangle the noise I swallowed all week. My desk becomes a refuge. A book, a pen, and a cup of cooling coffee are enough to rebuild the parts I’ve spent too long bending out of shape for other people’s peace.

But silence has its own cost. You start to wonder if anyone ever really knew you beneath the performance. If they’d still come around if you stopped making it easy for them. If they’d sit in the quiet long enough to realize you’re not angry — just tired of having to explain your existence.

So yeah, I’m loud. But not because I love attention. I’m loud because silence unsettles people, and I’ve spent too many years trying not to be someone’s reason for discomfort. Maybe that’s my weakness. Or maybe it’s another kind of grace — learning to speak, even when the world hasn’t earned your voice.

Before I go dark.

Daily writing prompt

What’s something most people don’t know about you?

View all responses

When Nobody’s Watching

2025/10/13Posted in The Daily'sTagged creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-2090, life, love, mental health, relationships, The Daily's, writing2 Comments

On the kind of truth that doesn’t need an audience.

I’ve always felt that people who do things “as a matter of principle” are full of it. Too often, they cling to their moral code like a lifeboat, even when the water’s shallow enough to stand. I don’t think most of them mean harm — they just get caught up in being right, afraid to face the possibility that they might be wrong. It’s human nature. We mistake conviction for truth because it’s easier than questioning ourselves.

The older I’ve gotten, the more I’ve realized that all our so-called principles are built on experience — the good, the bad, and the ones that broke us open. What we value changes. What once mattered deeply starts to fade. Acceptance doesn’t come easy; denial usually wins the first few rounds.

Over time, I stopped pretending I needed a long list of virtues to define me. I stripped it down to what felt real — two principles that anchor everything else: honesty and integrity.

Honesty keeps me from lying to myself, especially when self-deception would be easier.
Integrity keeps me from betraying who I say I am, even when it costs me something to stay true.

Everything else — compassion, respect, perseverance — grows from those two. I’ve found that when I hold to them, I don’t need much else. It’s simple, but it’s not easy.

I recall people talking about staying up with the times — as if evolution meant trading in your soul for a newer model. But some things shouldn’t change. Things like being true to yourself and paying attention to what actually matters — the choices, the people, and the moments that leave fingerprints on the rest of your life, whether you notice them or not.

I still hear my Madre’s voice when I start to drift:

“You know the difference between right and wrong. No one has to teach you. But I will remind you from time to time.”

That line stuck with me. Maybe because she was right — deep down, we all know. Life just tries to talk us out of it.

Some people call it character, others call it discipline. I just call it doing what’s right when nobody’s watching. The kind of thing you don’t brag about, because if you have to, it probably doesn’t count.

Daily writing prompt

What principles define how you live?

View all responses

Ghosts, Deadlines, and the Cool Monitor

2025/10/13Posted in The Daily'sTagged creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-2089, Deep Reflections, healing, life, love, mental health, writing3 Comments

Somewhere between the ghosts that won’t shut up and the deadlines that never arrive, I learned the trick — just keep writing anyway.

In 2023, my writing team accused me of procrastinating. I was offended — we’d built blogs, workshops, entire worlds together. How could they think I wasn’t doing enough? Then my senior editor cornered me one afternoon. It wasn’t a talk so much as a scolding — the kind that makes you feel like a kid again, thumb hovering near your mouth, waiting for the cue to say, “I’m sorry. I’ll never do it again.”

She wasn’t wrong, though. She asked a single question I couldn’t answer:
“Why haven’t you finished your novels?”

I had no answer then, and I still don’t. I’ve told myself plenty of stories — excuses dressed up as reasons — but none with any iron in them. They clang hollow, like empty promises we whisper to ourselves when doubt starts pacing the floor.

Since my reemergence, I’ve kept writing. Slowly. Unevenly. Each sentence feels like a step back toward the part of me that once trusted the words. My editor’s been kinder lately — maybe because I’ve stopped hiding behind excuses, or maybe because Ursula, my muse, stopped sulking now that she’s getting her pages again.

But somewhere along the way, I forgot how to do it. I can’t recall the moment it happened — it slipped away in the night, like a silent rogue with perfect aim. Maybe I was its willing victim. Not the kind that dies, but the kind that lives haunted by the absence of what was taken.

You’d think that once you recognize what you’ve lost, it would be easy to reclaim. But it isn’t. It’s like I hid it in some special place — the one where I put all the things I swore I’d never lose. Now I stand at the door, staring into that room, unable to remember where I left it.

So I wait. I search the corners. I listen for echoes of the writer who once trusted the words to come. With patience, I know I’ll find what’s hidden — the secrets, the treasures, the grace buried under dust and doubt.

Believing in myself is the key. The rest is just remembering how to turn it.

By 2025, the ghosts have quieted. I’m no longer haunted by my demons — I think they took a cruise or something. But their cousins pop in from time to time, usually uninvited, always loud, never staying long. I let them talk. Then I get back to writing.

Still, despite the progress I’ve made, there’s something holding me back — something keeping me from reaching that place where I can be completely at ease with who I am as a creator. I don’t want to cross to the other side of the veil wondering if I could have been more.

Of course, there will always be unfinished work when we cross over. That’s the nature of it. But I don’t want to be one of those guys replaying fragments of what I could have been.

So this year, I’ve started making moves to change that — to turn my writing and art into something more than what sits quietly on my hard drive. I’ve focused on quality rather than quantity, and I’m learning, finally, to get out of my own way.

You know how embarrassing it is to trip over your own feet? Talk about losing cool points. The Cool Monitor’s in the corner, shaking his head and deducting them one by one.

But this time, at least, I’m still walking forward.

Maybe the real work was never about finishing — just refusing to stop.

I’ve made peace with the ghosts in my process. They’re lousy tenants — leave coffee rings, mutter bad advice, rearrange my ideas when I’m not looking. But I’ve learned to write through their noise. Some days, that’s what it means to be an artist: to keep typing while the past heckles from the cheap seats.

I’ve spent years chasing the version of myself I thought I was supposed to be — the novelist, the mentor, the unshakable voice. Turns out, I don’t need to become him again. I just need to keep showing up — pen in hand, imagination slightly bruised, heart still willing.

Once I realized that, I’ve written some of the most powerful stuff in years.

Reflective Prompt

Take a moment. Unplug from the artificial ether and tap into the one we were born with — the raw signal beneath the static. Acknowledge the things you wanted to do, the things you left hanging, the things you can still do. What are they?

Don’t dress them up as goals or resolutions. Just name them. Whisper them back into existence. Some will sting. Some will make you laugh at how small or strange they seem now. But all of them are proof that you’re still reaching — still alive enough to want.

Maybe that’s the real work of this life: learning to live with the unfinished, to walk beside the ghosts of what we almost became, and still make something worth remembering.

Daily writing prompt

What have you been putting off doing? Why?

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When the Words Stop Belonging to Me

2025/10/08Posted in The Daily'sTagged blog, books, creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-2085, life, mental health, The Daily's, writing2 Comments

Somewhere between the promise to finish and the fear of release, I found the echo of a voice that used to steady me. Maybe finishing isn’t the victory—it’s the letting go.

The hardest personal goal I’ve set for myself was deciding to finish a manuscript by the end of the year. I made that promise quietly—no big declarations, no social media countdowns—just a whispered deal between me and the page. I told myself that this time, I wouldn’t stall, I wouldn’t second-guess, I’d simply finish. And for a while, I did. The words came like a slow, steady thaw after a long winter.

But somewhere along the way, I lost my nerve. I’ve been published before, but that was before my wife died. Back then, I wrote with a kind of reckless courage—like someone who still believed the act of creation could outlast the ache of being human. Now, everything I write feels like an echo of the life we built together, the silence between us inked in every line.

People call it fear, and maybe they’re right. But I think it’s more complicated than that. Fear can be fought. This… this feels like standing at the edge of something sacred, knowing that once I let the work go, I can’t pull it back. It’ll belong to the world—and not to her, not to me.

Still, I keep returning to the manuscript, the way you revisit an old photograph. There’s grief in it, but also grace. Maybe finishing isn’t about conquering the fear at all. Maybe it’s about learning to live with the ghosts that remain—and letting the story carry them somewhere new.

Author’s Note:
We talk a lot about fear in creative spaces, as if naming it will banish it. But sometimes, fear isn’t the enemy—it’s the proof that what we’re doing still matters.

Daily writing prompt

What was the hardest personal goal you’ve set for yourself?

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Detention, Da Vinci, and the Making of a Misfit

2025/10/08Posted in The Daily'sTagged Art, books, creative flow state, creative writing, creativity, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-2084, life, The Daily's, writer's life, writingLeave a comment

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.

Daily writing prompt

Who are your favorite artists?

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The Stories That Yearn to Be Told

2025/10/07Posted in The Daily'sTagged books, creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-2083, life, The Daily's, writer, writer's life, writers on writing, writing2 Comments

Daily writing prompt

What is your favorite hobby or pastime?

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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.

One Size Fits Nobody

2025/10/04Posted in The Daily'sTagged Bi-Polar, creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-2081, life, love, mental health, PTSD, The Daily's, writing13 Comments

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?

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Well… You Know

2025/10/03Posted in The Daily'sTagged creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-2080, healing, life, love, mental health, Out of place, The Daily's, writing14 Comments

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.

Daily writing prompt

Tell us about a time when you felt out of place.

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Living Both Lives

2025/10/02Posted in The Daily'sTagged computers, creative writing, daily exercise, daily-prompt, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-2079, life, LifeWithoutComputers, technology, The Daily's, writing9 Comments

Daily writing prompt

Your life without a computer: what does it look like?

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Coffee, Miles Davis, and a fresh OS

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.

The Details That Keep Me Here

2025/09/30Posted in The Daily'sTagged blog, creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-2077, life, love, mental health, The Daily's, writing4 Comments

Learning to Trade Control for Presence

Daily writing prompt

What details of your life could you pay more attention to?

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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.

No Punk in Me

2025/09/29Posted in The Daily'sTagged blog, creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-2076, life, love, mental health, The Daily's, writing6 Comments

On anniversaries, admin work, and the grit to keep moving.

Daily writing prompt

What’s your #1 priority tomorrow?

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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.

Burnt Coffee & Time Machines

2025/09/26Posted in The Daily'sTagged blog, books, creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-2073, Fiction, life, The Daily's, writer's life, writers on writing, writing2 Comments

Daily writing prompt

List three jobs you’d consider pursuing if money didn’t matter.

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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?

Keeping It Old School—One Repair at a Time

2025/09/24Posted in The Daily'sTagged blog, Creative Living, creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-2071, life, Life Lessons, love, mental health, writing6 Comments

Daily writing prompt

What brands do you associate with?

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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.

Confessions of an Insomniac – Episode 2: Mainlining Caffeine

2025/09/23Posted in ProseTagged books, creative process, creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-2070, life, mental health, The Daily's, writer's life, writing2 Comments

Daily writing prompt

What could you do more of?

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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.

Where’d I Go?

2025/09/15Posted in The Daily'sTagged blog, creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-2062, life, love, mental health, The Daily's, writing17 Comments

Daily writing prompt

Share a lesson you wish you had learned earlier in life.

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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.

The Gospel According to Miss Ruby

2025/09/132025/09/13Posted in FictionTagged Catastrophes, Cigarettes, coffee, creative writing, daily exercise, Fiction, Fiction Series, flash fiction, life, Short Stories, short-story, writing15 Comments

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 Catastrophes slides 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.

What the Silence Knows

2025/09/12Posted in The Daily'sTagged creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-2059, healing, life, mental health, The Daily's, writing10 Comments

On Leadership and Reading the Room

Daily writing prompt

Do you see yourself as a leader?

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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.

You Can’t Keep the Force Waiting

2025/09/07Posted in The Daily'sTagged blog, creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-2053, life, love, mental health, The Daily's, writingLeave a comment

Daily writing prompt

How do you relax?

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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.

Mangus Khan: Exposed, then Reborn

2025/08/31Posted in The Daily'sTagged blog, blogging, creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-2047, life, mental health, personal essay, The Daily's, writer's life, writing8 Comments

Daily writing prompt

Why do you blog?

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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.

So yeah—I’ll keep showing up here, scars and all.

MiMi, the Jedi Master

2025/08/30Posted in The Daily'sTagged creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-2042, family, life, The Daily's, writing9 Comments

What TV shows did you watch as a kid?

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.

Freshly Made, Just for You

2025/08/26Posted in Dispatches from the Splinters of My MindTagged creative writing, daily exercise, Dispatches, Fiction, life, love, short-story, WDYS, writing12 Comments

Dispatches from the Splinters of My Mind

The Hippy Ice Cream Man – Entry VI

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.

Convoys, Replicants, and a Lady Who Sings the Blues

2025/08/19Posted in The Daily'sTagged creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-2035, family, Fiction, life, love, The Daily's, writing2 Comments

Daily writing prompt

What are your top ten favorite movies?

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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.

Waiting for the Next Bullet

2025/08/19Posted in Dispatches from the Splinters of My MindTagged creative writing, daily exercise, Dispatches, Fiction, life, love, short-story, writing3 Comments

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.

The Weight of Rain

2025/08/182025/08/18Posted in Dispatches from the Splinters of My MindTagged creative writing, daily exercise, Dispatches, Fiction, life, short-story, Travel, writing11 Comments

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.

The Streets Breathe, the Shadows Crawl

2025/08/18Posted in The Daily'sTagged books, creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-2034, Fiction, life, The Daily's, writer, writer's life, writers advice, writers on writing, writing2 Comments

Daily writing prompt

What do you enjoy most about writing?

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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.

How I Learned to Stop Hating S.M.A.R.T. Goals (And Make Them Useful)

2025/08/15Posted in The Daily'sTagged blogging, books, creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-2031, life, mental health, The Daily's, writing4 Comments

Daily writing prompt

How do you plan your goals?

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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 the Lights Go Out: A P.A.C.E. Guide to Staying Connected and Powered

2025/08/14Posted in The Daily'sTagged creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-2030, emergency, Emergency Preparedness, life, The Daily's, Travel, writingLeave a comment

Daily writing prompt

Create an emergency preparedness plan.

