short-story – Page 2 – Memoirs of Madness

Too Sharp to Hold

2025/05/26Posted in PoetryTagged Annabelle, creative writing, daily exercise, fantasy, Fiction, Poems from Another Time, poetry, short-story, writing2 Comments

POETRY – ANNABELLE SERIES

you wanted the fantasy—now meet the fallout

The light doesn’t flatter her.

It splits her down the middle—green on one cheek, red on the other.
Like a warning. Like a dare.
She doesn’t turn from it. She lets it expose her angles. Her sharpness. Her refusal to soften for their comfort.

This is not a glow.
This is a glare.

She watches the room through tinted lenses, as if the distance they create might protect her. As if dimming the world might dim what still pulses inside her.
The ache. The want. The memory.

The drink in her hand is untouched. It’s a prop. Like everything else she wears tonight.
The sunglasses.
The chains.
The silence.

They look at her like she’s a story they want to be part of.

They don’t know she’s the ending.

She doesn’t speak much anymore—not in places like this.
Words feel expensive. Trust, impossible.

So she listens instead. To the way people try to impress through noise. To the bass that thumps like a hollow heart.
To the click of her own restraint every time someone gets too close.

She lets the glasses do the talking. Lets the braids fall like armor.
Lets them wonder what she’s thinking.

Because curiosity is safer than closeness.
Let them project. Let them guess.

It’s easier than being held wrong.

They don’t know Jimmy.
They don’t know the weight she carries in her wrist—his watch ticking, ticking, never letting her forget that she is still here and he is not.
That time moved on. That she did too. But not without cost.

After Jimmy died, she lost herself.
She became something else.
Someone she wasn’t proud of.
Someone she didn’t know.

That’s what no one sees when they look at her.
Not the reinvention.
Not the ruins beneath it.
Not the choice to survive when survival meant shapeshifting.

They don’t know how she nearly drowned in grief and came back with a mirror for a heart.
Reflective. Untouchable. Sharp.

But there was a moment, days ago—brief and disarming—when she stared at an old photo of him.
And in the quiet weight of his gaze, something shifted.

She felt something familiar when she looked at his picture.
Something that reminded her she had power.

Not the performative kind. Not applause.
But the power to stand. To remember. To continue.

Someone approaches. Of course they do.
Men like him always do—when the lights are low and the mystery is wrapped in gloss.

“You look like trouble,” he says, leaning in with a confidence he hasn’t earned.

She tilts her head, slow. Deliberate.
Her thumb brushes Jimmy’s lighter inside her sleeve.
Click. No flame. Just memory.

She studies him the way wolves study fences.

“I am,” she says. “But not the kind you’re good at surviving.”

He laughs—too loud, too fake—but steps back.
She doesn’t flinch. She never does.

Because she’s not here to be wanted.
She’s here to remember who she is without being touched.

She’s here to prove she can be in the world again—even if the world doesn’t deserve her.

But even now, beneath the rhythm and neon and the low hum of everything she refuses to feel—

Something stirs.

A voice not extinguished.
A hunger not silenced.

That same voice that whispered in the stillness after Jimmy left her:

Will anyone ever see the girl beneath the glass?
Will anyone reach without pulling?
Will anyone stay if she stops performing?

And for the briefest breath, she considers it—what it might feel like to answer those questions with action.
To peel the gloss. To set down the mask.
To let someone see her without preparation.

But not tonight.

Tonight is for the performance.
Tonight is for control.
Tonight is armor masquerading as elegance.

She lifts her glass—not to drink, but to steady her hand.
And in the mirrored wall, she catches a glimpse.

Not the reflection.
Not the projection.

Annabelle.

Not a ghost. Not a brand.
Not a wound in makeup.

Just a woman.

Too sharp to hold.
Too real to forget.

Too Soft to Survive

2025/05/25Posted in PoetryTagged creative writing, daily exercise, Fiction, Poems from Another Time, poetry, romance, short-story, writing4 Comments

POETRY

by the time they named her strong, she’d already lost everything else

This is what she looked like before.

Before the veil. Before the gloss. Before they praised her composure and confused it for peace.
Before she turned herself into armor.

Before the night Jimmy died.

She was Annabelle then. Not a symbol. Not a survivor. Just a girl who still smiled with her whole face, even when it hurt.
Who wore her softness without fear.
Who believed in mornings, in second chances, in love that didn’t need explanation.

Jimmy saw her.

Not the projection, not the potential—just her.
Hair tangled from sleep. Laugh like rebellion.
Questions that didn’t need answers.
He held her like she was real, and that was the most dangerous thing of all.

Because real things break.

And that night, something did.

She didn’t cry at first. She didn’t scream.
She went still.
Still enough to make a decision.

If softness got her here, she would bury it.
If love made her reckless, she would starve it.
If truth demanded grief, she would wear lies like couture.

So she did what women like her are trained to do.

She became someone else.

The world met her later—painted, polished. They called her elegant. Formidable. Composed.
They didn’t know she’d cut out parts of herself to fit that dress.
They didn’t see the ghost she carried in her mouth.

They just saw a woman who never cracked.

But some nights, when her reflection forgets to lie—
the voice inside her whispers:

Did you ever wish you were someone else?
Because I do.
She don’t belong here. She doesn’t belong.

She’s worn the mask so long, it’s started to feel like skin.
It itched at first; now it bleeds beneath the scars.
And she no longer knows where it ends, or where she begins.

But underneath, that other girl—the before girl—isn’t gone. Just buried.

And with her, the memory:

She was selfless. He was a true friend.
She should have been there for him.
Slow dancing until the crying eased.
Letting him collapse into her silence.
Being the warmth when the cold got too loud.

Now she speaks the unspeakable.

Jimmy is gone.
And she wasn’t there.

Not the way he needed.
Not the way he had been for her.
She should’ve been someone he could come to.

Jimmy’s watch ticks, ticks, ticks—a reminder that she is still alive.
She wears it now, not for timekeeping, but as penance.
It doesn’t tell time.
It tells absence.

She remembers who she was before they called her strong.
Before she survived by silence.
Before she was too bright to touch.
Before the grief calcified into poise.

She remembers Jimmy.

And tonight, she doesn’t want to be worshipped, or applauded, or envied.
She wants to be held.
She wants someone to say her name like it means something.
Annabelle.
Like it’s not just a title she wears in his absence.

Her thumb rubs his lighter—silver, worn smooth, still warm from her pocket.
She exhales her words into the air like smoke, like prayer.

“You saved me…
You saved me.”

Too Bright to Touch

2025/05/24Posted in ProseTagged creative writing, daily exercise, Fiction, FOWC, Poems from Another Time, Prose, Ragtag Daily Prompt, RDP, romance, short-story, writing9 Comments

PROSE – FOWC & RDP

She moved like a memory caught in motion—half real, half reflection.
Blue light wrapped her like prophecy, like warning.
Everything about her shimmered.
Not from joy, but from exhaustion lacquered into beauty.

There was a cost to being seen this way.

Every inch of her radiated curated power—eyes rimmed in defiance, lips painted in precision.
She looked flawless. Untouchable.
But nothing about her was effortless.
She was sculpted in silence, shaped by scrutiny, smoothed by survival.

The world adored the Gloss.

They called it strength.
They mistook stillness for peace.
They praised the image and ignored the ache.

Because Gloss blinds.

And beneath it, something primal waited—untamed, uninvited, and fully hers.

Fur.

Not for decoration—for defense.
It was everything she’d learned to hide: the mess, the wildness, the depth.
The part of her that could not be branded, couldn’t be edited.

She’d buried it to belong.
But it never stopped breathing.

Now it whispered again.

I want to love.
I want to find peace.
I want to find the real.

But in a world that feeds off illusion…

They tell her lies, in a delicious way.
Wrapped in compliments.
Scented with approval.
Only palatable if she never breaks character.

She tried to believe.
Tried to play along.
But the silence inside her was louder than any applause.

