6 0 6

A six petal rose

I can’t believe I’m doing this, he thought wryly. If someone was filming , they could make a straight-to-tv, midday movie from this tripe. With a smile, he shook his head slightly and pulled the first petal from the long-stemmed rose in his hand. It was a yellow rose, chosen not because of preference for colour, but because it was wilting and had been marked down for quick sale at the florist. Frugality was not a part of it either, he had simply chosen not to waste a healthy rose on what he was about to do.

He was looking out over the ocean from a cliff edge high above the frothy white  mess of wave meeting rock. It was a long drive to get here, but the location had come instantly to mind the moment he decided what he was going to do. Isolated, unblemished by human touch, and windy enough to let nature bite him while he admired her beauty.

He placed the rose petal on his upturned fingertips and stretched his arm out over the edge. An up-draft from the sea below quickly grabbed the petal from his hand and carried it out toward the horizon.

“She loves me.”

First contact, shy smiles. Eyes meeting in glances of ever-increasing length. Cheeky grins, playful jests, fingertips stretched to touch for the want of touching. …

The second petal came away from the flower, he thought it offered more resistance than the first, but it was captured by the ocean breeze just as readily.

“She loves me not.”

First cracks, fears spoken. Worries planted, differences sprouting. Words recited, well meaning, true meaning, hands still held for want of gripping. …

The first petal was lost to his eye now and the second yellow fragment had fallen straight to slide and tumble its way down the cliff face toward the water. A third petal sat on his outstretched hand, moving in circles, caught in an eddy above his palm. He blew toward it until it began to fall.

“She loves me.”

Flowers blooming, smiles warming. Fingers clasped when not running through hair. Laughter resounding, hot breath on bare necks. Heart stopping words whispered in ears tensed and waiting …

He had closed his eyes and was smiling, arm straight out in front of him as the wind grabbed his hair and flapped the folds of his long sleeved t-shirt.  Without opening his eyes, he plucked another petal from the remnants of the yellow rose. He felt the the wind lift it from his fingertips.

“She loves me not.”

Panic growing, worries taking root in fertile soil. Soft skin flinches from attempts to touch. Words spoken, by rote, meaning lost to repetition. Labels used for sake of labels. …

His eyes were closed and arm still outstretched, but the corners of his mouth had fallen with the last petal, leaving his lips compressed in a thin line. His arm fell slowly to his side and he looked down in time to see the yellow petal’s flight brought down violently in the a puff of sea spray. Only two wind-crumpled petals remained on the rose, and that soon became one when his fingers deftly plucked another.

“She loves me.”

Perfection. Uttered in disbelieving gasps of simultaneous ecstasy. Lucky, blessed, gifted, and loved. A warming connection even when hearts met distance. Perfection, lived and believed. …

He was smiling again, but his eyes were open now and the lack of light in them gave away his smile’s lie. Gaze fixed on the final petal struggling to remain attached to the decrepit rose, he tossed the entire thing over the edge, watching it plummet toward the rocks below.

“She loves me not.”

Distance manufactured, voices muted, whispers silenced. Cracks sprouting forests, words spoken known for lies, worries carpeting fields of green, brown now from lack of light. Drop outs, drop off, drop. …

“She loved me not.”

His face had split into a delirious rictus as he looked at his empty palms. He shifted his gaze to the female body at his feet.

“The flower says you loved me not.”

He kicked the corpse from the ledge and dived off the cliff before the body was halfway to the rocks below.

3 0 3

Letter No. 1


Nothing will ever prepare you for the moment you dread. The calm before the storm is so aptly named because everyone’s quiet sobbing can hardly be heard above the screaming fear. You know me well enough to know that this is hard for me. Saying goodbye. To look, at that final moment, at the faces of the people who you may never see again, who you spent a year laughing with, crying over, worrying about, hating, loving, ridiculing. To know that, even though your sorrow is greater than anyone could possibly know, you’re almost required to enjoy it. To know that the faces I see as I turn and look, one last time, are not faces of sadness, no, but faces of barely concealed joy. To know that life will go on, that in two years it’ll be a struggle to remember I was there, in four to remember me, in eight to remember it. I understand, also, how pessimistic I’ve become. In writing these I was, as I’d like to be, happy and melancholy. I felt as if yours was the one in which I might express my sorrow. Friends aren’t replaceable. They aren’t things you forget about and take out every few years to play with just ‘cause. Friends impart a portion of their soul upon you, and you them. I’d like to say, at the end of the day, I have a friend. It’s innate human nature to want a friend, to want someone to share stories with you. Well, I wouldn’t really know.

