Sunday, June 1, 2014

A Note from The Curator

Welcome to June, my friends. May has said her goodbyes and moved on. And we, the DrabDayMoMay-ers, have packed up our drabbling ways. But only until next May.

Thanks for joining us on this venture. If you wrote every day or just when you could or even if you just read a drabble here and there, it was a pleasure to have you along for the ride.

See you next May!!

- The Curator

Saturday, May 31, 2014

It all comes down to this

Grand epics and great songs. Forgotten things that will never be remembered. Remembered things that should be forgot. Majesty and might. Glory and power.

And yet, underneath all these tales and adventures there is one great yearning that binds us all together.

To shake off fear and embrace all that could be. To trust without shame. To know and be known. To love and be loved.

There is an hill upon which a god once died, stretched out on wood between earth and sky. Look there and see the answered yearning. Blood that saves. Death that brings life.

Love Incarnate.

It All Comes Down to This

It all comes down to this
Someone happy to see you when you arrive
A hand to hold while you pray
The kitchen occupied

And the bathroom sink is always wet
And there’s a stack of tires in the extra room
And you sit in patio chairs

It’s not choosing the sofa so much as laughing in the furniture store
Not choosing a movie so much as staying at the end of each night

Nowadays many couples prefer separate sinks
We are just excited to be brushing our teeth together

And that is what it comes down to, my friends

It All Comes Down to This

I'm all alone.  Exiled to the desert--a fitting punishment, I know.  I'm the reason they're all dead.

He was my responsibility: my pupil, my friend, my son...  But I couldn't save him from the darkness.  And in the end, I couldn't kill him either.

Their blood is on my hands.

But there's another son.  Strong like his father before him.  He can restore balance.  Succeed where both of us have failed.

So I'll watch over him from afar; wait until he's ready.  With him, I have a second chance, an opportunity to correct my mistakes.

He's my only hope.

Friday, May 30, 2014

Doubting Again

Remember what you told me that long ago day after I pushed you down the hill and then came tumbling right after you? That moment as I watched you careening down, I could hardly breathe for excitement and elation and fear. You’d come back to me and I’d just shoved you away. I plummeted down that hillside with no thought except you. I could have flown.

You told me that death cannot stop true love. I’m holding you to your word. Because you’re lying there on that bed, not breathing.  You promised this was just a delay.

Please be right.

One Last Love Letter

You're better off without me now.  And I'm fine with that.
I'm just a footnote in your life, in a section you'd rather keep closed forever.  And I'm fine with that.

But you only saw me in pieces and fragments, only through the lens of what you didn't want to see.

I took the loss so you wouldn't have to.  Because if losing means that you'll win, then I will lose every time.
If misery is my only reward, then I'll take it.  I'll gladly trade my happiness for yours.  Every single time.

I never wanted it without you anyway.

Thursday, May 29, 2014

Curator of the Kiss Museum

Over here, we have number five. A precious moment between two… Excuse me? What was that?

I’m sorry, ladies and gentlemen. I have to interrupt our tour for a moment. We have just reached the top five kisses since the invention of the kiss. I, as the Curator, personally rated them the most passionate and the most pure. However, I’m now receiving word of another kiss that has just occurred which appears to have surpassed even these.

I’m sorry, what? Oh really? A farm boy and a princess? You don’t say. Well, I’ll take a look at it straight away.

Super Saturday Title

We're almost at the end of May, drabblers!! One more Saturday to close out the month. Even if you haven't kept up, it's never too late to write one last drabble.

The title this week is "It all comes down to this".

Drabble away!


Perhaps you carry the weight of a broken heart
Still under its heaviness, dance

A boring life seemed choreographed for you
The painful steps predetermined

Keep time to the quicker 1-2-3’s
That you hear from the life inside everything

When you have no music, tap out the rhythm
Hear the snap of fingers and the clap of hands

Maybe the lyrics didn’t give you joy
But no tempo has ever torn you down

You never forgot what the spotlight taught you
And no one believed your final bow

Take to the stage again, my friend

The crowd is awaiting you

Between the Lines

It sits on the edges of our lips, leaning forward, hoping to tumble out.  But we both keep silent, an unspoken rule that we're afraid to break.

So here I am, hoping you'll read between the lines.

Because I want you to know that not a day goes by that I don't regret it.

Because I want you to know that I'm the one to blame.  Not you.

