Archive for the ‘Short Stories’ Category

ENOUGH

Posted: August 30, 2016 in Short Stories
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The body and mind are weak

And there is no God to seek

You have traveled as far as you can on your own two feet

But this is far too much

I have lost my will

No purpose to my skill

Gun to my head, the game’s final kill

Just another anonymous body to add to the bunch

I come to you simply because it is all i have left

I can’t say it was taken from me, there was no theft

My soul, my light, of these i am simply bereft

I have had more than enough

Petrified By Defeat

Posted: August 28, 2016 in Short Stories
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The fear is crippling

The past is literally destroyed and the present is on fire

The future is dark. So much so it’s menacing

I’ve learned to breathe underwater along with my sorrows so they can’t be drowned. I just want to get higher. 

Not so obviously, I mean up my mountain to climb

But i keep falling deeper and deeper into these valleys. Every step up crumbles under my feet. 

And through it all, my greatest advisory is my mind

Constantly leaves me to believe my greatest option is 6 feet deep

DEFEAT. 

Habit Forming

Posted: July 1, 2016 in Short Stories
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My new favorite thing is writing rhymes at 4AM

Awakened by my mind like a child screaming let’s begin

I scramble for my phone wit the light turned from my girl’s eyes

So she can continue to enjoy the peace my mind denies I

I frantically type my thoughts as I dreamt em

Vent em like over heated clips in a rail gun

Once done I place it outta sight and outta mind

Til a new line comes stampeding outta my mind

-Then the scramble begins again

Gentle movements calm breathes as I swipe the letters and

I write of better men, people I am in dreams you may never see them ever… damn

And away it goes again as I drown in the darkness

The only sounds are my cat’s purr on my chest and the fridge

But that can’t keep me from tryin to figure out what Fetty Wap is

Which leads me to question why I’m not on yet and where’s my respect and dream I’m up next

-and then my phone’s back

More words aligned as the sun climbs and all hope of sleep dies

I love it though. Don’t know what I’d do without it

*Feature image credit (e)ScapeLifePhotography

The Now

Posted: May 24, 2016 in Short Stories
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I don’t mind us growing apart.

I just might not be who I was when you return

And in turn you may not be who I thought.

That thought makes my stomach churn.

Am I right now or do I just feel that way right now?

Will I see a vision of you behind me reminding me you’re right now

…You say you’re right but how?

Can we both be?

…Man this wait is heavy.
Cops still killin my peoples, confederate flags fly from Chevys
Damage still unrepaired from levies, apathy is steady
but man this wait is heavy

I said I said, man this wait is heavy
Like saiyan trainin at 100 times gravity
are our attention spans victims of brevity or are victims piling rapidly
…man this wait is heavy

Do you know how heavy this wait is
to never see images of yourself in greatness
to see the best of you more concerned with status
you can’t know how heavy this wait is

Oh how heavy this wait be
waitin for a time machine to go back to the 90s
the best of times but still see my peoples they catchin bodies
can’t stand how heavy this wait be

It’s heavy, defined as needing much physical force
cause that’s the answer if you the soliders in the streets of course
but it’s also heavy, meaning mentally oppressive
impressive they press us to retaliate then call us aggressive

But it’s all about the wait
I’m waiting for my civil rights since so many have already died in that fight
oh that’s right, we’re already in a post racism era
my error, only thing new about this era is the caps im wearin

This wait is heavy
and though we suppose to stand together I still feel like I’m alone
so i get into my zone until I write another poem
cause i can’t tell if I’m killin time or it’s killin time

The opening paragraph to Kliff Killer, a story I’ve been working on so long I don’t even remember where the idea came from. If the intrigue grabs you, leave a comment and I’ll post more. Feedback is always welcome and appreciated.

The door opens. A man, eclipsing the streetlight’s shine into our dark little world, lumbers in as he scans the room. Cleaning glasses behind the bar, I keep an eye on him not out of fear for our safety, but for his own. As he steps up to the bar stools, most of the patrons ignore him and his forced aura of bravado.They continue their conversations and drinks as he glances around the bar. He then pulls out a stool and, unfortunately for him, sits next to Kliff. Big mistake. This large, celestial body is quickly cut down as Kliff kicks the chair from under his grandiose form. As his chin cracks on the bar, blood begins to drip from his jaw. He makes the most wonderful thud on the ground, slamming the back of his head on my newly mopped hardwood floor. By the time he realizes what’s happened, Kliff is standing over him, one hand holding his slick silver desert eagle, Marduk, and the other holding our large guest’s wanted poster. Little did the rest of us know or care, our newest and shortest bar companion just happens to be John Clip, famous in about 5 other states for some of the most senseless and brutal shooting murders over the last 6 months. By the time I finished my recollection of who this gentleman was, my floor received a fresh coat of red paint…I figured as much. Kliff, ever the honest and just customer, gives me my normal fee for housing him and allowing a perfect location to murder for money and quite easily drags the large lug to the backroom to call the petitioner of the bounty. Just another day at 224.