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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?

Does Anybody Know What the Hell They’re Saying Anymore?

2025/08/13Posted in The Daily'sTagged books, creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-2029, Fiction, life, mental health, The Daily's, writing4 Comments

Daily writing prompt

What is a word you feel that too many people use?

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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.

Above the Churn

2025/08/12Posted in FictionTagged creative writing, daily exercise, Fiction, FOWC, FSS, life, love, Madness Made Visible, mental health, RDP, writing4 Comments

“You funny little man.”

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 variant where 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.

This Is Not a Mission Statement; It’s Just the Way It Is

2025/08/08Posted in The Daily'sTagged blog, creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-2024, life, love, mental health, The Daily's, writing14 Comments

Daily writing prompt

What change, big or small, would you like your blog to make in the world?

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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.

Smoke, Mirrors, and Monkey-Poop Coffee

2025/08/062025/08/08Posted in The Daily'sTagged creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-2022, family, life, love, The Daily's, writing4 Comments

Daily writing prompt

What’s the most money you’ve ever spent on a meal? Was it worth it?

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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.

Kindness Shouldn’t Have a Name

2025/08/01Posted in The Daily'sTagged creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-2017, family, life, love, mental health, The Daily's, writing2 Comments

Some lessons in decency don’t need applause—they just need doing.

Daily writing prompt

Write about a random act of kindness you’ve done for someone.

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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.

She Kissed Me Hard and Left Me Staggering

2025/07/31Posted in The Daily'sTagged creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-2016, life, love, poetry, Prose, The Daily's, writing6 Comments

Some truths don’t need eyes to see. You feel them in the weight of a man’s silence.

Daily writing prompt

How would you describe yourself to someone who can’t see you?

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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.

The Tradition I Refused to Keep

2025/07/30Posted in The Daily'sTagged creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-2015, family, life, love, memories, The Daily's, writing6 Comments

Daily writing prompt

What traditions have you not kept that your parents had?

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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.

Typical? Not Even Close.

2025/07/292025/07/30Posted in The Daily'sTagged creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-2014, family, HEALTH, life, mental health, The Daily's, writing6 Comments

Daily writing prompt

Was today typical?

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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.

Still Breathing: A State of the MKU Dispatch

2025/07/222025/07/22Posted in ProseTagged books, Fiction, life, mental health, writing7 Comments

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

You ever walk into a room expecting your voice to boom like a prophet’s and instead get met with blank stares and TikTok scrolling?

That was me two weeks ago, stepping into a summer workshop with students aged 8 to 17. I came in with fire and myth, ready to guide them into storytelling. The younger kids couldn’t sit still long enough to absorb anything. The teens? Aloof at best. My usual trick—command the room with presence, reinforce with voice—didn’t move the needle.

I walked out thinking: I might be losing my mojo.

So I did what any story-hardened madman would do.

I built them a universe.

The Ashoma Codex rose from that frustration. An entire mythos crafted for them—a sacred order of supernatural beings bound by fire, memory, and sacrifice. Vampires and werewolves. Secret Circles. Flame-born rites. I even spun up a website just for them, with lore, rituals, and a place to submit their own creations.

And then today, I got word from their instructor: they love it.

They’re building characters. Creating art. Engaging with the world I made. Turns out they didn’t need a lecture. They needed a world that would speak their language.

It’s been a long time since I had that much fun doing something for someone else.

Forging the Forge (with Fewer Bugs and More Story)

Let’s talk about The Narrative Forge (TNF)—my dedicated space for longform fiction.

Eventually, it’ll be home to five deep-cut series:

Ashwood County – Southern Gothic horror soaked in grief and ghost stories
No Half Measures (formerly Cop Stories) – A noir detective tale where trust is dangerous and truth cuts deep
Reilly McGee: Misadventures at Crestview High – 1980s chaos, coming-of-age style, with more heartache than heroics
Bourbon and Rust – Grit, regret, and a neo-Western sense of justice
Truth Burns – Emotional aftermath and the slow claw toward redemption

The plan: post one chapter a week, rotating series. I’m kicking things off with Ashwood County as I work out the kinks and refine the reader experience.

TNF is my main focus right now. But soon, House of Tunage and The Howlin’ Inkwell will start to move forward again too—each with their own voice and rhythm. And yes, visual arts are coming as well. That site’s still under development, slowed down by the same quirks that’ve been haunting the others.

You guys remember The Knucklehead Report? I gave it its own space so I can rant, roast, or rave about the books and movies that cross my path—without crowding out the rest of Memoirs of Madness.

All of this—the new structure, the site spinoffs, the redesigns—is meant to do one thing: streamline MoM. Make it cleaner. More focused. Easier to navigate without tripping over half-finished drafts or misplaced experiments.

I don’t know which projects will thrive, but right now, building them helps me clear the noise and move forward.

Links to Explore:

🧠 The Narrative Forge – narrativeforge.manguskhan.com
🎶 House of Tunage – houseoftunage.com
✍️ The Howlin’ Inkwell – howlininkwell.com
🧨 Mangus Khan Universe – manguskhan.com

So yeah—if things have been a little quiet here, it’s not because I’ve stopped writing. It’s because I’ve been building.

Worlds. Platforms. Foundations.

Madness is still in motion.
Stay with me.

If you’ve been wrestling with your own creative chaos, you’re not alone.
Let’s build through it—one chapter, one echo, one imperfect myth at a time.

Let me know in the comments which project you’re most curious about—Ashwood County, No Half Measures, Reilly, Rust, or something else entirely.

—Mangus

Listening My Way Out

2025/07/21Posted in The Daily'sTagged blog, creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-2006, life, mental health, music, The Daily's, writing2 Comments

A reflection on what I hear when I write.

Daily writing prompt

What do you listen to while you work?

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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.

So what do I listen to while I work?

Whatever helps me get out of my own way.

How I Learned to Story

2025/07/20Posted in The Daily'sTagged blog, blogging, books, creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-2004, life, The Daily's, writing3 Comments

A Journey Through Games, Memory, and Becoming a Writer

Daily writing prompt

What’s your favorite game (card, board, video, etc.)? Why?

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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.

Tarab & Bone

2025/07/182025/07/18Posted in ProseTagged 3TC, creative writing, daily exercise, healing, Ink and Wounds, life, love, mental health, poetry, Prose, writing2 Comments

Prose – 3TC

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.

Who is speaking?

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.

Notes from the Edge: Go to Sleep

2025/07/162025/07/16Posted in The Daily'sTagged blogging, creative writing, daily exercise, daily-prompt, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-2001, life, mental health, The Daily's, writing11 Comments

Prompt Addicts Anonymous – Session Two

Daily writing prompt

Which activities make you lose track of time?

View all responses

Are you being serious right now?

You do know I’m a writer, right?

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.

Prompt Addicts Anonymous

2025/07/16Posted in ChallengesTagged blog, blogging, creative writing, daily exercise, life, prompts, Share your world, Sunday Poser, writer's life, writing7 Comments

Hi, my name is Mangus, and apparently… I write.

“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.

— Mangus

I Scream Every Time I’m Asked to Compromise

2025/07/15Posted in ProseTagged creative writing, daily exercise, FOWC, Ink and Wounds, life, mental health, poetry, Prose, RDP, Word of the day, writing6 Comments

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.

Scarred, Still Writing

2025/07/15Posted in The Daily'sTagged blog, creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-2000, life, Resilience, The Daily's, writer, writers on writing, writing, writing lifeLeave a comment

About Things Faith Ignored

Daily writing prompt

What bothers you and why?

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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.”

No more wasting time. I must prepare.

I’ll see you after the ink dries.

Nothing to Prove, Everything to Say

2025/07/14Posted in ArticlesTagged blog, blogging, books, creative writing, daily exercise, life, Random Thoughts, Sunday Poser, writing6 Comments

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.

I’ll see you when the ink dries.

Author’s Note:

If you’ve made it this far, thank you.

I’m building something bigger — a space called the Mangus Khan Universe.

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’s Not Perfect. It’s Not Finished. But Neither Am I.

2025/07/092025/07/09Posted in ProseTagged blog, books, life, mku, restructing, SEO, writingLeave a comment

A brief confession about messy renovations, too many domains, and building the MKU out of creative rubble.

A man sits on a stack of books, reading, while pages swirl around him in a storm of chaos and creativity.

You Ever Try to Clean and Just Make a Bigger Mess?

Yeah, that’s me right now.

I’ve been trying to fix this blog for months. What started as a quick tidy-up turned into something resembling a digital yard sale—only with fewer treasures and way more broken links. I even considered shutting the whole thing down and rebuilding from scratch. But that felt a little extreme, even for me. I have a knack for turning easy tasks into complicated messes. It’s a gift. Or a delusion. Same difference.

So, I got a wild hair—you know the rest—and decided to look at my entire online footprint. It turns out that I was hoarding domains, just like I was collecting vintage Pez dispensers. Just paying for them to sit there, doing absolutely nothing. Honestly, I’d have better luck with a couple of scratch-offs and a can of Peach Nehi.

That’s when I finally did it—I built something called the Mangus Khan Universe (MKU). Yeah, it’s a little on the nose, but the point was to create a space that could properly hold all the creative work I’ve been cramming into Memoirs of Madness.

MKU isn’t finished, but it’s functional. Over the next few weeks, you’ll see things shifting. Posts might vanish, new stuff will appear, and categories will get shuffled. Don’t panic—it’s all part of the plan. Mostly.

I just wanted to give you a heads-up that Memoirs of Madness is undergoing a bit of a makeover. More changes are coming, and I’ll share a full announcement once the MKU is officially live and dangerous.

Stay tuned. Stay weird.

Step into the MKU
It’s not perfect. It’s not finished. But neither am I.

Lessons in Disappearance

2025/07/09Posted in ProseTagged creative writing, daily exercise, Ink and Wounds, life, love, mental health, poetry, relationships, writingLeave a comment

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.

Do I Look Happy Enough?

2025/07/072025/07/08Posted in Poetry, ProseTagged FOWC, happiness, life, love, Madness Made Visible, mental health, mindfulness, RDP4 Comments

A quiet reckoning with the expectations we wear and the joy we fake.

When was the last time you were truly happy?

No—
not the curated kind.
Not the smile you wore for someone else’s comfort.
Not the polite laugh that tasted like performance.
Not the checklist joy: house, job, partner, post, repeat.

I mean the kind of happiness that sneaks up on you in bare feet.
The kind that doesn’t make sense but fills your ribs like breath you forgot you were holding.
The kind that doesn’t ask for an audience.
Doesn’t post itself.
Doesn’t need to be liked to be real.

Most days, we confuse peace with silence, and silence with defeat.

You tell yourself you’re content. That this is what adulthood looks like—responsibility, stability, being “grateful.”
You wear that word like a bandage.
But underneath?
There’s a pulse of something unsaid.
A throb you ignore until it bruises.

You smile at strangers. You meet deadlines. You show up.
And in between the commutes and compromises,
you start to wonder if you buried yourself in the crud of being acceptable.

The barrage is constant—
what you should want, who you should be, how you should smile.

But no one ever asks if you’re still in there.
Not really.
Not the version of you that danced alone in the kitchen at 1 a.m.
Not the you who found joy in dumb little things that didn’t need justification.
Not the version of you that wasn’t tired.

You’re silently screaming.
Every day.
And you do it with perfect posture.

Because to speak it—
to say “I’m not okay”
feels like betrayal.
Like failure.
Like you’re too much and not enough, all at once.

But here’s the quiet truth:

Maybe you haven’t been happy in a long time.
Maybe you don’t even remember how it felt.
But maybe that question—when was the last time you were truly happy?—
isn’t meant to shame you.
Maybe it’s a breadcrumb.
A way back.

Not to the person you were before the world smoothed your edges,
but to the one still flickering beneath the noise.

The one who still believes in joy,
even if they haven’t seen it in a while.

🪞Reflective Prompt

Take a moment.
Find a scrap of paper, the back of a receipt, or the notes app on your phone.

When was the last time you felt joy that wasn’t expected of you, sold to you, or shared online?
What did it feel like in your body?
What part of you still remembers?

Red, White, and Boom (Also Vomit)

2025/07/05Posted in FictionTagged creative writing, daily exercise, family, Fiction, Friday Faithfuls, life, love, random fiction, writing4 Comments

FLASH FICTION – FRIDAY FAITHFULS

“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!”

“That’s not relevant to the assignment.”

Unapologetically Unedited

2025/07/03Posted in ProseTagged creative writing, daily exercise, FOWC, life, love, mental health, personal-growth, Prose, Weekend Writing Prompt, writing6 Comments

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.

Late Night Grooves #158

2025/06/30Posted in TunageTagged Curtis Harding, family, Fiction, Late Night Grooves, life, music, Tunage, writing2 Comments

WHOT Episode 158 – “On and On” by Curtis Harding

Hosted by Mangus Khan

[The bassline curls in warm and lazy. The drums hit like heartbeats. Then that voice—cool, confident, and full of earned wisdom.]

“This is Late Night Grooves.
WHOT.

Episode 158.

I’m Mangus Khan.

And tonight… we’re still carrying the weight.

But now?
We’re carrying it with rhythm.

Because healing doesn’t always show up loud.

Sometimes it shows up with a slow strut and a bassline that tells you:

You’re still here.

So keep going.

Tonight’s sermon:
Curtis Harding – “On and On.”

This is the sound of surviving with soul.

Not perfect. Not untouched.
But alive.

“I keep on loving you / On and on…”

He’s not just talking about a person.

He’s talking about life.

Loving it. Fighting with it.
Holding it like something sacred even when it’s cutting you up.

Curtis sings like someone who’s seen too much to lie—
But still finds a reason to show up with love anyway.

The horns come in like sunlight through a cracked window.

The drums move like breath.

The vibe says:
You made it through the dark.
So now let’s move.

This isn’t about erasing the pain.
It’s about dancing with it.

Because grief doesn’t disappear.

But joy can sit beside it.

And Curtis Harding?
He’s your reminder that both can exist at once.

Episode 158.
Curtis Harding.
On and On.