And as much as you wait for the seasons to change me, I have to tell you what you don't want to hear and what I don't want to say:

I'm sorry.

Wednesday, May 28, 2014

The Sick Room

She opens the bedroom door, quietly. She doesn’t want to disturb the two people inside. She needn’t have worried. Her father-in-law and her son are utterly engrossed in the story being told. The older man reads from the book open in front of him. Her son, still dressed in his pajamas because he’s recuperating from being sick, sits forward on the bed, mouth slightly open in intense concentration.

She smiles to herself. She had almost hesitated asking the boy’s grandfather to come. But this was the story her husband heard when he was sick. Now it was his son’s turn.


          You never had any talent for dancing. No talent really for any of this. Doesn’t everyone presuppose that a hooker can never lose her job?
          You didn’t become your mother then. She could keep you alive. But she worked so hard to purge herself of invisibility that she forgot to make sure she hadn’t passed it on to her daughter.
          Her body would wave from the pole like a banner. It seemed she could rally them from the ends of the earth.
          “Keep love in your heart.”

          “Love is a work of the imagination, Mother, as you very well know.”

First-Person Narrator

One word, one letter: "I," and everyone thinks I've really done it.  My friends are angry I've been keeping secrets from them.  My family thinks I need professional help.

Listen.  I've never lost my cousin in a car accident, or my girlfriend to a movie star.  I've never joined a band of outlaws, or gotten tackled by airport security.  I've never had to watch my best friend die, or keep my wife from killing me in her sleep.

So please.  Calm down.  Remember it's just fiction.

And please, don't ever mistake me for that loser, Kurt West.  He's messed up.

Tuesday, May 27, 2014


I spent my whole life clawing my way to the top so that I wouldn’t have to feel this ever again. This clutching fear that stops my breath from leaving my body.

I haven’t felt this since I was a child. The bully down the street laughed at me and beat me up. Just because I had six fingers on my right hand. I swore that next time I would be the one laughing. I killed him. And I laughed.

Now this man who says I killed his father won’t shut up and won’t die. And the fear is back.


She used to say her men smelled like water. They wore colognes with names like Ocean Blue and Pure Ice. “They’re lonely,” she would say. This one lost his mother recently. That one’s wife doesn’t give him what he needs.

Mother, where did you find these genteel men? All of my men smell like piss. I cannot help but wonder. If a mother is missing, if a wife is not enough, what are their visits to us but motes of dust with which they try to fill their emptiness? Mother, won’t you get out of bed and answer these questions.

Culture 101: taught by McDonald's

Have you had your break today?  Because you deserve it.  You've been working hard in the 90s, climbing the corporate ladder, getting the kids to soccer practice on time...  You deserve a little You time.  A milkshake would be perfect!

We love to see you smile.  It's the turn of a new century.  You should be happy.  Isn't that what life's all about?  Don't feel guilty.  Feel affirmed; we're here for you!  And so is this juicy burger...

I'm lovin' it.  Let's cut the crap.  Does it feel good?  Do it.  Let coffee, cookies, and wings drown out unthinkable self-denial.

Radio DJ

Before the sun is awake, you are.  And you talk.  You are the rooster crow of humanity, driving us out of bed and to the office.  Yours is the voice of normality, consistency.  I'm dependent on you.  But I don't know you.  Does anyone really know you, the person behind the voice?

And then you played that song - the one that was filled with too many memories, freshly tearing open old wounds that I thought were long healed.

I know you were just doing your job.  I know I can't blame you.  But I'm just so tired of blaming myself.

Monday, May 26, 2014


The fighting is over, the battle is done
The boots are marching away
“Come on, let’s go” they all now say
But you still lay there on the ground

For you have paid the real price
Those back home, alive and well,
Little know that your death knell
Has tolled this final sacrifice

And all the tears that they will weep
And all the stories they will share
About you and them and when and where
Will not awake you from this sleep

For it was us you died to save
So I, the free, salute you now,

The brave

Flawed Like Me

I am flawed: tainted, defective, tarnished.  Always wrong.  Always failing.

Not like you.  You're perfect.  Beautiful.  Flawless.

You make me look bad.

And sometimes I wish I could take you down a peg, distill you into something easier to swallow.
If only you were flawed like me, I wouldn't feel so guilty.

I turned away from you, and you ran after me.
I lost myself, and you searched for me.
I was broken, and you broke for me.

