Boot Camp *Scene 1*

I apologize, but without reading Chapter 1, there will be a few areas in this scene where you will feel lost. So when you get to a part that makes you go "HUUUUUUUUUUHHHHHH?" just ignore it. :)
This is Chapter 2, Scene 1 from my Short Story collection titled 'The Airman Who Couldn't Fly'. So up to this point, I have just arrived at Lackland for the first night, after quick shipping into the USAF. I was supposed to go to the Navy, but had a last minute change of... Heart. I hope you enjoy, and please leave feedback.





          “Drop your bags trainees!!!!!!” a deafening voice shouted. It was a group of guys all dressed in what I thought were Army camouflage with huge outlandish looking hats. For a split second I thought the recruiter pulled a fast one and was at the wrong boot camp. We were all tired from the flight over, which was the first time I’ve ever been on an airplane in my life. It was a weird but thrilling experience. I never realized how fast the planes have to go just to take off, and the feeling of knowing, from this altitude, surviving a crash was unthinkable. Of course I had a window seat with the tranquil view of being inside a cloud.

            We were now in San Antonio, Texas, the last place I imagined that I would end up. The Navy’s boot camp was somewhere near Chicago, and for some reason I figured that all branches were in the exact area; or maybe I wasn’t thinking at all. Everything just seemed to be happening so fast, and whenever I found a second to stop and take some of the reality in, it felt surreal. So much had changed in the last few hours of my life, and now I was standing under a hangar in Texas with 29 other lost souls. A lot of the guys had multiple bags and I immediately felt bad for their arms. Our first tasks were to pick up our bags, drop them, pick them back up, drop them, and repeat steps 1-2. I was circumstantially prepared for this with my singled bag that weighed merely 10lbs, but most guys around me were breaking out in sweats chugging their jam-packed duffle bags over their shoulders.

            Finally we were escorted inside an auditorium with no chairs and instructed to wait. I was dead tired, since I didn’t get any sleep on the flight over; I was too busy taking it all in. I smoked my last cigarette outside of the airport before the 30 minute bus ride over, and I was already itching for another one. At this point I realized how lost I actually was. I had no idea what to expect out of Air Force boot camp; I didn’t even know how long it lasted. What happens if I fail? What happens if I pass? Hopefully my internal questions would be answered here shortly, but for the time being I decided to catch a nap.

            Voices collaged around me as I rested my head on my single bag. Some people were standing in corners, but the majority of us were scattered across the floor. It felt like hours passed and I knew it had to be at least midnight. I was trying to go to sleep but thoughts as well as outside conversations kept me conscious. Earlier two of the instructors came in and pointed at me while mumbling between each other. Initially I thought that maybe Officer Miller had found me and was reneging on our/his verbal deal. I quickly shook that idea out of my head, but I still had no clue what they were saying about me. After about a minute of low chatter and head nods, they vanished down the hallway. I knew that I had not messed up already, but maybe it was my bags or lack of. Voices continued to surround me as I stared at the back of my eyelids.

            “Where is he?”

             So if I do graduate where will I go next? I’ve never seen an Air Force base, but I knew there was an Army post in Fayetteville, N.C. What if I got stationed near home? How would I explain everything that has happened to my old peers, and worst of all Miller.

             “Make a hole, let us through.”

              I wonder what my Mom will say when I call her and tell her that I’m in Texas in Air Force boot camp. She’ll probably faint. My Mother was against me joining the military, especially after 9/11. She expressed how she didn’t want me dying in a white man’s war. But I’m sure she’d rather me risk my life trying to better myself, than dying pointlessly in the streets.

              “I said move out of my way Trainee.”

               My eyes were still closed as I lay on my half full bag thinking of the pride I could potentially bring my Mother. In the background I could still hear an aggravated voice and it was getting closer to my position. A slight kick to my shoe interrupted my day dream.

            “Boy you better have slipped yourself into a coma or worse to be laying there ignoring me!” I heard this statement, and I knew exactly what was going on, but I prayed that the instructor was talking to the guy next to me. I peaked to get confirmation and almost jumped out of my skin. There were now three instructors standing over me, two with their arms crossed and one leaning down inches from my face.

            “Ohhhhhhh welcome back to Earth Neil Armstrong, did you find freaking water on Mars!?” The clean shaved white figure said to me. Surely I wasn’t in trouble for sleeping; half of the people around had been dozing off.

            “Get up!” The figure of authority shouted as he stepped back with the two other instructors. I knew I had to obey orders if I planned on staying here, so I began to gather my things and stood up. I didn’t know what position I was suppose to stand in, so I just held my bag in my left hand and kept my free hand to my side. I thought I did well.

            “Too slow… Do it again.” The middleman said. All three had their arms crossed now as they stared through me.

            “Do what again?” I asked ignorantly, and instantly all three instructors were in my face.

            “Do what again Sir!” The lead man shouted. I wasn’t sure if I heard him correctly, so I replied stupidly once again.

            “Huuuuuuuuuh?” I asked with a confused face. Before I could get my fifth ‘U’ out the instructor standing to the right of me stepped even closer with demonic eyes.

            “Boy I don’t know if you are really that dumb or if you’re just messing with us, but either option, you better smarten up real quick!” I decided not to respond this time and just make what I felt was respectful eye contact. This time the instructor on my far left dashed about an inch from my lips.

            “Are you sizing up my colleague? Please tell me that you’re not! If you have something on your chest then now is the time to get it out! If not then you will respond from now on with Sir!” I remained quiet and now focused my eyes on him. Following the suit of the yelling pattern, the lead instructor was now in my face.

            “I said… get down… and do it again!” He spat. I responded with a low “Yes Sir” and got down on my stomach.

            “You weren’t on your belly when we came in were you? Lay on your back like you were. Go ahead and cross your pretty little legs and relax like you were.” The lead said. I did as I was told and laid on my back; I wasn’t sure if my legs were even crossed when they came in but I did it anyways. I knew I wasn’t in any position to debate with these guys.

            “Now get up.” I glanced around and all of the other trainees were now staring at me. Again I did as I was told and stood to my feet.

            “Not quick enough do it again.” At this point I chuckled, and that was the worst thing I could possibly do in this situation.

            “OH MY FREAKING GOD! He thinks this is all a joke!” The lead said. As he stepped closer I was already on my way back down to repeat the previous order but I tripped over his boot and fell flat on my bag. I expected to hear a roar of laughter from the bystanders but everyone was too afraid to laugh; maybe I was the only idiot in the group. When I opened my eyes I saw the lead instructor within kissing distance of my face.        

            “Look here trainee, I want you to listen and listen closely. You are now staring at gates, now whether they are gates to the Air Force, or gates to Hell, that is all up to your actions. I suggest you learn where you’re at and adjust your attitude accordingly.” He said as he and his team began to walk off. He suddenly turned around and yelled to me.

            “Oh and by the way, you’re now the Dorm Chief. Congratulations…” He said with an evil smile. My head was still hurting along with my pride, but I still pulled myself up into an upright position. The only question in my mind at the moment was “What is a Dorm Chief?” Surely it could not be anything good from my recent performance.