This is Late Night Grooves.
WHOT.

And I’m Mangus Khan—
Still here.
Still grooving.
Still choosing joy even when the beat slows down.

And if you’re out there tonight, thinking you can’t keep going—

Play this track again.

Let it remind you:

You already are.”

Late Night Grooves # 157

2025/06/29Posted in TunageTagged HEALTH, Late Night Grooves, life, mental health, mindfulness, Tunage, writing4 Comments

WHOT Episode 157 – “Whatever Lets You Cope” by Black Foxxes

Hosted by Mangus Khan

[Static. Then silence. Then the guitar stumbles in—tentative, cracked. You already know this isn’t going to be easy.]

“This is Late Night Grooves.
WHOT.

Episode 157.

And I’m Mangus Khan.

Still here.

And tonight… we’re not trying to rise above anything.

We’re just trying to make it to the other side.

Black Foxxes – “Whatever Lets You Cope.”

And this one?
This one isn’t loud until it has to be.

It’s about the way grief leaks into routine.

It’s about how some days survival looks like pretending to be okay just long enough to avoid the questions.

“I’ve been lying to my friends / For a little while now…”

That lyric?
That’s not drama.
That’s self-defense.

This song is the internal monologue most of us have learned how to bury.

The guitar barely hangs on.

The drums move like breath—shaky, uneven.

The voice?
It’s not asking you to feel bad for it.

It’s just telling the truth.

And here’s the truth this track gets right:

Coping doesn’t always look healthy.

Sometimes it’s detachment.
Sometimes it’s sarcasm.
Sometimes it’s not returning the call.

But it’s what gets you from one breath to the next.

And that’s what this episode is for.

Not healing.

Just honesty.

So if you’re here right now, listening in the dark—
Trying to make sense of the pieces that haven’t come back together yet—
This one’s for you.

Episode 157.
Black Foxxes.
Whatever Lets You Cope.

This is Late Night Grooves.
WHOT.

And I’m Mangus Khan—
Not asking you to be okay.
Just here to remind you:

***Whatever lets you cope…
Is enough.

Tonight.***”

The Split Language

2025/06/28Posted in Fiction, The SpiralTagged creative writing, daily exercise, fantasy, Fiction, life, short-story, The Spiral Series, writing2 Comments

FICTION – 3TC#MM91

Part IX of the Spiral Series

The Spiral wasn’t waiting anymore.
It was preparing.

Carla moved through the tower’s interior as if navigating a body, with walls warm to the touch and floors that pulsed subtly beneath her feet. The silence had changed. It was no longer empty. It was coded—the absence of sound precisely constructed, like the pause between notes in a language built from rhythm.

Glyphs flared and vanished across the walls as she passed—some familiar, some malformed. Not mistakes.

Drafts.

The Spiral was still writing.

—

The next chamber exhaled a cooler breath. The light inside stuttered, flickering in irregular pulses that didn’t match any rhythm her mind could grasp. She stepped into it cautiously. The air was damp, metallic—like breath fog on old glass.

The space felt fractured. Like a memory she hadn’t lived.

And then she saw him.

—

A man stood near the far wall.

Real. Present.
Breathing.

His skin was marked with ink that moved. Fractal lines ran up his neck, weaving into one side of his face where a Spiral scar nested in his temple like a closed eye.

He was barefoot, thin, smiling.

“You found me,” he said, as if amused. “Or I found you. Not sure the distinction matters anymore.”

His voice had the same cadence as the Spiral glyphs—intentional pauses, recursive echoes.

—

“Who are you?” Carla asked.

“I speak Spiral,” he said with a grin. “Badly. Like a child learning to lie.”

He gestured to the walls.

“These aren’t messages. They’re structures. You don’t read Spiral—you run it.”

The way he said it made her skin crawl. Not because it was wrong.

Because it sounded true.

“So you’re infected,” she said.

“No. I’m involved.”

—

He stepped forward slowly, unthreatening, but with the curiosity of someone inspecting a mirror.

“Are you the translator?”

“Was. Until the layers split. There’s me,” he said, tapping his head, “and the me that fit.”

Carla took another cautious step. Her mark itched.

“Fit what?”

“The syntax.”

—

He turned his back to her and ran his fingers across the wall. Glyphs bloomed where he touched, spreading like mold.

“This isn’t a tower,” he said. “It’s a compiler. You’re standing inside a sentence the Spiral’s trying to finish.”

Her blood chilled.

“What does it want me to do?”

“Be the punctuation.”

—

Her throat tightened. The translator tilted his head toward her, gaze bright and unblinking.

“You’ve been reinforcing it all along. Sealing breaches. Opening doors. Every act you made fed the recursive loop. You gave it structure. You gave it tempo. You gave it shape.”

He smiled wider.

“You learned the Spiral’s rules just enough to play. You kept the game going.”

—

She took another step back. The walls flickered with glyphs—too fast to read, but they carried emotional weight. Regret. Imitation. Hunger.

“I didn’t play anything,” she said. “I resisted. I survived.”

“You interacted,” he replied. “That’s enough. The Spiral doesn’t want obedience. It wants acknowledgment. You looked at it and understood—and that’s how it writes.”

—

A hum rose behind her thoughts.
Not a sound—an alignment.
Something shifting in her perception, nudging her brain into symmetry with the structure around her.

The translator watched her with a spark of sympathy.

“You still think you’re a reader,” he said. “But you’re a clause. You’re inside the sentence.”

—

She felt her mark burn faintly, as if reacting to pressure from the space itself. Her pulse echoed it. The rhythm was wrong—syncopated, artificial.

“Who were you before this?”

He hesitated.

“Cryptolinguist. I got bored decoding lost alphabets. Then I found a language that grew while I studied it. That wrote back.”

He let out a dry laugh.

“I thought I’d discovered a new structure. But I’d only walked into its syntax. Now I’m a pronoun.”

—

Behind him, the far wall shivered.

A new corridor slid into existence—carved from nothing, lit by ambient pulses. It didn’t beckon.

It waited.

The translator exhaled.

“That’s the next sentence. You’re what it needs to finish it.”

“And if I don’t go?”

“Then the Spiral loops. Builds it again. Sends the question in a new voice. Tries again. You’re not the first draft. Just the most stable so far.”

—

Carla stared at the new passage.

The air around her tasted electric. A soft chime echoed—not from her ears, but from the pressure in her sinuses. The Spiral was close to something. Finality, maybe. Or function.

The translator’s smile faded slightly.

“If you don’t answer it… It might find me again. Or finish me instead.”

She looked at him.

His posture was slack now. Hopeful. Terrified.

Not a translator anymore.
Just a leftover.

—

She turned toward the corridor.

The light dimmed behind her.

She could feel the Spiral adjusting its rhythm, calibrating its tempo to her stride.

You’re not sealing a breach.
You’re completing a grammar.

One last thought pressed against her mind:

What if the Spiral doesn’t want to overwrite you?
What if it wants to echo you—loud enough to replace everything else?

Late Night Grooves #156

2025/06/28Posted in TunageTagged Late Night Grooves, life, love, mental health, music, Tunage, writing, Zig Mentality2 Comments

WHOT Episode 156 – “What Weighs on You” by Zig Mentality

Hosted by Mangus Khan

[A low guitar loop spirals in, tight and tense. You feel the pressure before the first word is spoken.]

“WHOT.

Late Night Grooves.

Episode 156.

I’m Mangus Khan.

And tonight… I don’t have a message.

I have a question.

What weighs on you?

What’s the thing you haven’t said out loud?

The thought that sticks to your ribs when the room goes quiet?

What’s making your bones heavy, your sleep short, your hands shake just a little when no one’s looking?

Tonight’s track doesn’t preach.
It doesn’t even fully answer.

But it asks.

Zig Mentality – “What Weighs on You.”

This song sounds like someone trying to hold their breath for too long.
The beat is tight, almost suffocating.

And the lyrics?
They’re not there to comfort.

They’re there to pull the weight out of your chest and show it to you.

“You don’t gotta say it / I already know…”

That line alone?

That’s what makes this track dangerous—

Not because it’s loud.
But because it sees you.

This isn’t about rage.
This is about the quiet, everyday heaviness most of us are too scared to name.

The pressure to perform.
The fear of letting people down.
The ache of wondering if this version of you is the one worth keeping.

Zig Mentality doesn’t yell here.

They let the discomfort sit.

The groove isn’t wild, it’s controlled chaos.

Because this track knows the hardest battles don’t make a sound.

So tonight, I’m not spinning a banger.

I’m spinning a mirror.

What weighs on you?

Episode 156.
Zig Mentality.
What Weighs on You.

This is Late Night Grooves.
WHOT.

And I’m Mangus Khan—
Not handing out answers.

Just waiting with you in the silence that follows the truth.

Still listening.
Still asking.
Still here.”

Baptized in Madness

2025/06/28Posted in The Daily'sTagged blog, creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-1983, Fiction, life, mental health, The Daily's, writing13 Comments

Daily writing prompt

What are your daily habits?

View all responses

What I owe to the women who made me, and the ink I spill because of them.

Let’s dive a little deeper into that whole “I write every day” thing.

Give me a second while I get comfortable. Gotta grab my coffee and smokes. Yeah, yeah—I know smoking is bad and all that. We’ll pretend I’ve already heard the lecture.

Now that that’s out of the way, let me just say: I don’t have some hyper-structured routine where I spring out of bed at 5 AM shouting slogans like, “Today’s a new day, people!” or “Good Rising!” If that’s your vibe, live your truth. Go for it. I support people being themselves and embracing that shit with gusto.

But that’s not me.

If I’m awake during those early hours, it’s because I’ve pulled an all-nighter—writing, researching a current project, or chasing a half-formed idea that refuses to shut up. My mornings aren’t about starting the day. They’re about finally ending one.

The first part of my day—when it actually begins—requires the following:

COFFEE!!

Don’t even think about trying to have a meaningful conversation with me before I’ve had it. At the start of my day, I live by a strict code: Coffee and Silence. Even Guppy, my cat, adheres to this policy, which honestly says a lot. But let’s be real: cats do whatever the hell they want, whenever they want. That she chooses to respect this boundary is a minor miracle.

Secondly, Guppy appears on my left like clockwork for her daily dose of affection. This lasts precisely as long as she deems necessary. Again, if you have a cat, you already know—you don’t run anything. They run the house, the schedule, and your emotions. If you think otherwise, I hate to break it to you: you’re in a Jedi mind trick, and it’s time to let that delusion go.

After nicotine and caffeine levels have reached acceptable levels, there’s a period of reevaluation. More sleep? Errands? Or—let’s be honest—more sleep, because I’m an insomniac and probably didn’t get enough rest at any point in the last week.

Rarely do I actually crawl back into bed. Instead, I shuffle into my office, fire up some tunes, refill my coffee, light another smoke, and check the overnights, which, in my world, just means figuring out what’s happened while I was crashed.

Memoirs of Madness is currently my primary connection to the outside universe. And while it might not seem like it, that blog takes a lot of planning and work behind the scenes. The content? All generated by me. Every sentence. Every theme. Every overcaffeinated ramble and emotional deep dive.

I wish I could blame the mistakes—or hell, the crappy posts—on someone else. But I can’t. And honestly? I’m not sure I would even if I could.

One of the reasons I take this blog so seriously is twofold.

First, before my wife passed, she took my hand and said, “You are a writer now. The soldier, and everything else you needed to be, is over. This is who you are now.” I didn’t say a word. I just listened.

Then there was another time—she was looking back over her life and asked me, “Honey, could you write about the things you do, the way you do… without leaving the life you have?” Again, I stayed silent. I didn’t have an answer then. I’m still not sure I do.

Second, my madre. She gave me the kind of quiet encouragement that allows you to stretch without fear. No loud cheering. No grand declarations. Just steady presence and a gentle nudge at the exact right moment. She never told me who to be—but she always made room for me to find out.

I owe those women a debt I can never repay.

So my fingers will forever be stained with ink.

There’s another huge motivator I didn’t mention earlier.

My editor.

She’s constantly complaining that I never finish stories. “There you go again, starting another one,” or “You better not start something new before finishing the last damn thing.” I usually hit her with a snarky comeback, and she always fires back with: “You need to come visit me, honey. So I can choke you.”

She doesn’t actually want to choke me. She just wants me to read from my current journal—what she calls “The Juice.” That unpublished gold I’ve been holding out on. The stuff that lives in fragments and whispers and half-finished brilliance.

Because of her, I really do work my ass off trying to stay focused on my open projects. When I actually managed to finish a couple of series this year, she called me, worried. Legit concern in her voice.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

I assured her I was fine. Just trying—really trying—to get my words onto the page the way I’ve always meant to. Like I’ve been doing the entire time she’s known me.

Yes, I’ve been failing.
Spectacularly.
But hey, I’m still trying.

Memoirs of Madness has existed in one form or another for nearly fifteen years, but I’ve only been working on it consistently since 2023. Not everything I write ends up on the blog—some pieces aren’t ready, some never will be—but I’ve gotten more comfortable sharing my thoughts publicly.

Part of that shift came from exhaustion. I grew tired of people pretending they knew who I was, where I came from, or where they thought I should go. All those projections, assumptions, labels—they never fit.

So I made a choice: to release my truth. Whether it’s good, bad, brilliant, petty, tender, or outright despicable—it’s mine.

And that’s why I keep showing up.

—

Listen—
It’s time for evolution. For revolution.
Time to learn from our mistakes.
To speak our truth, as our gift demands.

In 2025, my pen has been on fire.
Walk with me—
things are only getting hotter.

This is what it means
to be baptized in madness.

Not for Praise or Glory; Just Keep Writing

2025/06/27Posted in The Daily'sTagged blog, books, creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-1982, life, The Daily's, writing25 Comments

Daily writing prompt

Are there things you try to practice daily to live a more sustainable lifestyle?

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I write every day—not for praise or glory, just because I have to. Somewhere, someone once claimed you need 10,000 hours to master a craft. Personally, I think that number is nonsense—I’ve seen folks master things in far less time, and others who’ve done something their whole lives without ever really getting it. But I get the sentiment. The adage I prefer is, “If you want to be good at something, you need to practice.” So, every day, I sit down and write something. A story. A journal entry. A poem. A post. Not because I think it’ll save the world, but because it keeps me grounded—and honestly, that’s where sustainability starts: with the habits that root you to yourself.

