Beginning of a Story??

“Where’s your story to go? Little one, why don’t you love? Why don’t you live?”

“Because it’s hard…”, she whispered from lips numbed by sleep. She dreamt  of a hand gently caressing her forehead, feeling neither maternal or paternal in nature.

“Hard?”, the hand paused. Her brow furrowed and her limbs stirred under the sheets, she did not want the hand to stop and let the ease it brought slip away.

Continuing its long gentle strokes across her brow, the slender frame spoke again.

“I suppose, yes, things such as that are hard.”

Blue tinted lips pursed in thought, it paused.

“You, my dear , are to smart for your own good. Sadly, this is what hinders you.”

The pale hand stopped its course across the girls brow and descended to the side of her face and rested there. Only a thumb gently sweeping across her cheek brought her comfort in the midst of her slumber now.

“Some events will occur without prompt others wait for you to set them in motion, such is the world.”

As she woke the next morning she was troubled by the remaining wisps of the nights dream. Vaguely recollecting the feeling of two hands cupping the sides of her face with a pair of warm lips resting gently upon her own. Her only thought on the matter being,

“I really need to stop eating before I go to bed.”


Thoughts in the Apartment

As she walked up steps to the lonely little apartment she cursed the idea the longing that held her thoughts in sway. How could she prep for her future when all she could do is think about what the future could be? In her head she romanticized the lonely intelligent young woman trope and could nothing but hope her life would be brightened by some deus ex machina. Thinking about the future helped her escape form the present but was counter productive in every way possible. She was self sabotaging herself and was fully aware of it, but couldn’t figure out how to escape the damning hell cycle that was perpetuated by herself.
Dropping her bag by the door, she stepped on the heel of her shoe to peel her foot from inside and wobbled to the other foot as she fought for balance. The black scourge on the carpet opened its mouth and all but meowed at her. She had adopted the cat weeks ago and dubbed her Maggie. In the pound she had been sweet, loving, and SILENT. As soon as they got home the cat meowed just to hear herself talk and sounded like she smoked three packs a day. The sweet and loving part was a constant, but was not reciprocated when she pawed her people in the face at three o’clock in the morning just for the attention.
“How’s it going Magsters?” She received a guttural meow in response.
“I see you’ve cut down on the packs. It’ll do a world of good to your lungs.” She commented as she scratched under the cat’s chin. Laying down next to the cat on the beige carpet she mused about life in general.
“Everything that’s not human has it easy. All they have to think about surviving or just being and not thinking. Buddha had it right, just do your own thing and cut all worldly connection and just focus on being and less thinking. Maybe I should quit everything and become a monk in the Himalayas.” Rolling over on to her stomach she sighed. Spending her off days trapped in a creamy beige box was tiring. The day would speed by in a matter of minutes while she binged watched episodes of Gilmore Girls. She knew it was a depressing way to go about life and felt bitterly jealous every time she saw her best friend doing things with her life. Clara was everything that she was not. Clara was a tall, red headed, blue eyed, amazon woman with a will of steel that goes to a para military school, majored in international business, took nineteen units a semester, worked two jobs, made deans list, and had a Viking of a boyfriend. It was easy to feel insignificant in relation to her.
Deciding, in her few moments of better judgment, not to wrap herself into a cocoon of sadness she got up and made her way to the bathroom to take a hot shower.

Walk From the Park

The tips of her fingers and toes were chilled to the bone. She noted that her nose was numb and wondered if it was a rosy pink like they described in romance books.

Her one and only someone, her partner, her soul mate would come jogging through the fall gloom and confess his unbridled love for her. It would have been the classic tale of how they butted heads and argued all of the time but he loved her for it.

The deepening chill seizing her fingers brought her back to the dim reality that was her life. Keeping her pace slow as she walked back from the park she realized that this was the first time in two years that she had really felt the change in the weather. It was almost the end of November and the winter chill had just begun to seep into the valley. Adjusting her scarf to cover the random onset of adult acne that occupied most of her chin on one side, she enjoyed the only view of fall you could see in the urban environment.

Although it was only three in the afternoon the sun hung low and dimly in the sky. Burgundy and brown leaves littered the ground in piles on the side of the road, pleading for children to rush through them and scatter them into the sky so they could fly through the air just once more. The trees, unabashedly naked, basked in the frigid light of the afternoon, free of the burden that they had carried throughout the year.