~Thin Air~

Long time no write... Yes I know. But I'm back with something very near and dear to my heart. This following entry is a true story, though after you read it you will become skeptical. I don't expect you to believe it, but it happened to me. I've tried to tell this story to people over the years and I always recieved the same response "Yea Right!!!" But honestly I can't ask you to believe it, because I barely believe it myself. Ladies and Gentlemen... Thin Air

~Thin Air~



     At age twelve growing up in North Carolina, the highlight of life for a preteen was going to the local mall on Saturday evenings. It was something about roaming around parentless with a week's worth of allowance tickling your velcro wallet that was liberating. The walkways were flooded with teens shopping on Saturday for an outfit to wear next Saturday. The mall was our fashion show, and the crowded walkways were the legendary red carpet. Anybody who was somebody was there on Saturday chasing girls/boys, being a pest in the arcade, window shopping, or being chased out of the smoking area by overweight security guards. I loved being on the scene, so naturally I was highly irritated if something stood in the way of me making my red carpet appearance.

        My mom owned a church in a small ghost town where she grew up; well I guess God owned it, but my mother founded it. Every Saturday morning she would drag me and whoever else she could catch off guard down to the church to help clean up and prepare for the following Sunday service. I hated this... Not only was I losing a Sunday out of my hectic preteen schedule, but I was missing Saturday morning cartoons and sometimes being late for my cameo at the hotspot mall. I despised cleaning up the church and it showed all over my face as I slacked in my assigned tasks and often wandered off with my arms crossed.

        The church was located down a dirt road filled with pot holes and road kill rodents who were lucky enough to make it out of this hellhole. The lot was surrounded by cornfields and acres of trees that seemed to swallow me in every time I came here. There was only one neighbor in site; a small rusty trailer with a yard full of junk cars and toddler toys in worse shape than the vehicles. The porch of this house was supported by a single beam that seemed as if a butterfly landed on it too aggressively the entire foundation would cave in. The sight of this gloomy residence made my time at the church even less pleasant.

        One day as I was walking around the church in a spunk avoiding my mother's labor, I noticed a kid sitting on the decrepit porch of the Scooby Doo house I hated looking at. I hated looking at that place and from what I could see the kid resembled the tree he fell from. But I was bored so I went over and befriended the guy, and it turned out to be the best thing that could possibly happen in this dreadful situation. We spent hours wandering off into the fields playing hide and seek, tag, or just exploring the jungle of corn. During hide and seek I could never find him as quick as I wanted to, but right when I was about to give up, or felt that I was lost and alone, it seemed as if he found me.

        This particular Saturday we were sitting on the side of the ditch near the church, just chit chatting while tossing rocks across the road. I wasn't in the best of moods because I knew this would be one of the long Saturdays causing me to be late to the mall. I expressed my anger and hatred for being at the church instead of with my friends getting dressed for the mall. I even mentioned my lack of belief in God and how I felt that church was a waste of time and a scam to con simple minds out of money. I didn't realize what I was saying but when I glanced over at him I knew that I had struck a nerve. I was ashamed of myself. Here I was complaining about being here and how I would rather be with my friends, while probably one of my truest friends took these insensitive words to the gut. I was talking like this place was a punishment to me, and he was just a cellmate helping time pass; but to him, these moments of bonding, with who he viewed as a friend, were probably the highlight of his week.

     I felt terrible as I stared at him debating on whether I should apologize or just change the subject. He was sitting with his legs crossed and his head down while plucking individual weeds from their roots. I needed to say something to resolve this situation or bypass it, and I needed that solution fast. As I was trying to muster words to say like a politician who had just slipped out a racial slur live, He started to smile. I couldn't see his face entirely but I saw the corners of his mouth. I didn't know if that was a good smile or an evil one that usually lead to an assault, but I couldn't risk losing my only friend in this desolate neighborhood.

        "I'm sorry, that came out wrong." I said as I leaned over and playfully nudged him in the arm. His mood didn't change, he just sat there smiling. I was out of ideas so I sat in silence staring at the ground.

        "Do you really feel like that?" He finally said. I couldn't even look over at him; I was so embarrassed.

        "Man I was talking crazy. Don't take it personally, I wasn't referring to you." I said while pulling my own pasture of weeds out of the ground.

        "I mean about God... You really don't think he exists, do you?" He said catching me off guard. I was relieved he wasn't discussing the initial topic so I loosened up.

        "I just find it hard to believe in something I can't see." I said giving some cliché line I stole from a movie. The truth was, I didn't know if I believed in God or not. I knew that I should believe in him, because my family has preached, literally, it to me for years. But personally I didn't know what to believe. I was just out of touch with religion.

        "He's closer than you think..." I heard him whisper. I looked over at him and he was standing up in the middle of the road. If this was a city I would think he was suicidal and trying to get hit by a car, but since we were out in the middle of nowhere I didn't know what he was up to.

        "Watch this." He said as he lifted his arms up. I started to smile thinking this was his way of cheering me up with his humor. I had no idea where this show was going but I sat back and watched him.

        He just stood there with his arms stretched out and his head tilted back staring into the clouds. I was ready for him to start dancing or something amusing but a gust of wind interrupted me from relaxing. It turned out to be more than just a little breeze. Suddenly it felt like a hurricane was hitting and dust from the dirt road as well as pebbles were flying up and hitting me in the face. I tried to warn him that a hurricane was coming but I could barely hear myself out of all the chaos. It was impossible to see anything through this madness so I just got low and covered my head like they taught us in school during a tornado drill. I didn't know where he was or if he made it to safety, but I was too afraid to move so I remained still. After about five minutes the wind stopped and I finally peeked up. He was gone. There wasn't a sign of him or even evidence that a hurricane had even come. I stood up quickly and looked around thinking he had run off as a joke. I walked back towards the church and his house, but I couldn't find him. By the time I got back to the church my mother was walking out and it was time to go. I was so excited that the day had flown by so quickly that I forgot all about my lost friend.

        The following weekend I reported for Saturday clean up duty with a look of disgust. I felt like a Hollywood diva sentenced to community service over a DUI, and I felt mentally hung over. After minutes of being on station I realized that my country buddy hadn't come knocking on the church door to retrieve me, or bust me out of the slammer as I pictured it. I was expecting him to have a concrete smile over that little disappearing act he pulled that perfectly timed into a dust storm, but he never came. I kept glancing out of the window as I pretended to sweep but I couldn't get a full view of his house.

     Finally I built up enough nerve; I went outside towards that shipwreck of a porch I hated seeing. Even stepping into the yard I expected a junk yard dog to chase me off the property. I took ginger steps testing if the porch could support my weight and eventually made it to the door. The front entrance was wide open only protected by a flimsy screen door that seemed to be hanging on by the support of a spider web. I spent close to a full minute trying to discover a doorbell, but of course the architect of this masterpiece didn't include such an urbanized accessory. As I was trying to convince myself to knock a heavy set woman appeared before me emerging from the shadows of the poorly lit home. She looked rough and her dress, which I was sure was an undergarment, was showing every mile of her stretch marked cleavage. This was probably the first time I've ever stared at breast in a night gown with a look of repugnance. I straightened my face up and initiated conversation since it was evident that she wasn't going to speak first. Her eyes burned through me and I could tell she was expecting me to be on a Holy mission trying to recruit her membership for our church.