I recall that when I was a kid, my school had a program called the “Young Writers Club.” I don’t know if that was the actual name, but you get the gist. I wasn’t a member, though I wanted to be so bad. Years later, flipping through an old yearbook (Mothers keep everything), I found a photo of that club, and the memories hit hard. I wasn’t in the picture, nor was this one girl I remember vividly—she used to read a book and then write a play based on it. We’re talking second or third grade—already doing adaptation work like she was born with a publisher’s deadline. You just knew she’d end up on TV or have her name in the paper. But what stuck with me even more? She always asked me to be in her plays. Apparently, I was quite the little thespian in those days. Thank God I grew out of that phase.

And here’s the kicker—none of those kids in that picture became writers. Not one.

I’d been fascinated by drawing and writing for as long as I can remember, so not being included in that club stung more than I admitted at the time. Maybe that was the beginning of my psychosis—who knows? We’re obsessed with tracing life’s cracks back to the moment, like finding the exact second everything went sideways. The “if I could do it over,” the “if only they had picked me,” the “what if I had just tried harder”—take your pick. Whatever it was, somewhere around that time, I decided I wasn’t good enough to be a writer.

Interestingly, I actually published my first story around the same time. Didn’t win the contest, though. And kids who didn’t even enter had plenty to say about that. Why does their opinion matter so damn much? I don’t know. But I never entered another contest. I just… kept writing.

Fast forward to high school—the breeding ground of bullies and their loyal underlings. I was reading, writing, and sketching constantly. Not because it was cool. I didn’t care if it was cool. I didn’t care what people thought, period. It was mine, so I did it. Of course, I also did other things to ensure I survived those years with minimal scars—everyone does. But I wrote everything down. Entire chapters from books. Snippets of overheard conversations. Lines from movies, bits of songs, weird things I saw on TV. I was basically a sponge with a pen.

Then something strange happened. A guy—cool guy, someone I sorta knew—came up and asked if I’d write some lyrics for a song. Naturally, I gave the only appropriate response: “What the f**k are you talking about?” and walked off. But the question lingered. How did he know to ask me? I didn’t advertise. He kept at it, though. He was persistent. Eventually, I handed him my latest scribble and walked away like I didn’t care. But deep down? I was paying attention.

Somewhere around that time, I started dabbling in long fiction—and the rest, as they say, is history. Decades passed. Then, after nearly 30 years away, I returned home. Cue the usual reunion soundtrack: “What are you doing now? What have you been up to?” I told them I was a writer. Not one person looked surprised, which surprised me.

But there was this one woman in particular. She gave me that slow smile of hers—the kind I imagine broke a few hearts over the years. Then it hit me. She’d read my stuff.

“You little minx,” I said, narrowing my eyes. “You read my stuff, didn’t you?”

I didn’t even wait for an answer.

“And told people.”

Her smile widened and she started to giggle—whole body, just like she used to when we were kids. She knew me all the way back to that first article. Watched me in the plays. Saw what I didn’t yet believe about myself. And maybe that’s the most sustainable thing I’ve ever done—kept writing, even when I thought no one was watching.

Later, she read a draft of a chapter I was working on—expressionless. I braced myself, waiting for the verdict. She smiled. I thought she was going to say she loved it.

Nope.

She slid off her glasses and said, “You still suck at grammar. In fact, I think you actually got worse.” Then she giggled—same full-body laugh as always.

I just sat there, silent. And then came the punch I wasn’t ready for:

“Where’s the rest? Oh my God, you’re still holding out. I used to hate when you did this shit. Start a story and just leave me hanging.”

That moment cracked me up because my current editor says the exact same thing at least three times a month. You could set your watch by it.

But here’s the thing: I write every day. Not because I’m trying to prove anything, or because I think one day I’ll finally master it (though fewer grammar notes would be nice). I write because it’s how I make sense of the world. It’s my way of staying rooted, of filtering the noise, of remembering who I was—and deciding who I want to be.

That’s my sustainable practice. Long before anyone else noticed. Long after anyone else had an opinion.

It was never really about contests, clubs, or grammar.

It was always about the page.
And the fact that I kept showing up.
Still do.

Diet Be Damned: A Pie Worth Fighting For

2025/06/26Posted in The Daily'sTagged creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-1981, family, Fiction, FOOD, life, The Daily's, writingLeave a comment

Daily writing prompt

What’s the most delicious thing you’ve ever eaten?

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Pie, Memory, and a Whole Lot of Butter

By the size of my waistline, it’s clear I’ve enjoyed several delicious things over the years. I’m not shy about my love for food—comfort food, street food, grandma’s Sunday roasts, and that one time I accidentally stumbled into a Michelin-starred bistro thinking it was a diner (don’t ask).
But today, let’s zero in on a single dish. Not the most expensive, not the fanciest, and certainly not the healthiest. But maybe—just maybe-the most soul-hugging, tastebud-dancing, eye-closing bite of heaven I’ve ever had.
We’re talking nostalgia. Flavor. A moment in time where everything felt just right.

Let me take you there.

The most delicious thing I’ve ever eaten? That honor belongs to my mother-in-law’s Chess Pie.
Who knew eggs, butter, and sugar could transform into something so profoundly magical? No fancy ingredients. No secret spice blend stolen from an old monk in the mountains. Just pantry staples and a woman who understood what it meant to cook with heart.

When she made them—and I happened to be in town—she’d always bake one just for me. No slice, no dainty plate. I’d grab a fork and go in straight from the tin like a man possessed. I didn’t have time for pretense or politeness when it came to that pie.

My brothers-in-law and I used to laugh about it later—how they’d try to fight me for my special pie. They always lost. Bitterly. They’d grumble and sulk, but we all knew the truth: that pie had my name baked right into it.

She’s gone now. The oven’s long since cooled, but the memory of that pie clings to me like a warm quilt. Others have tried to replicate it. Good intentions, decent efforts… but no one’s even come close. Maybe they’re missing the butter. Maybe they’re missing the touch. But I think—more than anything—they’re just missing her.

Now, I’ve gone on many rants about that pie. My poor stepmom has heard them all. She’s a legend in her own right—her baked goods could have their own chapter in the “Food That’ll Ruin Your Diet (and You Won’t Care)” section of my memoirs.

One night, after listening to yet another pie lament, she leaned back with a smile and said, “I can make that pie. Matter of fact, mine’ll be your new favorite.”
Challenge accepted.

I went to the store like I had a hundred times before, rattling off that recipe list I had memorized more by heart than by paper. She worked her magic, put her spin on it, and soon her version of the legendary Chess Pie was cooling on the counter.

I dug in—fork first, as always. No formality. No mercy. The pie was incredible. Creamy, buttery, with that perfect caramelized top and a sweet, silky center. She beamed.

“It’s good, ain’t it?” she asked. “Better than hers, huh?”

Without skipping a beat, I said, “No.”

She looked at me like I’d just cussed in the middle of a sermon. And let me be clear—I’ve actually cussed in church before. I know that look.

“No ma’am,” I said. “It’s not hers. You added coconut. But listen—every time I visit, I’m gonna need this pie. That’s a fact.”

Her smile returned, full and wide. And when my brother took me to my mother-in-law’s funeral, there it was—my stepmom’s pie, waiting for me. A tribute. A comfort. A bridge between what was and what still remains.

I was blessed—richly blessed—to have three mother figures in my life. Each of them different. Each of them fierce in their love and quiet in their sacrifices. My stepmom is the only one who remains, and I don’t take that for granted.

So the next time I visit? I’ll be grubbing, fork in hand, diet be damned. That pie—her pie—now carries more than flavor. It carries memory, resilience, grief, love, and a whole lot of butter.

See, the most delicious thing I’ve ever eaten wasn’t just about taste. It was about connection. About the sacred ritual of someone baking just for you. About loss and legacy, and how sometimes, healing shows up in a crust that cracks just right.

Food has a funny way of holding memory, doesn’t it? And if you’re lucky—really lucky—it’ll also hold the people you’ve loved, the ones who made the world feel safe, sweet, and whole.

Einstein, My Daughters, and the Great Color Uprising

2025/06/25Posted in The Daily'sTagged creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-1980, family, fashion, life, The Daily's, writing8 Comments

A dad’s lifelong devotion to black tees, military logic, and resisting floral print tyranny.

Daily writing prompt

If you were forced to wear one outfit over and over again, what would it be?

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Wearing the same outfit every day? That’s not a hypothetical for me — that was life.
I spent most of my adult years in the military, where your uniform isn’t just clothing — it’s a routine, a mindset, and a welcome escape from the exhausting question of “What should I wear today?” Back then, getting dressed wasn’t a choice. It was automatic. Simple. Efficient. Honestly? That was one of the easiest parts of life. The uniform taught me that identity isn’t stitched into fabric — it’s how you carry yourself in it.

Meanwhile, back home, a very different clothing crisis was unfolding.

While I was out there in my neatly pressed gear, my daughters were launching daily fashion battles. I’m talking full-on wardrobe wars. Drama over shoes. Tears over tops. Shouting matches with closets that had more options than a department store. Watching them choose an outfit was like witnessing a live episode of Project Runway, with less time and more screaming.

One’s yelling, “I have nothing to wear!” while standing in front of a closet that could clothe a small army. The other’s pairing leopard print with glitter unicorns like she’s auditioning for a circus-themed fashion show. And don’t even get me started on the hair. The hair was its own saga. Bows, buns, braids, total breakdowns. It was like a reality show challenge: Can this ponytail survive until school drop-off?

In a moment of what I thought was parenting genius, I offered them a solution: shave your heads. Just like Dad. Minimalism at its finest. No combs, no tangles, no problem.

They were horrified. Naturally, they tattled to their mom within seconds.
She was… not amused.

I calmly explained that I was just trying to be helpful. I even showed them photos of me rocking the shaved look — clean, confident, streamlined. But no one was buying it. Not my wife, not my daughters, and definitely not the household consensus on “acceptable hair decisions.” Still, to this day, I stand by that suggestion. Bald is bold. Bald is practical. Bald would’ve solved a lot of tears.

Now that I’m out of uniform, my outfit hasn’t changed much. These days, it’s all about t-shirt, jeans, and boots. That’s it. Always has been. Always will be. My color palette? Black and blue. It’s simple, functional, and most importantly — mine.

But my daughters? Oh, they’ve got opinions. Suddenly they’re fashion consultants, calling me “boring,” offering unsolicited advice, and trying to inject color into my life like I’m a walking grayscale emergency. And yet — every time I dress up for a formal event in a sharp suit and tie — they light up. “Ooooh Dad! You look good!” Yeah. I know. My suit game is elite.

Still, the color crusade never ends. They’ll toss me a lime green shirt and say, “Dad, it looks good on you!” I answer with my world-renowned and often-lamented scowl. Doesn’t stop them one bit. They just keep up their absurd banter and — as if it couldn’t get any more dramatic — they now rope in my granddaughters for backup. It’s a full-on fashion intervention squad.

My response? Calm. Stoic. “That’s adorable.”

At one point, I even brought science into the mix. Told them Albert Einstein wore the same outfit every day to avoid wasting mental energy on small decisions. Genius, right?

Their response: “Einstein is stupid.”

Einstein. The father of relativity. Disrespected in my own kitchen.

Ever since, the care packages have started. Random boxes show up with shirts in every color of the rainbow — sunburst orange, flamingo pink, Caribbean teal — loud enough to disrupt air traffic. Their mission is clear: convert Dad.

I never wear them… unless I’m visiting. Then I throw one on, smile for the selfies, and play along. But the moment I’m back home? It’s straight back to black and blue. Reliable. Timeless. Unbothered.

Because when it comes to choosing one outfit to wear forever?

I already made that choice a long time ago.
And until Einstein gets his fashion redemption, I’ll be right here — black tee, boots, and unbothered.

Kimonogate 7

2025/06/24Posted in Fiction, KimonogateTagged books, creative writing, daily exercise, Fiction, Kimonogate, life, short-story, writing6 Comments

Chapter 7:

Something Like Closure

The dirt was damp with last night’s rain, soft and fragrant with that specific smell—wet grass, worms, and whatever memory felt like when it came up without warning.

Mayor Brindle stood at the edge of the shallow grave, this time with permission.

There was no trench coat. No flashlight. No midnight panic.
Just a city-sanctioned backhoe, a cordoned-off patch of lawn, and a plexiglass time capsule case with beveled edges and a polished brass label.

A crowd had gathered, buzzing like bees in folding chairs. The community bulletin had called it a symbolic re-dedication of local transparency, which was a flowery way to say, “We’re all gonna watch the mayor dig up his emotional baggage in front of children.”

Myrtle arrived fashionably late.

She wore soft white linen and large sunglasses, her dogs trotting ahead like tiny judgmental horses. Capote led, three-legged but faster than most four-legged things. Horny sniffed aggressively at someone’s tote bag. Something wore a baby sunhat and looked absolutely miserable about it.

Brindle tried not to sweat.

He wasn’t the same man who buried the kimono in a manic haze of shame. But he also wasn’t entirely new. More like… under renovation. A slow demolition of denial.

He cleared his throat. The microphone wobbled slightly in his grip.

“This…” He gestured to the hole. “This was mine.”

He held up the kimono. The sequins caught the late morning sun and scattered fractured pink light across the grass. It looked ridiculous. And beautiful. And deeply personal in a way he hadn’t expected to feel in front of his constituents and Myrtle’s pack of mutant purse wolves.

“I wore it. Alone. For joy. For… therapy. For stress relief that may or may not have involved Broadway cast recordings and interpretive movement.”

Laughter rippled. Not cruel. Not mocking. More like people were relieved to see him owning it out loud.

“I buried it because I thought if people saw who I really was, they’d leave. Or laugh. Or worse—document it.”

He looked up. Myrtle met his gaze without blinking. Capote sneezed.

“But the truth is,” Brindle continued, voice softer now, “shame doesn’t rot when buried. It just ferments.”