Perfection deserves perfection.  But you chose to love someone as imperfect as me.

Do you mind if I call that a flaw?

Sunday, May 25, 2014


I know we’re all busy these days. We all have people to see, places to go, things to do. But let’s not compare our levels of busyness, friend. I will win every time.

My country is turning 500 years old and I’m in charge of planning the party. I’m getting married and I have to arrange the wedding. Once I’m married, I have to figure out how I’m going to murder said wife. And then I have to find a way to blame Guilder, my sworn enemy, for the death of my lovely wife.

You think you’re busy? Oh please.

Saturday, May 24, 2014

Empty Spaces...

It stings, I feel through the fog in my eyes. 
A single, hot and salty drop trails, 
sliding down my cheek leaving a path that cuts deeply. 
A torrent of bitter-sweet battles furiously behind my eyes, 
warring, struggling, pulling, and twisting. 
The thickness of my eyes works so hard to hold it back, to make it fake, 
to try and try to squelch the feeling that real is real, that there is an is. 
I try to harden my eyes, to fill them. 
I pull them shut hard, strong, fast, to hold them,
 to ignore the empty spaces inside me...  

Empty Spaces

The burner where the tea-kettle used to sit
It's empty now just like your heart
(You never loved me from the start)

The rectangle on the wall where our picture hung
It's blank now just like your mind
(I can't believe you thought I wouldn't find)

The hiking boots that you always hated
(They left dirt on your pristine floor)
You won't be sad they walked out the door

The air that moved when I spoke hello
Didn't you always want it still?
(Empty words, but silence filled)

When you come home tonight here's what you'll see:
Empty spaces instead of me

Empty Spaces

I said goodbye to her three years ago. I went to seek my fortune so I could marry her. When the pirates attacked, I didn’t bribe or blubber. I simply asked to live. When he asked me why, I answered honestly. “True love.” And I thought of her. And he let me live.

I can’t complain too much. I’m learning to fight and fence. Exploring the world of poisons and their uses. The time is full.

But every night when I am about to drift off to sleep, I think of her. And the empty space inside envelopes me again.

Empty Spaces

White space.  Just snow and ice for miles and miles, no matter which direction you look.  I rub my numb hands together, wonder what it is I'm doing out here, freezing my butt off in the middle of the arctic.  No phones.  No TV.  Just me and a dozen lonely middle-aged men, wasting what's left of our lives at this research station, hoping to find... something... I don't even know what anymore.

There's a rap at my door, Windows leans in.

"MacReady flew in some coffee."


"Yeah, you wish."

It's the only thing left that reminds us we're human.

Friday, May 23, 2014

The Sicilian

The first thing you should know about me is that I’m Sicilian. Not Italian. Sicilian. Yes it makes a difference. Although, I would imagine you wouldn’t know that since you thought that Plato, Aristotle, and Socrates were actually men of intellectual worth. They aren’t. They’re morons.

The other thing about being Sicilian is that death doesn’t frighten us. Some men aren’t afraid of death because they have nothing left to lose. I am not afraid of death because there is no way I can lose.

Let’s drink a toast to that, shall we? This wine that you’ve brought looks excellent.

Design Flaws

Johnson!  Answer the intercom.  Johnson!

I'm here sir.

Explain to me why alarms are going off on every level.

We've got a Code Red sir.

And why do we have a Code Red, Johnson?

Well, sir... someone...

Was it you, Johnson?

...Yes sir.


The Meltdown button... you see...

You pressed the Meltdown button??

Well, sir, "pressed" sounds deliberate.  It was more like "inadvertently bumped."

Same action, same result.

To be fair, sir, the button is rather large and placed right by the coffee machine...

We'll have that fixed...

We have ten seconds, sir.

Oh...  Well goodbye Johnson.

Goodbye, sir.

Thursday, May 22, 2014

Super Saturday Title

Hello Drabblers!

Saturday is a-comin!! And if you've hit a wall, it is the perfect time to jump back into writing. May is nearly over but that doesn't mean you can't drabble its way out.

The title this week is "Empty Spaces".

Drabble away, my friends!

The Giant

Momma had never taught him the business side of things. She took care of all of that. The booking, the money; that was all her side of things. He just had to show up for the fights.

When she died, his steady income vanished. He wandered about Greenland, looking for any sort of employment. He fought local gangs for charity but that only paid so much.