     "Hello, I'm Reggie, I usually hangout with your son. My mom owns the church next door." I said in my most polite voice. She just stared at me with those distrustful eyes and her hand propped on her hip.

     "You hang out with my son huh?" she responded sarcastically.

     "Yes Ma'am his name is... J I believe." I felt dumb that I didn't know his full name, and the fact that I only knew a common initial wasn't helping my case here. She continued to look at me with a straight face. I knew she was trying to read my true intentions.

        "Look son, I really dunno what you think you are up to, but all my kids are grown. So I highly doubt you played with any of them. As far as this so called 'J' you're talking about, he doesn't live here." She said with her serious voice I suppose. I was confused. I knew that J came from this house. I remember it vividly.

        "Maybe he was your grandson." I ignorantly replied. I could tell by her eyes that she didn't take this response too well.

        "You have a blessed day." She said as she slammed the decrepit door in my face. It felt as if the porch was going to cave in.

        I hastily made my way back to the church property. My mind was asking itself a thousand questions a second. Who was this guy that I played with? There are no other houses for miles so he had to have lived next door. I finally came to the conclusion that maybe he had got in trouble during the week and was on punishment. But why would his mother make up such a lie?

        When I walked into the church my mom was mopping the entrance. She glanced up at me and instantly could tell something was wrong.

        "Is everything ok honey?" She asked in her motherly voice. I didn't want to tell what just happened, because honestly I had no idea what just happened. The puzzled look on my face must have confused even her.

        "Did you hurt yourself playing in those fields alone again...?" She asked. Her words sent chills through my ribcage. Alone?

        "Hey Mom, That kid that I always play with outside... Do you know where he lives?" I asked while tip toeing over the wet floor. She stopped and rested her chin on the mop handle.

        "What kid? I always saw you out there playing by yourself." She said and continued to mop. I felt a wave of nausea sweep across my body. I began getting dizzy so I made my way towards a pew. As I collapsed on the hardened surface it all started to make sense to me, but at the same time it didn't. I had flashbacks of that awkward moment we spent just before the dust storm. The words "He's closer than you think" echoed through my skull.  Was I going crazy and creating an imaginary friend? Would I turn out like Tom Hanks in 'Cast Away' yelling to a volleyball? Was this church causing me to lose my mind, or did I really just witness God in the human form?

     I smile whenever I think of that encounter now; though at first I was buried in endless questions and a naïve disbelief that the event ever happened. I tried to tell a few of my friends about it but of course they laughed and viewed it as a joke. How could I convince someone to believe that I met God when I wasn't sure of it myself? Sometimes I would catch myself sitting on the church lawn during Saturday clean up, or staring out of the window during Sunday service looking for my friend to walk by. I just need a glimpse to confirm that I wasn't crazy. I never saw him again. But whenever I found myself lost in life's cornfields, I could feel J's presence... disguised in Thin Air...

Failure

Sorry for not posting anything lately, but I've been in a lil mood... Well I won't sugar coat it, I've been pissed! For the last past year I've been praying for something, and it didn't happen... Not slightly, not kind of, not at all. The fact that I tried harder than ever, and got poorer results than ever, baffles me. So who do I blame? Who do I target my anger towards? The system? No... Myself? Well no, because I tried my best. So who? I looked around the room chose the 1 person that wasn't present... I blamed God.
So there I was, a grown ass man pouting, and throwing temper tantrums at the almighty like he was a step dad. I was extremely pissed, and I still haven't completely gotten over it. I'm slowly accepting it, but Im not over it. They say evything happens for a reason, but I can't figure out the method in this madness. What good can come of this. It has even troubled my writing. I feel myself giving up on everything. When I heard the news I sat in my car with my pistol and consider cntrl alt delete. But I even failed at that. Hopefully my next post will be more colorful...

My New Girlfriend

I wrote this poem back in 08... It's kind of rusty, well ironically I wrote it in a gunners seat downtown Afghanistan. But besides the few spots where I would've used better words, I like the Idea and the concept. So I decided to post it. I found it in a notebook cleaning up my living room. Enjoy...

My New Girlfriend

I met this girl in the store, she was 5 Star quality/

Kind of stuck up at first, when i passed she barely acknowledged me/

She didn't move at all, but it felt like she followed me/

She was kind of rough around the edges, stuck in a Bind probably/

I wanted to mess with her mind possibly, get her to be mines, I believed./

She was some type of Odyssey, but her friends were top shelf, and that kind of startled me/

I didn't let that bother me, I approached her real moderately/

I didn't even say a word, I just picked her up like property/

I was kind of shocked when she accompanied me to the register/

She fit so good in my hand, I could feel the connect with her/

I took her back to my room, but I wasn't trying to get the best of her/

I'm lying, I was trying to get next to her, but not in the sense of having sex with her/

Shit happens, but didn't shit happen to regret/

It's bad, but we made love the first night that we met/

I mean, when i opened her up it was like I was doping her up/

She was kind of dry on the inside, but got damp when I was stroking her rough/

I'm not joking or bluff, but I had my mind caught in it/

She said she liked it when touched her, and put a lil thought in it/

Whenever I'm having a problem, or just having a bad day/

She sit right in my lap, and listen to what I have to say/

I told her my life story, and she never judged me on those times/

and whenever something is wrong with her I can read between the lines/

I don't even know if we are the same age, but we mentally on the same stage/

No matter the topic of discussion, we're always on the same page/

It's like over 5 subjects, she carry a lot of things/

I tease her and call her Ghetto, cause 'She Be' wearing a lot of rings/

It's like I'm writing poetry when I'm inside her covers/

I lover her, I trust her, but my penmanship is sloppy without rubbers/

It feels so right when I'm in her, my brain change up/

She got mad cause last time I was in her... My Ex's name came up/

But she cool with it, cause I told her the situation/

When I need to vent, her visitation is perfect participation/

She's kind of square headed, Her size is 10 by 8 to amount/

My Ex looks waaaaaay better... But it's the inside that counts/

I just love it when we're merging, I couldn't give a fuck if the world end/

I bought myself a NOTEBOOK, That's my New Girlfriend.../

20/20 Love

       So writersdigest is back up and running with a new contest. This one is a Photo Prompt Competition. If you're not familiar with that, it's when they post a pic and you write about it. This particular contest, you had to write the first 25 words as if the picture was a novel. I was so excited when I came up with my idea and counted it out to exactly 25 words. :) So here it is...

20/20 Love

I know love is blind, but in my mind I wish I could rewind the
time to when I could visually read the 11th line.

Airmen Leadership School

     First off, I know that I have been a horrible Blogger lately. I just took sometime time off to figure some things out. I've made some big changes in my life, but I won't mention them here until I'm a 100% sure. I just hate getting my hopes up. Anyways, this next post is my first article to be published. This isn't the published version of course, that comes out next week, but this is what I consider "The Words That Changed My Life." I hope you enjoy, even though this is focused on a Military event, I hope everyone can take something from it. Just to translate what this article is about for my civilian readers, ALS is a training course in the military that you must go through before you become a Sergeant, or a supervisor. So here we go, I love this piece, and honestly I read it everyday and just awe at it. Not so much the writing, but the memories that it jog.