He turned toward the capsule. The kimono folded neatly in his hands—lighter now, somehow. Not cursed. Just clothes.

He placed it gently into the case.

The plaque read:

To the Secrets We Bury. To the Joys We Dig Up.
— Installed June 13, by Community Vote

The applause wasn’t thunderous, but it was steady. And real. And Brindle didn’t flinch when someone hugged him, which felt like progress.

Myrtle took the mic next.

“My name,” she said, “is Myrtle Grace Ellingsworth. I write under the name Boney LaFleur. And yes, I knew about the kimono before he did.”

Chuckles. Someone gasped. Capote howled once.

“I’m writing again,” she added. “Under my real name. No pen names. No hiding.”

Brindle looked over, lips twitching. “Will I be in the book?”

“Unavoidable,” she replied, and left it at that.

In the following weeks:

Mayor Brindle resigned. His public statement cited “a need to explore creative forms of cardio and a possible memoir.”
Capote went viral after biting a TikTok influencer’s ankle during a ribbon-cutting, becoming an accidental icon of personal boundaries.
Myrtle’s new novel, KIMONOGATE, debuted at #3 on the local bestseller list, just below a cookbook and something spiritual about decluttering.

Its tagline:

One town. One garment. One mayoral breakdown at a time.

The neighborhood settled—not into peace exactly, but into an agreed-upon weirdness.

Lawn flamingos started wearing costumes. Someone installed a Free Little Library shaped like a giant burrito. HOA meetings had a new rule: “No biting, canine or otherwise.”

Myrtle sat on her porch most evenings with her typewriter and a glass of iced tea, Capote curled beside her like a sentient throw pillow.

Sometimes, Brindle walked by, wearing linen pants and carrying a yoga mat.
Sometimes, they waved.
Sometimes, they just nodded—two people who had survived themselves.

Author’s Note:

So… that’s the end.

The kimono has been exhumed. The secrets unearthed. The HOA was left permanently scarred. And honestly? I’ve never had more fun writing something so utterly strange and strangely personal.

KIMONOGATE began as a story about a mayor with a guilty conscience and a pink kimono. But somewhere along the way, it became about more than buried sequins and nosy neighbors. It turned into a love letter to the weirdness we try to hide—and what happens when those odd little truths refuse to stay underground.

Writing this was like hosting a dinner party where every guest brought something unhinged:
— A three-legged dog named Capote.
— A reclusive author hiding in plain sight.
— A man unraveling under the weight of polyester and shame.
And somehow, it worked. They all fit at the table.

If you’re reading this, thank you for joining me in this slightly off-kilter cul-de-sac where glitter is suspicious, dogs have agendas, and no secret stays buried forever.

I hope you laughed. I hope you cringed. I hope you found a little reflection (or absurd escape) in this strange, satirical world.

And if you find yourself tempted to bury something questionable in your yard…
…maybe check for HOA surveillance first.

Until the next neighborhood drama,
— Mangus

Awe Without Agreement

2025/06/24Posted in The Daily'sTagged creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-1979, life, love, mental health, spirituality, The Daily's, writing6 Comments

Daily writing prompt

How important is spirituality in your life?

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Why Spirituality Still Guides Me, Even Without Certainty

Spirituality isn’t just important in my life—it’s foundational, not in a rigid or performative sense, but like a compass in the dark: quiet, steady, essential. It’s how I move through the world—not by chasing answers, but by honoring mystery and the many paths people take to find meaning.

Over time, I’ve come to see that spirituality isn’t about being right. It’s about being rooted in humility, in compassion, in the ability to hold tension without needing to control it. It’s about making space for someone else’s truth, even when it doesn’t look like mine.

A person’s spiritual journey is personal and should be respected, not ridiculed. Whether it winds through scripture, silence, ritual, or raw experience, that path isn’t mine to judge—only to witness with reverence.

This isn’t some foolish notion born from reading obscure texts. It’s something I’ve witnessed—men and women of different beliefs working side by side to feed the hungry, to care for the sick, to comfort the grieving. Not because they shared beliefs, but because they shared purpose. That, to me, is sacred.

This ideal is the basis of my forthcoming work, Understanding Without Agreement—a reflection on interfaith understanding, sacred plurality, and the shared longing beneath our differences. It challenges the notion that coexistence requires compromise and instead affirms that belief and respect can live side by side.

Spirituality shows up in sacred texts and indigenous rhythms, in Buddhist stillness and Sufi fire, even in the honest discomfort of philosophical critique. It’s not a uniform—it’s a mosaic. And every piece matters.

So yes, spirituality is vital in my life. Not because it solves everything, but because it keeps me human. It teaches me to listen deeper, to live with open hands, and to believe—fiercely and tenderly—that awe is bigger than agreement.

Surviving the Shipwreck: Truth, Even If It Makes Us Uncomfortable

2025/06/23Posted in Challenges, ProseTagged books, creative writing, daily exercise, life, love, mental health, Prose, Random Thoughts, Reena S Xploration Challenge, writing7 Comments

Who writes history, anyway?

Is it a bunch of old men in a room, swirling sherry like it’s holy water, declaring what mattered and what didn’t with the confidence of people who’ve never been told to clean up after themselves? Do they lean back in leather chairs and decide what’s worth remembering, while the rest of the world cleans the dishes, changes the linens, and quietly disappears?

Because let’s be honest—history isn’t what happened. It’s what survived. It’s the polished version of a chaotic past, curated by those with power, perspective, and the privilege to speak uninterrupted.

But what about the ones who made that version possible?

Why don’t we ever hear about them? The people who provided the comfort, the nourishment, the spark. The woman who changed the sheets so a “great man” could sleep through the night. The friend who uttered a half-thought over coffee that later became a manifesto. The cook who fed the movement. The janitor who unlocked the building where the protest was planned. The lover who reminded someone they were human before they put on the mask of leadership.

History applauds the speech, but forgets the breath it took to say it.

We’ve been sold the idea that history is boldface names and bronze statues. But most of what matters happened in kitchens, back porches, alleyways, and hands calloused from lifting, not pointing.

We know the architects of nations. But never the bricklayers. We memorize the names of authors, but forget the unnamed soul who said something beautiful that stuck. We forget that for every “visionary,” there was someone behind the scenes keeping them afloat. Holding the ladder. Mending the net.

So no—history isn’t just written by the victors. It’s written by survivors. By omission. By spin. And often, by those who had the means to make a record in the first place.

The rest? The ones who lit the fires, bore the burdens, whispered the truths?

They became the silence between chapters. The invisible ink.

But if you look close—really close—you’ll find them. In the margins. In the echoes. In the way a melody lingers long after the singer is gone.

Because history wasn’t built on sherry alone. It was built on sweat, sacrifice, and souls that never asked to be remembered—just not to be erased.

But what happens when they get it wrong?

When, the ones holding the pen decide the truth is inconvenient? When the story is shaved, polished, and repainted, so it gleams just right in the museum light? What happens when history becomes less about remembering and more about marketing? About preserving an image, not a truth?

That’s when history turns into myth. Not the kind with gods and monsters, but the kind where the villains are edited out, and the uncomfortable questions are filed away—lost behind locked drawers labeled “context.” You know, for our own good.

And maybe they don’t mean to lie. Maybe they just optimize. Smooth the edges. Add a little glow to the legacy. After all, who doesn’t want their heroes to look heroic? Their country to feel noble? Their ancestors seem wise?

But shaping the past for the best possible result isn’t harmless. It’s rewriting the foundation while pretending the house still stands the same. It’s how entire generations learn pride without accountability, patriotism without honesty, nostalgia without nuance.

And what’s left behind in that process?

The guilt that never gets named. The reparations never paid. The patterns that repeat because we swore they never happened in the first place. The echo chamber grows louder, but the echoes grow fainter—until all we hear is what we want to hear, and not what needs to be heard.

See, history can be a mirror. Or it can be a mask.

One tells you the truth, whether you like it or not.

The other flatters you, and hopes you don’t look too close.

So maybe the question isn’t just who writes history?
Maybe it’s who dares to revise it, once they know better?

Because if we only protect the polished version, if we only pass down the parts that make us proud, then we’re not honoring the past.

We’re embalming it.

And you can’t build a future on something you’ve buried just to keep the story pretty.

But what about when they don’t just get it wrong?
What about when they try to remove history altogether?

Really? That’s the move?

As if tearing down a statue makes the blood it commemorates magically dry up and blow away. As if banning a book unpublishes the pain it contains. As if not teaching something means it never happened.

We’ve seen it before: whole eras scrubbed clean, classrooms sterilized, uncomfortable truths repackaged into “heritage,” or ignored entirely. Entire peoples flattened into footnotes, if mentioned at all. Because someone decided it was better to forget than to face it. Better to be comfortable than be honest.

But here’s the truth, they’re afraid of:
You can’t remove history.

You can burn the documents. You can whitewash the walls. You can call it “divisive,” “unpatriotic,” or “too upsetting for children.”
But history isn’t gone—it just goes underground into stories told at kitchen tables. Into songs, poems, and scars passed down like heirlooms. Into eyes that still remember, even if the curriculum doesn’t.

The attempt to erase history is always a confession. A silent, trembling admission that the truth still hurts. That it never really stopped. It’s not about healing—it’s about hiding.

And hiding doesn’t protect anyone. It just keeps the cycle clean enough to repeat.

So no—you don’t get to skip the hard chapters because they make your heroes look human, or your institutions look cracked. That’s not erasing history. That’s erasing accountability.

And let me tell you—if your story can’t survive the truth, maybe it wasn’t a story worth keeping in the first place.

Maria Popova got it right:
History isn’t what happened. It’s what survives the shipwreck of judgment and chance.

So maybe it’s time we stop polishing the deck chairs and admit we helped steer the damn ship.

Maybe it’s time we stood by the dusty words in old books—the ones that dared to say things like honor, integrity, and truth. Not just when it’s convenient. But when it’s hard. When it means admitting that the past wasn’t all parades and progress. That some of it—hell, a lot of it—would’ve earned us a solid whoopin’ from our mothers, wooden spoon in hand.

So, excuse me while I go through a stack of biographies on Lincoln.

Because if we’re going to keep telling the story—
Let’s at least try to get it right.

Author’s Note
Forgive the rant—but not the passion. That part, I won’t apologize for. The ranting? Yeah… I might’ve gotten a little carried away.

This piece was written for Reena’s Xploration Challenge #386. I try to jump in when I can remember to pull my head out of a book long enough to notice.

Wait—what page was I on?

Black Card Revoked (And I’m Okay With That)

2025/06/23Posted in Challenges, ProseTagged blog, creative writing, daily exercise, life, mental health, music, Prose, Random Thoughts, Sunday Poser, writing2 Comments

Am I a Snob?

I wish I could say no. That I’m above all that—ego, elitism, the subtle flexes wrapped in “taste” or “refinement.” I’ve tried, seriously. I’ve had the talks, done the therapy. I even cracked open the workbooks—are they still called that? Maybe it was a podcast. Or one of those journaling things we do when someone who shouldn’t matter (and whose name I can’t even remember) says something that sticks. It latches on like gum to your shoe, and suddenly you’re spiraling.

You know the kind of advice—like taking relationship tips from a guy who’s never had a girlfriend. Come to think of it, I’ve never even seen him talk to a woman.

Food Snob? Maybe. But It’s Personal.

“Nothing stays the same”—that’s the mantra we mumble when something doesn’t taste like it used to. The moment hits, and the only explanation that feels right is, “The bastards changed the formula.” Maybe they did. That’s possible.

But what’s also possible—and we hate admitting it—is that the stuff always tasted like garbage. We just didn’t know better. No one had the heart to tell us, because we loved it. And love, especially the nostalgic kind, can turn trash into treasure.

Still, when that old flavor hits different, I dig in. I refuse to accept that it’s me who changed. No—they changed it. And now it’s a matter of principle. “The bastards changed the formula” isn’t just a phrase. It’s my truth. I’m sticking to it.

Culture Snob? Absolutely.

Let’s be real—taste isn’t just personal. It’s cultural.

As a Black man in America, I grew up hearing things you couldn’t say out loud today. Not in public, anyway. Stuff like, “White folks don’t make potato salad like Black folks.” And everyone around the table would nod, mouths full of Granny Smith’s version, hoping for seconds before it disappeared. Because we all knew the danger of ending up with Ms. Johnson’s version. She never quite got it right. But her rhubarb pie? That had fifty things going on, and every one of them hit.

It’s remarkable how the world now dictates what’s considered refined. What’s divine? Overhyped restaurants serve up culture on a plate and call it status. Sure, sometimes it’s good. But nothing compares to the food from our cookouts, our picnics, our church socials. That food had soul. That food knew where it came from.

Now we pay $25 for a steak that comes out wrong and has to be sent back, just to taste decent—something we could’ve cooked at home better and cheaper, with seasoning that actually makes sense. But we do it anyway, because it makes us feel like we belong to something. Like we’re part of a club. Even if that club leaves us hungry and a little hollow.

That right there? That’s the bullshit I’m done with.

Ideology Snob? Let’s Get Real.

Let’s talk ideology. The code we live by. The beliefs hardwired into us through culture—whether we chose them or not.

They show up in how we talk, how we dress, what we read, the music we blast, and the stuff we secretly love but feel judged for.

And here comes the contradictions.

I’ve been told, “You act white.” Like that’s a crime. “I’m pulling your Black card.” “You’re an Oreo—Black on the outside, white on the inside.”

I used to carry a bag of Oreos with me. I liked them. And the same people who said that crap? They’d always take one when I offered. Hypocrites, the lot of them.

Then there are the stereotypes. Once, it was sweltering out, and some coworkers brought watermelons to beat the heat. One of my White friends waved and said, “Hey, we’ve got some watermelon!”
I shouted back, “I’m good, thanks.”

He came over to my truck looking confused.
“Hey man,” he said, “we’ve got some watermelon.”
“I don’t eat that shit,” I said flat.
He raised an eyebrow. “Next thing you’re gonna tell me is you don’t eat fried chicken.”
I looked at him and said, “I prefer mine baked.”