Though she is surrounded, she feels alone.

People held the projection.
No one held her.

Who is the person peering from the cage?
She doesn’t want to be here, but there she is upon the stage.

And one day, without ceremony, she stopped pretending.

She stripped away everything, stood as she truly was.
No gloss.
No pose.
No apology.

And in the rawness of that moment—

To dream of the moment is not insane.

Not foolish.
Not naïve.
Not a weakness.

It’s a kind of rebellion—
To believe in softness after survival.
To imagine stillness after the storm.

Perhaps, she will learn the answer—just not today.

Today is enough.

Because in the stillness…

She not afraid.
She not afraid.
She began to breathe.
It almost easy.

No spotlight.
No mask.
Just breath.
Just truth.
Just her.

Winter French Kissed Me and It Was Not Okay

2025/05/21Posted in The Daily'sTagged creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-1944, short-story, snow, The Daily's, winter, writing6 Comments

How do you feel about cold weather?

DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

—a survivor’s guide to atmospheric betrayal

How do I feel about cold weather?
First of all, what a ridiculous question. Clearly asked by someone who’s never had to warm their jeans in front of the oven before putting them on. Someone who thinks “cold” means putting on a hoodie for their latte run, with almond milk, as if that’s the real crisis.

Let’s get this straight: cold weather is not an aesthetic. It’s not “cozy.” It’s not “romantic.” It is a full-blown seasonal assault. It’s waking up and negotiating with your thermostat like you’re defusing a bomb. It’s stepping outside and getting physically bullied by the air. It slaps your face, steals your breath, and laughs as your will to live slips on black ice.

Have you ever felt the cold in your teeth? Not because you’re chewing ice—just because you exist? The cold doesn’t nudge you; it invades. Your fingers become meat popsicles. Your nose a leaky faucet. Your spine? An icicle with regrets.

And yes, someone will always chirp, “But snow is so magical!”

Sure. So is glitter—until it’s in your carpet, your soul, and your coffee. Snow is only magical until you’re scraping your windshield with a frozen pizza box because your scraper snapped in half like your sanity.

But here’s the thing: I didn’t always feel this way.

There was a time when winter meant war, and we were ready for it.

We were glued to the radio each morning, listening for school closures like it was the stock market. We lived for the moment they’d say our school’s name. Nothing else mattered. Snow day? Victory. Snow day? Absolute chaos.

And when we got the call—we deployed.
Our mothers didn’t mess around with stylish gear. None of that fitted Columbia-brand nonsense grandkids wear today. No, we were wrapped in layers so thick we couldn’t bend at the elbows. Giant snowsuits in violent colors, scarves wrapped until we couldn’t breathe, hats that made us look like sentient laundry piles.

We didn’t look cool. We looked insulated. And we were proud of it. Because we had work to do. Trash can lids became sleds. Snow ramps got built with zero structural integrity. There were snow forts to construct, munitions to stockpile, and alliances to betray. If you didn’t come back soaked, bruised, and slightly frostbitten—you didn’t commit.

And the cold? It didn’t touch us.
We stayed outside for hours. No complaints. No thermals. Just soaked socks and adrenaline. We siphoned warmth directly from the sun—or maybe from the bodies of our enemies in those brutal snowball battles. We made snow angels like we were summoning ice demons. We didn’t feel pain. We felt alive.

But somewhere along the line, that magic froze over.

You start to see snow not as a playground, but as debt—a cruel joke you’ll be shoveling off your car at 6 a.m. with a spoon because your scraper snapped (again). The world no longer stops for snow. It just gets harder.

And then something inside you changes. You stop complaining. You stop reacting. You just nod when the forecast says “ice pellets” like some frostbitten monk who’s accepted their fate. You become that person who shovels in a T-shirt—not because it’s brave, but because your soul gave up years ago.

So how do I feel about cold weather?

Like a war veteran feels about the war: I’ve been through it, I have the scars, and if you say “but snow is magical!” one more time, I will personally make you lick a metal pole in January.

Any more questions?

Mistake were Made: The Shame pt 2

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

FICTION

The Diner (Where Grease Meets Regret)

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

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

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

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

“You remember me?” I asked.

“You cried into a pancake.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Harper blinked. “Why a breadbasket?”

“I claimed it was symbolic,” I muttered.

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

Harper raised an eyebrow. “Raj?”

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

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

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

“I already hate it here,” Harper muttered.

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

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

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

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

I nearly wept.

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

Harper arched an eyebrow. “What vow?”

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

I stared at it in silence.

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

“I hate and respect myself,” I whispered.

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

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

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

Return of the Wallet Warrior

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

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

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

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

Harper leaned forward. “So… lessons learned?”

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

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

Then she pulled out her phone.

“What’s that?” I asked.

She smirked. “Your final humiliation.”

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

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

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

Harper was in tears.

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

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

“It actually worked,” I whispered.

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

Scene 8: The Final Baby Step

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

I was… learning?

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

“I’m trying,” I said. “Baby steps.”

She nodded.

Then paused.

“Where’s your phone?”

I blinked.

Patted my pockets.

Checked the couch cushions.

Looked under the cat.

“…Oh no.”

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

THE END
(Or is it?)

Did I tell you about the time Harper stalked a stripper

Mistakes Were Made: The Shame pt 1

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

FICTION – FOWC & RDP

The Morning After

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

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

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

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

Then it hit me.
Something was missing.

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

No wallet.

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

Cue the internal scream.

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

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

Harper, the Roommate of Judgement

“Lose something, hero?”

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

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

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

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

“Travis?” I asked, brain lagging.

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

“…I’m scared of me,” I whispered.

“You should be.”

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

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

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

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

“…Romance is dead.”

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

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

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

The Pub (Where It All Went Wrong)

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

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

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

She snorted. “So… yourself.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I flushed. “Right. So, no wallet?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

She sighed. “Of course it is.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The bouncer stopped me. “ID?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Caught in the Heavy

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

FICTION – FOWC, RDP, 3TC

Caught in the Heavy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just enough light to prove he was still there.

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

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

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

FICTION – MLMM #423

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

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

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

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

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

Then it got weird.

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

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

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

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

As the Inkwell Stirs

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

PROSE – 3TC #MM48 – MORNING VIBE

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Quiet of the Moment

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

PROSE – 3TC #MM43

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

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

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

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

Then you see her.

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

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

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

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

And for once, that’s enough.

The Ridge Where Silence Waits

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

PROSE – FOWC & RDP

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

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

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

For I have lost the vision.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Edge of Becoming: Refusal to Disappear

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

PROSE – REFLECTION

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why can’t you just be easier?

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

She had been shrinking ever since. A slow erosion.

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

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

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

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

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

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

She hovered over the send button.

Then she didn’t.

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

It wasn’t a revolution. Just refusal.

A small, quiet defiance.

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

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

She wasn’t sure what came next.

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

Arc Logic

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

FICTION – FFFC #315

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Josh raised an eyebrow. “What contract?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I try.”

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

She paused mid-step. “What?”

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

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

“To who?”

“Your soul.”

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

“And no eye contact,” she added. “That’s how feelings sneak in.”

Outside, the rain had dwindled to a drizzle. A rainbow stretched overhead like it had been waiting for them to notice.

Josh looked up. “You know, it kind of feels like a map.”

Sophie squinted at it. “To where?”

Josh shrugged. “Somewhere we don’t have to know everything. We just get to… exist.”

Sophie stomped into a puddle with both boots. “Cool. Let’s go there. Right after ice cream.”

They set off down the sidewalk, the sky still dripping a little, the rainbow curved above them like a wink. Neither of them said it, but both figured: if that thing was pointing somewhere—maybe it was toward each other.

