Snapshot One
 
The wooden frame sits, a little off center in the half-lit hallway. Dust collected over time clings like a sheet to the glass, gathers in the imperfections, and sits atop like a crown of age. The faded gray sky hints at the yellowed sunset in the background, the curved edges turning brown as years lapse into decades yet still they stand, defiant and young upon the packed clay earth. The curves of the car in contrast to the rags that drape from their small frames as they lean back against it, his left leg bent, foot resting atop the tire and the wooden spoke wheel. Two teenagers with immortality in their eyes shade their faces from the sun with their hands. The sun that has taken life from everything as far as they eye can see. Behind them, in the distance, the dust stirred in 1932 Oklahoma.
 
Snapshot Two
 
Unframed we keep this one tucked away in the closet, plucked now for a remembered viewing it sits upon the white sheets of the bed waiting. From the top corner, we see a hint of her underwear as our eyes move down to fishnet covered thighs that have been pushed open by his face as he gently holds her left leg with his right hand. The right fishnet pulled down to just below his chin, the fabric bunched up. His love shown through closed eyes, lips slightly parted in anticipation, he presses his cheek firmly against the inside of her bare skin. The razor she holds in finger and thumb, the ribbon of blood just beginning to roll down from where the carbon steel meets the sweetest of flesh. He waits with vampire-like patience, lips parted in ecstasy, still.
 
Snapshot Three
 
The picture dragged to the recycling bin a thousand times and restored. We can almost feel the warmth of her touch on our hands as the light changes and washes over our hands when we bring up the picture. Her hair, how its curls cascade down, teasing and taunting across bare shoulders, disappearing behind her back in waves of red. Her eyes shine with a love that could never be matched. Even the oceans themselves were inspired to change their color to match her eyes in a previous existence. Happiness in the most vulnerable of poses she stands smiling, left arm across her chest, hand tucked under her right arm. In her grinning lips, you can see the mischief peeking through. Breasts revolting against her restraining arm in places to show their perfection. The darker more forbidden parts still safely hidden from view. The trust, the confidence, she will always be the greatest thing you ever let go.
Advertisements

It trended
For a few days
Then ended
Because we refuse to change our ways
Let’s pull it apart
Piece by piece
Paste in the horrible flowchart
So we can bottle it away
This race we don’t want to start
Glorification they scream
Copycats they warn
Let’s go back to the daydream
Fuck the forlorn
I see it in your eyes
I hear it in your voice
Pretty lies create cozy campfires
But
Fuck you
For making that choice!