Truth? I love fried chicken. But my wife had me on baked for my blood pressure. That moment wasn’t about the food. It was about reclaiming space. Drawing a line. Saying, you don’t get to define me.

People try to strip your identity when it doesn’t fit their version of what Black is “supposed” to be. But if you stand still too long, they’ll say you’ve stopped growing. You can’t win. So you make your own rules. You claim the parts of yourself they don’t understand, and keep walking.

Music Snob? Nah. Just a Metalhead.

I’m a metalhead. But really, I love music across genres. Blues, jazz, hip hop, classical, metal, whatever hits. If it moves me, I’m in.

But I’ve caught flak for it. Side-eyes at shows. People coming up to me, tilted heads, awkward grins: “Are you enjoying yourself?” Like, I crashed the wrong concert. Like metal has a sticker on it that reads “For White Folks Only.”

Really? That’s your question?

As if I need permission to feel that same raw, gut-deep power you feel. As if I have to prove I belong. I didn’t know loud music came with gatekeeping.

Let’s be clear: music doesn’t segregate. People do. And the real pandemic? It’s not my playlist. It’s the weirdo energy and backhanded doubt people carry around like a badge.

The Labels Don’t Stick.

Stereotypes. Prejudices. Respectability rules dressed up in soft language and cheap slogans. You can’t run from them. We’re told to be ourselves, so long as it fits the mold. Be different, but not too different. Be authentic, but stay in bounds.

Nah. I’m done with that.

So I wear the names they throw at me. I carry them, not as scars, but as proof. Proof that people will always try to box you in. But boxes are for storage, not for living. And if they actually knew me—or tried—they’d realize we’d probably get along just fine.

I love exploring culture. I love discovering new food, ideas, and perspectives. I don’t just tolerate differences. I chase it. That doesn’t make me less Black. It makes me human.

And if I’m anything?

I’m weathered. But I’m true.

Author’s Note:
This rant was written for Sadje’s Sunday Poser, which I genuinely enjoy. It gives me space to think about real things—stuff that hits closer to home than all those philosophies written by dead people.

No, I don’t believe in ghosts.

Well… maybe?

Okay, that came out of nowhere.

Morning Vibe: No Rush, Just Breath

2025/06/222025/06/22Posted in TunageTagged George Winston, HEALTH, life, meditation, mental health, mindfulness, Morning Vibe, Tunage8 Comments

Track: “February Sea” – George Winston

Some mornings don’t need a soundtrack that lifts you up—they need one that lets you sink in. That’s what “February Sea” by George Winston does. It doesn’t try to motivate you. It doesn’t chase drama. It just exists, quietly, patiently, like it knows exactly what kind of emotional weather you’re in and doesn’t mind sitting with you in it. It’s one of those pieces that doesn’t build toward anything grand. No climax. No message wrapped in a bow. It’s spacious and soft, full of pauses and held breath. Honestly, it sounds like memory in musical form—tentative, slow, a little cold around the edges, but still incredibly human.

I keep coming back to this track on Sundays, especially when the world feels like too much. There’s something sacred about its stillness. Not in the performative, overly dramatic way we sometimes package the word “sacred,” but in the deeply personal, quietly necessary way. This is reflection music—not the kind you put on to feel wise or aesthetic, but the kind that helps you actually stop and feel something real. Sometimes you don’t even realize how much you’ve been holding until you hear a song like this and finally, finally, exhale.

And let’s talk about that exhale for a second. Because we’re not just talking breath—we’re talking release. The kind of release that hits your shoulders, your chest, your heart. This track gives you permission to stop bracing. To unclench. To admit that maybe the week wore you out more than you let on. Reflection like this isn’t indulgent; it’s maintenance. It’s how we gather up all the pieces we scattered during the hustle and say, “Okay, this is where I’m at. Let’s begin again.”

George Winston doesn’t give us answers in this song. He gives us space. And sometimes, that’s so much more valuable. “February Sea” feels like someone leaving the door open while you sit in your feelings—no judgment, just presence. There’s an emotional honesty to that kind of soundscape. No fluff. No manipulation. Just you and your thoughts, floating together in a room full of soft piano and the kind of air that feels a little heavy, but safe.

So if you need a track that won’t tell you how to feel but will let you feel whatever rises, this is the one. Not flashy. Not fast. But true. And on a Sunday morning, sometimes that’s exactly what you need.

Suggested Pairings (for a quiet morning arc):

“Weather Storm” – Craig Armstrong
Moody and cinematic, like walking through fog with intention.
“Be Still My Soul” – Liz Story
A hymn reimagined as a gentle unraveling of emotion.
“Only” – RY X
Minimal vocals and breathy vulnerability.
“Georgia” – Vance Joy
That moment when emotional warmth returns, slow and steady.
“Hope” – Michael Giacchino
A film score whispers that feels like the edge of something new.

Closing Thought:
Another morning. Another chance.
Sometimes what you need most isn’t movement—it’s stillness.
Let this be your breath, your mirror, your reset.
Carry it with you.

The Ache; The Regret

2025/06/17Posted in PoetryTagged creative writing, daily exercise, life, love, MLMM, poem, Poems from Another Time, poetry, writing2 Comments

POETRY – MLMM #428

Hey, do you miss me?
The ache churns so slowly.
We found common ground,
but only after the fires.
The hard part is done.
Where you’d go?

I close my eyes
because yours won’t open.
The stillness is sharper now.
Colder.
Like it knows
what’s missing.

Time doesn’t pass here—
it gathers.
Cools around me,
wraps my spine like smoke.

You blinked once—
and left everything behind.
I don’t blame you.
But I still ask.

We were never perfect.
But in the spaces between the noise,
we held each other
like we meant it.
We were one —
not whole, just held.

Your memory sings to me softly—
what do I go?
What version of me survives
without the rhythm
of your breath beside mine?

I know you hide the words.
You are afraid to speak.
Don’t hide with me.
Your actions are so loud.

Even in silence,
you told on yourself.
Every absence,
every closed door,
every goodbye you never said
but lived.

Your side of the bed still curves.
Like you’re paused,
not gone.
But I know better.

A rainbow brushed the sky yesterday.
It didn’t stay.
Like you —
always near,
never quite here.

Are these words bound to fail?
Speak to me, hope, and follow through.
Don’t build a future in silence
and ask me to live in it.

My hope rests on every word you don’t say.
But I never told you
What I stood for.
Have I waited too long?
Did you leave thinking
I had nothing left to give?

The truth is,
I was afraid, too.
Of saying it wrong.
Of loving you louder
than you could stand.

If there’s anything beyond this,
I hope it’s not heaven.
I hope it’s just
You and me again,
quiet,
not pretending.
Present.
And finally
telling the truth.

I know you were right—
because my silence was gone.

Shuggie’s Boogie: The Kind of Guitar Playing That Makes You Question Your Life Choices

2025/06/162025/06/16Posted in TunageTagged creative writing, life, live music, love, mental health, music, Shuggie Otis, Song Lyric Sunday, Tunage, writing6 Comments

TUNAGE – SLS

In the endless debate about great guitarists, you know the names. They’re on every list. Hendrix. Clapton. Page. Santana. Occasionally, a few lesser-knowns sneak in—someone you maybe don’t know, so you check them out, nod, and go, “Okay, yeah, I see it.”

But there’s another tier. The ones who don’t make the lists. Not even the cool-guy “most underrated” lists. They’re ghosts. Phantoms. Legends whispered about in liner notes and sampled by producers who dig deeper than algorithms ever will.

Shuggie Otis is one of those.

Listening to Shuggie’s Boogie from Live in Williamsburg is like that moment in a bar when you stop in for a bite, thinking you’re just killing time. You sit down, order something greasy, maybe a beer. Then the band starts playing. No intro. No warning. You take a bite… and stop mid-chew. Fork halfway to your mouth. What the hell is happening on that stage?

You forget the food. You forget your phone. You just listen.

That’s what this track is. It blindsides you.

Shuggie doesn’t approach the guitar like a technician. He approaches it like someone who’s got something to say. This isn’t about speed or theory—it’s about attitude, feel, and intention. Every phrase lands with the kind of swagger that only comes from living a weird, sideways kind of life through music.

And the band? Locked in like they’ve been rehearsing for a world tour no one told you about. His son, Eric Otis, adds guitar textures like he’s painting in the shadows of his dad’s lead lines. Nick Otis, Shuggie’s brother, holds down drums with a groove that feels more instinct than effort. James Manning on bass is the glue—thick, steady, unshakeable.

The horns—Larry Douglas (trumpet, flugelhorn), Michael Turre (baritone sax, flute, piccolo, backing vocals), and Albert Norris—aren’t just dressing. They’re characters in the story, adding stabs and swells that make you lean in closer. And Russ “Swang” Stewart on keys knows exactly when to tuck in a note and when to let it bloom.

This isn’t a polished, clinical performance. It’s gritty. There’s some dirt under its nails. Some bark in the tone. But that’s why it works. There’s a certain beauty in letting the edges stay frayed. It’s alive. Like something could fall apart at any moment… but never quite does.

Shuggie recorded the original Shuggie’s Boogie when he was 17. Which is already annoying, because it was brilliant even then. But this live version? It’s deeper. Older. Wiser. Looser. He stretches out, takes his time, throws notes like curveballs that somehow always hit the strike zone.

It’s the sound of someone who doesn’t need to be on a list to prove anything.

If you’re into guitar playing that hits your chest more than your brain, this is your track. If you’ve ever dropped your fork because of a solo… well, maybe you already know.

And if you’ve never heard of Shuggie Otis? Good. You’ve got some listening to do.

Notes from a Feeble-Minded Insomniac

2025/06/15Posted in The Daily'sTagged blogging, books, creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-1970, life, mental health, The Daily's, writing11 Comments

Daily writing prompt

What’s the oldest thing you own that you still use daily?

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What’s the oldest thing I own that I still use daily?
The last time I answered this question, I mentioned my old pickup sitting in the driveway. It’s beat to hell, leaks a little oil, and rattles like a shopping cart on gravel — but somehow, it still runs. That felt like a solid answer. It felt true.
Except it wasn’t. Not really.

The honest answer hit me while I was sitting at my desk, trying to draft some notes for another post. I was overthinking the structure, second-guessing the tone, basically chasing my own tail. After a while, I leaned back, shook my head, and muttered, “I’ve been using my brain too much.”

And just like that — Eureka.

I’ve been the feeble mind of an insomniac since birth.
Okay — maybe not technically insomniac at the start. Back then, I stayed up past my bedtime mostly out of spite. Perhaps a little orneriness, too. Hard to say. But I do remember using that word — ornery — and now that I think about it, a fair number of women have used it to describe me over the years. So, maybe they were onto something.

I’m a constant learner. Always have been. I believe if you go a day without learning something, you’ve wasted it.

Most people think learning has to mean reading, working, studying, building — something active. But I’ve learned more just by paying attention. Not scrolling, not zoning out — observing.

I don’t Google “brain-boosting activities.” I just rely on my favorite tool: active listening. That might sound simple, but it’s one of the sharpest tools we’ve got.

The thing is, most people don’t actually listen — they wait to respond. You can see it happen: someone’s still mid-thought, and the other person’s already loading up their reply. If we’d just let people finish, then respond or ask a decent question, most of our conversations would be ten times better.

Now, I’m not pointing fingers here — I’ve cut people off after 30 seconds of dumbshit like it’s a reflex. I’ve been trying to stretch my tolerance up to 90 seconds, but somehow it always snaps back to 30. Still, I’m working on it.

A lot of my friends and family talk about how they can’t remember shit anymore. I get it. I’m right there with them. I might’ve single-handedly made the Post-it Note company profitable.

But I’ve got a few tricks. For one, I carry a journal with me everywhere and write things down. Yeah, I know you can make notes or record memos on your phone, but here’s the thing — when you physically write something, you remember it better. Science backs that up. Not that I need some egghead in a lab coat to tell me what works for me.

Like yesterday, I was talking about chasing the start of a story, sitting at my laptop… but I skipped a step. First, I write a few notes in my journal. Random lines, loose thoughts, things that feel like they matter. I also keep a microrecorder on hand for fast ideas when I’m out — then I transcribe those into a binder.

I’ll sometimes spend weeks researching a topic before I write a single sentence for a story. Somewhere in one of the dozen journals scattered around my house, there’s a note — a clue — waiting to tie it all together.

“Today was a good day. I wrote a sentence.”
— James Joyce

I keep that quote close. It’s a reminder that one good sentence is worth more than a thousand shitty ones.
No fluff allowed. Ever.

Another way I keep the engine running is by going back and reading my old notes.

Earlier this week, I was flipping through a binder from ten years ago and found a scribble about a quirky love story set on Friday the 13th. Sound familiar? It should — I think I finally wrote that story last year.

Looking back shows you two things: growth and delusion. You see yourself in these raw, unfiltered snapshots — how sharp you were, or how far off base. Sometimes I shake my head at my younger self and think, Jackass.

But that’s part of the deal. This brain — stubborn, scattered, always working something out in the background — it’s the oldest thing I own, and the most used. And like that old pickup, it’s still running. Somehow.

Sometimes I look back and wonder how my late wife ever put up with my scattered, feeble-minded antics. The half-finished thoughts, the notebooks everywhere, the midnight mutterings about plot twists or people-watching revelations.

Then it hits me — maybe she just had a predilection for the company of psychos.

God knows, I gave her plenty of material. But she stuck around, laughed at the chaos, and made room for it. That counts for everything.

The Moment That Catches You

2025/06/14Posted in The Daily'sTagged blog, creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-1969, life, love, mental health, The Daily's, writing5 Comments

Daily writing prompt

Describe one of your favorite moments.

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DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

Throughout my life, I have had numerous moments that make me smile, chuckle, and even cry. That’s not unique — we all carry those. So, I won’t go there. Instead, I’d like to discuss something else. Something quieter, but deeply personal.

The moment a story begins.

It’s not always dramatic. Sometimes it’s just a flicker — a stray thought, a memory, an odd image that won’t let go. But for me, that moment is electric. It’s the exact point where imagination kicks in, where the real world and the possible world start to blur. It might come during a walk or while staring out a window. No fanfare. Just that quiet spark that tells me: there’s something here.