                                         Airmen Leadership School

    

           We were lined up against the wall of a narrow hallway, resembling day one of basic training. The fact that two guys down from where I stood was an airman that I went through basic training with confirmed my suspicion.  I was expecting a flock of MTI’s to come running down the hall with their vocal cords blaring like Civil War piccolos at any moment. Flashbacks of “Drop your bags trainees!” haunted me as I saw three instructors making their way towards me. I was preparing myself to be ‘Re-Blued’, my eyes envisioned war faces, my ears anticipated verbal onslaughts of military motivation, my knees were showing early signs of buckling, but I was wrong. There before me stood a well groomed, perfect uniform technical sergeant with embracing eyes. His first words were “Nice to meet you Sir. How are you feeling this morning?” I was caught off guard. I opened my mouth but my brain could not select words to transmit. This was the complete opposite of what I’ve spent the previous few days dreading. ‘Sir’? I would have never guessed such a professional greeting, but this was the womb of professionals. I soon realized that this place wasn’t intended to break you down, but in fact to build you up.

We were split into two flights and I was officially a Titan. Our instructor was TSgt. Cook, the same gently voiced Instructor that stunned me with the address of Sir. All 15 of us sat behind a ‘U’ shaped table with a binder in front of us that made the bible look like a pamphlet. I soon realized why the fail rate of ALS was so high when TSgt. Cook went over the rules and standards that we all must abide by: No Profanity, No Smoking, No Tardiness, and No Unprofessional Jokes. These rules may seem that they should the standard everywhere, but hearing them placed out like land mines of instant failure made the punch more severe. If you had a dirty uniform, strings on your chevron, scuffed boots, not groomed, personal hygiene issues, late homework, unfinished projects, or didn’t read the next day’s lesson, all resulted in paperwork and the possibility of being released back to your squadron. I was already limping on my last leg with my leadership, so I knew there was no way I could get kicked out of ALS and still have a career. So I focused, we all did. I wrote down everything our instructor said, even the jokes. I had sticky notes soaked with more ink than Californian tattoo artists. I also took the liberty of buying a weatherproof memo pad, just in case I wasted coffee on my notes. You had to be extremely careful in this place, and my toes were in screaming agony from tip toeing so gingerly. I knew that one wrong move, one wrong comment, or one unorganized morning of not being 100% prepared would result in my early termination from ALS. My short term goal was to at least last a week, and for a week I said nothing from fear of an accidental curse word. I quit smoking, even on the weekends, out of fear that an instructor would pass by my garage and serve me with walking papers. I was extremely paranoid… and it worked.

The homework capacity was unmerciful. There were Navy SEALS in Hell Week who were acquiring more sleep than we were. There were nights where I had to write speech outlines, the speech itself, create a power point presentation to go along with the speech, memorandums, and still read up on the next day’s lesson. I spent countless hours going over my briefings and practicing in front of my wife, while employing her to count my amount of “Um’s and Uh’s”, but it worked. I went from having cold chills about public speaking to actually being ecstatic the night before. So even after working overtime on weeding out my verbal pauses that stood out like spring dandelions, I still could not sleep due to mere excitement. PT was conducted every day with the caliber of sessions that would’ve sent SrA Chuck Norris back to his squadron. My body was pushed to limits that I never knew existed. I sweated enough fluids to nourish the Sahara Desert. But somehow I made it through; we all made it through. Drill Practice was an instant flashback. I found myself standing in formation thinking of home, the same thoughts that flooded my head five years prior on Lackland AFB. I was awfully nervous on making a wrong turn, or missing a step. The butterflies in my stomach became airborne and made me nauseous; we all were, and it showed during our early practice sessions. Still, years later there were Airmen turning Right on Left Flank calls and I was one of them, marching away into the horizon lost in the thoughts that haunted me. But somehow we all got it together. We helped each other in our weak points, and gracefully we all passed.

The morning of every test, whether formative or summative, the same vibe fogged the room. The fact that a few missed questions could cancel out everything that you’ve done so far was overwhelming. Coffee cups were in front of everyone, pumping enough steam to create a sauna, because if you fell asleep during an exam that was an instant ticket home. That would be embarrassing to have to return back to your shop because you were caught counting Serta sheep; even though you just pulled an all nighter studying for this exam. Cell phones were stacked outside the door because if your phone rung, buzzed, or even emitted a light too loud during an exam you might as well stand up and click your heels. I was still paranoid, even though I surpassed my self-expectation by lasting more than a week. I was in the last week, on the final exam, and there was no way I was going to let my cell phone send me home over a Facebook notification. I took extra precautions when I set my phone outside the door. I set it on silent, shut it off, removed the battery, and even considered calling into Verizon to cancel my contract. There was no way I was going home this late in the course.

TSgt. Cook walked into the room after our final examination with a look of disappointment written all over his face like a drunken guy who passed out at a Frat party. I knew what this look meant and I started packing my bags. I tried… and for that simple fact, I was proud. I was gleeful that I even made it to the last week, but all dreams end when reality sets in. I knew that I had failed, and I just wanted to run to my car to avoid the shame. “You all PASSED!” TSgt. Cook announced, and it felt like he declared that the war had ended. I almost fainted if it wasn’t for the two gallons of coffee I had previously consumed. All of my paranoia paid off. I walked across that graduation stage and felt a level of pride that I would’ve never imagined; words cannot express the nature of emotions that soared through my body. My heartbeat was thumping through my blues shirt against the pins on my ribbon rack. From my facial expression you would’ve thought that I was being honored with the Air Force Cross as I accepted the ALS certificate. I realized that ALS doesn’t make these awful leaders that I have run across in my career. I used to think that all Staff Sergeants were brainwashed in ALS with the main objective to destroy Airmen. But now I see that ALS doesn’t make leaders, it only gives you the tools to become one. Now if you choose to use these tools is a personal choice. My experience in ALS was life changing, and provided me with a new outlook on the military. I was surrounded by great airmen as well as dedicated instructors who pushed me to not give up, and to stop setting such low goals for myself; raising the bar was the motto. I limbo’d my way into Airman Leadership School, and I did a Chin up on my way out. Thanks to the Airmen who believed in me, and the instructors who motivated me to believe in myself. 

More Than Black

More Than Black

   

 There’s more to life than being black… I hope that my bluntness doesn’t offend you, or maybe I do... Don’t read this from the wrong angle, and start thinking that I’m ashamed of my people. I am very proud to be black, but being black doesn’t define me. I live my life external to the stereotypes. We as black people are so offended by being categorized by others, but we are the ones setting the boundaries. It’s sort of like our lax use of the ‘N’ word. We’d burn this city down if any other race calls us an ‘N’, but we classify each other with that very term. It’s the same concept, we are setting our own limits, and we are closing our minds from exploring everything that the world has to offer. We have shut out the world and restricted ourselves to just being hood… It’s not the white man who’s holding you back; it’s your main man.                

       People have told me my whole life that I was tall for nothing, just because I don’t play basketball. Of course I’m offended, just being tall doesn’t commit me to just playing basketball. What if I wanted to play volleyball? That’s a sport that requires height; would that be hood of me? Of course not! My peers would stone me if they found out I was playing such an un-black sport. When I was little I just wanted to run through the woods, and pretend to be a ninja, and race mountain bikes… Was that black of me? Not according to my friends. Who knows what I could’ve developed my skills into, maybe an explorer… but Explorers aren’t cool unless they are sitting on 24”s.               