Hi, my names Terry, and I am suicidal.
I say this not in an effort to elicit attention or even sympathy, but simply because it should be said, aloud, and for all to hear.
My story is not new, although it is unique. Every suicidal person’s story is unique, no matter how many similarities they may share with someone else’s story. I say similarities because to me, that’s what they are. Some may say symptoms, but I’m not a doctor, and I think a part of the problem is our societal need to label everything and have it fit in neatly aligned jars of order. But we are human, there is nothing neat and orderly about us. We are raw emotion, wrapped in a skin suit. We are wild imaginations, hindered by the need to be seen as “uniquely normal”.
I’m here to give you someone to talk to about suicide. Someone you don’t have to worry about stirring up emotions with or causing them to lock themselves away by asking questions you are curious about. Or maybe you know someone who you wish you could help but you don’t know how and asking them is scary. I know it is, I’ve been on that side of the discussion many times. I’ve sat numb in a friend’s bathroom at 4am cleaning up blood while she sat with her 15-year-old daughter at the hospital after she tried to take her own life because she was afraid of how everyone was going to react to her being gay. It’s not an easy discussion, by any means, but I believe it is one we can all have.
Let’s begin by trying to figure out what “suicidal” means. Suicidal isn’t only the person who takes a jar of pills to end their life, suicidal isn’t only the kid who loads a pistol with tears running down his cheeks as he perches on the edge of his bed. Suicidal is the person who thinks the lives of others would be better off without them in it. Suicidal is the child who thinks they are useless. Suicidal is the feeling of hopelessness and the lack of options.
But we always have options, right? Of course, we do. Even we know that technically there are always options. But “technically” is about as hope-inspiring as silence in a black abyss.
The good news is suicidal doesn’t always equal suicide. So yes, there is always hope.
I am only one person, and my story should not be compared to others, nor should theirs be compared to mine. There are far too many differences and struggles for me to say that this is how a suicidal person thinks. I can only speak for myself.
I really can’t stress this enough, because I have found myself at times questioning someone else’s suicidal validity based on my own feelings and past accounts. We should never, ever, ever do this! We are all far too different inside to think that we are all the same.
For me, being suicidal is a constant. It is with me every moment of the day, during good times and bad. I’ve had moments where I am driving down the highway, singing along to a song on the radio only to snap out of my little song trance when I realize my fingers just curled around the door handle with every intention in the world of pulling it open and letting myself fall from the cab of my truck.
It scares me, more so than times when I am contemplating how to end my life because it steals my control, and that is terrifying.
Why am I scared of it if I’m suicidal? Because I don’t want to die! I don’t want my existence on this earth to be finished, but I need it. There is something deep within me that calls for it, demands it, promises to make every failure and insecurity go away if I would just get on with it.
It might be tied into the same part of me that knows that I am loved. Knows there are people who truly love and care about me, yet leaves me every night feeling more alone than I can adequately describe, no matter how many poems of hopelessness I pen as I sit at my desk, sobs sucking away every breath I try to take, tears smearing the letters before they even have a chance to dry.
Does being suicidal mean I have a plan? Sometimes yes, but not always. My current plan is to not have a plan, but I’ve done the planning out thing twice. The first time was in 2007.
I lived in Novato, CA up in the North Bay. At the time I was going to jump from the Golden Gate Bridge on September 9th. Not very original, I know, but something about the bridge just felt right to me. I learned that it would take about 4 seconds to fall 245 feet (which is the height of the deck) and I would hit the water at about 75mph. I had about a 5% chance of surviving the fall and drowning which was hopefully not going to happen, but I didn’t know for sure.
I spent two months also writing and re-writing my suicide letter. Adding people by name and saying a personal goodbye to them. Begging my mom not to blame herself, trying to lessen people’s loss by expressing repeatedly that this was something that I wanted, it shouldn’t be viewed as a tragedy or a loss of life, but of someone getting their wish fulfilled.
I would drive out to the bridge in the middle of the night. Now it is closed to pedestrian traffic at night, but no one ever stopped me. I would feed the meter in the parking area and then walk out onto the bridge, into the fog of the night. Its yellow lights aglow, the cold wet railing trembling under my hand as traffic drove by. I know the bridge looks mighty sturdy but let me tell you when you are walking on it and feeling the vibrations and movement, it’s a little freaky.