That’s the kind of moment I treasure. Because from there, anything can happen.

Most of my story ideas come when I first wake up. There’s this moment — half-dream, half-thought — where I catch a fragment of something in the corner of my mind. I turn toward it. I chase it. And if I’m lucky, I chase it long enough for it to turn around and catch me.

That chase is what charges me. Stumbling through the dark, following breadcrumbs left by a story that doesn’t want to be found—not yet. The clues never come in order. They show up like scattered pieces of a massive jigsaw puzzle, except there’s no picture on the box. The image only reveals itself as you fit the pieces together. And even then, sometimes you’re wrong. Fooled. Thrown off.

And honestly? That’s when things get sexy. That’s when the story pushes back, when it fights you a little, when it demands more.

But we must be honest — to get the real stories, the good ones, you’ve got to look into the abyss. That’s where they live—just sitting there, waiting, watching, and daring you to prove you’ve got the patience, the grit, the nerve to piece them together.

You have to be careful, though. When you’re deep in it — in the thick of the story — you can lose everything. It can vanish like a wraith. One second, it’s there, close enough to feel, just long enough to let you know it could be something. The next, it’s gone. Because maybe you weren’t ready. Maybe the story saw through you. Weighed you. Measured you. Found you wanting.

Doubt stands at the edge of the Shadow, glaring with that slight, sinister grin — the kind that chills you deeper than you care to admit. You start to hear the whispers oozing from its lips. At first, you ignore them. But slowly, they start to take hold. You feel them crawl under your skin, digging their nails in. Their shrieks serenade your soul.

You have to resist. You have to defend the faith — in yourself, in the work, in the chase. Sometimes that’s all a writer has. Belief and maybe a little luck. If your courage holds.

So you scream back: “GET THE FUCK OFF ME!”

Then you breathe. Settle. Take the next step on the path.

I sit down in front of my laptop. Coffee on one side. A smoke. Guppy curled up by my feet. I take a deep breath.

And I write the first word.

Bucking the Tiger’s Odds and Surviving

2025/06/12Posted in The Daily'sTagged blog, books, creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-1967, life, mental health, The Daily's, writing10 Comments

Daily writing prompt

What are you passionate about?

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DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

Remembering who I am after nearly losing everything

If you had asked me what I was passionate about before this moment, I probably would’ve said, “I have no idea.” Not because I didn’t care, but because I forgot. Not in the usual way—like misplacing keys or losing track of time. I forgot because I let other people’s voices drown out my own.

A few close friends once told me I didn’t take my writing seriously.

That wrecked me.

Because if there’s one thing that’s never left me—never betrayed me, never faded—it’s writing. It’s been the thread stitching my life together from the beginning. So when someone said I didn’t take it seriously, I started questioning everything. If not this… then what?

Then someone else told me I’d turned my back on music. The very thing that once felt like oxygen. It used to pulse through me. Now I was being told I’d abandoned it?

That’s when it all started unraveling.

I spiraled. Hard.

I had no idea what the hell I was going to do. My world had changed so much while I was sick, and I hadn’t prepared—not mentally, not emotionally—for what surviving would feel like. I’d braced for death, not for life after it.

Then one day, out of nowhere, I whispered an old mantra:
“I don’t give a fk.”**

I said it so often that someone actually bought me socks with it on them. No joke.

That one line cracked something open. I started writing again. Drawing. Creating anything I felt like. Not for approval. Not for applause. For me.

And something strange happened—I picked up my pen and wrote better than I ever had. My drawings? It was like I’d never stopped. Like all the time I thought I’d lost hadn’t dulled my skill—it had sharpened my edge.

Even my editor noticed. Called me up and asked, “What happened?”

I couldn’t answer. Because I didn’t know.

I didn’t sit around analyzing it. I didn’t break it down into steps or label it some kind of comeback story. I just kept doing my thing.

I followed my curiosity. Researched whatever the hell I wanted to. Filled my head with what most people would call useless facts—until they needed them. Until the moment a random question popped up and I wasn’t just throwing out some recycled opinion off social media—I had real input. Valuable insight.

Then it hit me:

Everything I’ve learned in my life touches the work I create.
All of it. The random facts. The scars. The late nights obsessing over things no one else cared about. I spent a lifetime gaining knowledge—not for grades, not for clout, but because learning was my first passion.
And now, I remember how to apply it.

That’s passion. Not a performance. Not a brand. Just living and learning because it feeds your soul.

It’s not perfect. I still lose my way. I still forget what lights me up.

But I always come back.

Because I remember now:
I almost died.
And I didn’t.

So what am I passionate about?

I’m passionate about not living like I’m already gone.
I’m passionate about writing with truth, not for claps.
I’m passionate about being better, not louder.
I’m passionate about the quiet work of staying true to what matters—especially when no one’s watching.

I remember who I am, even when I’m the one trying hardest to forget.

Winter Is My Favorite Season (Except When It Tries to Kill Me)

2025/06/11Posted in The Daily'sTagged creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-1966, life, nature, The Daily's, weather, winter, writing12 Comments

Daily writing prompt

What is your favorite season of year? Why?

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DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

If I had to pick a favorite season, it’s winter. Yeah, I said it. The one that makes most people curl up under three blankets, clutching cocoa like it’s a life preserver. There’s just something about winter. It feels alive.

The air turns sharp. The world quiets down like it’s holding its breath. That chill in your bones? That’s winter tapping you on the shoulder, reminding you you’re still kicking. That crisp air that stings your lungs when you step outside? It’s like nature slapping you awake and yelling, “Rise and shine, you dramatic little mammal!”

I love that. I live for that. It’s refreshing. It’s honest. Unlike summer, which pretends it’s all fun and games until you’re sweat-glued to your car seat and melting into your flip-flops.

And let’s not forget the glory days: building snow forts like it was serious architecture. I was useless at building the actual fort—mine always looked like a collapsed igloo—but when it came to the snowball fight? Lethal. I had sniper aim with a fistful of packed powder. Honestly, I probably peaked as a ten-year-old winter soldier. Gloves, mittens on strings, and a tube of chapstick were standard-issue gear. That was the uniform. That was the life.

But—and this is key—there’s a line. And that line is subzero.

Once the temperature starts playing limbo with zero degrees, all bets are off. I’m not stepping outside. Not for errands. Not for “fresh air.” Not even for a dog walk, and I don’t even have a dog. At subzero, winter stops being poetic and starts being personal.

That’s not weather. That’s assault.

I remember one winter—it hit 30 below. I assumed the world would just… stop. Nature says nope, we say nope, we all go home, right? I call my boss, thinking surely we’re shut down. Nope. Open for business.

So we’re out there before sunrise, trying to coax frozen equipment back to life while it feels like your skin is cracking open. Meanwhile, the operator sits in the cab in the warmth and has the nerve to rush us. I swear, there would’ve been blood spilled if it wasn’t too damn cold to swing a wrench. We still talk about that day. Like it’s legend. Like winter war stories.

So yes—give me winter. The snow, the chill, the breath that turns visible like I’m exhaling secrets into the world. It’s magical.

Just don’t give me the “I can feel my soul shivering inside my spleen” version of winter. That one can go directly to Hell—ironically, a warmer place.

Wake me up when it’s hoodie weather again.

Peace, Integrity, Humility — And Other Ways to Make Life Harder on Yourself

2025/06/08Posted in The Daily'sTagged creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-1963, life, love, mental health, mindfulness, The Daily's, writing2 Comments

Daily writing prompt

What are the most important things needed to live a good life?

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DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

What are the most important things needed to live a good life?

For me, it really boils down to three things: peace of mind, integrity, and humility.

Peace of mind isn’t just a cute idea you chase after you’ve ticked off the career boxes and bought the right brand of meditation app. It’s the whole point. It’s being able to sit alone-no noise, no phone, no endless doomscrolling — and not feel like your own brain is trying to mug you. Without peace, all the money, likes, and shiny milestones mean exactly squat.

Integrity — the forgotten art of not being a sellout. Not the performative kind either. I’m talking about the real-deal, do-the-right-thing-even-when-it-sucks integrity. It’s what you do when no one is throwing you a parade or handing you a blue checkmark for it. It’s not glamorous, but it’s what keeps you from waking up one morning wondering how you turned into exactly the kind of person you used to roll your eyes at.

Humility — the secret sauce that keeps peace and integrity from congealing into self-righteous nonsense. Humility isn’t about shrinking yourself or apologizing for existing. It’s about remembering that no matter how many gold stars you’ve earned, you’re still a deeply flawed work-in-progress. You’re not the sun — the world doesn’t revolve around you.

And this leads into something a lot of people miss: Yes, living a good life is about not surrendering — not selling your soul at clearance prices. However, it’s also about recognizing that not everything revolves around you and your needs. Crazy, right? We tend to think our opinions, our feelings, our “truth” are the centerpiece of existence. And sure, it’s great to find like-minded people who “get” you, who nod when you talk and make you feel validated. But here’s the kicker: real growth often comes when someone challenges you, when they offer a perspective you hadn’t even considered because you were too busy broadcasting your own.

That’s why it’s imperative — life-or-death for your soul — to keep an open mind without compromising your integrity. It’s a balancing act, no doubt. But nothing in life is purely black and white, no matter how much we’d love for it to be. Life is lived in the messy, uncomfortable gray zones where two things can be true at once — where right and wrong aren’t always neon signs but flickering streetlights.

Why is it so hard to live by these values today?

Because society basically runs on encouraging the opposite.

We sit around and moan about how broken everything is — how shallow, how divided, how exhausting. And, sure, the system’s cracked. But let’s not kid ourselves — these aren’t new problems. We’ve been fighting the same internal battles — pride, impatience, ego — since we were toddlers throwing tantrums over the wrong color sippy cup.

What’s changed? The chaos is just faster now, noisier, harder to tune out. Peace of mind? Good luck finding it when your entire life is competing with ads, outrage, and hot takes. Integrity? Tough sell when the world loves a good shortcut and sells out faster than concert tickets. Humility? Ha — humility doesn’t trend well. Loud wins. Big wins. Modesty doesn’t even get a participation trophy.

And let’s be real: the stuff we’re so furious at “out there” is often just a slightly uglier reflection of what’s going on inside of us. The same insecurities, anger, and fear. Society didn’t invent these flaws — it just put them in a sparkly package and added a 24/7 subscription model.

So you have to stay close to yourself. Not the Instagram-ready highlight reel, but the actual human being — the one who’s weathered real triumphs and real faceplants. The one who’s fought for peace of mind, integrity, and humility the hard way. These aren’t luxury accessories — they’re battle armor. They’re what protect you when the world, very efficiently and very loudly, tries to drag you into its circus.

At the end of the day, nearly everything you think you own — the job, the house, the accolades, the opinions of others — is rented. Temporary. The only thing you actually own is whether you stayed true to who you are — whether you fought the quiet, ugly battles that no one clapped for.

Living a good life these days isn’t about winning. It’s not about being the loudest, or the richest, or the most-liked. It’s about holding the line. It’s about not surrendering — but also about keeping your mind open without folding your integrity into a paper airplane every time someone disagrees with you.

And no — this isn’t some “Live, Laugh, Love” nonsense I ripped off a cool poster or skimmed in a self-help book. This comes from a lifetime of getting it wrong — repeatedly. Only to finally, stubbornly, start figuring out what actually matters and what doesn’t.

Here’s the rub: I still screw it up on the regular. I’m not handing you a blueprint — I’m handing you a work-in-progress. But the difference is, now I know it when I mess up. And I keep working at maintaining the few things I know are worth the fight: peace, integrity, humility.

If mistakes were to be made, I’ve made them. Lessons to be learned? I’ve learned them — well, some of them. The most important thing is, I haven’t been afraid to live.

If I can do it, you can too.

Because at the end of the day, the likes fade, the trophies collect dust, and the noise dies down. All you’re left with is yourself — hope you made good company. Otherwise, it’s gonna be a long, awkward ride to the end.

Common Sense: Missing. Presumed Ghosting.

2025/06/03Posted in ProseTagged common-sense, creative writing, daily exercise, HEALTH, life, philosophy, Prose, Random Thoughts, Sunday Poser, writing3 Comments

RANDOM THOUGHTS – SUNDAY POSER #236

Do most people possess common sense? Technically, yes — in the same way most people technically have a brain. It’s there, but how often it’s used is another conversation. Do we have enough time for that conversation? Absolutely. Will it change anything? Highly doubtful.

See, Voltaire wasn’t just tossing out a witty one-liner when he said, “Common sense is not so common.” He was diagnosing a condition that, centuries later, still plagues society like an expired meme.

Common sense, by definition, should be the basic ability to make sound judgments. Simple, right? But here’s the catch: what counts as “sound judgment” depends on where you grew up, what you’ve lived through, and whether you think TikTok life hacks are a credible source of advice.

And let’s not kid ourselves — emotions are the silent saboteurs. Stress, pride, laziness — they hijack reason faster than you can say “bad idea.” It’s not that people can’t be rational; it’s that they often choose not to be. Rationality takes effort. Effort is wildly overrated these days.

Plus, humans come preloaded with some lovely mental software bugs. Take overconfidence bias — the tendency to think we’re way smarter and more capable than we really are. It’s why your coworker with a GED believes he’s a financial genius after one good week in the stock market. Or why Karen from Facebook suddenly feels qualified to rewrite the CDC guidelines after reading one half-baked blog post. Overconfidence blinds people to their own poor judgment, rendering common sense optional, such as using a turn signal.

Then there’s normalcy bias — our charming ability to assume that because things have been fine, they will be fine. It’s the psychological equivalent of whistling past the graveyard. People often ignore flashing warning signs — both figurative and literal — because facing reality would require them to take uncomfortable action. Why evacuate when you can assume the hurricane will magically change course? Why stop texting while driving when you’ve never crashed before? Common sense doesn’t stand a chance against that kind of wishful thinking.

Even Oliver Wendell Holmes Jr., one of the sharpest legal minds in American history, saw through the myth of pure rationality. Holmes didn’t believe the law was built on logic — he famously wrote, “The life of the law has not been logic; it has been experience.” And when courts invoke the “reasonable man” to judge behavior, they’re really invoking a legal unicorn — an imaginary figure of perfect average judgment. Spoiler: that person does not exist.