And now this short man with the long name stood in front of him. An opportunity to start a war. Money and something to do. He figured it was the best chance he’d get.

Problems with Authority Part 10: Consequences and Bonuses

"The terms of your contract have expired, Hatchet," Duchovny said. "Your services are no longer required."

The shot rang out from behind Hatchet, propelling him forward.  Hatchet spun to the ground, eyes wide in pain and confusion.  He looked up to see the girl standing over his limp body; her crying and softness gone, her face stoic as she held the pistol firmly in one hand.  He opened his mouth to protest but it never came.

She pulled the trigger without hesitation.

"I should get a bonus for that, Mr. Duchovny," Europa smirked.

"That wasn't bonus enough?" said the kid.

Wednesday, May 21, 2014

Empire State

Standing above the city, we are demigods 
Close enough to hear the sirens
Near enough to see the people walking
Far enough that the sirens just sound like music
And the people just look like toys

Lady Liberty off in the distance asking for the huddled masses so they can breathe free
Do you see the smog and the haze and we can't breathe at all for the shame and the sorrow that clings like bloodstains no matter how many times we scrub at it
The huddled masses are here, my Lady 
What are you going to do about it?

Problems with Authority Part 9: Plan B

"It's time to renegotiate," Hatchet barked, gun in one hand, briefcase in the other.  The black car was parked in the shadow of a broken-down warehouse.  The girl lay on the ground behind Hatchet, sniffling through muffled whimpers.  The large gun in Hatchet's hand was leveled at Duchovny and Blackout, the latter pale and frozen, the former calm, almost tired.

"I did all the work, so it's only right that I get the full payment.  Winner takes all."

"No," said Duchovny, his eyes cold steel. "You and your killing spree almost cost us everything.  But your incompetence had its uses."

Tuesday, May 20, 2014

The Swordsman

He hates waiting. His whole life since the age of eleven has been spent in studying nothing but swordplay. He worked for a mercenary warmonger to pay the bills but that was only temporary. And after twenty years of waiting, he’s ready for this journey to end.

His enemy stands in front of him, goading him, taunting him, bringing up all the old memories that ache even still. He sits on the ground, bleeding from a deep wound in his belly, lifeblood seeping out of him.

But revenge that has been simmering for twenty years is impervious even to death.

Monday, May 19, 2014

elasticity doesn't always prevent breakage

The curtain falls. I leap to my feet, applauding. 
The credits roll. I sit in the darkness, utterly transfixed. 
The book concludes. I hold it in my hands, a different person than I was before.

“That’s it!” I say. “The arts! Words! Shows! Theater! Film! That’s where my heart is!”

But then I go to work at the hospital. And there is a patient who is crying in fear after the doctor discloses her diagnosis. And I hold her hand, listen to her speak. And she stops crying.

How many places can my heart be without it breaking into pieces?

Problems with Authory Part 8: Change of Plans [making up for yesterday]

Hatchet threw the briefcase and the girl into the backseat of the black car before jumping in himself.  Duchovny accelerated, moving away from the sounds of alarms and sirens.  Blackout looked back at the pretty girl sobbing hysterically.

"That's not part of the plan!" he protested.

"It is," Duchovny said calmly. "An assignment for Hatchet."

"Shut up!" Hatchet was yelling at the girl.  He pressed the muzzle of the big gun against her cheek.  "I said shut up!  Or I swear I'll..."

"Hatchet!" Duchovny broke in.  "We need her alive."

"Why? Is she some exec's daughter or something?"

"We'll see."

Problems with Authority Part 7: Sleight of Hand, Twist of Fate

Revenge knows patience.  The information inside his briefcase would destroy Gibson, she knew.  It had to be hers.  Europa wheeled the food cart around the conference table, Gibson at the head.  The duplicate briefcase hidden underneath her cart.  Patience.  When the right moment came she'd...

An explosion of noise--alarms, guns firing, bodies running, shouting.  Europa dove to the floor, screaming, burying her face in the carpet.

What was happening?

The guards had grabbed Gibson and his briefcase, whisking them both away.

She peeked out.  And smiled at the briefcase tucked underneath her.

Then the gunman entered.  He smiled too.

Sunday, May 18, 2014


And there it was. A vast expanse of water, blue and grey and stretching far out toward the edge of the world. And I, so small beside it, watched it lap the sand.