Lost in the Crowd

Posted: January 31, 2015 in Short Stories
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Music’s influence on life is real. This could be a true story somewhere. I actually kind of hope it is…

Section E, row 20, seat 25. No, that’s not where this started. It was 224 K St in the basement. Track one, verse one from the first album. That was the beginning. That was when the change happened. When everything he thought he knew melted away layer by layer to kernels of truth far beyond his age. Words he was not allowed to repeat, places he never heard of and activities he thought were the clever writings of Hollywood directors. It was all here and it was all real. He followed the path of the music from album to album in secret, ‘lest his parents find out and sever his bond to this near mythical world. The words of gods he never knew existed. That path led him to his seat, in that row, in that section, but it wasn’t enough. Song after song as the crowd stood, he crept and slithered closer with no one the wiser. The closer he got, the more the words of his god striped him bare. Childhood memories both good and bad, how his parents raised him, how his siblings looked out for him, bike rides and days at the park with friends, anything that did not come from the sounds of his god became worthless. He who was once everything was now nothing at the unknowing command of his betters. Row 10 now. He can see the sweat. Hear the bass thump harder in his chest. Teachers who tried to show him a better way, mentors that tried to cultivate his vast potential, coaches that tried to teach him focus, were all minimized like a screen in the face of such radiance. Row 5. So close he can almost touch his idol. He can transmit all of the worship and awe he holds with just a simple touch of hands or a knowing glance. The girl he had a crush on, his summer job that paid for the ticket, the scholarship he was promised, the internship he had to look forward to, all paled in comparison to the future he could have by harnessing a fraction of the power before him.

And so he arrived. His promised land. He was greeted by no chorus of angels, no loving embrace of warmth. Instead he was met with reality. The same reality destroying realization that started him on the path here. He saw no pain in the eyes of his idol. The messages delivered in the music were a stark contrast to the god that stomped around on stage before him. He had imagined the music was infallible and thus modeled his life after it. He threw away his amazing childhood because he thought it was a lie to live so well. He ignored his parents because they were too old to understand. He shrugged off the protection of his siblings without knowing they had lived that life and didn’t want the same for him. He stopped riding bikes with his friends and going to the park because there was no time for such pleasantries in the real world. Now he could see the truth in his past. He understood what his teachers were trying to tell him about his future. He realized the mentors he blew off saw a better way for him than this. He could finally understand why his coaches were always riding him so hard. He could see the truth in today. That girl that he had a crush on that didn’t fit the standards of his favorite songs. His summer job that he didn’t need because he had ‘work’. His scholarship that he was at risk of blowing because he didn’t need school to get money. The internship, the fruition of childhood dreams of being a scientist, that meant nothing now because his dreams had suddenly changed. He was all that stood in the way of his future. The streets offered him nothing and neither did his false god. He was fed lies and it snaked him from his reality. He looked around him only to wonder how many others fell into the vacuum of these lies. How many others believed these falsehoods and disregarded the truth in reality. He was disgusted with himself and his peers. It was a soul jarring blow. His back now to everything he thought was real, he leaves. Dejected, his feet hit the streets. He walks forward to a new day…

Til the Song Ends

Posted: January 27, 2015 in Short Stories
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I uh…man, I have no idea where this came from. Suffice it to say, I was having a bad day and this is what spilled out of my head. Thought I’d share though so…yeah…rock out.

He sits in blackness. Black jeans, black tee, his standard wardrobe. Everything about him was black and he enjoyed that. Not even the moonlight is allowed in. Head nodding ever so slightly to a song playing in the background. Memories collide in his mind as he tries to decipher how he got here. The good, the bad and the ugly. The things people know and the demons he keeps to himself. The promises made that he’s about to break. He begins to sing along slightly under his breath. Not that there was anyone there to hear him. He stands, foot tapping, hands drumming on his legs. His spirits seem lifted. Even a faint smile graced his lips, but none of it was real. His tears told the truth. They slowly trailed from his eyes across his smile, one caught between his clapping hands and one landing on his tapping foot. And with the final chorus of the song, he sang with all he was worth. Off key, out of tune, out of breath, he sang as the tears flowed but the smile never left his face. When the song ended and he was in the unbearable silence, he stepped forward off the chair in which he stood. The noose around his neck snapped tight as he swung back and knocked the chair to the ground. He died in the silence as he had many times before in his mind. The memories, with no one left to keep them, faded. The good, the bad and the ugly. The things people knew and the demons he kept to himself. The promises made that he had now broken. And his head still nodded ever so slightly as he swung…until his song ended.