Reality? The reasonable man would be rear-ended by someone arguing with their GPS, and then sued for “stopping too suddenly.”

So no, common sense isn’t common. It’s a delicate, context-riddled figment of collective imagination, constantly trampled by human bias and stubbornness. Expecting it from everyone is like expecting a glitch-free Zoom call: a beautiful dream, consistently crushed by reality.

Common sense isn’t dead — it’s just ghosting us. I feel disrespected.

Lessons That Endure: Faith, Reflection, and the Blank Page

2025/06/03Posted in The Daily'sTagged blog, books, creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-1958, life, mental health, The Daily's, writing8 Comments

Daily writing prompt

List three books that have had an impact on you. Why?

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DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

Usually, I might point to a novel, a collection of poetry, or a dense work of philosophy. But today, I want to get back to basics — to the books that have stayed with me through different seasons, roles, and realities. They’ve been a steady hand through chaos, offering balance when the world tilted. They’ve shaped the man I am, no matter what hat I wear.

The Holy Quran — More than a religious text, the Quran is a blueprint for living with intention. It shaped my sense of purpose, grounded me in morality, and instilled a discipline that influences every aspect of my life — from how I treat others to how I carry myself through adversity. Within Islam, I’ve unfolded the idea of knowing thyself — not just knowing who I am, but who I am becoming. The Quran compels me to grapple with justice not just in the world, but within myself. It reminds me that mercy is strength, and that life, no matter how loud or long it seems, is fleeting. Through every trial and triumph, it’s been a mirror, a guide, and at times a necessary challenge.

The Holy Bible — Where the Quran shaped discipline and self-knowledge, the Bible opened the door to grace and forgiveness. Its parables and letters taught me that real strength isn’t just standing tall — it’s knowing when to kneel, when to forgive, and when to let go. The Bible reveals the resilience of the human spirit in the face of suffering, and insists that hope — fragile but fierce — is always within reach. It taught me that failure isn’t an ending; it’s often a beginning. That forgiveness isn’t weakness; it’s power. And that love, even when costly, is worth it. Across the stages of my life, it has met me where I was — sometimes offering comfort, sometimes issuing a hard call, but always pulling me higher.

The Quran and the Bible complement each other — a dialogue between discipline and grace, justice and mercy. And the blank notebook helps me unpack the wisdom each holds.

A blank notebook — Unlike the printed word, a blank notebook offers no guidance — just space. It’s where the noise fades and my own voice rises. Over the years, notebooks have held my dreams, doubts, plans, and questions. As a soldier, I fought for God, doing all I must — but no more. Yet I also answer to God. In the blank pages, I unpack the wisdom that often pushes me outside my comfort zone. This ritual clears my mind. Writing turns chaos into something I can hold and study. The notebook has been a silent witness to every version of me — the ambitious, the lost, the certain, the questioning. It reminds me that growth is messy, nonlinear, and worth recording. More than a tool, it’s a companion—patient, unjudging, and always ready for what comes next.

Vigilance by Another Name

2025/06/02Posted in The Daily'sTagged creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-1957, fear, life, love, mental health, The Daily's, writing2 Comments

Daily writing prompt

What fears have you overcome and how?

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DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

Fear: My Old Friend Rides Shotgun

You get older and realize you didn’t know a damn thing.

When I was young, fear was the one thing I wasn’t allowed to show. Not in my house, not in the Army, and sure as hell not in front of my family. Fear was the enemy. It was a weakness. It was that voice in your head you learned to silence—or at least pretend you couldn’t hear.

In the Army, fear was treated like a virus. You didn’t talk about it; you didn’t acknowledge it. You locked it down, put on your war face, and moved forward. To hesitate was to risk everything—your mission, your men, your skin. So you learned to shove it deep down somewhere you didn’t have to feel it.

However, the amusing thing is that, while in battle, I realized fear was my friend; it kept me alert. But we didn’t call it fear. We called it vigilance. We used phrases like “Stay Alert, Stay Alive” or the popular one, “Head on a Swivel.” No matter the catchphrase, we learned to understand that fear was a part of the job. But we never said that aloud.

In so many ways, fear gets a bad reputation. It’s been a part of us since the beginning. We need to understand how to use it, just as we do with anything else in life. Fear doesn’t forget. You can pack it away and bury it under years of deployments, promotions, and medals, but it never really goes away. It waits. Patiently.

Fear didn’t vanish when I left the battlefield; it simply found new arenas. When I became a husband and later a father, I thought maybe fear would find a new home somewhere far away from me. After all, what’s scarier—enemy fire or a newborn that won’t sleep for three days? Turns out, fear adapts. It’s just as present when you’re staring at hospital monitors as it is when you’re huddled in a foreign desert waiting for the next move.

All the darkness I’d seen in the world—the villages reduced to rubble, the faces of men who wouldn’t make it home—I wanted to protect my family from it. Shield them from the kind of pain that doesn’t heal, the kind that sticks to your bones. I knew I couldn’t stop the world from being what it is, but I sure as hell wasn’t going to roll over. There’s nothing worse than feeling helpless when the world decides to teach your child a lesson. You want them to grab the world by the horns and kick its ass. When they do something courageous, we applaud them, exhaling because we know it could have gone another way. But you have to trust that the things you taught them will catch hold. They often surprise you because they have been listening all along. And let me tell you, they didn’t make it easy.

Fear stayed with me even as they grew. I swear it’s their job to scare the shit out of you, and they seem to take that job pretty seriously. Like the time, my son decided to jump out of perfectly good airplanes because he “wanted to be all he could be.” I considered banning television in the house. Or when my daughter drove cross-country in a beat-up car with a prayer and a gas card. Every bold move they made had me aging in dog years, and I have the gray hairs to prove it, but damned if I wasn’t proud.

I spent decades pretending I had it all under control. I kept fear on a short leash, convinced that ignoring it was the same thing as mastering it. But no matter how many battles I fought, how many bills I paid, or how many “Dad of the Year” moments I racked up, fear was always there, waiting for a crack in the armor.

It wasn’t until I retired—hung up the uniform, no more missions, no more late-night phone calls, just silence and the old ghosts I’d tried to outrun—that I finally sat still long enough to hear it clearly. Fear wasn’t the enemy. It never was. It was the warning system, the gut check, the part of me that said, “Hey, maybe charging headfirst isn’t always the best plan.”

These days, I no longer fight fear. I listen to it. I don’t let it steer—I’ve still got too much pride for that—but I let it ride along. We’ve made peace, old fear, and I.

Funny thing is, now that I’ve stopped pretending I’m not scared, I’ve never felt braver. Fear, that old companion who kept me vigilant on battlefields and restless nights, still rides with me. Only now, we’re on better terms—I trust it to keep me sharp, and it trusts me to keep moving forward, one step smarter than the man I used to be.

The Strength in Fracture

2025/05/27Posted in ProseTagged creative writing, daily exercise, Fiction, FOWC, life, mental health, Poems from Another Time, poetry, Prose, RDP, writing2 Comments

PROSE – FOWC & RDP

We find strength when we crack, not despite it, but because of it.

There’s something deeply human about breaking.

Not the kind of collapse that’s loud and chaotic—but the quiet kind. The kind that sneaks in slowly, pressing against your foundation until one day, without warning, you feel it: the shift, the splinter, the give. And then the silence that follows. That’s the feeling these images evoke. A visceral, wordless Yikes that lingers in the gut.

You don’t see the break coming. But when it arrives, it’s undeniable.

In the first image, we see a heart—not soft, not red, but forged from slabs of cold, cracked stone. Split down the center, it doesn’t bleed. It doesn’t scream. It simply opens, revealing a light that neither heals nor blinds. This is not a symbol of destruction. It’s a portrait of vulnerability. Of strength that dared to yield. And that’s the paradox: what we build to protect us can also be the very thing that prevents us from feeling, from growing, from becoming.

There have been times I cracked. Times when all I could do was sift through the rubble and pretend I was okay. On the outside, I held. On the inside, it was layers of damage—quiet, hidden, untreated. It wasn’t dramatic. It was ordinary, and that’s what made it dangerous.

And just when you think it can’t go deeper, it does.

The second image strikes harder. A head—presumably human—layered with thick, dry slices of rock, features obliterated by the burden of their own defenses. You don’t see eyes, mouth, or even expression. You see the consequence of endurance.

We do this, don’t we? We pile on the layers: expectations, roles, trauma, silence. One by one, they smother the self underneath until we become unrecognizable, even to ourselves. And when someone asks us how we’re doing, the reaction is automatic: “I’m fine.” But the truth is buried somewhere deep, wedged between layers too heavy to lift alone.

But what if the face we hide becomes the face we lose?

The final image is a tunnel of shattered stone tiles, a fractured pathway bathed in harsh, white light. It’s hard not to see this as a metaphor for transformation. The path isn’t smooth. It’s jagged. Uneven. And yet it leads forward.

That light? It’s not salvation. It’s exposure. Clarity. Maybe even a challenge. The only way through is through. You walk over the wreckage of everything you thought would last, everything you thought you were, and you move anyway.

These images aren’t just art. They’re mirrors. They ask you to look closer—not at the cracks in the stone, but at the fractures within yourself. The places you’ve gone numb. The truths you’ve buried. The parts of you are still waiting to be unearthed.

So yes, Yikes might be your first instinct. But maybe that discomfort is the doorway to something deeper. Maybe the real reaction isn’t fear, but awakening. What if breaking is not the end of the structure, but the beginning of something raw, real, and finally alive?

What have you layered over instead of facing?
What parts of you are still buried beneath the rubble?
And if you followed the cracks, where would they lead?

Post-Its, Index Cards, and the Lies the Internet Told Us

2025/05/27Posted in The Daily'sTagged blogging, creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-1951, Internet, life, technology, The Daily's, writing17 Comments

Daily writing prompt

Do you remember life before the internet?

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DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

Let’s clear something up: I’m not ancient. I didn’t walk uphill both ways to school with a torch in one hand and a stone tablet in the other. But I do remember life before the internet — when knowledge didn’t come from Google, and “cloud storage” meant checking the weather.

And while I’m no technophobe clutching a rotary phone, I’ll be damned if I don’t feel a certain warmth for the messier, more deliberate days of analog life.

Because if you lived it, you know: the world before Wi-Fi was a beautiful mix of struggle, discovery, and sweet, sweet chaos.

The Pre-Digital Grind: Slower, Messier, Real-er (and Honestly, Kind of Glorious)

Back then, learning wasn’t convenient — it was a full-contact sport. If you wanted to find something out, you didn’t just type it into a search bar. You hunted it down. You geared up with a sharpened pencil, a library card, and a suspicious level of confidence in the Dewey Decimal system.

Our tools? Index cards, neatly filed in metal boxes that clanked with authority. These things weren’t just for notes — they were blueprints for your thoughts. And when Post-its hit the scene? Absolute pandemonium. You could stick your brilliance on walls, mirrors, textbooks, your little brother’s forehead. Revolutionary.

But then — we hit the next level.

You know they make index cards with sticky stuff on the back? Yeah. Like Post-it Note Index Cards. Peak innovation. The greatest invention since caffeine and sarcasm. I remember showing one to a younger coworker — their face looked like I’d just handed them an alien artifact. Meanwhile, they were frantically making phone memos, taking screenshots, and praying their phone didn’t die mid-download because they forgot their charger. Again.

Let’s not forget the royalty of the supply cabinet: binder dividers and document protectors. If you put a sheet in one of those, it meant business. That page wasn’t just homework — it was a declaration of organized excellence.

Sure, it was clunky. Sure, it was slow. But you remembered things. You paid attention. Because you had to.

The Digital Era: Glorious, Addictive Chaos (Also, Kind of a Scam?)

Then came the machines.

My first laptop had a whopping 20MB hard drive, and we thought we were basically astronauts. All the information in the world? Right there. At home. On a screen. With a printer! No more photocopying worksheets or begging the bank for quarters. We were living in the future.

Until the printer ink cartel got us. Suddenly, ink cost more than the damn printer. One cartridge and your bank account was in critical condition.

And then — the so-called upgrade: DSL. We thought we’d arrived. Fast internet! Until we realized it was basically Dial-Up Deluxe™, just with slightly less screeching and slightly more disappointment.

Now? We’ve got fiber, cable, and cellular that can stream an entire Marvel franchise while running a Zoom meeting and auto-ordering cat litter. And somehow… we still don’t know anything.

We skim. We scroll. We “save for later” and never come back. Half the time we can’t even remember what we were looking for in the first place.

Honestly? It was easier when you had to look things up, take notes, and engage with information like it mattered.

Still Here, Still Learning, Still Stocked on Toner

Despite all the apps, all the AI, all the tech that’s supposed to “do the work for us” — I still research every day. I still use highlighters, different colored pens, and yes — I have a fat stack of index cards. My smallest flash drive is 32GB, and I buy toner in bulk like it’s a controlled substance.

Because some habits aren’t outdated — they’re battle-tested.

I remember the world before the internet — the slow wins, the rough edges, the analog beauty of it all. Just like I’ll remember this world as we bumble into the next one — the endless updates, the algorithmic everything, and the existential dread of accepting cookies you never wanted.

But me? I’ll still be taking notes. On index cards. With tabs. For “random rants,” “stats that prove my point,” and of course, a dedicated section for “Sh*t Talking Points.”

Because there will come a time when someone younger, fresher, and more deluded will roll their eyes and say, “Okay, boomer.” And I’ll be ready.

Color-coded.

Because maybe the future isn’t about going faster.
Maybe it’s about not forgetting what made the ride worth it in the first place.

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Time Travel: A Practical Guide for the Chronologically Curious

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The Breakdown Phase

Back When We Built Our Own Fixes

The Rebuild

The System and the Self

Keep Going, Responsibly

Author’s Note

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Reflective Prompt

Author’s Note

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Reflective Prompt

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Author’s Note

Reflective Prompt

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Forging the Forge (with Fewer Bugs and More Story)

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Prose – 3TC

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