The Unwritten Standard

2025/04/08Posted in FictionTagged creative writing, Fiction, flash fiction, short fiction, short-story, Word of the day, writing2 Comments

SHORT FICTION – WORD OF THE DAY CHALLENGE

She walked the shoreline like a fading echo, her reflection trailing behind her in the shallow water, unsure if it still qualified to be hers. Time had stretched her thin. Not just in years, but in identity—pulled apart by choices she had to make, and those made for her.

Everyone said she wasn’t eligible.

Not for the kind of life that lives in whispers and instinct. Not for the kind of happiness you don’t need to prove. They said you need a plan, a structure, a timeline, a box. Dreams, they told her, had to fit within a budget—not just of money, but of reason, of patience, of what the world deems acceptable.

But deep down, she knew the rules they played by weren’t written for her.

There had always been this undercurrent—soft, persistent, impossible to ignore—that tugged at her ribs like tidewater. A voice not quite hers, but always with her. A silent, steady reminder that she came from something more than survival. That she wasn’t lost; she was just unclaimed.

It wasn’t ambition she was chasing.

It was the prophecy of her becoming.

Not some ancient foretelling, but the quiet, sacred promise she made to herself when she was younger: that she would not shrink. She would not trade her fire for comfort. She would not let her story be rewritten just to make others feel safe.

She had tried being the replacement—fitting into other people’s molds, echoing voices that weren’t hers. But there was always a price. Always a fracture. Always a hunger that imitation couldn’t fill.

Now, walking into the pale light where sky and sea dissolved into one another, she realized: she had nothing left to prove.

She didn’t need to qualify.

She already did.

The Gauntlet of Fog and Stone

2025/04/08Posted in ProseTagged creative writing, fantasy, Fiction, FOWC, Poems from Another Time, Prose, Ragtag Daily Prompt, RDP, short-story, writing2 Comments

PROSE – FOWC & RDP

The mist clung to the earth like old sorrow, curling around boots and stones, swallowing sound. Two figures stood before the monolith, cloaked in black, their outlines blurred by fog and fate. The stone towered above them, carved from the mountain’s spine. Its surface was worn by centuries but still bore the mark—an eye within a jagged star—that pulsed faintly, like something alive and watching.

They had come a long way to find it. Through dead forests that whispered their names. Across plains littered with the bones of better men. Not for glory. Not even for vengeance. Just the promise of an answer, or maybe an end.

Behind them, the others waited. Hooded. Silent. A dozen warriors who had followed them without question, bound by old oaths and older regrets. No one asked what lay on the other side of the fog. The question had been buried with the first man who hesitated.

The taller of the two stepped forward, boots crunching on frost-hardened gravel. His hand hovered near the hilt of his sword, fingers twitching like they remembered every fight that hadn’t gone his way. “We stand at the edge,” he said, low and certain.

His companion didn’t look at him, just stared at the monolith. “And what waits beyond?”

“Only those who boldly engage the old magic will know.”

The other figure stepped closer to the stone, his silhouette ragged with wear but upright and determined. He placed a gloved hand on the carving. The stone felt warm—too warm—as if it hadn’t forgotten.

The ground answered—not with light but with a deep, resonant hum that rolled through the valley like a warning. The fog began to move, twisting into strange shapes, pulling backward to reveal what waited deeper in the pass—a path, a gate, shadows shifting on the other side.

The second man drew his blade slowly, the sound of steel slicing the stillness. “Then we put on the gauntlet,” he said, quiet but resolved. “And we walk into whatever comes next.”

Not for glory. Not for vengeance. But for truth. And for the ones they couldn’t bring back.

Together, they stepped forward as the stone split open, the mountain groaning with ancient memory. Finally, the fog began to part.

Oracle of Hollow Peak

2025/04/07Posted in ProseTagged AI Generated Images, creative writing, daily exercise, Fiction, FOWC, Poems from Another Time, Prose, Ragtag Daily Prompt, romance, short-story, writing3 Comments

PROSE – CONCEPT ART – DOUBLE EXPOSURE

In the heart of the Hollow Mountains, where the air hummed with silence and time forgot to tick, a being older than wind sat. Encased in a sphere of shimmering energy—neither glass nor light, but something between—the Oracle meditated above a chasm that pulsed with ancient fire.

He had not spoken in centuries. He didn’t need to.

The mountains around him were carved not by water but by will. Their jagged silhouettes, emerald-tipped and layered like echoes, were born from his breath. Each ridge was a memory. Each peak was a vow. He had once been flesh, bone, and fire. Now, he was purpose wrapped in the illusion of form.

To the outside world, he appeared as a man—if a man could be sculpted from starlight and storms. His robes flowed like liquid fog, and his long, tangled beard bore streaks of silver like splotches of moonlight left behind by the gods.

Pilgrims had tried to reach him, climbing in silence, their mouths dry from reverence or fear. None returned unchanged. Most didn’t return at all.

Inside the sphere, reality bent. Time curled inward like smoke. The Oracle sat cross-legged on a throne of molten stone that neither burned nor aged. Beneath him, streams of liquid light cascaded into the void—knowledge pouring endlessly into the earth’s soul, never wasted, never full.

He was more than a seer. He was a medium between worlds—the silent conduit through which forgotten truths passed. Not a messenger, not a prophet, but something more elemental, something that watched as stories ended and began again.

He waited—not out of impatience but design. Somewhere, someone would be ready to ask the right question. Not about destiny or death. Those were too easy. But the one that mattered. The one that cracked the world open.

Until then, he breathed. And in that breath, universes whispered.

Top 5 Ways to Ask a Girl Out: Rule #5

2025/04/062025/06/29Posted in Fiction, Top 5 WaysTagged creative writing, daily exercise, fantasy, Fiction, FOWC, Ragtag Daily Prompt, romance, short-story, writing3 Comments

FICTION – FOWC & RDP

Top 5 Ways to Ask a Girl Out: Rule #5
If you survive the kiss attempt, you’re in.

We walked back from the taco truck under the kind of sky that made everything look slightly more romantic than it deserved to. Streetlights flickered on like they were rooting for me. Or mocking me. Hard to tell.

“So,” she said, arms folded, still carrying her drink like it was a trophy. “Do you usually spend your Saturdays pretending to be a mechanic-slash-foodie with girls you’re not dating?”

“Only the ones who invite me to test-drive their haunted vehicles and emotionally unstable lawn statues.”

She laughed. “So I’m special.”

“You are,” I said, before my filter could save me.

She looked over, eyes holding for a beat too long. I panicked and did what any emotionally underdeveloped guy would do: I kicked a pebble and immediately regretted everything I’ve ever said.

We got to her door. The gnome was back. Sitting on the railing again like nothing had happened.

“You brought him back out?” I asked.

She shrugged. “Didn’t move him.”

We both stared at the gnome.
The gnome stared back.
Relentless.

I cleared my throat. “So. Tonight was… really good. Even if I almost stripped the threads off your lug nuts and spilled soda on my own knee.”

She smiled. “Definitely one of my better fake-date disasters.”

And then it happened.
That silence.
The kind that invites a kiss if you’re bold, or complete social collapse if you’re not.

I stepped a little closer. Not a full leap—just a half-step of doomed courage. She didn’t move. Just watched me with that same small smile and terrifying confidence.

This was it. This was the moment.
I leaned in.
And completely misjudged the height difference.

My nose bumped hers. Her forehead bumped mine. My glasses fogged instantly. Her drink sloshed. One of us made a weird surprised sound—pretty sure it was me.

We pulled back, both blinking.

I wanted the sidewalk to swallow me. Instead, she started laughing.
Like, full-on, can’t-stop, leaning-on-the-doorframe laughing.

I winced. “Cool. Yep. Nailed it.”

She grabbed the front of my shirt, pulled me in, and kissed me properly.
Soft. Sure. Just long enough to shut my brain off.

When she pulled away, she whispered, “You passed that test, too.”

The gnome was still watching.
Probably smirking.
Waiting for whatever moment would arrive next.

Author’s Note
And that’s a wrap on this blog series. Thanks for sticking with it. This story (and its awkward kiss energy) will be part of my upcoming short story collection. Same premise, just expanded—with more chaos, more heart, and yes, probably more gnome appearances.