       When I got my first car I put a loud muffler on it, neon lights, and all types of racing parts. But was that cool? Was that black? Nope! I was told that I needed to have an old school sitting on dunks. Now don’t get me wrong, I like looking at old school classics on rims, but I don’t want one. I like to go fast, and 30” rims may pose as a problem. Who are we to point at each other and say you aren’t black enough? What defines black? I’ll help you out if you don’t know the answer. From what I’ve been told, and scrutinized for not having or doing, you’re not black unless you buy every pair of Jordans that are released. Pretty much, that’s step one. Now I’m already disqualified, because skating shoes feel so lovely on my awkward made feet.                

       I don’t want to sound like an Uncle Tom, Heaven's No! I’m just stating the facts… There’s more to life than being black. Don’t let being black stop you from exploring life. Don’t let people tell you what you should be doing or should not be doing just because of your skin color. BMX and Skate Boarding are for white boys… But that’s some fun shit. I’ve been snowboarding and had the time of my life, camping as well. Now if that happiness that I experienced is subject to be ridiculed by my peers, then I am more of an outcast than the world predicted.

Father's Day

Father's Day

    


     I can't tell you my father's birthday, his favorite color, food, saying, or anything personal about him... honestly I just don't know. With that sentence alone, you're probably thinking that I've never known my dad... I haven't. Not that he left my Mom and abandoned us, He just wasn't there mentally. He wasn't crazy, he just didn't speak much, he didn't share how he felt, So he wasn't there Emotionally there either. He sat on his love seat and watched News, and Drag Racing all day. I can count on one thumb the amount of conversations that we had...Sad.
     I used to think that my Father hated me. My theory was, that since the death of his first son, and the unexpected birth of me, he just lost interest. I thought that he didn't want to share with me, or get close to me, because he had recently had his heartbroken by the death of my brother. But I wasn't the only victim, he also shut out my mother, and when I asked her questions, I felt as if she felt the same as I did... Emotionally abandoned.
     My Father did try sometimes to connect me, I must admit. He showed interest in me playing basketball. He expressed how he wanted me to go to the NBA and make him rich. My dad wanted a Corvette his whole life, that's about all I know about the Ol Man. But I failed him, I had no interest in basketball... none at all. I tried to fake it, just to have some kind of bond with my Father. But I couldn't fake it for long. As soon as I got kicked off the team, our relationship went back to the silent cluster that it was before. I gave up trying to get to know my Father, and he gave up trying to share.
     Now I'm not here to bash my Father as if he was such a terrible Father, because we had some special times. He used to take me with him to the Drag Racing track, and I remember vividly the excitement I experienced there. He would cover my young ears when the cars would come screaming by our section. He used to bring my nephew and I hotdogs home during the summer, while my mother was at work. We would be starving in that boring house, but it seems he would always come to our rescue. My father taught me how to sand a car, and gave me my only lesson that I remember him saying. I used to hate sanding cars sometimes, because it would interfere with my busy day of running around the neighborhood and NOT playing basketball, but Ol Dad would make me sand cars with him... Maybe that was him trying to bond with me... but he would always say, "Take pride in everything you do, no matter how much you may hate doing it."
     The first time that I told my Father that I Loved Him, was on his death bed. I can still remember how I felt starring at my dad hooked to that machine and the life draining out of him. I thought about all the things we never did together. He would never see my kids... or see me become a Man... if that ever happened. But I cried that day, just looking at my Father, thinking about all the time we wasted... Two Stubborn Men...
    But Dear Ol Dad... I Love You. I hope you and my brother are looking down on me smiling. Even though I never made it to the NBA, I hope that you are proud of your son... HAPPY FATHER's DAY

Quality not Quanity

So after reflecting on my recent posts, I've decided that I have made a common error among writers. I became so caught up with Quanity that I neglected Quality. Sure I could post a new story everyday, but would they be worth reading? I doubt it. Just take a look at my previous entry. It was a great idea, but I failed to take the time to make it worthy. I just thought of it, wrote it once, and posted it. That's unacceptable... I apologize sincerely. Let's be honest, that ending was predictable, weak, and just plain out Wack. Wigidy wigidy Wack! The sad part is that I knew it was Wack when I wrote it, but I was so caught up in posting a story a day that I just posted it. I had it backwards, Quanity not Quality.
It's kind of like if your favorite musician made an album every month. Sure, we all wish that was possible, but would the quality of that monthly album be as good a well crafted yearly album. I just need to sit back and get refocused and not force things. I refuse to post mix tape quality stories, so I will focus on the big picture, the album... Well the story.
I don't have any ideas spinning, but something will come up. I just have to live life and wait for inspiration. I can't force this. But you can still stop by the blog and see how I'm doing. I will still post something daily, whether it be a link to something that moves me, book reviews, or just me rambling about nothing... Sort of like this. Thanks for your time, and patience. -Niles

Heartbreak Hotel

     Since this post is so long, I wont bore you with a long introduction. Basically, I thought of this idea a couple days ago, so today I finally made time to write this. It's kind of weird, and needs minor work, but this is just the roughdraft. I hope you enjoy, and feel free to leave me some feedback.

Heartbreak Hotel

    My check-in was uncomfortable, because I have a lot of baggage with me. Suitcases filled with memories and small objects that jog colossal collages of reminiscence. I really wish that I was back home in my bed, our bed, clicking off switches on lamps that that illuminated magic rooms. Now I was standing here in this reception. Not the reception that I thought our relationship would trigger. I was thinking marriage, but I guess my excess baggage was too much for her handle. So instead of soulful singing and champagne bottles setting off like fireworks, I was being greeted by a different kind of receptionist.

     She looked at me with comforting eyes from across the counter, while twirling a pen in her hand. I can tell that she hated her job, but it would suffice until she found something better… but hey, isn’t that why we all were here? The lounge was filled with cheap women selling their soul, pride, and body for any means of currency, from money, jewels, or simply… time. Short skirts and cleavage displaying tops were worn by these lost females in attempts to attract a male to take them away from this hotel. You can never advertise lust in hopes of a receipt certifying love. I glanced at these pathetic women briefly, pitying the fact they had less class that senior skip day. But a social status didn’t exist in this cheap hotel; we were all losers, outcast from society.

     “Hello Mr. Singleton.” The receptionist greeted. I wondered how she knew my name. Surely she couldn’t have remembered me from my stay a year ago. My puzzled look must have printed confusion on my forehead in Times New Roman, because she continued.

     “We received your reservation Sir. It was submitted by a Ms. EX two weeks ago.” I was stunned. I had to grab that counter for stabilization, or else fall back into the arms of the temporarily fixes of love that flooded that lounge. I slowly caught a grasp of my composure and filled out the needed paperwork. My mind couldn’t help but juggle burning thoughts of when, how, and why my Ex would reserve me a room here.

     “You know it’s kind of ironic, because she also booked herself a room close to yours. This establishment is far from a honeymoon resort…” the receptionist paused and glanced over my shoulder into the lounge. “But I guess special things can happen here.” I returned her smile with slight genuine as I took my room key from the counter.  

