Monthly Archives: September 2015


The air, crisp and cool, grasps at my hands attempting to negate the heat emanating from the coffee mug. Bright reds and yellows mingle amongst one another with the rising of the sun. Birds chat away. Dogs yap aloud. Cars meander about. I listen to it all sitting and waiting on my synapses to fully recover from rest. The beautiful smell and warmth of my caffeinated drink helps me to awaken. A well-used lawn chair draws my body toward the center of the earth. Grass having been scorched over the summer, the lawn is bare and brown readying itself for the colder months ahead by not growing any further. A book lying in my lap is taunting me. I never read up to the goal for the day. The pages, worn and frequently flipped through, were rough and torn.

The white paint on the wooden deck leaps to my attention, as a horde of ants sully the otherwise uncontaminated complexion. A growing garden was too much to hope for this year. We never did find the time to care. The mulch lay outside the deck railing with no more growth than that of the weeds. The chatting birds were always fed, but the garden never grew. Watering it shouldn’t have been that bothersome. A small voice in my head calls to me. It says, “You need to catch up with your work.” I can’t concentrate on my work. The reading is tiring. I have too much else to do. The garden still won’t be fed. The lawn can die too. The birds can stop chatting, and the dogs can stop yapping. Cars may stop meandering, but I may not be here to see it much longer. Tossing the book onto the railing, I enjoy the rest of my drink inside the house. The sun has fully risen, and the colors have faded down to that tranquil blue. The sofa, plush and black, waits for me as I press the blinking azure button one more time setting the mug beneath the nozzle. A painting stares back at me as I inadvertently gaze through it. Having a sepia toned image in the house lends itself to reminiscence. Although they are not yet old, my parents are empty nesting—in my case, again. The television monitor sitting cockeyed on the stand, it is tempting me to turn it on, but I have somewhere to be.

Taking a long whiff of my coffee, I relish in my singularity: my solitude. A buzzing sounds from within the kitchen. Gathering myself up from my seat, I sluggishly wander over to my phone.

“What do you want?”

Five missed phone calls, ten missed messages.

‘Mike where the hell are u?’

‘R u coming?’

‘Ur late.’

‘Hey u

yeah u

pick up your phone!’


‘Are you even awake?’

‘OK, Mom’s taking me to work.’

‘I guess Ill see you later. . . .’

I knew I had somewhere to be. I gather, I’ll be buying flowers and taking them with me to pick her up. Maybe dinner too, she tends to enjoy Asian concoctions. I think sushi and some kind of fried rice may help some. Whatever happens, don’t forget the wonton soup. Wait, was it miso soup? It was some kind of un-American soup.

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Posted by on September 16, 2015 in Uncategorized


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What in the Hill? Sam!

At this moment, I am asleep. With eyes flitting back and forth beneath eyelids, I dream. I dream mostly good things, mostly things that aren’t worth remembering. Not tonight, this one I will remember. I am conscious in this dream, Maddie is there too. Though I don’t know why, I find a little girl in my abstract dream world as well. Setting the room in my mind, I attempt to store the memory. A room lay almost bare.

Maddie sits cross legged in the corner of the room playing with the child. To whom this child belongs, I do not know. I lie long ways on an overused, black and grey, patchwork sofa. The wall is, at varying intervals, adorned with rips and tears of the drywall revealing the brown underneath. Because of the differences in color white, around the trim, the window looks to be painted closed. Boxes line the wall. I look at them with disgust knowing that I have to put all of the shit away. Kids playing baseball outside scream, shout, and run away as a baseball bat crashes through my window leaving glass littered over the hodgepodge piss-yellow carpet.

“Skye come with Mommy, Mike throw a fit,” Maddie says lifting the small child from her yellow well used Tonka truck to take her to the next room. Did I remember to note that the doors were the ugliest overcooked orange color ever? Maddie and Skye dissipate into one of the open doors.

Lethargically getting off the couch, I mumble, “Fuck It,” and tape a trash bag over the window storing the baseball bat in the closet. Looking through the dingy cardboard boxes we had stolen from one too many garbage dumpsters, I begin to empty them. As I pile the unorganized items into neat little groupings according to which room they belong: eating and cooking utensils over there, Blankets and towels around here, books and movies at the wall, as well as knickknacks and décor on the counter through the kitchen, kids outside the door begin making a ruckus with their baseball game again. Lazily shaking my head and rubbing my eyes I meander towards the ugly door and open it. Outside, the children scream and run off splashing big puddles of red muck fading into the red veined and grey distance. Confused, I walk through the strangest weird gunk—burning the image of oil textured goop and soft serrated ground into my memory—leaving no footprints underneath the red liquid. Maddie appears back at the front door holding Skye.

“Where are you going?”

“To figure out where I am, gorgeous,” is all I can reply.

“You’re home, goofball. Come back inside,” she says.

I continue forward anyway. The strange onslaught of emotions that overtook me was overwhelming. The ground began trembling underneath my feet as if I had irritated it. Then, all at once, the room, Maddie, little Skye, and myself is lifted towards the morose sky and is dumped into a new reality.

I am alone. Staring up at the rear end, the ass end, of an elephant. “There’s a room in the elephant,” I muttered. I was pooped and alone.

Time for my coffee, then off to class.

I wrote a paper once on dreams; it was twenty pages long and never revealed to me why I cannot remember a single one of them. Professor Lucht, who reminded me of Dumbo, didn’t have anything to add to my predicament in dream world. I gather I should just deal the hand I play. It was an A paper too.

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Posted by on September 9, 2015 in Uncategorized


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