I even picked my spot out. Between light posts 109 and 111 on the East side of the bridge. I would stand out there for hours, long enough to learn that the lights wink out just before 6am and plunge the bridge into an eerie darkness as the sun fights through the fog. Once the bicyclists started whizzing past, heads always down, I would start to make my way back to the parking area. It didn’t occur to me until later that maybe the reason they didn’t look up or say hello as they rode by was because they knew what I was doing out there alone. Maybe they didn’t want to see me. To remember that they said hello to that guy that morning in case they came across a picture later on. I don’t know.
If you asked me to tell you one of the happiest days of my life, I would tell you it was September 8th, the day before I planned to jump. I woke up that morning feeling lighter, freer, even happier! A great weight had been lifted. I was gonna go to the movies and see a movie I had been waiting to see, then just enjoy the rest of the day. Even the street lights seemed to have a hazy glow about them. Everything moved in a surreal time-lapse. When I got out of the movie, I drove to a pond near where I lived in Hamilton Field. Watched some birds splash around and then got a call from a friend who was an ex-coworker. I felt comfortable enough to tell her my plan. She wasn’t happy about it, I sat numbly trying to explain that this was gonna be ok, that it wasn’t a bad thing. Why couldn’t she grasp this? To me, it was like someone freaking out because I said I was gonna get a chicken sandwich at McDonalds instead of a Big Mac. Then I started to realize that she really did care and I wasn’t going to be able to make her understand.
I went home. The cops showed up a short time later. An officer asked me if I would be willing to talk to someone and I said, “Yes absolutely! I would love to fix myself!” I meant it too. This was actually good news. Finally, I would get therapy or something and I would be better.
So he handcuffed me and sat me in the back of his car while they talked with my roommate, then drove me to Marin County Psych Ward for a suicide hold.
I learned very quickly that I was not going to get any help there. I sat on a bench outside in cuffs until they were ready to process me. Then they take you in, they ask you a brief history and ask you if you are suicidal. You answer truthfully and they tell you to go sit on the couch.
Imagine a large room, part of it has desks all shoved together and people working, but you aren’t supposed to talk to them. There are a couple couches in the middle, a bench along the back wall. A makeshift half kitchen area with a fridge that you are told you can use. There are hot pockets and pot pies and such in the freezer. The people around you are a mix of completely crazy and people like you. Or I guess if you are crazy then there is a mix of boringly sad people and then people like you. Take your pick.
No one talks to you. You sit for 4 hours and then they assign rooms and pass out sleeping pills. You get up around midnight cause you can’t sleep and make your way out to the fridge only to have someone tell you that, “You can’t be out here until 6am.” and to go back to your bed. They offer more sleeping pills but you turn them down.
The next day you sit on the couch for hours on end until someone calls your name, asks if you are suicidal and if you say yes they send you back to the couch. Rinse and repeat.
The third day you decide to lie, they ask if you are suicidal, you cheerfully chirp, “Not a bit”. And they hand you a taxi voucher and buzz you out.
No help ever offered, no direction pointed at for where to find help except a business card that asks for insurance info the moment they answer and hangs up when you tell them you don’t have any.
I hear similar stories from people who have been to Mary K. Shell and that breaks my heart. People have asked me if I ever called a suicide hotline and the answer is no. I know that they aren’t truly anonymous and are required to report you to authorities. If anything, the 2007 plan taught me one thing. How to hide it all away.
In 2012 I quit my job and made plans again. This time I would do it a little more secretly. I made goodbye videos and uploaded them to YouTube but made them private. My idea was to sell everything I owned, guns included, and man I love guns! I did though. I sold all but one pistol and anything else I had of value. The plan was to coast on the money until I couldn’t pay rent or bills anymore and had $100 left. Then head to the beach, spend the day there, and take my own life after changing the video from private to public. I even looked up coverage area maps online to make sure I would be able to. I would let someone else find the goodbye video, or possibly post it on Facebook last minute before turning off my phone. My 4 Runner was packed. I had an ice chest ready, some blankets, I even had a beach umbrella because you know, I didn’t want to sunburn before I killed myself. Ha. Yea, I don’t get it either now but at the time I made a special trip to two different Rite Aids looking for one.
