The Excerpts...

"Journey and Nick"
HEADS
He gets down on one knee in front of her. “Lydia, now I’ve given this a lot of thought and …” She rolls her eyes playfully impatient. “Nicki, what is it? Would you please get up!” She stares around at the other people in the restaurant, slightly embarrassed at her boyfriend’s behavior. “Just let me finish,” he goes on and she, realizing that he is serious, becomes very still. “I’ve given this a lot of thought and I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I want to be the first thing you see when you wake up. I want to be the last you see when you go to sleep. I want to be there when you’re sick to take care of you. I want to have hundreds of beautiful, little babies with you. I want to grow old with you and watch sunsets on our porch. I want to dream with you and every good dream I have, have you in it to make it perfect.” He reaches into his pocket and presents a small deep red box. He opens it and removes a ring.He then gently places it on her left ring finger. A tear falls on his hand, by now he doesn’t know if it’s his or hers. “I love you and I want you to be my wife.” Lydia, trying hard to talk against the lump in her throat nods an emphatic yes. Nicholas stands up and sighs, he lifts her to him and kisses her softly. She speaks against the kiss. “Yes, Yes, Yes…a thousand times, yes. I love you Nicholas.” The people in the restaurant, spectators to the entire scene, are thrilled by the sight. Some are wiping away their tears, others applaud enthusiastically. She pulls slightly away from him. “I must look a mess, I’m going to go to the ladies room.” He smiles and nods and she picks up her purse and goes to the ladies room to freshen up. He sits and before he even realized what he was doing he reaches for his wallet and opens it to a picture of a man and a woman in their graduation gowns. He takes the picture out and turns it over, ‘To Kiki from J. Forever and ever. ‘96’.

"The Red Shore"
It was supposed to be a Summer of growth, re-evaluation…anything but this. The sand shifting under his hurrying feet made that grating sound that was usually so inviting. Sam wished he was anywhere but on that beach, anytime but now.
He was scared, more afraid than he’d ever been in his entire life but then he’d never been chased by a gang of angry, gun-toting men.
Sam Chandler walked the straight and narrow. He was definitely one of the good guys. By all accounts, he was one of the best. He was a writer, a business writer for Dow Jones. He was an intellectual. How did he get here; running for his life on a beach in Trinidad with no escape and no protection. He was 27-years-old, he thought to himself, he didn’t want to die here, now.
He dodged behind a water tank and waited. He frantically looked around but there were no other hiding places. “This was it,” he thought, this was where he would die, behind this tank on this beach in Trinidad two weeks into his vacation.
As he crouched he felt the blood before he saw it. Thick and warm like fresh maple syrup and he panicked. His mind raced where is that blood coming from? He swiftly but gently ran his hands up through the blood to find the source of its flow. As his hand got to his side he almost cried out in pain. His fingers found their target- a large wound just above his hip. The wound, shallow but wide lay open and exposed by his torn shirt and the revelation was Sam’s last. He slumped against the tank, his seemingly only lifeline now and the questions flooded his mind: Would anyone come to rescue him? Who betrayed him? Where was Renee, the woman who’d gotten him so involved in this whole mess? How did he get here?

"The other side of through"
August threw the last pair of shoes into the bag. He didn’t think he’d feel so wretched when this day finally came. He stood over the bag looking into it as though it held the miracle to make this situation easier for everyone. He walked around his bed and sat down at the edge looking out the window. The day was new, barely seven hours old but looked so gray and tired and cold, it looked like he felt. Two weeks ago, when he finally told Emma that he was moving out, she said nothing. She barely moved, just looked at him as if they’d had this conversation before.
“It’s not about you Emm,… not about JR either, it’s me. I have to do this…I can’t live this way anymore, I …” She held up her hand up to halt his explanation. “I can’t have this conversation now. I have to go to work.” She rose from her seat in his room, his eyes stayed on her face, no emotion. She was unreadable. He wanted to stand, didn’t, wanted to hold her, didn’t, wanted to explain that he’d been agonizing over this for the past three years, he didn’t. He just let the thick silence fall over him, suffocate him, keep him where he sat. She didn’t look at him, not once, only hesitated at the door, but then she kept on going.
That day played over and over in his head everyday since. What he should have done or said differently, should he have said or done anything at all. But he couldn’t go back and undo, he really didn’t want to. He needed this. The house, the lies, everything was becoming too much to bear. Looking out his window, he felt afraid and anxious. What awaited him? He would be starting a whole new life; the uncertainty was overwhelming. He wanted desperately to be what everyone needed but he felt he was drowning, loosing himself to their expectations. He couldn’t live that life anymore. He put his hands to his head and wept as the rain gently tapped his window.

at day's end

may you know the peace
of accomplishment
and the joy of discovery
may you feel the well spring of hope and potential
- tomorrow is an even brighter day
let trials and tribulations fade
as slumber beckons, a weary world readys to rest
welcome every fantasy daylight hours make impossible
close your eyes and rest with the knowledge and remembrance of a good joke,
a new friend
be lulled by nature’s truth
as crescent moon and lapping tide orchestrate the sounds of life at ease in temporary, unanimous harmony

Rape

Grabbing, groping
Grinding, poking
Evil smile
Darkened eyes
Muffled scream
Silent cries
Intense pain
Numbed emotion
Unshed tears
Inner commotion
Destruction sealed
Malicious intent
Denial denied
Insanity’s decent
Death a virtue
Peace a grace
Escape impossible
Shrinking space
Reality’s grip
On constant roll
Seeking stability
Needing control
Spinning and spinning
Wanting to stop
The air inside
About to pop
So to the world
A curious child
A part of her tainted
A part of her died.

skitsofrenia

I wonder if I made the most of my opportunities.
I look at others and I become a strange mixture of anger and shame and guilt and envy and some other things akin to snobbishness.
Yet I look at them and I am not really any of these things, I am curious.
How did you get there and I am here? What did you do? Who did you know? It seems like we were at the same place, we knew the same people, we had the same time and space and ability yet you are there and I am here? How is that, how did it come to be?
I watch and read about the lives of co workers, contemporaries and I shrug: What is this fuckery ‘blogging’? Any jackass with an opinion and a rudimentary knowledge of the internet can blast any jackassness onto the web to be captured for an eternity in all its celluloid splendor.
That was bitter. I know. I hate myself a little for saying it. Just a little.
I feel a crippling fear about my ability to match up when everyone who’s ever had a profoundly original thought or an utterly ridiculous one can simply click their way into mainstream consciousness. Is there any room for me? Are my thoughts original enough, or profound enough or intelligent enough or, Goddammit, even enough to warrant anyone taking time out of their multi-million-tasking day to read and ingest a snippet of what I’ve worked my whole life to build?
It terrifies me to think that this urgency I have to be heard and this supposed gift I believe I was anointed with would be ignored or, worse yet, ridiculed. It terrifies me even more to do nothing and let the fear win, let the gift be squandered.
I am free when I write. I am remade when I write. I am honest and good and made whole when life’s ‘everything-elses’ keep taking away little parts of me.
Writing will save you. Writing will set you free. I have to keep telling myself to breath... and just write.