Lub-dub, lub-dub flows the blood through our hearts. In-out, in-out flows the water on the shore. There yesterday. Here today. There tomorrow. The heartbeat of this old planet, keeping time forever. Capricious and constant. Ancient and always new. Full of beauty and terror. Majesty and comfort.

And the salt sea spray drenches my face and the waves soak my feet and all is right with the world.

catching up, drabble 10, 11, 12, and 13

sorry i haven't been daily.

Drabble #10: Cheddar

Drabble #11: steel-toed

Drabble #12: Leaping

Drabble #13: Bruises

Saturday, May 17, 2014

Changing Colors

We are a melting pot. We are. Mix all the colors in together. Don’t hold back and don’t be afraid.

The colors of our skin might not change but perhaps the color of our heart should. Or perhaps shall we move beyond color? Perhaps shall we see hearts and minds instead of just this outer covering?

Judge the character. Let the dreams become reality. Let the differences encourage complement not complaint. Let us join hands as sisters and brothers. Let us jump into the melting pot feet-first.

Just think how boring life would be if we all were the same. 

Changing Colors

They say that your favorite color says a lot about who you are.

I'm green.

I am constant.  Generally sociable.  But also resistant to change.  I have a deep need to belong, and that makes me insecure.

Why couldn't I be a passionate red, a logical yellow, a peaceful blue, or a royal purple?   No, I had to be green: immature, untested, easily taken advantage of, never truly feeling loved.

What I wouldn't give to be another color.  But I know I'm supposed to want that.  I'm envious too.  Don't think I see the irony?

It's not easy being green.

Friday, May 16, 2014


I know the promises. This light momentary affliction gives way to an eternal weight of glory. These faded trappings fall away.

And there it is. A far green country. Beyond the storm and the sea. White shores. The kingdom on the other side of the glass. A tree of life and a river of healing. No sun and a world bathed in divine light.

It is a tenuous thread that keeps me here. Mud pies are tolerable in their time but look at the mess. Caked slum dirt all over my hands. I’m ready for the holiday by the sea.


When we would walk past them, the girls would taunt at me. “When will you join us, sweet little lady? Don’t you think our resolve was just as strong? How much longer will you be able to say you are too young? We know you don’t believe us, but the city is beautiful by night and the work is not so difficult as you think. You too will seek the streets, when your babies are crying with empty bellies. You will leave them alone to hunt with us then, and you will creep back to them at dawn with bread.”

Problems with Authority Part 6: Exit Strategy

The kid who named himself Blackout stands at the main lobby desk, trying to flirt with the short-haired receptionist while she checks the repair logs.  She doesn't try to hide the disgust on her face at the sight of his dirty, stolen maintenance uniform.

Then, an alarm splits the air.  Hatchet, he groans. At least the measures he'd programmed would keep the pathway for Hatchet clear while locking out more security.

"Gunfire!" someone shouts, causing every suit and dress to run for the door, screaming, pushing over those too slow.  Blackout shrugs and runs with the crowd.

Some exit strategy.

Thursday, May 15, 2014

Salt Water

They say that salt water cures everything. Tears. Sweat. The sea.

I’ve cried more tears than I can count. I’ve wiped my brow over and over again. I’ve stood at the edge of the ocean, knowing myself small at the vastness of its pulsing waves. And my problems remain.

But there’s the story of the Man walking on the sea. The same Man who cried at the tomb of a man dead four days. The same Man whose sweat one night dripped like blood onto the garden ground.

They say salt water cures everything. I think they might be right. 

Super Saturday Title

It's still Thursday!! Drabble title for Saturday is as follows.

"Changing Colors".

Write on, drabblers!!

Dancing Feet

They connected while dancing.
He proposed through dance, their leaps and their twirls in that waltz ending up at that certain table with that certain box that served as table for that ring.
They had five dancers and each hinted at their dancing feet by the kicks felt within.
They danced until wrinkles covered their face, and their feet struggled to move. They danced until hair grew white like their first dancing shoes. And when they returned to that dance hall, memories came flooding back. Albeit with wrinkles and ache-y joints, their feet moved as they hadn’t in years.


“Keep love in your heart,” my mother used to say, “And it will always be returned.” She loved her audience, but they forgot her with the next exquisite performer. And she loved her men, but they only knew how to devour. And she loved me, but I grew increasingly to despise her. I could see she no longer did it for the money but out of desperation. She did it just to know that she could be felt. Just to know that she could be seen and had not yet dissolved into the sweat and smoke of the ugly air.