Something out there wasn’t ready to let me leave yet though and kept putting things in front of me. Ultimately I ended up falling in love. I never expected that to happen. It really wasn’t fair to her though because I was still dancing with demons. We both were and ultimately it was me that gave up on us and walked away. Something I will no doubt continue to regret for some time, if not always.
I wrote a Last Days style journal which I published in my last book. Completely unedited for content and terrifying to put out there, but I wanted this. I wanted to start a non-scary conversation about suicide. I wanted people to know that they could ask me questions and I would give them answers, real answers, and not hide behind a mask anymore.
I still hide. You kind of pick up on when people are able to handle the truth, and when they are just trying to be cordial.
How have I made it to 2017? Honestly, just distractions, setting little and easily achievable goals and finding something to be passionate about.
One of the things I can offer if you are talking to someone who is suicidal is to change the subject, this includes reasons why and why not to commit suicide. Don’t ignore what they just said, but instead listen and then try to drag the conversation into something they enjoy. Don’t try to guilt them into staying, it has the opposite effect. Well, it does with me anyway. Cause the more someone tries to tell me that So-and-So will be so hurt if you do it, the more I want to scream, “What about what I want? Don’t keep me a tortured prisoner just because of your inability to deal with death!”
Ask about their hobbies and interests. Do they like to draw? Ask to see some and if they do show you, please tell them truthfully what emotions or feelings the drawing brings up inside you. Even if this is something you aren’t good at. Don’t just give them generic, “Oh that’s cool.” If you think it’s cool, tell them why. Pick a specific part. Is the hair drawn in a way that makes you feel like they are moving? Does the smile feel genuine? Look deeper at everything even though your mind is panicking and wants you to just keep talking until they calm down. Find a way to beat back that panic and reply only after truly listening.
One micro-goal that I set for myself is movies. I love movies. I love the escape, the adventure, the fantasy. I love books too, but movies have release dates and there are always movies coming out that I want to see. The last goal I set and reached was simple, “I have to wait until after I see Logan.” I made it, and it was worth it. It might seem pretty trivial, but it really does help. If I can catch a good trailer, it can hold back the dark like a torch. Sometimes that isn’t enough, though.
Sometimes I start sinking into the dark and pulling back from everyone around me I know things are not good. I know I should reach out. But I can’t. I have people asking if I am okay, and I mask up, tell them it’s all fine when I know it isn’t. I tell myself I’ll get through it alone even as I lie awake at night staring at the ceiling and thinking about places to go to do it. Should I do it in my truck? No, then my dad won’t be able to sell it. I should do it outside. Ok, so where? Oh, that’s a good place. I like that…
I fall asleep and hope tomorrow is a quieter day for the voices.
Oh yeah, the voices. They aren’t exactly how I picture “The voices” when I hear the phrase in movies. I don’t actually hear them so much as just have them in my head. Little gremlin thoughts that sneak up out of nowhere and remind me that I should kill myself. They can be ignored, but it still leaves a little shadow of doubt in the back of your head for a while. I haven’t figured out a way to stop them but I do find myself whispering obscenities at them from time to time. Hmm, maybe I should have placed myself in the “Crazy” category earlier when I was talking about the psych ward intake procedure.
A great way to break away from the dark river of suicidal thoughts is finding a passion. It can be anything that sets your blood ablaze. Politics, Civil Rights, Comic Books, Misspelled memes, whatever stands your hair up. Pick a poison and just jump in. Learn to swim as you go. Want to get people more excited about recycling? Then do it. Start a group on social media, find one, drag your family into it in a more personal way by making paper plate signs and taping them to their bedroom doors if they forget to use the recycling bin. If you live in a more conservative home and that isn’t an option, then just do some research and bring it up conversationally but let them know you are serious about it. Right, recycling might be a bad example but still. Find a passion, something you truly believe in and feel in your heart and just start researching, start learning, start trying to educate others, even if you don’t have all the answers.
The same can be said about helping someone who is suicidal. Listen to them, talk to them, even if you don’t have all the answers, because I know I sure don’t, but I am here and you can talk to me anytime. If you aren’t ready to speak out publicly then come find me, please. I will answer any question you have and try to help you find your own path, your own goals. Today does not have to be your last, and neither does tomorrow.
Thank you.

