Stained White Blouse


Regret is the stained white blouse of innocence. And I know this because I’ve seen it discolor right before my very eyes. I’ve seen a child grow into a man as he learned of pain and sorrow through drooping eyes and death of love. His skin now wrinkles and his hair grays as the sorrow in his eyes are permanently imbedded there. And though he smiles from time to time, experiencing the true joy of a hardy laugh and a blue sky, he always falls asleep in his dreary gray, wooden, mold scented room with nostalgic thoughts in his head. Though he doesn’t cry; and I’d say what makes him a man is his acceptance of what he cannot change. I am a woman of old age and I envy this ability, as I often cry over lost time.

This stained white blouse is the regret of innocence. It was once a beautiful pure white garment. But over the years, as time helps to change many things, it has yellowed in the sun and wrinkled with the wind. The breeze still blows it easily, as it ripples on the clothesline; but it’s a bit more brown, from spills of hot cocoa and dried up tears. Bleach can only do so much for purifying a no longer innocent cloth. And over the years I have wondered and cringed and hoped that maybe someday, somehow there will be a way for me to go back in time to prevent and release the stains, and to once again wear a guiltless, irreproachable white cloth.

This man that I have seen grow, is not a sad man. But as my grandson, you can tell that he thinks and dreams of a life of possibility while physically being trapped in a world that is restricting on the heart and lungs. Our souls are very much alike. We understand the impossibility of possibility, and we can only control ourselves, though actions of others can still hurt us and push us down. But if there were a way for this stained white blouse and this regret of lost time and embarrassment to become a bloodless ivory sponge once again, it is in the hands of others. Accept us, and tell us we are perfect.

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Guilty Ungratefulness

The truth is deep; the roots plant themselves in wet cement; and once it finally dries, it rips itself out, leaving you with crumbled bits of sharp concrete; and the proof of its existence is not in the ruins, but in the face of emotion and feelings. Though maybe that is why, the wound of emotion lets you know that you are alive, and sometimes it is a lovely, delightful wound, and other times not so much. But with feeling, we know we are living.


“Our friendship was rain that helped the green grass grow, with the smell of dampness and sprouting in the air. But the rain of our friendship grew cold and dry, and we’ve been in a drought since the beginning of May” you think to yourself. You remember all of those orange autumn months. She harassed you endlessly until you finally gave in. You thought if you sat there and listened to her babbling mouth just once that she might have left you alone. But she didn’t leave you alone and you sunk deeper into trancelike state of the “friendship”, with the delusion that she really cared. You opened up your soul in hopes that her eyes wouldn’t be judgmental. You laughed and cried together for years, and then she changed. Suddenly her eyes and her mind began judging, and the delusion of her safekeeping began to drift away steadily, like a tide drifting out to sea, slowly and then all at once, deserting you in confusion and loneliness. Her awful words sting you like the stripes of a yellow and black bee; all you are able to do is be honest and to put everything on the line, and you trusted her with your feelings; but she’s always have been living in a dreamland. You trusted her- with your bare feet on hot coals- you opened up and told her things that you didn’t want to tell her, that she forced you to say. And suddenly you realize all the manipulation and heartache that she caused you, one piece after another chipped away. Her approval and lack thereof, kept you going, she took complete control over your life. You now leave with regrets and like your heart just ripped from your chest because she, sweet innocent girl whom nobody dislikes, is a devilish monster deep down inside that can tear you apart at the seams. You give her your trust, and she’ll make your blue eyes cry as she takes all that valuable information you didn’t want to share with her to begin with, and use it against you, to hate you and to tear you down; but it will be to vicariously live through your orange, autumn heart, only to leave you stranded with questions and rotten, frozen fruit when winter and the snow come around. She’ll leave you wondering and questioning yourself, crying and feeling guilty, although she is the one that brought you harm.

Elastic Ropes and Dead Needles

The needle was dead and the heroin sky was coming undone. I fought the pain of the gray and cloudy sky above me that was ripping the heart out of my chest. Only $700 wasted and shooting up the shit, but the supply was gone and I was in debt. A broken love triangle on every corner of the shape. And even though the sky slowly became blue, I was addicted to needle of love, the one who had given me the attention when I needed it. But it’s a lot of crap, and we shared the needle and we both got the disease of love. But it was fighting through the slamming doors and the peeling paint from the walls between us. I thought one day “Is this happiness?” because I was happy but I was angry, and you were in the other room, caged up and getting wasted, and I was sitting on a broken recliner with my head in my hands, thinking that maybe this wasn’t the answer. That maybe the darkness we’ve enveloped ourselves in was maybe just a shell we were hiding in. The blue sky and birds chirping outside was a pretty sight, when I stood at the open door, looking at the green. But I always got pulled back into the dark and dingy hole, the cave of ignorance and escape, and for just another few moments I’d bleed faux joy. And I’d wake up the same, the pain of being broke, and on the elastic rope of happy anger that you had been letting me play for the past two years.

Digging in a pile of junk!

I was doing some Spring cleaning today and in a pile of trash I found a couple of interesting things!