Things We Couldn’t Say, But That’s the Job

2025/04/06Posted in ProseTagged creative writing, Fiction, life, love, Moonwashed Weekly Prompt, Prose, short-story, writingLeave a comment

PROSE – MOONWASHED WEEKLY PROMPT

“Duty is what we carry in silence, long after the reasons stop making sense.”

They said, Be all you can be, and we believed them. But we didn’t know at what cost.

There is a line—not drawn, but implied. A hush between steps, a rule never spoken aloud but lived as law. It was my job to hold the line. To guard it. Uphold it. Even on the days I couldn’t see it. Even when I wasn’t sure it was ever really there.

We lied to everyone that mattered. Spoke in half-truths, offered polished answers to unspoken questions. And over time, the lies started to sound like loyalty. We even convinced ourselves. Still—we held the line. We sacrificed everything for it. Time. Peace. Parts of ourselves no apology will ever retrieve. But we believed our sacrifices had meaning. And maybe they did. Maybe meaning isn’t always clean.

There were things we couldn’t say—not because we didn’t want to, but because the job required silence. Duty demanded presence, not explanation. We chose service over clarity. Responsibility over release. That’s what no one tells you: sometimes loyalty means carrying the truth quietly so others don’t have to.

When the dust settled, we tried to find something to hold on to—something we could trust, something true, something pure. Not perfect. Just real. Something that wouldn’t dissolve when we stopped performing.

And yes—we sometimes lived in the dark. Operated in shadows. Did things we could never speak of. Things people will never know. But there was always a light. A flicker. A guide, buried deep, pulling us back. Even when we wandered, even when we hardened. Some of our paths were rockier than others, but still—there was hope. Always hope.

I traced the curve of the line out of habit, out of fear, out of love for something I couldn’t name anymore. The line is not a fence. It’s a suggestion, soft as a breath on glass, sharp as memory. You learn to shape yourself around it—to fold your hunger, to tailor your voice. To make small beautiful, and still wonder why it feels like vanishing.

Some days, it glows. Other days, it disappears, but you still feel it—in the pause before truth, in the way your shoulders remember how to shrink. Still, I held it. With both hands. Tired hands. Loyal hands.

And then one day, without rebellion, without even deciding, I stepped. Nothing broke. No thunder. No light. Just space. Quiet and wide. I waited for collapse. It didn’t come. The air was different here. Not sweeter, not easier—just honest. There was wind, and with it, direction.

I looked back. The line was still there, but fainter now, as if it never meant to stay. And I understood: it was never a barrier, only a shadow cast by belief. And belief, like shadow, can shift with the sun.

We did what we thought was right. We held the line, lived in the shadows, and told the stories people needed to hear. And through it all, we tried to provide hope—while quietly, desperately, trying to hold onto our own.

Top 5 Ways to Ask a Girl Out: Rule #4

2025/04/032025/06/29Posted in Fiction, Top 5 WaysTagged books, creative writing, family, Fiction, FOWC, Ragtag Daily Prompt, RDP, short-story, writing3 Comments

FICTION – SHORT STORY SERIES

Top 5 Ways to Ask a Girl Out: Rule #4
If she says “this isn’t a date,” it’s 100% a date. Don’t ruin it.

“So,” she said, tossing her greasy rag in the toolbox like a boss, “I owe you dinner.”

I tried to play it cool, even though my brain immediately burst into a confetti cannon. “You don’t owe me anything,” I said, knowing full well that yes, yes she absolutely did and dinner sounded like a dream.

“Okay, but I’m still getting you dinner. Not as a thank-you. Just… you know. Casual. Like friends.”

There it was. The dagger.

“Right. Totally. Friend dinner. My favorite kind of dinner,” I said, with the emotional grace of a man trying to pretend pizza doesn’t taste better when it comes with romantic tension.

She smiled like she could see straight through me. “Cool. There’s this taco truck I like. Cheap. Questionably licensed. But amazing.”

“Perfect,” I said. “Nothing says ‘healthy bonding’ like eating meat from a vehicle.”

An hour later, we were sitting on a curb, elbows bumping, holding greasy foil-wrapped masterpieces. She was already two tacos in. I was still trying to figure out how to bite mine without it completely disintegrating into my lap.

“You always eat this slow?” she asked, watching me with mild concern.

“I’m being strategic,” I said. “Every bite is a structural risk.”

She laughed. “You’re weird.”

I paused. “In a bad way?”

She tilted her head. “In a taco-anxious, coffee-faking, car-fixing kind of way.”

“So… like a charming disaster?”

“Exactly,” she said, raising her bottle of Jarritos. “To charming disasters.”

We clinked bottles. Mine fizzed over and spilled down my hand. Of course.

I wiped it on my jeans. “Classic me. Keeping the bar low, so I’m always exceeding expectations.”

She grinned. “You know this is kind of a date, right?”

My brain blue-screened.

“I mean,” she continued, casually licking hot sauce off her thumb, “you offered free labor, let me serve you questionable coffee, survived my car, and now you’re sitting on a curb eating tacos with me like it’s totally normal. You passed the test.”

“There was a test?”

“Oh yeah. The gnome was part of it.”

I blinked. “The gnome was a test?”

She nodded seriously. “He only approves of guys with good intentions and strong emotional stamina.”

“Well. That explains the pressure I’ve been feeling in my soul.”

She laughed again, and I swear it hit me harder than the tacos. It was like someone had tugged a thread that ran straight through me — tight, impossible to ignore.

I looked at her, trying to decide if this was the moment. The moment to claim some free will, throw caution to the wind, and say it.

But she beat me to it.

“So,” she said, “if we do this again, maybe we pick somewhere that doesn’t cause gastrointestinal roulette?”

“Are you asking me out?” I asked.

She raised an eyebrow. “Would that freak you out?”

“Only in the best way.”

“Well, then.” She stood and offered me her hand. “Let’s call it a soft launch.”

I took it, still sitting. “Wait. Was that a farewell to the taco truck?”

“Oh, definitely not,” she said, pulling me up. “We’re just giving it a rest before we end up in a hospital.”

We walked back toward the cars in a quiet little row of footsteps, hers just ahead of mine. And yeah, maybe it wasn’t official. Maybe it was just tacos and teasing.

But this time, I didn’t pretend. It was a date.

Top 5 Ways to Ask a Girl Out: Rule #3

2025/03/302025/06/29Posted in Fiction, Top 5 WaysTagged creative writing, daily exercise, fantasy, Fiction, flash fiction, Short Stories, short-story, writing2 Comments

FICTION – SHORT FICTION SERIES

Top 5 Ways to Ask a Girl Out: Rule #3
Never assume you’re the smartest person in the driveway.

So there I was, elbow-deep in engine parts, sweating like a liar in a job interview, and just barely pretending I knew what a serpentine belt was. I nodded at a bolt like it had insulted me personally.

She crouched next to me, sipping her probably-toxic coffee and watching with the calm curiosity of someone waiting for a raccoon to finish rooting through their garbage.

“You need a 10mm socket for that,” she said casually.

I froze. “What?”

“That bolt. You’re using the wrong size. That’s why it keeps slipping.”

I looked at the wrench in my hand. I had no idea what size it was. I picked it because it was shiny and made a satisfying clink against the toolbox.

“Right,” I said. “Just warming it up. Loosening the tension.” I said “tension” like I knew what it meant in this context. She didn’t call me out. Worse—she smiled.

“Here,” she said, reaching into the toolbox and plucking out the exact socket like a seasoned mechanic. Then, with zero hesitation, she slid under the hood next to me and got to work like it was no big deal.

“Wait,” I said. “You know how to fix this?”

“I grew up with three older brothers and a string of bad cars,” she said. “Also, I once rebuilt an engine because YouTube dared me.”

I blinked. “So… you’re just letting me fake my way through this for fun?”