I’ve always wondered if other people cry. I cry. I cry all the time. Maybe that’s just my medicine though.

Sorry about the stream-of-consciousness thing, I hope you’ll understand. Anything I want to say to you I already have. This is a formality, a finale, an end to a chapter. Now I begin anew, hopefully with one or two of the same characters.

Do you know what it means when I say ‘to teach?’ Probably not, because it’s a very specific, connotative definition. When I say that the best teachers are students, I mean it. All the education in the world couldn’t have taught me what teaching 45 minutes of freshmen did. When they looked up at me, their eyes were cold with hate. They knew I saw. They didn’t know it hurt. That day I learned the most important lesson I think I’ll ever learn, they’re wrong. It doesn’t matter how much you know or who you know or where you learned or where you’ve been. What matters is that single moment when I crack a smile instead of a whip and I turn from authority to equal. To accomplish both must be one of the hardest things, because I’ve yet to do it. Anyway, a student will tell you everything they know, even if you don’t care. A teacher will tell you half of what they know and they don’t care you don’t care. This year has been a journey of education wrapped up in the one class I feel I can talk about. I learned about basketball and vodka with Red Bull and One Direction and soccer and technology and cars and foursquare and Gamecube. I didn’t learn much Latin, but I did learn so much more.

In Central and South America, there are fish called geophagi. They don’t often eat other fish or plants or really anything. They sift through the gravel under them, eating the scraps from other creatures’ meals. No there’s a point I swear. When aquarists keep a geophagus, they get to see this feeding behavior. They also get to learn that these beautiful fish aren’t scavengers. They’re incredibly intelligent; they respond to different people in different ways; they can tell time; they understand. In life, I feel that each person should strive to be, as a geophagus, brilliant and beautiful without having to declare it to everyone, choosing only to display it to those whom you truly know.

3 0 3

It was one of those longing nights

It was one of those longing nights

(where you'd pretend to be dazed)

watching the flickering advertisements

comprising 80% of some five year old re-run.

People would come into the room,

and ask you what you were watching,

but you'd just grunt out some ill-inspired explanation

(that sounded more like it was coming

from your nose than your mouth).

The truth was you weren't paying attention at all.

It was that kind of night for me.


I sat there thinking too hard for my own good--

bumper cars were riding off the flat bed

and shorting out, while the rest

wouldn't stop slamming into each other

(even after the attendant had showed up to close the ride).

My mind was a child's attempt at a car crash,

"but mommy, I wanna keep playing!"

"I'm sorry dear, but we have to go..."

and kick and scream all the way home

because you wanted control;

because you didn't feel like you had any.


I had some serious decisions to make:

would I leave to shape a world for myself,

or stick like chewed gum

to the bottom of a tiny desk,

and listen to the preachings of a textbook.

Would I go with the girl I equated to nature--

bold and beautiful and never failing to surprise

when the weatherman would spread his rumors.

Would I find a passion I could be dedicated to?

Would I be proud or hate myself?

Would I?  Could I?  I really didn't know,

but I'm going to find out,

and I turned off the television set...

5 1 4

starting over
yet to continue on
along a path long ago set
set in stone
looking for something
something missing
brings me to you
let me one day find my resting place
a place to settle
to lay my head
and a place to set my pen
upon my paper




6 1 5

Charmed I'm Sure [novel excerpt]

This post is not available to guests, please login or register to view this post.
5 0 5


  Self-creation, from
                        And the
becomes a target-

Breaking, this
concrete synapse
is impossible,

  Self-creation, from

13 0 13



this life is a pawn shop.

we all bring ourselves to

the table, showing off

that which we feel makes us

most valuable.

we're all a little bit

beat up and used,

but none of us really believe

that we've lost all our value.

this life is all about

trying to determine

who agrees enough to

buy into us.

5 0 5


Big bad wolf won’t take
the swelling lungs to heart,
and a bad one at that-

Track marks state-lines long,
coast to coast: waiting, always
waiting for the final boast
from the dressed in red charlatan,
with wire taps on the crooked ties
that smoke by the pack.

Fairy tales died before
my blood boiled
at the sight of naked flesh,
and seeking a pound
without reason, is spun
fabric from dreams.

5 0 5

The Path to Purpose

This post is not available to guests, please login or register to view this post.
4 1 3

The Idea of...

At first sight you might think

that your eyes are misleading

if the best of all worlds

seems to be at you greeting,

and I'd never blame you

--it's not mine to call--

when you choose to run

will you choose to fall?


Some say hello while

some say forever;

some say for worse and

some say for better;

some say its love

and sometimes it's true,

but likely it's just

the idea of you...