How can I explain what it feels like

Kind of like losing all motivation to try
Maybe a little bit of loneliness
and a little bit of why?
But I’m running out of reasons
All I can do is cry
Strange to be in so much pain
Cause I live by “do or die”
Cause this anchor’s pulling me down
It’s dragging my heart all over the ground
I’m saying “please! All I did was fall.”
Found this in my room today on a piece of scrap paper. I wonder what I was thinking about when I wrote it. But it kind of helps tell the story of how when something goes wrong everything else will too. “all i did was fall”, why do I have to be punished for it. I don’t know, just an idea!
Quote I found:
“Sometimes we fight so much for appearances and earning another’s trust and admiration that we miss the essential: those who really love us are beyond all of that. If you have my heart, there’s nothing you need to question. I don’t even need to tell you, as that by looking at you, you will know, you will feel.”
I like it 🙂

London, 1940

London, 1940

There are sirens all the time now. Burning flashes in the sky and a rumble of destruction near and far. I lie awake in a dark room with the curtains drawn but that doesn’t keep out the lights.

By early morning the sky will be lined with a purple hazy smoke and the smell of death with be in the air. Everyone will walk past, bow their heads in sorrow but thankful it wasn’t them, and then the government men pick up the lost pieces who got the lesser end of the stick. We don’t do much to clean up now.

It’ll again occur later that night. Right when families will be trying to salvage tradition with a seated hot meal; only to be interrupted by the siren. The one doomsday alarm ever created by man. We’ll leave our perfect meals, we wouldn’t be able to stomach them anyway, for our cellars, bathtubs and wherever we think we’ll be kept safe. We sit and hope for safety, hope that we’ll still be alive the next day. There are moments when we feel slightly at ease because the booms of destruction move farther and farther away. But just as we start to get comfortable, the boom will reach right above our heads and shake the very ground that is underneath us. And we’ll hold on to our dolls and our books and each other as if that alone will save us from mortality.


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The Do Over Train


The train whistled, and eerie whistle, a whistle with a loss.

They sit across the the other couple they met on this train to Prague, Elise and Paul looked at each other. How did they get this idea? Suddenly talking about life with two complete strangers made each of them think this was a wonderful, “live in the moment” idea.
Paul planned this trip for Elise a few months ago for their anniversary, like a second honeymoon! Little did he know they’d both be challenged for their lives.
The other couple, Jonah and Valerie, travel from place to place, modern day gypsies in a way. They like to talk to strangers and get to know the world, without ever settling in one place and never having the money to pay for what they do own. But they’re nice enough, talking about their childhoods and how they met, and what they plan to do in the future.
Now Elise, Paul, Jonah and Valerie all sat there at the round table facing one another. This is a game, a betting game, who’ll live to see tomorrow? What spouses will remain together and who will return to their daily lives alone.
One bullet in the gun. Taking a chance on life, for what? Why do this?
On the train Elise and Valerie talked about how they’d love to get a do over in life. When Jonah overheard this, he immediately agreed.
“We all deserve a do over at least once”, Jonah had said.
Paul on the other hand was quite pleased with the way his life turned out and he sat there quietly. He found something eerie about Valerie and Jonah, but they were nice and they were just on the train with them.
“I have an idea,” Valerie said. And she went searching through her bag for something. “Since we do deserve a do over, we should play a game.” At the bottom of her bag she found it and as she was pulling it out, Jonah held her arm immobile.
“Valerie”, he replied, as if trying to figure out if this is what she really wanted to do.
“What? They might like the idea.” She said.
She pulled out a tiny pistol, the clean silver looked as if it had never been used.
“Russian Roulette”, she demanded. “I propose that this be game of chance and whomever goes, their spouse gets a do over.”
Jonah seemed surprisingly okay with this. Paul and Elise however looked back and forth between each other and the other couple. Why did they want this? Paul and Elise were happy together, Elise was joking of course about the whole do over conversation. But what if she could have a do over, would she do it, even if she were without Paul?
Valerie gave them a few hours to think. But in the meantime it grew dark and as the night set in, Elise, Paul and Jonah dozed off, leaving Valerie awake to master a quite fine bulletproof plan.
She dropped some GHB powder in Elise and Paul’s drinks. As they began to wake up, they took small sips. Soon they starting hallucinating, and Valerie handed them the gun.
“Your turn”, she said as if they’ve been playing for hours.
“Okay”, Elise took the gun and pointed it at her head.
POP! the bullet went right through her head. Paul just looked at her.
“Paul, I believe you owe us the ten thousand euros we betted”, Jonah said, fully aware and seemingly knowledgable on how to handle this situation. Paul payed up, he emptied his wallet and wrote out checks. Jonah and Valerie stood up, “It was nice talking with the both of you”, he said diplomatically. Valerie gave him a sincere smile as she tucked the gun back in her bag. As Paul’s vision started to blur, Valerie and Jonah walked out.
Everything went black.
The next afternoon Paul woke up with a air mask attached to his face. He was still sitting in the train car and he was surrounded my medics and policemen. The drugs had worn off and he suddenly became completely aware of the smell of death in the room.
He looked over and saw a sheet covering a body. And though the medics tried to keep him seated, he stood up forcefully anyway and went up to the covered corpse.
He gulped. He slowly lifted his hand and pulled the sheet down. There lay his wife Elise. He became dizzy and couldn’t stand any more. He fell. The medics helped him up and the policemen started asking him questions. But his thoughts were blurry now and his eyes were creating puddles beneath him.
A month later, Paul was sitting in a police station in Prague, with a solemn sadness on his face, giving details about the couple him and Elise met on the train. But somehow he knew Jonah and Valerie would never be found.
“How ironic”, he thought to himself. “I’m the one who gets a do over, and I didn’t want one. We played the game of life with criminals who were in it for money and possibly a twisted life lesson.
I can never this place now. The last place my wife breathed. But what shall I do? Get a job I suppose. Try to forget the cause of her death I suppose. Make friends and move on I suppose.
But I suppose it’ll be difficult. I suppose It’ll take years to never actually overcome this doom and sorrow. I can pretend, and that’s good enough I suppose.”
He suddenly spoke up to the policeman. “It was a game, a do over your life game. I never wanted a do over. But what do I do with it now that I’ve got one?”
A train whistled lively in the background.
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A short Love Story on June 17th