“I was curious how long it would take before you admitted it,” she said, laughing. “You were doing okay, though. Kind of charming, in a flailing sort of way.”

Flailing. Excellent. I was now officially “flail-charming.”

She handed me a rag. “Wipe your hands. You’ve got grease on your face. And your shirt. And somehow your ear?”

I wiped at everything and absolutely made it worse.

“Thanks,” I muttered.

She leaned back on her heels, wiping her own hands like a total pro. “So. What was your plan? Fix my car and hope I’d fall in love with you on the spot?”

I froze.

Then shrugged. “Honestly? That was Plan A. I didn’t have a Plan B.”

She laughed. A real one. Then, after a beat, she said, “Well… I like Plan A.”

I nodded, trying not to panic. “Cool. Same. Feels like a solid… multi-step process.”

“You’ve got two more rules left, right?” she said, grinning. “Can’t wait to see what’s next.”

Neither could I.

Mostly because I had absolutely no idea what I was doing.

The Museum of Knuckleheads – Exhibit A: The Credit Card Burial

2025/03/30Posted in Fiction, The Daily'sTagged blog series, books, creative writing, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-1893, failure, Fiction, flash fiction, humor, inner critic, life, personal essay, Satire, self reflection, short-story, Storytelling, The Daily's, writing4 Comments

Daily writing prompt

If you could have something named after you, what would it be?

View all responses

DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

The last time this question was asked, this was what I had to say about it:

The Knucklehead Museum

So, I decided today, what if I turned this cute moment between my wife and I into something else? Here’s what I came up with…

Docent Notes, Entry No. 1: Exhibit A – The Credit Card Burial

Welcome to the Museum of Knuckleheads. Admission is free. Consequences are not.

If you’re here, chances are you’re curious, lost, mildly disappointed with your life trajectory—or just trying to kill ten minutes before the Wi-Fi comes back. All valid. This museum wasn’t built for the elite, the wise, or the well-adjusted. It was built for people like me. People like you. People who have stared into the mirror mid-shower and muttered, “Well… that was a choice.”

Let’s begin the tour.

Exhibit A: The Time I Tried to Bury a Credit Card in the Backyard to “Reset My Finances”

Yes, you read that right. That’s an actual dirt-filled display under the buzzing overhead lights. A plastic shovel from a gas station. A laminated credit card. A tiny American flag, for irony.

This was during a phase I call “financial experimentalism,” which is what you call it when you’re broke but still wildly confident. The plan was simple: if burning sage can cleanse a house, why not dig a shallow grave for debt?

I buried the card behind the shed. Said a few words. Patted the soil like it was a dog I was letting go. And then I waited. For what? Honestly, I don’t know. Divine intervention. A good credit score. A sitcom-style reset button.

Spoiler: Capital One does not care if your card is underground. Interest kept growing as if it were photosynthesizing.

Lessons, If You’re the Type Who Learns

Debt doesn’t decompose.
Just because an idea feels spiritual doesn’t mean it isn’t objectively stupid.
Always check where underground sprinklers are before committing to symbolic rituals.

The exhibit still smells faintly like wet dirt and a bad decision you swore you’d only make once. Sometimes, I swear the card shifts positions overnight. Like it’s clawing its way back up.

People laugh when I tell them this one. They assume it’s exaggerated. I let them believe that. It’s easier than admitting it was the most hopeful I’d felt in months.

Closing Notes from the Docent

This museum isn’t here to mock you. It’s here to reflect you—bad choices and all. You may not see yourself in this exhibit. Not yet. But wait a bit. Everyone’s got a shovel moment.

Next time: Exhibit B – Neck Tattoos I Almost Got at 3 A.M.

Until then, take a number. You’ll be up soon.

—Docent, Senior Raconteur
Museum of Knuckleheads

Share your own Exhibit

Ever made a decision so irrational that it felt oddly brilliant at the time? Leave it in the comments. One day, we might just build a wing for you. Don’t be shy …

As always, I’d like to shout out the folks who provided inspiration.

Ragtag Daily Prompt

Fandango

Thank you guys for doing what you do

Top 5 Ways to Ask a Girl Out: Rule #2

2025/03/292025/06/29Posted in Fiction, The Daily's, Top 5 WaysTagged books, creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-1892, Fiction, Short Stories, short-story, The Daily's, writing4 Comments

Daily writing prompt

What makes you laugh?

View all responses

DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE – FICTION SHORT SERIES

Top 5 Ways to Ask a Girl Out: Rule #2
Don’t insult her car. Even if it deserves it.

We walked down the driveway in silence. Not the comfortable, romantic kind of silence. More like the kind where you know you’re about to meet something terrifying and no one wants to be the first to scream.

Her car came into view. If a rusted toaster had anxiety, it would look like this. The paint was more of a suggestion. The bumper was being held on by what looked like hope and duct tape. One of the side mirrors was missing entirely, probably in protest.

“This is it,” she said, completely straight-faced.

I nodded slowly. “Cool. Vintage… apocalypse chic.”

She raised an eyebrow.

Damn it.

“I mean—it has character. You don’t see this kind of structural chaos every day.”

She laughed. “It’s a piece of crap. You can say it.”

“No! I mean… yes. But lovingly.”

Smooth.

I crouched down to check out the front wheel, pretending to know what I was doing. Which I mostly did. I watched a lot of videos. Some had music. That counts.

“So what’s it doing?” I asked.

“It makes this… sound,” she said, twisting her face like she was bracing for judgment. “Kind of a high-pitched… squeal? Or a scream? It’s hard to describe. Definitely not a sound cars are supposed to make.”

“Got it,” I said. “A banshee vibe.”

She nodded. “Exactly. Like if a haunted violin and a blender had a baby.”

I popped the hood. Steam hissed out like the car was sighing in defeat. I was immediately sweating. From heat, stress, and fear that I was about to electrocute myself in front of someone I liked.

“You don’t have to actually fix it,” she said. “I just thought you might know a guy or something.”

“I am the guy,” I said, way too confidently.

I was not the guy.

Still, I grabbed a wrench like I meant business. Tools make you look legitimate. I tapped something metal. It made a sound. Not a good one.

She leaned over my shoulder. “You sure this is safe?”

“Totally,” I lied. “I’ve done this… dozens of times.”

Once. On YouTube. At 2AM. After searching “how to fix car without dying.”

The gnome wasn’t there anymore. I kind of missed him.

I’m laughing … are you?

Let me know when you are ready for Rule #3

Here’s the link to Rule #1

Top 5 Ways to Ask a Girl Out: Rule #1

2025/03/262025/06/29Posted in Fiction, Top 5 WaysTagged books, creative writing, fantasy, Fiction, short-story, WDYS, Whatdoyousee, writing16 Comments

FICTION – WDYS #281

Top 5 Ways to Ask a Girl Out: Rule #1
Don’t mention the creepy gnome.

I stood there, just… staring at the thing. A tiny metal gnome? Elf? Goblin? Whatever it was, it was perched on her balcony railing like it owned the place.

Did she put it there? She had to have, right? It’s not like little brass weirdos just wander onto balconies. But still—it felt like it was watching me. Judging me.

I thought about asking her, but no. That would blow up the whole operation. Can’t have her thinking I’m the kind of guy who interrogates her about lawn ornament choices. No, I’m the helpful friend. The guy offering to fix her absolute trainwreck of a car—for free. Out of kindness. Generosity. Totally not because I’m hopelessly into her and grasping at any excuse to spend time together.

God, I’m that guy. The one who offers free labor in the desperate hope of being seen as dateable. I’m one creepy figurine comment away from ruining it all. So I shut up, smile, and pretend like helping her isn’t the highlight of my entire month.

She leaned out the front door, holding two mugs. “Coffee? Or, uh… whatever this is. I might’ve forgotten how coffee works halfway through.”