     “Have a nice stay, even though that may seem to be an oxymoron.” The receptionist said as I walked away. I didn’t even care to look back or acknowledge that I heard her. My mind was busy trying to decide my next course of actions. I wondered if I should go see her, but quickly thought against since she was the sole reason I was here. She caused me to retreat here and added insult to injury by making reservations. But then again, why would she be here, so close to me? If she wanted us to be near then why were we here anyway? Women confused me, but my cousin said it best when he said “Some women like being chased more than they love being caught.”

     Even though my room was on the first floor of this 3 story dump, I glanced over at the elevator. There was a sign on it that read “Love has it’s Up’s and Down’s…” It didn’t register at the time because my attention was stolen by a small figure I saw sitting down the hallway. I starred as I got closer trying to see if the image I was seeing was a person or maybe just luggage. I soon realized that I was looking at a person sitting Indian style with their head buried into their lap. From the length of the jet black hair I could distinguish that this person was a female, and I could hear gentle sobs. Echoes of broken hearted tears ricocheted off the hollow walls of the hallway. I slowed my pace taking easy steps like I was prepping to disarm a bomb, or an alligator hunter sneaking on a prize catch. With each step the unidentified person came clear, and within twenty feet I recognized her; it was Ms. Ex. My heart fell out of my chest, but I didn’t have time to pick it up, I had to keep moving. Maybe I could sneak by her and make it safely inside my room. But she was parked right in front of my door.

     I stood there for awhile trying to construct my next move. Should I just turn around and go home? How could I when I don’t have a home. This pitiful pile of bricks and faded graffiti casting of a building was the only residence that I’ve ever known. As I was looking at her creating bodies of salt water in her lap, I wondered what she has to be so heartbroken about. I was the one who was laid off when I just starting to think career moves. My contract as a holiday temp was terminated, and I thought I was up for a promotion. I had ambitions of making Partner in her heart’s Law Firm, but I guess I couldn’t pass the bar.

     She lifted her head exposing her red eyes, contaminated my infectious tears of guilt and just looked at me. Streams were cascading down her cheeks, and it was weird, because she was looking just how I felt on the inside. I was planning on waiting until I got in my room to release the dams. Her lips were trembling as if the most painful news in the universe was just laid on her shoulder. I remembered those lips… Even in their current state they still appeared luscious, and three second daydreams began of me kissing them again. I snapped back to reality, I think it was reality, and I continued to stare at her starring at me.

     “I’m… I’m sorry for I’ve done…” She mumbled. Everything in me wanted me to ask her to repeat herself. But she was sitting there looking so pitiful, so piteous, like a person facing the electric chair pleading to the judge. But who was I to judge? I didn’t want justice. I didn’t seek revenge, because honestly this woman could stand up with laughter and reveal that all of this was a malicious joke of closure… and I would still love her. I guess that’s the meaning of unconditional love.

     “What are you sorry about?” I asked knowing the answer; I just needed to hear her say it. Just say it my love and this can all go away. I was prepared to forget that the breakup ever happened. We could TIVO life and rewind back to happy times. Sad… I was developing the forgiveness of a victim of domestic violence; I was staring in a Lifetime movie, perhaps a repetitive character on the Oxygen channel.

     “I’m sorry for causing all of this.” She said as she swiveled her head gesturing to the hotel. Her eyes were encumbered with water and it was impossible to see her pupils. Her appearance was fairly spooky, but a cute spooky… a Scooby Doo kind of spooky.

     “I really wish there was something I could do to change it, to change this. I want to make things right, but… it’s too late I fear.” She said never breaking eye contact, I think.

     “It’s never too late…” I slightly mumbled, half ashamed of my exonerative heart. A part of me wanted to just leave her, like she left me. That small portion of me wanted her to feel the pain I felt, my hearts District Attorney, but if what she was saying and showing was truly authentic, she has served her time. That’s the nonsense I convinced myself to deem.

     “Then how? How can I fix this? How can I fix us? How do I delete a foolish, childish, idiotic mistake? Life doesn’t have a Backspace. Once I hit send, and the message was sent, there is no taking that back. You won’t ever forget what I’ve done… I won’t ever forget. But I just wish I could take it back.” She said as she stood up and faced me. She was still beautiful… my heart was building itself back together from the pool of blood that she had left, like a terminator cyborg, or a romantic reptile.

     “I forgive you…” I said in a low mumble again. I was still ashamed of my heart, but it was feeling better, blink by blink.

     “How? How do we walk away from this?” She said as she stepped closer gently grabbing my hand. She was still peering into my eyes, and my heart was almost at 100%. Love makes you dumb, but strong.

     “It’s easy…” I said as I pointed back down the hallway. “We just walk out of the door, and start over.” I couldn’t believe what I was saying. I should have at least put up a fight, just to appease my ego. But love is stronger than pride, unfortunately.

     She never said a word as we walked slowly towards the door. Sure we could’ve have just went to one of our rooms and made up officially, but I wanted to get out of this place. If everything goes right I would never have to return here again; that’s ‘if’.

     As we made our way past the lounge I could see the hatred in the eyes of the by standing women. I knew I looked stupid, but I was in love, so that’s acceptable. The receptionist made eye contact shot me a lovely smile. I returned it genuinely this time and kept on walking, hoping that I could get out of the door before Ms. Ex changes her mind. Her palms felt so warm, so comforting, it was as if our hands were molded my God to fit perfectly. I was happy, I was dumb… but I was happy.

     As we finally opened the door, the door to the future, a door of bliss, and a start of forever, I heard the receptionist repeat something, “See, special things can happen here…”  

'Dutch' by Teri Woods (The Review)

     I know that I'm about 10yrs late in reading so forgive me, but 10yrs ago I was only reading Source magazines. But I finally finished this after about week of only reading it during my smoke breaks. Does that mean that I smoke a lot? Perhaps. I don't consider this an actual book review, because by no means would my 6th grade English teacher approve of this. I just want to express my thoughts, and since there isn't a soul awake or interested at 1am, YOU have to listen to me ramble.

     I like the way this book was structured, because I was expecting the typical from beginning to end format. But Teri, (I say that as if I know her Personally) wrote this in a present tense that mixed with a flashback style of story telling. The present tense part of the story took place at Dutch's trial, and as witnesses took the stand, he and they had flashbacks which also fed into the storyline quite nicely. I love the way this story was told, because sometimes it's not what you say, but how you say it.

     The characters were constructed fairly believable, other than a few facts that puzzled me, but I understand you have to make the story at least a little Hollywood for it to be universally entertaining. So the fact that a 14yr old boy was accepted by the Mob family and granted control of multiple cities was OK with me... Just this time. Dutch overall was a realistic character, I can imagine holding a conversation with the guy, and that's important to me. If I can't imagine talking to, or observing the character in real life, then I lose interest in that person as well as any part of the story that they are directly connected to. Teri Woods did an excellent job with making these characters. It shows that she took time to get to know them and let them create themselves.

     Let's go with my Favorites... My favorite Character was Nina. Nina was a girl who ignored Dutch's fame a street cred. He did everything to win her over, but she never budged. She was traumatized by the death of her younger brother by the drug game, and since then she decided to have nothing to do with it or the people within it. I could picture her in my head vividly... probably because I've a few Nina's in my day.