Problems with Authority Part 5: Hatchet

Death is coming.  I am coming.

Duchovny thinks I'm his pawn, but he is nothing to me.  The guards who tried to stop me were nothing to me.  Now they lie on the floor, broken, bathed in red.

Another guard comes through the doorway.  The gun in my hands sings silently.  And he falls on his face before me.

I find more.  I break them easily.  Until one gets away, calling for help, as if anyone can.
Thunderous gunfire chants my praises.  Alarms hail my approach.

All will fly or fall before me.  I am Death.  And I am coming.

[P.S. sorry for a violent Thursday everyone...]

Wednesday, May 14, 2014

Life as a Mirror

It’s funny, isn’t it? The way our brain tricks us into thinking certain things about ourselves. Sometimes it’s things that make us look good. Other times, it’s things that make us look dreadful. But then I borrow another viewpoint. And what I thought about myself shifts radically. Perspective distorting, adjusting the image. It happens so often and so frequently that sometimes I don’t even know what I look like anymore. Maybe I don’t even know who I am. Maybe I’ve lost myself. Because if I lose my perspective of me, I might get lost.

My brain is a horrible mirror. 

Writer's Block

Staring at the vast whiteness my mind starts to blur. What to say, what to do? Nothing to say, nothing to do. The white desert stretches far beyond me, taunting me, daring me to vanquish it. Can I vanquish it? I’m not sure, but there’s one way to find out. I pick up my pen and paper and wrack my brain. How to vanquish this white desert? A little thought flitted through my mind like a butterfly through the wind. I catch it and stare at it, trying to make it better. But before I can it flies away again.


            When people ask what my dad does for a living I tell them he’s an astronaut.  Because if you tell someone your dad’s an astronaut they say, “O, really?”  Then you say no.  So it isn't lying.

Mom and I came to live next to Bad Luck Pond at the beginning of summer. We used to live in Colorado.  We drove the whole way, north and east, and Mom chain smoked.  Don’t worry, she doesn’t smoke anymore.  She caught me trying to light one up and after that she threw all her cigarettes away.  Now she eats potato chips instead.

Boredom (How is Your Day Going?)

Watch the clock.  Wait for the minute to pass.  Then wait again.  Count along with it.  Make sure it's not broken.  But it must be.  It has to be.

Take a break to yawn. Get up and stretch.  Then sit down and wonder when the next yawn will come.
Stare into the computer monitor.  The whole World Wide Web at your fingertips.  But the web connecting the whole wide world has nothing to offer.  Old news and previewed pictures.

Eyes begin to bruise.  Lids droop.

Check the clock again.  Another minute might have passed unnoticed.

Will this moment never end?

Tuesday, May 13, 2014

Narrative Folk Pop

There was a keyboard, a guitar, a glockenspiel, a ukulele, a cymbal. The twinkle lights hung in the background. The table prepared in the back with coffee and tea and tulips. But we didn’t come for coffee or twinkle lights. We came for your music. The music that spins stories like magic. Songs of people and trains and hope and flowers and hope and grace. Harmonies united around truth, illuminating wonder, drawing back the veil.

When you sang of silver chairs and far kingdoms, I don’t know if you could see my smile so wide it made my cheeks hurt.

Making a Difference

Flitting through the shadows like prayers in a mist, she descended between threads with an adept twist of the wrist. As speed was rewarded by faster progress, she slowly abandoned care.

The mayor's commands and speeches wrung in her ear, but she knew better.

The thread!

The one, the lowliest, the brightest was piercing to look at, but there was no stopping. She fell hard against the bottom, snapping every thread in her ugly descent.

But the reverberations of that one, lovely thread was the worst of it all. Without it, the other threads began folding on top of her.

Cold is the Night - The Child

Night is falling. Beware travelers, beware foolish children. Do not go into the night. Learn from your elders and follow their example. The Night longs to take you. The Night does not love you. 

One step towards the door. 
Blue eyes glance back over a small shoulder.
The father sits at his post, hands loose on the shotgun, but his head tilts forward. His chest rises and falls slowly. Quiet from the bedroom. 

Small hands reach up pull on the forbidden handle. 
Something buffets against.
A welcome in.
The door slams open. 


A rising scream. 

The future is taken.