You pushed them as you passed me

The pacifist

Your hate

Surrounding me in a whirlwind

Of your rhetoric

Your absence of empathy

Burning like torches

Tossed in a bonfire

As you cheered their oppression

 

 

You grip tight your salvation

Bullshit bound with nothing dogeared

You tore apart the Constitution

And laughed as they huddled in fear

 

 

You mock them for wanting equality

While they beg for peace

But I’m here now motherfucker

I’ll be the voiceless’ mouthpiece

 

 

I don’t share their history of pain

But I damn sure understand

These are my people

This is my country

This is our homeland

So while your hatred little hearts

Beg for war

It’s no longer you versus them

Cause I’m tired of trying

There is nothing more to discuss

Load your fucking guns

Ready your fucking fists

Cause now it’s just you

Versus all of us

I heard a scream in a dream and it woke me from my slumber. I tried to shout for my son but it only came out a mumble as sleep slowly released me from its dreary grasp. I felt the cold of the night snuggling against my right foot; apparently, I had lost a sock again in my nightly tossing and turning rituals that were supposed to be restful.

Slipping my foot under the blankets that had been shoved to the bottom of the bed I turned on my side and noticed the clock read 4:44 in the morning as my eyes closed. A slowly dissolving impression of the red numbers glowed behind my eyelids as I tried to fall back into sleep.

Teetering on the edge of sleep I felt the blanket pull back from my foot. I was too engrossed in watching phantoms of dream fold in and out of existence before my closed eyes that I brushed it off as a piece of a dream that was taking shape and welcoming me. That’s when I felt the sharp pinch against the bottom of my foot. I sat up in bed instantly awake.

Something thumped against the wooden bedroom floor at the bottom of the bed. I sat listening to the silence of the night for a minute. Slowly I began to hear something breathing, almost wheezing, coming from the darkness in the room. Fearing it was me and I was losing my mind I held my breath, yet the breathing sounds continued.

I reached over to the nightstand and turned on the bedside lamp. Something squealed and I heard something small with claws scurry under the bed. It didn’t quite have the same sounds as a domesticated pet, which wouldn’t have been the case anyway as I didn’t have any in the home since my Labrador Max had passed away months ago. In my mind, I decided that it must be a raccoon or some sort of opossum that somehow found a way inside.

The longer I sat there and let my eyes adjust, the more I began to creep myself out. What if it was rabid? Did I get bit? How the hell do I get out of bed now with it under there? I could hear it under the bed as it moved around. I was still trying to work out if I should jump from the bed like they tell you to do if your car is ever in contact with downed power lines when I heard it ripping into the cloth of the mattress and box springs.

A new sense of danger overtook me as I imagined a rabid raccoon tearing up through the bedding below me and attacking. I hopped out of bed and ran through the open door, slamming it shut behind me and locking the little bastard in my bedroom.

Turning on the hallway light, I found the flashlight in the towel closet and made my way to my son’s room. He was still quietly sleeping, his favorite nightlight spinning on the dresser and throwing lighted animals across the walls and ceiling.

I quietly closed the door behind me and checked his window to make sure it was closed and locked. I dropped softly to a knee and shined the flashlight under the bed only to see an army of creatures hiding under there. Luckily they were just toys and I made a mental note to have him clean his room later today. The closet was also a disaster area of toys and clothing, but there wasn’t anything alive in there. I crept back to his door, slipped out without waking him, and closed his door behind me.

I felt strange wearing only one sock, so I pinched a piece of it between my barefoot and the floor and lifted my foot out of it, which reminded me that I might have been bitten. I leaned against the wall and lifted my right foot to check the underside of it. There were no bite marks and no blood, but I could feel a small cut that hadn’t quite made it all the way through the skin. On my way to the bathroom, I stopped at my own door and put my ear to it to listen. I couldn’t hear anything and after a few seconds made my way to the medicine cabinet and poured some hydrogen peroxide over the bottom of my foot in the bathroom.

As I stood with one foot hanging over the edge of the bathtub to dry I thought about my next course of action. I could call my ex-brother in law who was an exterminator, but it was very early and he was a little strange anyway. Fearing it would turn out to just be a rat or something small and not wanting to have to listen to him inflate his own ego at my expense I decided to take matters into my own hands.