“He started the card by writing, “Roses are red, violets are…,” but he never finished.”

How could he possibly give her something so cheesy. He’s trying to profess his love here, not give up his dignity of being a man. There’s nothing that says I love you like stating the obvious. “Roses are red, violets are blue”, but violets are purple, he’s never seen a blue violet, not that he gazes at flowers for any length of time anyway; but roses can be yellow, white, and pink too. What a joke. He loves her, he can’t lie to her on top of that, “violets are blue” psht. 
It’s the first time that he’s trying to tell her that he loves her. He wants her to know, but he doesn’t know how to say it. Too straightforward could scare her away, too subtle, she may not even know he’s trying. For so long she’s told him that he never puts in effort, well he does, but she doesn’t feel like he cares. He used to do cute, romantic things for her, but now he doesn’t. She feels like they’re drifting apart. 
He wants to keep cool about it though. How on earth can he be cute and romantic, he  doesn’t remember ever being like that with her, but apparently she does. He’s going to her house later for dinner and he wants her to know. “But it’ll be awkward”, he thinks. But would it. She’s been waiting for him to tell her that he really cares for quite some time now. She cares about him so much and she loves him too. But she’s also yet to tell him, because of her questioning his caring, she’s afraid to say it. She doesn’t want to be rejected. 
It’s not Valentines Day or their anniversary or Christmas even. There’s no special occasion at all, just a regular June 17th. But what a day for both of them it will be. He plans, but can’t even think straight. He loves her, that’s all he knows, but how can he make such an ordinary thing special and unique. She’s over there laboring over a stove to make the perfect meal, his favorite though he’ll never admit it; mac & cheese and hot dogs.. a real classy guy, but she’s perfectly happy with that. 
She’s getting anxious. To the point where she just wants to say it to get his reaction over with, she loves him so much it hurts not to tell him. 
As he walks to her house, he keeps coming up with different things to say, none of them perfect in his mind, though any one of them she would melt over. The closer he gets to her, the more nervous he is, the more he doesn’t know what to say or do. He knows that it must be tonight he does something, but what?
She sets he table. Awaiting his arrival, should be any second now as she looks at the clock. Tick tock, tick tock. Her heart is beating along with it. She knows she must tell him tonight and take whatever consequence comes from it. \
He knocks on the door. He see’s some daisy on the ground as she opens it.
They look at each other. Both suddenly with a big lump in there throat.
“Hello”, she finally says.
The things in his mind go in circles. He doesn’t know what to do, what to say or how to say the things he doesn’t know how to say. 
“Daisies are white”, He blurts out.
“I-“, she starts.
“And I’ve never seen a blue violet in my life.” He continues. 
She just stares at this insane guy. What in heaven’s girth is he doing?
“And roses can be many colors, though people only get yellow when they’re dead. And I can’t understand because yellow roses aren’t that bad looking actually.”
She doesn’t know how to respond to this, but she suddenly has the urge to kiss him on the cheek so she does. “Come in”, she says.
“No!” He exclaims. “I can’t.”
“And why not?”
“Because I have to do something first.” He looks at this girl he met three years ago, oh how her patience is my biggest virtue. I want her, he has to say it.
“I love you”, she says quietly, shyly. 
“But-but I was supposed to say it first, that’s what I’ve been trying to do.” He said.
“I know. That’s why I said it.” She looked at him nervously. “No guy ever talks about flowers like that with a girl unless he loves her.”
They stood there looking at each other. Each of their nerves wanted to look away, but they couldn’t.
“I-“, he stammered, he was just about to say it, but it wouldn’t come. Why wouldn’t it come it was true, he was one-hundred percent sure of it. “I-“.
“I know”, she smiled softly and took his hand. “Come in, I cooked you your favorite meal. And don’t deny it this time.”
They walked in the house, enjoyed their meal, held good conversation, and looked at one another in a new way.