A Letter to My Beloved

A little side note: I felt like this needed to be more than a drabble. I've been realizing that no wording can capture the love of the Lord - you have to feel it. But, sometimes it feels to me like the love is disjointed from my life somehow. Like, it's just a part of history that is, well, in the past - separated from me. But, I forget that I love a personal God. A personal God loves me. Which is where this drabble and a half [or so] stems from and that is why I wrote 200 words worth, because I felt it needed it.

Oh, my child.
I wish you'd see that I've made your life to further you perfectly.
I have rounded every broken relationship
every deep valley
every mountain top
every battle to make your life pleasing in my sight.
I wish you'd remember the amount of love that has been extended to you - my own died so I could welcome you into my heavenly courts.
The schemes of darkness will never have victory, because I have won.
I have placed angels around you to protect my most precious.
You live in a broken world, understand that.
But, take heart! I have overcome the brokeness. In fact, when you runto me, and allow me to cover you with who I am, I make your broken self whole.
So, look to me, my princess. I will make you whole. I will fill your cup. Your face will be made radiant for I am light and you are my child.
Precious, beloved, betrothed.
You are mine.
I am yours.
Love you always and forever (really!),
Your King

At the Nail Salon

What was the quality of the woman’s voice trying to tell?

“I’m from Vietnam.”

“I traveled there in 2008.”

“Did you see the Ha Long Bay?”

She is from southern Vietnam, which isn’t as cold as Hanoi. She used to go back every two years, but her parents have passed now.

“Do you have any children here in the U.S.?”

“No children.”

And her eyes flicker.

Perhaps she could not conceive. Perhaps love forsook her, though she longed to hold them: husband, children, grandchildren. Perhaps they ran from her, swiftly, beyond her reach into the deep jungle of her heart.

Problems with Authority Part 4: Subtleties

Power over another person is a subtle art.  Europa knows this, reflecting on how easy it had been for her to remain in the Sieta main building unchallenged.  She simply made herself look like she belonged.  How could anyone think to question her?

At the top floor, a guard at the desk stops her.  Only the highest level clearance here.  She hands her forged card to him, knowing it won’t pass a close inspection.  But he won’t even bother.  She leans forward – just a fraction – letting her dark hair fall over her bare shoulder.  Smile. 
Men are always so predictable.


I look down at my wrinkled hands and sighed. How’d I end up like this? It seemed like yesterday I was five and running around with friends. I look out the window and see myself, at seven, running around the yard trailing a kite, smiling, laughing. It’s been a while since I’ve laughed like that. I look again but this time I see myself at sixteen sitting on a blanket with my past husband, also sixteen. I smile sadly thinking of him. I look at my mirror and see myself, old, wrinkled, and ready. I sigh quietly, closing my eyes.

Monday, May 12, 2014

In The Storm

Dark thunderclouds drenched the sailors with torrents of rain. The wind gusted powerfully. The small boat listed side to side. The men’s muscles ached. It had been hours. Still the sea fought them.

Then they saw a figure, walking on water. The storm frightened them. This terrified them. They turned to each other in abject horror. “Is it a ghost?”

Sensing their fear, He walked over to them. “Don’t be afraid. It is I.” He climbed into the boat. Then the storm ceased.

He addressed their fear not by calming the storm but by reminding them of who He was.

Cold is the Night

The day dawns warm and friendly. The world stirs, swings its’ feet out of bed and yawns. 
The clatter of early risers begins, forcing those whose eyes are still prisoner to the chains of sleep to grumble and rise. 
Cheery cries of “Good morning!” and “Fare day!” swell to a cacophony of life. 

But night returns. 
And how cold is the night, filled with wailing. 
Oh, husbands, guard your doors and, therefore, your homes. Wives, guard your children and keep them close, for they are the future. 

The future that the night longs to rip away, screaming, from every doorway.   

Light At the End of the Tunnel

"The face. Suit, tie, hat. That's the one," he mumbled, finger barely pointing. His head bent over the kitchen table like a tired wire fence. The afternoon sun stretched his shadow across the wooden surface.

She removed the photo. "You have friends? Family?"

His eyebrows smiled. "The best of the best."

"Are they nearby?"

He threw a thumb behind his shoulder and then refolded his hands. "East Coast. They're miles away."

After a moment, she remembered the black envelope. "Before he died, he told me you didn't deserve this." She put it on the table. "But trust me, you do."