My first thought was the shotgun, but that was in the bedroom with Mickey Mouse the Rabid, plus, I mean, that might be a little bit of overkill. Hard to tell your six-year-old son why you killed one of his favorite cartoon characters with grandpa’s shotgun. What I needed was a long stick and maybe a box. I dried my foot off by stepping on the bathroom mat and made my way down the hall to the kitchen, then to the connected garage.

I grabbed a shovel, hesitated, then put it back and took the rake instead. I didn’t really want to kill it if I didn’t have to. I found an old box with some Christmas lights in it and dumped them out. On my way out I remembered how it had torn into the underside of the mattress and changed out the cardboard box for a large plastic storage bin with a lid.

Making my back inside, I juggled all my equipment to the bedroom door and listened again. Silence had settled over the house. I clamped the flashlight in my teeth, transferred the rake to the hand holding the plastic bin and slowly turned the doorknob. As the door opened, I half expected the rat or raccoon to come charging at me, but nothing came rushing from the darkness beneath the bed. I closed the door behind me as I sat the plastic bin down and popped the lid off. As I started towards the bed I realized just how exposed my bare feet felt and glanced over at my shoes. In my head, I was still weighing the pros and cons of taking the time to put them on when I found myself partly stepping into them. So much for that debate.

The sound of shifting fabric pulled my attention from the black abyss beneath the bed to the top of it. Something slowly stirred the blankets, pulling them towards the center of the mattress. Not understanding what I was seeing I flipped on the light switch next to the door. As the room brightened, a muffled squeal came from the bed. Something yanked harder on the blankets, hard enough that it was followed by the sound of fabric being torn.

“What the fuck?” Slipped out of my mouth before I even realized I had said it.

As soon as I spoke, all movement and sound stopped. I could feel it under there, waiting for me to make the next move. If that was the case, it wouldn’t have to wait long.

I grabbed a handful of blanket and tore it off the bed. In the middle of the bed was a ragged looking hole. I was both confused and a little scared as I stared at it. Something was moving within it, but I couldn’t see what it was. Around the hole were little pieces of frayed fabric from the blankets and the sheets. I looked down at the blanket in my hand and saw large pieces missing from the middle of it.

A shiver of fear raced up my spine. Something in the back of my mind was screaming that this wasn’t safe. Fight or flight was battling for dominance in my head as I stood in shock, waiting for my brain to decide what to do next.

From the hole in the bed came a raspy voice, “Stupid man. Stupid, stupid man,” It was almost a whisper, like someone talking to themselves.

Fear came crashing down around me then and I panicked as I slammed the rake down on the mattress, aiming for the hole with the metal tines. Whatever was in the mattress shrieked and pulled itself further into the hole. I kicked the mattress, trying to slide it off of the box springs and knock the thing loose, but it must have been inside both because the mattress just spun a little on the bed without budging in the middle.

I used the rake and pushed hard against the mattress and again the creature shrieked as I felt the mattress push back. It was definitely inside both the mattress and box springs. Grabbing the mattress in my hands, I lifted it and flipped it off the bed and against the wall as I jumped back and got ready to swing with the rake.

I could see its face then as it hissed at me. It had bloodshot eyes with silver snake like pupils, a nose that was a mix between human looking and a wet pigs snout, its skin hairless but wrinkled and aged. The creature’s ears were large and rounded at the top, yet pointed at the bottom. Atop its head was a sock, my sock. At first, I thought steam was rising from it but then I could smell the stench of something burning, something rotten burning.

The creature pulled back into the box springs and I heard it thump against the bedroom floor. Out of reflex I swung the rake at the bottom of the bed in case it was coming at me, but nothing emerged.

I put my foot against the box springs and pushed with all my strength and the whole bed slid across the floor. Before I had time to ready the rake the creature darted out from under the bed, headed not at me, but towards the door. It had covered itself with some makeshift cloak, torn from the fabric of the blankets.