     Least Favorite Character was Franky. Of course he was designed to be hated though. Franky was a Mob boss who became jealous of Dutch's fame and eventually organized Dutch's downfall, or so it seems. Anyway he was a prick, and he hated black people... and I just happen to be Black!

     Favorite Scene was, well, the whole Nina and Dutch coming of age Chapter. You know that I am a hopeless romantic, so this moved me a lot. For a minute I thought he was actually going get her, and I was rooting for him, but nope... no happy ending. I love it when the ending isn't happy, because that's life right? Write.

     Least Favorite scene was the courtroom shootout. This is one of the Hollywood moments, and as much as I loved Dutch's "Fuck You" to the court, let's just be realistic... I can't even get a cellphone into a courthouse, but these fools got automatic machine guns??? Maybe if it was described how they got the guns in there, I'd be cool with it. But hey, Franky died, so I'm cool with that.

     Overall this was a nice book, and I will start on Dutch 2 ASAP. Good Job Teri... These books are the reason I write... Right?... Write!

Purple Pigs

     Greetings to everyone who is suffering from Monday Blues. I had a fairly relaxed day at work, meaning that nothing crazy happened. Thanks to everyone who showed up for Poetry Night, but I think that I will change that. I have to realize that just because I don't havev a life outside of exploring my imagination through writing, that some of you actually have things to do on Weekends; Things that don't involve a blog where some lunatic confuses imagination with reality. So from now on Poetry Night will be Friday. I will use the weekend for planning the following week's agenda and thinking of entertaining ideas. Speaking of ideas, I thought of something during my smoke break at work. It's just an idea right now, but I feel that if I can do this right and not rush it, it may be the story that I need to solidify my resume. So I will keep you posted on the progress and maybe even a sneak peak. ANYWAYZZZZZZ
      Here is 'Purple Pigs'. So get all of the Kiddos in the bed. I know that they have just been dying of anxiety and creating havoc in your household this past weekend since I pushed the release date back. I'm sorry, but here it is... I think I've built up a big enough ((( BUZZ ))) about it. Thanks for reading this far, please continue :)

Purple Pigs

A father sat on the edge of his daughter’s bed, as she adjusted herself for her bedtime story. Ever since she was in her Mother’s womb, he has read her the same bedtime story, but tonight he wanted to switch things up a bit. Since she had recently turned seven years old, if you asked her she’d swear she was seventeen, he wanted to read her something different. But he had no ideas or any other books since he had relied solely on the same story. So the Father decided to just wing it; kids believe anything you tell them so it couldn’t turn out that bad.
                “Ashely, we are going to do something different tonight for story time.” The father said as he tucked her Winnie the Pooh blanket around her.
                “You’re going to let me stay up late and watch movies with you and Mommy!” The daughter said excitedly while leaning forward, totally ruining her neatly placed blanket.
                “No… I said something new, not something crazy.” The Father responded with a smile and kissed her on her forehead. After re-tucking her in and ignoring her puppy eyes, he began his story.
                “Ok Ashely, Close your eyes.” The Father said. Ashely appeared to have followed the instructions, but her Father knew better. She was making the same face she makes when he tries to surprise her. Like the time he brought home a puppy, and she was peeking the whole time.
                “No peeking.” The Father said as he pretended as if he was going to poke her eyes. She twitched and instantly started giggling; only proving that she was peeking.
                “You have to close them; I’m going to show you how to use your imagination.” The Father said. The daughter was interested now. She felt as if she was about to learn the secrets to a magic trick. She never really understood what an imagination was; it just always seemed like something to make playtime more fun.
                “Alright what do you see?” The Father asked.
                “Ummmm just black stuff.” The daughter said while frowning. The father could tell she was really focusing.
                “Don’t try too hard. You can’t force this, you just have to relax and let it happen.”
                “Ok Daddy.”
                “This is your imagination; you have control so you decide what happens. Now paint a sky.”
                “Ok, I see a sky!” The daughter announced with a big smile nearly opening her eyes.
                “What color is the sky?”
                “Blue… Sky Blue.” The daughter responded with a giggle. She was a silly little something, even when sleepy.
                “Why is it blue? It’s your imagination, you can make the sky any color your want it.”
                “I like blue, it’s pretty.”
                “Ok, now what do you see?”
                “Uhhhhh, a farm, and a farm house… a barn. And it’s red daddy.”
                “Ok do you see any animals on your farm Ashely?” The father asked. He really didn’t know where he was getting at or how he would finish this, but he was too far in it to change now. Plus she was having a good time.
                “A pig… it’s a fat pig. Oink Oink!” The daughter said still smiling and giggling.
                “Ok, what color is that pig?”
                “He’s pink Daddy.”
                “Why is he pink?”
                “Because all pigs are pink, duhhhh.” The Father almost started chuckling at her silliness, but he contained it.
                “Make him purple.” The Father suggested.
                “Uhhhh, ok. I did it! He’s purple daddy!” She was really excited now, slamming her fist against the bed. The Father just looked at her and smiled. Even if he couldn’t find a way to end this so-called story, at least she was happy. He just hoped she didn’t request this every night for a bedtime story.
                “And he is smiling Daddy. Why is he so happy?” The daughter asked as she opened her eyes. She was staring at her Father for a serious answer.
                “Because Ashely… He’s the only purple pig in the world.”
                Silence filled the room as the Daughter starred at the Father. He could tell she was pondering another question.
                "Daddy..." Ashely said tucking herself back in.
                "Yes my love?"
                "Am I your Purple Pig?" The Father smiled and kissed her on the forehead.
                "Everything I imagined..."

(Saturday Poetry Night) ~Dandelion~

Mic check, Mic Check, one-two, one-two... I would like to thank everyone for coming out tonight. You could've been on any blog on the web, but you're here with me. I appreciate that. :) So if you are a new viewer, The followers and I would like to say Welcome. Kick of your shoes and relax your feet. This Poem that I'm about to present, is one that I wrote months ago. I was drinking coffee' outside of a hotel and the grass inspired me. Crazy I know, but I titled this one Dandelion. I hope you enjoy. Some of you may have read this before when I posted it on my Facebook  page, so if that is the case I apologize. I don't want to bore you with a re-run, so have a drink... the bar is open. :)