“Perfect,” I said, taking one. I didn’t even like coffee, but it felt like the right thing to say. Plus, I wasn’t about to reject something she handed me with a smile that made my brain shut down like an overheating laptop.

I took a sip. It was… alarming. Bitter, burnt, and somehow both too hot and lukewarm at the same time.

“Be honest,” she said, raising an eyebrow.

“It’s… ambitious,” I offered.

She laughed. Progress.

We stood in silence for a second, both sipping this mysterious bean liquid and pretending it wasn’t a full-on sensory attack. I glanced back at the gnome. It hadn’t moved. Still smug.

“That little guy yours?” I asked, before my brain could stop my mouth.

Why? Why did I do that?

She looked over and grinned. “Oh! Yeah. Found him at a flea market. He looked like he knew secrets, you know? Like he’s seen some things.”

I nodded. “Yeah, like he knows exactly when you’re lying about liking the coffee.”

She snorted, almost spilling hers. “You’re terrible.”

Yes. Yes, I am. But also? Still here. Not banned. Not rejected. Maybe even kind of funny.

The gnome, I swear, winked at me.

Or maybe the coffee was already hitting my brain weird.

Toilet Paper and other Hard Truths

2025/03/26Posted in FictionTagged creative writing, Fiction, FSS, romance, Short Stories, short-story, writing2 Comments

FICTION – FSS #193

He quickly climbed the trellis and reached the balcony outside of her bedroom. He watched her through her window. She was sitting on the floor, legs crossed, phone in hand, completely unaware. She always tied her hair back when she focused, and it was. Probably texting. Probably him.

Jason exhaled slowly, pressing his back against the wall just under the window. He hadn’t planned this. Not exactly. But after three days of being ignored, after seeing that one blurry photo on her story—just a hand on her thigh and a drink in the background—he couldn’t sit still.

He could hear The Cranberries playing in the background—Linger, soft and haunting. She moved to the music, not dancing exactly, but swaying in that unconscious way, like the song had tapped into something old and private inside her. Like it spoke to her soul. Like she was his private dancer and didn’t even know it.

With difficulty, he swallowed. He needed to go. He wasn’t that guy. Not the creepy ones—the ones who watched from the dark, who mistook obsession for romance. The ones who fantasized about a glance, a laugh, a shared elevator ride, and turned it into something it wasn’t.

The ones who, when they finally worked up the nerve, stood trembling and said, “Don’t you remember? You smiled at me once.” Eyes wide. Pleading. Every breath pulling them deeper into the abyss of desperation.

Jason stared at his hands. Pale knuckles, shaky grip on the cold railing.

This wasn’t who he was.
At least, he hoped not.

He jumped from the balcony, hurting his ankle but maintaining his dignity. The pain was excruciating, but it kept him honest. Every limp, every throb was a reminder: he didn’t belong up there. Not like that.

Branches whipped past as he hobbled through the trees behind her house. The cold air cut at his lungs, the wet grass soaked through his sneakers. But he kept going—because turning back would’ve been worse.

Finally, he reached the lake, where his friend Tina was waiting. She was pacing back and forth, arms crossed tight, hoodie pulled over her head. Her eyes lit up when she saw him.

“Did you do it?” she asked urgently, stepping toward him. “Well?”

He didn’t answer right away, sinking onto a bench near the water’s edge, leg outstretched, ankle swelling fast. He winced.

“I saw her,” he said, staring out at the dark water. “She was dancing.”

Tina blinked. “So… that’s a yes?”

Jason shook his head slowly. “No. I couldn’t. I’m not that guy.”

She let out a breath, relief and maybe a little disappointment mixing in her face. She sat next to him, pulling her knees up to her chest.

“Good,” she said. “Because if you were, I wouldn’t be here.”

They sat in silence for a while, the lake still, the sky just hinting at dawn.

How did I get here?
Jason stared at the rippling water like it might answer.

Where did this notion come from—the idea that if he just showed up, climbed high enough, looked long enough, maybe something would fall into place? Some moment, some clarity, some spark between them that would finally catch.

But there was no spark. Just a girl in her room, moving to music, living her life without him in it. And him, standing outside like a stranger.

He wasn’t always this guy. Was he?

Maybe it wasn’t about her at all. Maybe she was just the screen he projected it all onto.

“I think I scared myself,” he said aloud, not even sure if Tina was still listening.

She said nothing at first. Just nodded slowly.

“You weren’t trying to get her back,” she said after a while. “You were trying to find something in yourself. And you didn’t like what you saw.”

Jason closed his eyes.

That was it. That was exactly it.

Tina reached for his hand, hoping Jason would somehow see her, somehow feel her—not just her skin, but what was underneath. All the nights she answered when no one else did. All the pieces of him she held onto so he wouldn’t fall apart.

Her fingers brushed his knuckles. He didn’t pull away. But he didn’t look at her either.

Jason was still staring at the water, lost in his head, somewhere far away from this bench, this lake, from her.

She squeezed his hand gently, grounding him. Or maybe anchoring herself.

“You don’t have to chase ghosts,” she said, voice low. “You aren’t one.”

Jason finally turned to her, and for the first time that night, there was something behind his eyes. Not clarity, not yet—but something softer than the ache he’d been carrying.

He looked down at their hands, then back at her. And something between them shifted.

Tina noticed Jason was crying. Not sobbing, not breaking—but that controlled weep, the only kind allowed for men. Shoulders still. Jaw tight. Tears slipping down anyway.

He squeezed her hand tighter, but it wasn’t painful. It was grounding. Like he needed to make sure she was real.

She watched him, unsure if she should speak, unsure if words would help or just fracture the moment.

Were the tears for the girl he never really had?
Or for something else?
Something older. Deeper. Something even he hadn’t named yet.

Maybe it wasn’t about her at all. Maybe it was the weight of pretending he was okay for too long. The performance of being fine, being cool, being over it. Maybe this was the moment he stopped acting.

Tina didn’t move. She didn’t ask. She just let him feel it.

Because sometimes that’s the only way through.

Everyone knew Jason was the strong one. The steady one.
It was killing her to see him like this—silent, unraveling at the edges.

She remembered last summer. When she chucked every ounce of her self-respect out of the window for Marcus. God, Marcus. She could barely say the name without feeling her stomach turn.

Jason didn’t judge her. Didn’t say I told you so. He just sat next to her on the curb, handed her a Gatorade, and said, “You’ve got nothing to prove. Not to anyone.”

And then:
“I promise I’ll see you through to the other side. We can cry, get drunk, get high, and cry again—if that’s what you need.”

At the time, she thought he was just trying to make her feel better. Talking big, saying what friends say when they don’t know what else to do.

But he meant it.

The bastard was right there, holding her hair back as she worshipped the porcelain god, talking her through it like she was in labor. He had an endless supply of toilet paper, too—which, in hindsight, was no small thing. Because let’s be real: when a real crying fit hits, tissues don’t cut it. Toilet paper is the only thing that makes sense. There’s a lot, and it’s everywhere.

And now here he was. Finally cracked open.

And it was her turn.

“Why are you here, Tina?” Jason asked, voice rough. “Pity? Some sense of duty? Or something else?”

She didn’t flinch, but it stung. Not the words—she’d heard worse—but the fact that he said them. That he really didn’t know.

Tina leaned back, looked up at the night sky like it might help her find the right words. It didn’t.

“You think I came out here in the middle of the night, to a freezing-ass lake, because I pity you?” she said finally. “Come on, Jason. Give me more credit than that.”

He looked away, jaw tight.

“I’m here,” she said, softer now, “because I don’t like who you become when you think no one’s watching. Because I’ve seen you hold everyone else together for so long that I forgot you might fall apart, too.”

She paused.

“And maybe… yeah. Maybe because part of me was waiting for you to need me for once.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was heavy. Honest.

Jason didn’t respond right away. But this time, when he looked at her, he really looked.

“There’s never been a time I didn’t need you,” he said, eyes low. “But I don’t think I knew that until right now.”