Fear of Flying

This is your captain speaking.  Thanks for flying with us today.  I just thought I’d start out by dispelling any doubts or fears.  Yes, this is the same airline that had its plane hijacked last week – you know, the one that went missing over the Amazon?  But don’t worry; all of our flight attendants are now trained in karate.  Nope, nothing to worry about here.   I mean, maybe the category-3 storm sweeping into our path.  Strong winds, lighting, the whole nine.  Looks pretty deadly.  But no problemo (hey Bill, why’s that panel flashing?).  Anyway, sit back and enjoy your flight!

Happy Birthday Erin

There’s a lady in the kitchen, what is she doing? She is cooking amazing food!
There’s a lady in the living room, what is she doing? She is playing with the little kids, and having tons of fun.
There’s a lady in the car, what is she doing? She is driving me everywhere, anywhere and everywhere.
There’s a lady in my house, who is she? She is my sister, and I love her.
She is beautiful, and smart, and amazing. She is a very Godly woman who I love hanging out with.

She is Erin, and she is now nineteen.

Sunday, May 11, 2014

Life in my Family

Because a little bit of genre-bending can be fun. Pancakes and bacon for supper. Ice cream for breakfast.

Living by the rules can get boring. Coloring inside the lines makes for a really predictable picture. Let’s think a little different. Let’s live a little strange.

So the rest of the world sings just one birthday song? We will sing four and a half before you blow out the candles. So the rest of the world celebrates mothers in May? We will celebrate Fother’s Day and celebrate Dad. Let Mom have her day in June.

Subvert the normal.

Bend the genre.


[A drabble and a half - I cheated!]

You carried me for nine months, suffered through nausea and exhaustion.  Your body stretched beyond repair.  And I gave you cards and flowers.

You endured pain to give me life.  You fed me when I was helpless.  You forgot what sleep was like. 
And I gave you cards and flowers.

You gave up your career to raise me.  You stayed up all night to check over my homework, my college applications, my resumes.  And I gave you cards and flowers. 

When I cried, you held me.  And when I was an adult, you cried with me.  And I gave you cards and flowers. 

I’m all grown up now.  Your job is done.  You passed with flying colors.  But that hasn’t ever stopped you.  And the truth is that I still need you.  But all I can think to give you is cards and flowers.

Maybe chocolate will make us even?

My Mom

What is my mom? She is kind, she is loving, she is helpful.
What is my mom? She is a helping hand when I’m in need, she is a guide through this world.
What is my mom? She is patient, she is persistent, she is productive.
What is my mom? She is smart (like super smart), she is Godly, she is beautiful.
Who is my mom? She is a daughter, she is a wife, she is a mother.
She takes on every day with a smile and she ends it with one too.

I love you Mom! Happy Mother’s Day.

Saturday, May 10, 2014

Gravestones and Epitaphs

How can you squeeze the entirety of a life into a few words on a stone? The day your lungs inhaled their first breath. The day they exhaled their last. And a line in between. Maybe a quote that meant something to you. Perhaps your family designation. Wife. Mother. Father. Brother. Husband. Child. Sister.

But that’s not the all of you. You were so much more.

Your body and soul now separated. My memories of you and those few stone words all that remain.

Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. And the carved remembrance. Until it fades and crumbles too. 

Gravestones and Epitaphs

Gravestones and epitaphs
Gravestones and epitaphs
Forgotten voices, no longer heard laughs
See them walk up the hill
See them lie in the grass
On the rock faces their firsts and their lasts

Gravestones and epitaphs
Gravestones and epitaphs
A silent stone angel delivers the mass
Green are the tree buds
And greener the grass
Let go the memories you had caught and held fast

Gravestones and epitaphs
Gravestones and epitaphs
Watch as the future slips out of your grasp
Do not miss the present
Do not lose the past

Someday you will find your own stone in the grass

Gravestones and Epitaphs

The hallway was silent.
Eerily silent.
Eerily empty.
And yet there he stood, looking at the chipped lockers, the scuffed floor, the worn doors.
He wasn’t sure how to feel because four years in this place tend to do that to a person.
Four years of mockery, lunches, relationships, crushes, writing, homework, people.
Four years of it all.
And part of him saw happiness.
And part of him saw the gravestones of past relationships, of ugly comments, and pastimes that were now long gone.
He felt as if he were looking at an epitaph of who he once was.
And he wasn’t quite sure if he was willing to let go of him.