Music of the Mind

Posted: January 24, 2015 in Personal, Short Stories
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Not really sure if this counts as a story. Actually, I’m 100% sure it doesn’t, but it’s my blog and I’ll do what I wanna. Big whoop wanna fight about it?

Such a combination of sounds in my head. All with their own meaning and references, each just as important as the others. The sounds are my signs of life. They can be drowned out from time to time when I try to numb myself, but the music never stops.
I can hear the hip-hop and it makes me think of home. Streets I’m so separated from and people I can barely keep in touch with. A place I love so much, but can never see myself again. All the stories intertwined with my own thoughts of each situation filling the hook. The bass thumping like nikes and tims on the block. I know it so well, but I can barely hear it now.
I can hear the rock and it personifies me. My deepest thoughts and fears in guitar riffs and screams. Self examination for me is as difficult to ignore as that bass line but hard for anyone else to notice. Those cymbals crashing…I hear them. I hear them every time I have to face a realization about myself or my life that I drowned out by turning the volume up.
I can hear the R&B and it is everything I imagined love to be and everything heartbreak is. The harmonies, the melodies…they understand the feelings in my heart even if I can’t fully comprehend them. They reassure me that I’m not the only one whose heart beats in pursuit of that love. Lyrics of others who have chased and been chased, gained and lost, found love eternal and been broken forever remind me that I’m not crazy for knowing both sides of the coin of one of the world’s strongest forces.
I even hear that J-pop and oddly enough, it reminds me of the world outside of myself. Not just the people around the corner, but those around the world who feel how I feel about these sounds. The people whose only escape is music from a multitude of situations that my self loathing pales in comparison to. The unspoken unity humanity can have through music can be almost overwhelming when you actually think about it, but it can also be quite the comfort. Knowing that regardless of the language, the music is still relatable proves that, physical and locational differences aside, we’re all basically going through the same things.
And all this music plays in my mind until it doesn’t….and when it doesn’t….

Purity

Posted: January 23, 2015 in Short Stories
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The blue moonlight provides the only light in the dark night. A gentle breeze, the only movement. As if grown among the grass and trees, two warriors stand at opposite ends of the forest, ever still. The warrior in black, kimono tucked tightly into his hakama, matched the dense darkness save the blood orange sun pattern on his back. The warrior in crimson, his custom gakuran (high school uniform) accentuated by the same blood orange symbol on his back, was almost as inconspicuous in the stillness. Their minds conference with their hearts to rationalize what they must do. Only one can see the next sunrise. However, despite their murderous intent, there is no malice here. Their souls are as pure as the light that barely pierces the darkness of the trees.They are only here to do what must be done.

And so they charge. Racing through the trees with blades drawn ready to cut a path to destiny. The black warrior with his sword held high leads with his left foot, his Hidari Jodan no Kamae. The crimson swordsman leads with is right and his blade low, his Migi Gedan no Kamae. Years of training, the preparation for this single moment, etched into their very muscles. Through sound and much less sight, they track each other, noticing every blade of grass bend under foot, every flap of clothing in the air and even the sound of the breeze bending around their moving forms in the dark. Until they reach the light of the moon. A single clearing left unshadowed as if the universe created this arena for them.

Without hesitation, their swords clash for the first time. As their opposite styles finally collide, a dazzling light show takes place as sparks fly. They acknowledge the fire and sadness in each other’s eyes for but a moment, then continue to attack. A symphony plays to a disinterested audience of flora and fauna as steel clangs, cuts, swipes and slashes through the air, skin and clothes. A ballet takes place as their footwork, learned through decades of discipline, makes the two warriors appear to glide above the forest floor as if on ice. No man will ever know their efforts and no man ever need know but them. There is not a trick used between the two. Nothing more than the skills their training has granted them. There is nothing here but a difference in the placement of a foot and the height of ones blade. No fame to be won, no woman waiting at home, no cash prize to claim. In this clearing within this moonlit arena, there is only the pureness of form and disciple.

And just as quickly as it began, their show ended. A curtain called after a single misstep made on the stage. The samurai in black won the most bitter of triumphs. And with that, the victor kneeled to hear the final words of the fallen: my brother, the clan is yours and I couldn’t be more proud.