As she shuffled along the sidewalk she dreamt of being a tree. She could stand in a single place for her whole life and have to worry about nothing. No obligations, no responsibilities, and no need to find meaning in her life because she was a tree. Trees do what trees are meant to do; nothing. They do nothing and yet people love them for it, unconditionally and with fervor. They bring oxygen to the air effortlessly and look stunning while doing it.

The thing she envied most about the trees is that they had their meaning already sorted out. Stuck in her second year of college, she hadn’t even begun any classes for her major. She had been stuck in a perpetual hatred of the classes she was taking for the last year and loathed every second of time she had to spend on campus because of it.

“Life isn’t supposed to be like this.” She mused.

“No not even life at the moment, its college. I’m supposed to be having the time of my life right now, but I’m not.” The thought of sitting in the two-bedroom apartment she shared with her father brought back the crushing weight of reality she was trying to escape by walking to the park.

Almost twenty years old, perpetually single, depressed, anxiety ridden, sardonic and acerbic she reminded herself of the trope Woody Allen character that annoyed her. She wallowed in an ever deepening well of self pity that was getting harder and harder to drag herself out of. She thought of her lack of friends on campus and cursed her habit of distancing herself from everyone and everything. Flirting was a task all of its own and making friends was almost just as hard. When she went to her mothers for the holidays it was always the same question.

‘So any boyfriends yet?’

It was easy enough to say,

‘No mom, they’re all fuckboys.’, and continue to blame her misery on her surroundings instead of taking any personal responsibilities, but with all she’d been through maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing to seek a bit of solitude. But she was worried that she wouldn’t come out of the nest of isolation she’d built herself. It was comfortable and in near perfect homeostasis and that was the dangerous part. No one could hurt her there but no one could come through to her either.

She dreamt often about having her own place and not needing the support of her over bearing father to make it through her undergraduate studies debt free.

Her trip to the park had ended after two hours due to the stiffening of her fingers and all the calming effects it had on her came crashing down as she entered the apartment complex’s parking lot.


My Hands

I live in the Bay Area and I commute to school on the Bart three days a week. It’s my own little personal slice of hour long purgatory, but as of late I’ve noticed something about myself that I’m very fond of.

My hands.

Given the fact that we are now at a technological peak no one is looking up and away from their phones. They don’t talk to each other or even take the hour long ride to sit and to just think. The commute is now a time to sit and to stuff even more fodder into our minds.

Since I started the new school year I have stopped taking my leisurely reading book and laptop with me to campus because it has been giving me back and neck pain. (I’m taking 5 classes and they all require me to take my books to class everyday.) So the only thing I have left to help ease my boredom is my music. I play it off of my phone and by the end of the commute its almost dead, so I try to conserve the battery.

The only thing I have left to look at on Bart, besides an unwanted view of all the standing butts, is my hands.

I’ve noticed as I’ve gotten older that my hands are beginning to look more and more like my mothers. Slender wrists with a palm and actual phalanges attached to them. Now, my fingers aren’t long and elegant but they do look like fingers, unlike my fathers side of the family where everyone has paws for hands.

I look at my hands and see my veins beginning to become darker and more visible as time goes on. They look like my mothers and grandmothers more and more every day. They’re becoming thinner, more boney, soft an leathery just as I remember my moms being.

To me it means that I’m doing something right. They’re calloused because I work, they’re strong because I don’t give wimpy handshakes, they’re wrinkled from all the writing I’ve done in my life, and they’re soft because of all the loving I have and have not encountered yet.

These hands have had a life and they continue to live one as I type this food for thought out for you guys right now.

What life have your hands lived, through yours’ or your families?

Why I haven’t written

It seems that I’ve already broken my promise to post once a week. School surprised me this year with amount of homework it assigned me and I have almost no time to focus on personal time. I hope that those of you who do read my stuff understand. Five classes three days a week has its challenges and often leaves me to fried to much of anything else. I know it is not most teachers intent on overloading their students but it happens more often than not.

For only being a sophomore in college I’ve seen an overwhelmingly large amount of teachers go out of their way to cut the costs of books, supplies, and time so students wouldn’t have to stress so much. Then again I am mostly taking GE courses but that doesn’t discount their consideration towards students.

But thats besides the point, I’m hoping that I will have something up by the middle of next week at the latest.  I appreciate everyone that has liked and read my stories thus far! Please if you have any advice, don’t be afraid to contact me!

Vanish (Working Title)

She cheated. She cheated a lot. It’s not that she wanted to, it became a compulsory habit over time. Being the middle of three, it was hard to win against the baby and the first born. Attention had to be obtained somehow, to her cheating seemed to be the best option. She had the highest grades out of all her siblings and yet she still got little to no recognition from her parents.