He ran a hand through his hair, exhaled like he’d been holding it for years.

“So I acted like a jackass.”

Tina didn’t speak right away. She just let it hang there, let him sit in it.

Then she smirked, just a little. “Yeah. You did.”

Jason gave a short, almost-laugh. “Thanks for the grace.”

She nudged his shoulder. “You’re welcome.”

And just like that, the cold didn’t feel so cold.
The silence didn’t feel so loud.
And maybe—for the first time in a long time—Jason felt like he wasn’t holding the weight alone.

Random Fiction – 02212025

2025/02/212025/02/21Posted in Fiction, ProseTagged books, creative writing, Fiction, flash fiction, FOWC, love, RDP, short-story, writing8 Comments

FICTION

When you’re young, you wander through life with a carefree attitude, convinced that nothing tragic will ever befall you. It’s not that you think you’re made of steel; it’s just that misfortune always seems to strike elsewhere, affecting other people. You know these people—your classmates who sit a few rows ahead in math, friends who share secrets during recess, rivals who challenge you in sports, and those vaguely familiar faces passing in the school hallway whose names always escape you. “Who is that?” You recognize them; they might live across the street or next door, but their names never stick. You catch wind of their troubles in hushed conversations over cafeteria trays or notice the signs—a bruise blooming under an eye or a sudden empty desk where someone used to sit. But you? You’re shielded by an invisible armor. Untouchable. Until one day, that armor cracks, and the reality that you’re just as vulnerable as everyone else comes crashing down.

As a guy growing up, you were conditioned to believe the worst thing you could be called was a wimp or a pussy. Those words stung like a slap to the face. But the worst of all was “pansy.” It technically meant the same thing, yet it carried a unique venom, like an elite-tier insult that could ignite a brawl. They were fighting words, as the old-timers would say. I often imagined a secret list of such words that, when uttered, left you with no choice but to unleash the rage pent up inside the beast within us all, a primal code of manhood handed down through the ages by our Neanderthal ancestors. The rationale behind it was nonexistent—nonsensical, absurd, or downright foolish didn’t even begin to cover it. I even went so far as to ask friends and acquaintances, hoping to uncover this mythical list’s existence, but they just gave me strange looks as if I was the odd one out. “Weirdo.” There’s another term I’m certain once ranked high on that clandestine list.

If there was one thing certain to amplify male foolishness, it was the presence of a girl. You might assume it would be the confident ones with a smooth stride and an easy grin. But you’d be mistaken. It was simply the presence of any female. Something about her steady, evaluating gaze seemed to flick a switch in our lizard brains. Suddenly, we were all posturing like peacocks, vying for attention as if auditioning for the role of “Alpha Male #2” in a poorly scripted high school drama.

“Cut…cut, cut, cut…” the director’s voice echoed through the set, slicing through our bravado. He rose from his worn director’s chair with an exasperated sigh, his footsteps heavy as he approached. He muttered incoherently, his brows furrowing in frustration. Turning abruptly, he addressed a bewildered production assistant who appeared as if they had stumbled onto the wrong set altogether. “It’s missing… I don’t know,” he said, rubbing his temple as if the motion might conjure clarity from the chaos in his mind. The PA shrugged, their confusion mirroring his own.

“More, you know? More,” he declared, fixing his gaze on you with an intensity that suggested the simple word held the universe’s mysteries. It might, who knows? Because at that moment, you felt the weight of impending humiliation hanging over you like a storm cloud, threatening to unleash if you failed to decipher this cryptic instruction. So you reset, ready to reenact the scene with exaggerated bravado and clumsy confidence. A muscular guy, his shirt straining against bulging biceps, lunged forward to take a swing at a smaller guy. The smaller one stood his ground, fists clenched and eyes steely—not because he had faith in his victory, but because maintaining dignity in defeat was preferable to being labeled a pansy. Who needs self-preservation when fragile masculinity whispers its deceitful promises of status and respect in your ear?

The worst beating I ever took wasn’t even for something I did. And that, frankly, was offensive. I was the kind of kid who had done plenty to earn a few ass-kickings, but this one? This was charity work.

Susan Randle—radiant in a way that made heads turn in every hallway—sat beside me in the darkened movie theater. During what she half-jokingly called our “date” (really just two people sharing a row while an action film played), she eyed me with a mischievous smirk and accused me of being gay simply because I hesitated when she leaned over, voice low and daring, to ask if I wanted to “do it.” The dim light flickering over her face caught the earnest sparkle in her eyes before she suddenly closed the distance and pressed her lips against mine. In that charged moment, the unwritten, yet unanimously understood rule against “unsanctioned sugar”—the secret code dictating who could kiss whom—reared its head. No one ever seemed to grant an exception, whether you were a girl or a guy. And here I was, trapped between the dreaded labels: on one end lay the desperate horndog willing to prove his manhood at every twist, and on the other, the discredited possibility of being gay. I wasn’t interested in becoming just another name on her ever-growing list or dealing with the fallout of shattering her carefully constructed illusion of desirability. When a boy disrupted that illusion, the consequences were swift and ruthless.

That catalog wasn’t a myth—it was as real as the whispered rankings that circulated among us. It wasn’t enough to simply admire the “right” girl; if you dared to look away or, heaven forbid, question the unspoken challenges, your name was scrawled in the ledger of sins. Failed to laugh at the jokes delivered with just the right touch of irony, dress in conforming denim and sneakers, or walk with that practiced swagger? Sure enough, it was marked on the list.

My reluctance to follow these unwritten rules quickly made me a target. Over the following weeks, a series of meticulously scheduled beatings forced me to confront the cruel reality of teenage hierarchies. After school, I would find myself cornered in the deserted back lot behind the gym, where a group of boys awaited with grim determination. They’d shout derogatory names—“fairy boy” and a particular favorite, “pirate,” a crude truncation of “butt pirate”—words spat out with the casual cruelty of a rehearsed routine. Each blow landed with precision, and amid the sting and shock, I discovered a perverse sort of order; they made sure I wasn’t crippled for good. I clutched my prized 96 mph fastball as if it were a lifeline and leaned into my natural left-handed stance, determined to keep my place on the team even if I was labeled a “fairy boy” behind closed doors.

By the time the school year drew to a close, the beatings ceased as if a final judgment had been passed in some bizarre, secret rite of passage. One by one, the bullies patted me on the back with a mixture of grudging admiration and hollow platitudes, congratulating me on having “taken it like a man.” It was as if surviving their collective assault were the final exam in a twisted curriculum of manhood. They’d shrug and say, “It wasn’t personal. It was just something that needed doing.” To them, such senseless violence was nothing short of an honorable tradition—a sacred duty executed without a shred of genuine empathy.

That summer, I found brief refuge away from the tyranny of high school corridors with my father in Northern California. He was a truck driver, his bronzed, weathered hands as familiar with the hum of diesel engines as he was with the hard lines of a life lived outdoors, where emotions were as heavy as the cargo he hauled. My parents’ origins were a collage of chance encounters: they’d originally met at a sultry George Benson concert in the Midwest, where the guitar licks sultry under a neon haze had paved the way for something unexpected. Within nine months of that chance meeting, I came into the picture—a living reminder of their brief yet potent infatuation. They had the wisdom to avoid the charade of forced domesticity; soon after, my mom returned east while my dad continued chasing horizons out west. Mysterious fragments of half-truths and secrets that always belong to a larger narrative are as American as elitism and Chevrolets and need no full explanation.

I used the prompts listed below in this bit of flash fiction

RDP – beast

Fandango – FWOC – Date

RDP – Monday -02262024

2024/03/10Posted in ProseTagged blog, creative writing, daily exercise, Fiction, Prose, Ragtag Daily Prompt, RDP, short-story, writingLeave a comment

CHALLENGE RESPONSE – PROSE/FICTION

Here is my response to RDP’s Trifling

A quaint village nestled between rolling hills and whispering woods lived a trifling spirit named Elara. Mischievous and light-hearted, she danced through the villagers’ lives like a playful breeze, her presence barely more substantial than a fleeting shadow. With a penchant for harmless pranks, Elara often left a trail of bewildered smiles and gentle laughter in her wake. She’d whisper riddles in the wind, tie shoelaces together unseen, and sometimes, in a whimsical mood, cause the flowers to bloom out of season, painting the world in unexpected splendor.