                                                          Dandelion

I stand tall. Im eight inches, to plants that's eight feet/
Im Shaq, minus the feet, my roots they run deep/
Other weeds chatter, but Im too cute to speak/
Im mute, Im bleak. Im too new to breach/
I move, I sneak. Im too smooth to squeak/
Im silent under your radar, but still above your reach/
Its me who gardners seek. But murder is obsolete/
I re-generate hate, Im back within a week/
Im king in an insects jungle, Im humble, Im bumble bee/
Im pretty, Im a model. I strut, I bundle glee/
Im numeral uno, second to none, I exceed the number three/
I shine, I glow. I define then refine, then I show/
I smile, I flow, with the wind. My skin is thin, below/
Within, I hold water, I keep secrets of life, I grow/
I, become old, when its cold, my yellow turns to snow/
I lose hair that floats, and turn to umbrellas as the wind blow/
As the world turns, I become dizzy, I hang my head low/
Im still pretty, I still stand out like sit ins. I know, death is close/
I smell gasoline, from hell, the kerosene. It must be time mow/
I hear the thunder, the rumble, as this machine mumbles then it go/
I will never crumble, my seeds detect, they tumble as if they know/
I reflect on life, no regrets on mistakes I made twice/
I sacrafice to suffice. And stand in the path of this oncoming heist/
Is there a heaven for weeds, since weed made the world feel so heavenly?/
My seeds, will sprout around the golden gates, and we will then greet/
Our maker, our forsaker, outcasted from the Garden of Eden/
Now Im guarding my region, while only partially believing/
My leaves are leaving, Im grieving, how could life be so deceiving/
We live to die, so others may live to die, is that the sole reason/
Death is getting louder, I feel my soul retreating/
I try to fight it but I weaken. Why does it feel odd to get even?/
The sun flees, Im shaded, by blades that look faded/
The first one misses me, like an ex... but the second decapitated/
I live on for a second, then death feels so captivating/
My soul is vacant, my body was burglarized, and my life was taken/
A proud Dande-Lion. I feel dandy... Im lying/
Outside im still shining, but inside my wills crying/
I lay still, sighing. And picture myself on the hills on Zion/
Im smiling... wondering why is it that everyone fears dying.../



Chasing Carrots

     Woot! Woot! Freaky Friday! Are you feeling freaky? Whoa whoa now, this isn't that type of Blog... yet. So  know I said that I was going to release Purple Pigs today, but a lot of my followers requested that I finish the 3 part story I posted previously. So you know how much I love my followers... Especially on FREAKY FRIDAY! I wrote this in my head at work this morning. We had a silly little military formation, where all the low ranking worker ants, had to stand at attention and listen to the big boys talk for hours... about nothing. So as I was standing there trying to pass time, while others were fainting around me, and I decided to play this story in my head. This is what I came up with, and I'm quite proud of it actually. But like always, I can't figure out how to end things, so after this entry you may ask that I continue, or you may suggest that I trash it all completely. Either way, I had fun creating this. Again, I know Purple Pigs was suppose to post today, and many of you may have your kids tucked in now just impatiently waiting on my lovely life changing story... Kiss the kids, and tell them Uncle Niles is sorry... Purple Pigs will post Monday. So here is Part 4, Chasing Carrots...

P.S. Don't forget that tomorrow is Saturday Poetry Night! and of course Sunday Word. Don't forget to check back in, and bring your friends...

'Chasing Carrots'





           A pair of lights scanned across the side of Kristina’s house making their way towards my position. I ducked like a fugitive on the walls of Rikers. When I looked back for the source, I noticed a car pulling into her driveway so I received cover from a small bush by her window; the same bush I had suggested she remove for this very reason… Crazy Ex’s. I wondered who could possibly be coming to see her this time of night so I watched carefully as the figure stepped out of the car and came to light. It was her crazy ex…  the other crazy ex. I stared at this fool while clinching down on the bush out of anger. This was the same guy who came to my house and sucker punched me, leaving me with this gash on my head that stung every time a snowflake made contact with it. I wanted to break off a sharp twig from the bush and stab him in his jugular, but hey… this isn’t Rikers. He had what seemed to be roses of some sort in his hand, probably coming by here to apologize for his earlier behavior. I had to see what happens next. Hopefully Kristina would slam the door in his face and justice would be served.

                I needed a better view of the door so I decided to make my way towards a tree that was in the middle of her lawn. I couldn’t just stand up and tippy toe, so I decided to crawl. A silly precaution hit me; I was nervous that I would leave fingerprints in the snow and she would know I was here lurking in the shadows. Fingerprints in the snow…. If my fingers weren’t on the verge of frostbite I would have slapped myself. If she wanted to know who was outside her window all she had to do was look for the frozen body on her lawn, looking like Leonardo Dicaprio in ‘Titanic’. I always wondered why Rose let go; No matter how many times I watched that movie, Rose always lets go…

                I watched as he walked to the door and she answered it. I was expected her to wear a frown of disgust, but only wore that wardrobe around me I guess. She didn’t slam the door or shun him away. She smiled, accepted the flowers, and kissed him. She kissed him… with the lips that were promised to me… my lips… she kissed him with my lips! The same lips that I dreamed about… the same lips that I had nightmares of leaving… the same lips that I woke up to and they were still there, good morning kisses, have a good day kisses, how was your day kisses, good night kisses. The same lips that instigated passionate love making… Those were my lips, and now she had given them away.

                I didn’t care who saw me now, I just stood up and walked away. I didn’t know for sure if I was headed in the direction of my car, but at this moment I didn’t care. Plus it was hard to navigate through these white streets with a low head, and flooded eyes of slushy tears. I didn’t know what to think, I just felt stupid and embarrassed. Even though nobody saw me, I think, I still felt a high level of shame. My actions tonight were the pinnacle of low… a voice from across the street startled me.

                “Reggie?” The voice said. I had to wipe my eyes to identify this person and I was even more ashamed when I did. It was Julissa. Julissa had been a close friend of mine for years but we had never taken it further than that. Sure I’ve thought about it lustfully, but never lovely; she was just a friend. In fact she was how I met Kristina. And now she had caught me wet eyed on Kristina’s street.

                “What are you doing here Reggie?” Julissa asked with a look of concern. I had no answer, instead I looked around as if I was sleep walking, or maybe I would see a dog in arms reach with a lease attached to him… yeah I was just out walking my dog in the snow. But there was no dog around. The only stray pitiful looking animal wondering these streets was me. And I had no collar, no home of residence, no owner… just a homeless heart.

                “I don’t know Lisa, I just wanted to see…” I started.

                “Why do you keep doing this to yourself?” Julissa asked as she stepped closer.

                “Doing what?” I asked, knowing damn well what she meant.

                “Chasing something you can’t have… You’re making yourself look like a jackass Reggie.” Her words hit hard, but I needed a good hit, one that wouldn’t leave a stinging gash.

                “It’s funny that you would say that Lisa, cause that’s exactly how I feel. I feel like a donkey chasing a carrot.” I said leaning against the street light that illuminated gliding snowflakes.

                “Chasing a carrot?” Julissa asked with a puzzled brow.

                “You know how they put a carrot on a string to get the donkey to come forward. That’s how I feel. She’s that carrot that’s in my face teasing me, and fueling me to drive forward. But I can’t see the strings that are attached. And no matter how fast I move, how strong my steps, how long my stride, I will never get that carrot. But I keep trying, because Lisa… That’s what a jackass is meant to do.”

                “…But you’re not moving forward Reggie. You’re going in circles, that carrot is teasing you man.” Julissa said stepping even closer to me. I looked up into her eyes, which I couldn’t differentiate from the snowflakes; she had beautiful eyes, yet I never noticed till now.

                “Reggie, sometimes that donkey spends his whole life chasing that one carrot that attracts his eyes, and never realizes all the carrots that are right under his nose.” I looked back into her eyes, and I noticing them getting closer. She leaned in and kissed me softly on the lips... on my lips. I became stuck to the very light pole I leaned on like a Child's wet tounge. This was truly becoming a Christmas Story.