Often she thought that vanishing into to thin air would be much easier than trying to pry her parents attention away from her other two siblings. If she stepped behind an open door she was sure she would be gone the next time it closed. Lately she had taken to laying on the carpet under her bed and imagining herself becoming one with the shaggy tan pile.

Closing her eyes and intertwining her fingers in the grooves she slowed her breath to a low hiss. Her mind quieted itself and her body went numb. She felt herself slowly slip away from her body as she imagined what life would be like without her.


The Boy Who Felt

There once was a boy who felt a lot. He did not always understand exactly what it was he felt, though he did know that the feeling was not his. The unspoken word of divorce, the fear of returning home to an angry spouse, or the sadness attached to a barren womb were all feelings he was unfamiliar with. He knew they were unpleasant all the same.
He grew up with is eyes wide open and his hands splayed far. His heart all to heavy and full with concern. All he wished to do was to help ease the burden of others, to let them know that they didn’t have to face life alone.
His efforts to help others only managed to further his own suffering.
“It’s only decent to use my ability to help others isn’t it? Its’ only fair that I comfort them isn’t it?” These thoughts were his only justification for his deterioration.
He did nothing but feel and give. Giving and giving until there was nothing left to give. Shrunken and withered, his heart hung from stringy ligaments in his chest. Overworked, his face had shrunk back behind his cheekbones. Now that he had nothing left, he laid in his bed unfeeling. Those he had given to, gave nothing back in return.
So entirely dedicated to the welfare of others he neglected his own baser needs.
Food, sleep, and affection all pushed aside for the sake of ‘duty’. His natural ability to feel devolved from gift to duty, thus sucking the life from him like one would suck the marrow from a bone.
“If only they could see me now.” He thought.
“They would wonder where life I once had, had gone. ‘It left with a wave and a bow’ I would say. I left no love for myself, you have it all now… but you’re all still so sad…,” faces began to swim before his eyes as he stared at the ceiling. Grinning one second frowning the next. All of them a parade of tragic failure.
“Why is that? I gave you all I had, was it not enough? Was my love not good enough for you all?” Tears had begun to run down his cheeks, cold and frigid. The warmth had left long ago.
“I failed. I failed at the one thing I was meant to accomplish in this life and I don’t get a do-over.” His chest hitched with sob after sob.

Our boy laid there, fully grown and devoid of all his youthful feeling. Born into this world filled to the brim with empathy and love only to leave it empty and unfulfilled…


She shook violently as she woke from her dream.
‘It was a dream. It happened, but this was a dream…’ Her mind chided her gently. Superstition convinced us that dreams predicted the future, logic taught us they were a reflection of our thoughts. Shifting over to her side she began to count sheep.
‘one, two, three, four…,’ the count trailing off as she slipped back into troubled slumber. It was always the same, the dream. The setting and plot may be different, but the core remained the same. She was reliving the same event over and over in different dreamscapes while her physical body had move far beyond what had been the event that had played out in her life. What her mind didn’t understand was that she was still creating the end of the story, it only understood that their had been one end that had happened long ago. Many years of manipulation did that to a person. Once a person had convinced you that you needed them to function it was always hard to break away. When she finally realized he had manipulated her all along it was hard to see a continuation after the relationship had ceased. The moment she realized she had been manipulated for so long was the moment that haunted her and clouded her dreams. It had been that moment when manipulation had become her biggest fear.

Writers Write

They say that writers write and that is absolutely true. I’ve spent much of my life coasting off of half assed essays that earned me mild praise and I always felt a bit smug because of it. My father called it being a gifted underachiever, I call it being flat-out lazy. Part of my laziness is caused by a lot of things I suppose, primarily because of depression, and I’ve come to a point in my life where I need to start actually living it. I’m going into my second year of college now and I have yet to begin any kind of personal writing. I’ve created this blog for one purpose… to write. To whom ever may be reading this, constructive criticism is welcome – negativity is not. This is meant to be  place of positivity for me, and other writers. Many of us have had to go through dark times and find a way out of it; this is my way out. So in the spirit of writers writing I’ll be exploring different types of writing on this blog in order to find what best suites me. My hope is to post at least one piece of writing a week, with school quickly approaching we’ll soon see if I am able to keep such a promise. All of you ,currently non exisiting, followers please feel free to hold me to my promise and challenge me with different prompts.