I changed my grip on the rake and brought it down as hard as I could. The Tines missed the creature but managed to punch through part of the blanket and nail it into the hardwood floor. As the coverings slid off the creature I could see the rest of it then. It stood about a foot tall and had a humanoid body, yet still could run fast on all fours. It did have claws, but also wore some sort of clothing of its own. Ragged, ripped, and maybe decaying looking? It’s hard to say, but I do know it also carried something that looked like a scythe. Again it shrieked as if in pain as smoke started to lift from it.

I tore the rake out of the floor and was prepared to knock the hell out of it when it got to the door and realized it was trapped. Instead of finding itself trapped, it launched itself into he air, grabbed the doorknob and turned as it kicked off the wall and the door opened. I took a swing with the rake but it was already dropping to the ground and I missed.

When it hit the floor, it paused in the hallway and said, “Lincoln.” My heart stopped in my chest when I heard it say my son’s name. Something primal overcame me then and I lost the desire for a weapon, the rake tumbled from my grasps as I reached for it with my hands, fingers ready to dig into its flesh and tear it apart.

“No!” I raged as I dove for it. The creature easily avoided me as I crashed into the wall between it and my son’s room, flailing with my hands to grab a hold of it. It laughed then as it swung the scythe at my arm with such quickness that my reaction only came after it had pulled it back, turned, and was running away.

I grabbed my arm with my hand and felt blood. I watched as the creature stopped at the end of the hallway and turn back towards me. “Lincoln, Lincoln, coming for, stupid man,” it sneered, before disappearing into the dark of the living room.

I slowly got to my feet, grabbed the rake off the bedroom floor and started for the living room when I heard the front door open. As I entered, I flipped the light switch and saw that the front door was standing halfway open. I scanned the room as I made my way towards it but nothing moved or seemed out of place. I shut the door and locked it.

Standing with my back to the door I waited for the creature to jump out from behind something and take off running towards Lincoln’s room. Nothing happened at first, but then I smelled it, that stink of something rotten burning. I knew it was still here! As I raised the rake up, prepared to swing for the fences, the stench got stronger. I looked down and saw the cut in my arm smoking. The pain blossomed then and I bit back a cry as I dropped the rake and gripped tight my arm.

From the dark of the hallway I heard a bedroom door open, I screamed and felt my legs give out, collapsing to the floor as phantoms of red and black danced behind my eyelids. I tried to shout for my son but it only came out a mumble as sleep slowly took me in its dreary grasp.

 

Holly Rose

Posted: November 20, 2016 in Poetry, Uncategorized
Tags: , , , ,

She stands with a grin of uncertainty
Before a world of negativity
Then she smiles
Inspiring the desire in others
To stand and fight
Against the darkest hours of the night
To have hopes and dreams
Not inspired by fear
To persevere

To persevere
We will
Take this oath, make this stand
To reclaim our once forgotten dreamland
Hand in hand, until goodness grows
We stand with you
Our Holly Rose

Untitled

Posted: September 12, 2016 in Stories, Uncategorized
Tags: , , , , ,

I fell asleep watching the flames, a smile spread across my tired face as I adjusted my pillow and slowly let my eyes close.
I dreamt of her then.

We had become the fire, light and shadow, dancing together. We chased away the demons of one another as we twirled and laughed, as we became escape. We were alive then, in that moment, happy.

I can still smell the lotion that was so feint you could only smell it when you nestled into her neck, I can still feel her hand in mine, the occasional chill when a strand of her hair brushed my cheek, the look in her eyes that said she was in the moment, not thinking about the past or the future, just taking in and experiencing the now.

The flames had long since vanished, only the dull glow of the coals remained as I awoke screaming, hands thrust deep into the coals and ashes, searching for her, for something. Tears ran trails through the soot that covered my face, my breath straining through the smoke.

As I pulled my burning hands from the coals I realized then that the Phoenix had long since departed. As pieces of burning flesh fell to the carpet I knew then that there was nothing left to save, nothing left to hold onto, and no fairytale ending waiting.

I fell asleep watching the flames, a smile spread across my tired face as I adjusted my pillow and slowly let my eyes close.
I dreamt of her then…