Yet, despite her whimsy, Elara held a deeper purpose. Her antics served as gentle reminders not to take life too seriously and to find joy in the small, unexpected moments. In her own trivial way, Elara wove a thread of light-heartedness into the fabric of the village, teaching that sometimes, the heart needs the relief of laughter and the soul the lightness of just being.

Lizard Boy: Timmy Sinclair

2024/03/102024/03/16Posted in Fiction, ProseTagged creative writing, daily exercise, fantasy, Fiction, Photography, RDP, short-story, SocS, writing7 Comments

CHALLENGE RESPONSE – FICTION

Chapter 1

A boy named Timmy Sinclair lived in a bustling city named Licksville, known far and wide for his extraordinarily large tongue. Timmy was no ordinary boy, and his tongue was no ordinary tongue. It was the size of a baguette, supple like a gymnast’s and versatile like an artist’s palette.

From an early age, Timmy realized that his large tongue was not a curse but a blessing. He discovered he could use his tongue for tasks that others could not. He could taste the subtlest of flavors in food, making him the best judge in town for cooking competitions. He could also use his large tongue to help clean out jars and reach places his hands could not.

In school, Timmy was the star of the science fair. He used his tongue to demonstrate how taste buds worked, making science fun and exciting. His classmates admired him, and his teachers praised him for his creativity. Unfortunately, not everyone saw Timmy’s tongue that way.

Summer ended, and school began. Timmy was excited. He couldn’t wait for his next adventures. When he arrived at homeroom on the first day, there were two new students: one girl and one boy. Timmy took a seat and waited. He wanted to know everything about the girl. She had long raven hair, caramel-colored skin, and the most enchanting eyes he had ever seen.

Ms. Rowster came into the room, and they settled down for attendance. Timmy barely could contain himself as he anxiously waited to hear the name of this beautiful girl. When Ms. Rowster got to her name, she asked her to stand up and tell the class a little about herself. She did.

“Hello. My name is Simin Karimi, and I’m from Detriot,” Simin said, then sat down.
Timmy felt she had the most beautiful voice to accompany the rest of her beauty.

Ms. Rowster did the same with the new boy as well. He stood and cleared his throat, “I’m Brad Zigler from Ohio. I know everyone has heard of Zigler cheese, right? Brad asked. A few nodded in agreement while the others sat in quiet bewilderment.

They were all sixteen, but Brad stood over 6 feet and had a large nose, freckles, and a fiery beard. Due to his size and attitude, he had already started gaining friends. Timmy knew he would be one of the most popular kids in school before long.

At lunch, Timmy sat at his usual table, watching Simin’s every move, hoping she would sit at his table. Marcy Busch slapped Timmy on the shoulder.

“Who’s that?” Marcy asked.

“S S S imin,” Timmy shuttered. He was a little tongue-tied, as they say. He felt strange because he never shuttered a day in his life. Marcy looked puzzled at Timmy, then Simin. Marcy motioned for Simin to sit with them. Timmy shifted uncomfortably but managed a smile. Marcy introduced herself.

Marcy and Simin chatted away while eating, picking at their food, if you can call it eating. They were well on their way to being fast friends. Timmy sat quietly, nodding and smiling at the appropriate times. Timmy noticed Simin kept glancing and smiling at him. This made Timmy nervous. Here is the most beautiful girl, and he’s suddenly tongue-tied.

“Stop being rude!” Marcy said as she nudged on the shoulder. Timmy tried to say something, but his tongue got in the way. It felt like it filled his entire mouth. Timmy had never experienced this before. Marcy’s comment didn’t help matters.

“So, you see a pretty girl, huh?” Marcy asked.

“You’ve been talking my ear off since first grade. Geez, thanks,” she smiled. Her cobalt blue eyes sparkled when she smiled, and her smile always seemed to do the trick when Timmy got nervous. Marcy made him feel safe.

“Hey, Simin,” Timmy finally managed. Simin smiled.

“Oh my god! So you’re the freak people have been whispering about!” a voice exclaimed. They looked up, and it was Brad Zigler with a horrified expression.

“What are you? Some sort of lizard?” he exclaimed.

Timmy blushed, and his eyes filled with tears. Before he knew it, Marcy had sprung from the table, kneeing Brad, and delivered a well-practiced right cross—the signature move she picked up when she developed breasts at 12. Marcy explained that once all the women in her family had a nice set of girls, her mother, and grandmother taught her the move in case the boys got handsy. Nanna said boys “always get handsy.”

Marcy stood Brad silently, her brunette hair tied in a ponytail. Brad groaned in pain as he clutched his private area. Marcy stepped toward him, and Brad scooted away with his held up in surrender. Marcy turned to look at Timmy. Her pale alabaster skin was rose-colored. Her eyes were like fire. Yet, they softened when Timmy looked up at her. She stood 5 feet even.

“Bullies give me the sweet ass!” she exclaimed as she retook her seat. Marcy didn’t make eye contact with anyone, then whispered, “Sorry.” Simin squeezed her hand. “Marcy, you’re wicked fast. Next time, can you save me some?” Simin asked jokingly. They all chuckled as they left the lunchroom.

Author’s Note:

Today, I felt good enough to write a little fiction. I hope you don’t mind. So, I combined a couple of hosted challenges I felt worked for the story. The third challenge was one I had for myself, and it was two-fold. Primarily, I’ve been writing light non-fiction for the last few weeks. I needed to know if my fiction tools still worked in something light. I also challenged myself to see if my depictions of the characters in this could used with AI image generation. The answer to the latter is yes. Overall, I’m pleased with the image outcome. As for the former, it felt good writing, but I will leave it up to you guys. Should I continue this corky tale? I wrote more, in case you are wondering. Or hit delete and move on to another project?

Prompts used for this story:

SocS: Hosted by Linda Hill – Words starting with “signa”

Ragtag Daily Prompts: Sunday (safe); Thursday (Lizard)

The challenge words are hyperlinked to their origins. I hope you guys enjoy this corky little tale

POETRY – ANNABELLE SERIES

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POETRY

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PROSE – FOWC & RDP

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DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

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FICTION

The Diner (Where Grease Meets Regret)

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

Return of the Wallet Warrior

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FICTION – FOWC & RDP

The Morning After

Harper, the Roommate of Judgement

The Pub (Where It All Went Wrong)

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

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FICTION – FOWC, RDP, 3TC

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FICTION – MLMM #423

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PROSE – 3TC #MM48 – MORNING VIBE

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PROSE – 3TC #MM43

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PROSE – FOWC & RDP

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PROSE – REFLECTION

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FICTION – FFFC #315

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SHORT FICTION – WORD OF THE DAY CHALLENGE

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PROSE – FOWC & RDP

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PROSE – CONCEPT ART – DOUBLE EXPOSURE

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FICTION – FOWC & RDP

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PROSE – MOONWASHED WEEKLY PROMPT

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FICTION – SHORT STORY SERIES

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FICTION – SHORT FICTION SERIES

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DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

Docent Notes, Entry No. 1: Exhibit A – The Credit Card Burial

Exhibit A: The Time I Tried to Bury a Credit Card in the Backyard to “Reset My Finances”

Lessons, If You’re the Type Who Learns

Closing Notes from the Docent

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DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE – FICTION SHORT SERIES

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FICTION – WDYS #281

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FICTION – FSS #193

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FICTION

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CHALLENGE RESPONSE – PROSE/FICTION

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CHALLENGE RESPONSE – FICTION

Chapter 1

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