The Cliche`

While reading through the Minot chapters I came across the section about Clichés. He expressed how too many clichés in any type of work would simply destroy it, especially a poem. So the rebel in me had a split second idea, “What if I wrote a poem using nothing but clichés?” I laughed it off and went back to reading. Pages later the idea continued to creep back into my mental vision, and again I blinked it away. But then I thought what if I used solely clichés but inverted them? Welcome to the mind of Reggie…

I count my curses for my blessing fell down in the dumps

Like a bat out of heaven, but if a bird in hand is worth two birds on a cactus

Then I’m all third fingers up- but tomorrow is the same day

There is a flickering light in the center of the tunnel

With my ears to the sky, an eye-for-an-I

It must be the luck of the American.

Wide awake last morning, I cried a lake last mourning

Curiosity killed my road dog, as my eyes cried crocodile sweat

Hail storms on my parade, Bloody red carpet treatment disguised in blue suede

The nice guy never finished, nerves of wood-opening Pandora’s app

Searching for my third wind feeling sharp as a tic…

I stopped on a nickel to taste the roses, and wished upon an asteroid.

Sliding across frozen bridges, busy as a wasp

Something is floating in my stomach

I reckon it’s a moth

I made my bed and told lies in it

Hey, every dog has his night

The ground is my only limit… it was tacky meeting you here

Free as a caged bird, that sings with a toad in his throat

Prince vulgar I beg to agree, just mark my verbs.

Test Message

I'm just posting this entry to test the mobile app of Blogger. It had very bad reviews, I guess I'm just hoping it will work for my simple ol blog. :)

Dear Writing,

     I miss you. I miss the moments we shared. The feelings I experienced everytime we touched. The conversations we had. The late nights of trading thoughts and making love on thin sheets of college ruled paper or blank Microsoft Word screens. I miss the cuddling afterwards where I felt as if these moments would never end. But they did...

     Lately, I've been lazy. I haven't contacted you in what feels like decades. I still think about you, and what we could have had, but my lack of energy and motivation restricted me from chasing you. Honestly, I stopped because I am truly afraid of you. I'm afraid of failure of course, but what we had and the potential of success was intimidating. I'm afraid things will go right... How crazy is that?

     You're probably thinking that I am just saying this as a poetic excuse and that the truth is I'm afraid of commitment. That may be the case as well. But I need to find myself and become more focused on our future if we stand any chance at all. I'm sorry for my absence.

Can we start over?

                                                                                                                                    -Reggie
P.S. I Love You...

What makes me so different?

“What makes me so different?”

That’s what I often ask myself when I start day dreaming of becoming this famous writer that people will remember for decades on end. I picture myself walking through an airport and middle aged women will come up to me and say, “I just love your latest novel. It truly spoke to me.” I picture giving speeches and universities and telling stories of how I became so successful. I can hear myself giving typical clichés of a person who has made it big, “Don’t give up. All it takes is hard work.” Sometimes during long joyrides I mute the radio, or I pause the CD, and I interview myself. I picture myself on Late Night TV shows, and the audience goes absolutely wild when I walk out onto the stage. I have a Man of the Year acceptance speech already finished in my head. I picture my kids bragging in grade school lunch rooms about their Writer Dad. I see myself going to career days, and kids are actually interested in my profession. I picture myself as a writer… But what makes me so different?

                How am I different from the other millions of aspiring writers who share the same daydreams as I? How am I different from the load of failed writers who just never made it in the business? How am I different from the lady who quit her job as a nurse to stay home and write full time? How could I match her dedication? How can I improve my dedication? What makes me so different that I can actually make it as a writer? How can I stand out among a population of novelist who want the same thing I’m reaching for?

                I fear that I am not different, I am not special, talented, gifted, or even an average writer. How dare I have the audacity to chase a dream in the midst of a million other marathoners who are better prepared, better trained, and better qualified to win this race. What makes me so different?

Speechless

                                                                Speechless

They rolled me into a dimly lit room that somehow resembled a big elevator. All of the Doctors and nurses were moving so quickly, and I really didn’t understand what the big deal was. It was nothing major in my book. We were just kids being kids; a simple fight that turned bad with the use of a pellet gun. The shot in my neck pissed me off more than it hurt, so I didn’t realize the severity of the wound till I came into the emergency room.

“Ok, we have a throat injury from a pellet gun, and we suspect swelling.” said the lead Doctor. I’m guessing he was in charge because he was the only person in the room who seemed to remain calm. He examined the entry wound as he leaned over my shoulder. I could smell the strong aroma of his after shave and diet Coke from the short distance he was standing. I wondered why all doctors were old; could medical school really be that long?

“Reggie, how are you feeling?” I nodded my head, which really didn’t answer the question but he understood. After all he had experienced forty years of Med school so I’m sure he comprehended.

“Great. Son we are going to have to perform surgery to make sure nothing was seriously damaged. We fear that the tissue may begin to swell, and if that happens you will not be able to breathe. It’s a simple procedure and you will be out of here in no time. Ok?” Once again I nodded my head. I really didn’t want to speak. At first when I got shot nothing changed, but after a while my voice began to sound funny. It was as if I was speaking in a bathroom. My words had a weird echo and sounded distorted. I wasn’t even going to go to the hospital, but once my mom got word what happen she rushed me in the emergency room and acted out a scene from ‘John Q’.

 “Reggie, I’m going to put this mask on you. I just need you to take deep breaths and relax.” The doctor said as he lifted my head up to secure the straps of the mask. I don’t know why I expected the mask to smell funny, but it didn’t, and the air that circulated through was awkwardly cool. I tilted my head towards the doctor who was instructing one of the nurses to roll over a tray.

“What is this?” I asked while frowning at the way my voice sounded to me.

 “It’s gas.” The doctor said in such a nonchalant tone. Suddenly my panic mode kicked in. Just the sound of the word gas frightened me. While I was reaching for the mask one of the nurses restrained my arm.
 “Just relax Reggie, you’ll be sleep soon.” She said in such an angelic voice. Was having a soothing voice the criteria for becoming a nurse, so you can calm the patient while he’s being put to sleep like a rabid animal? I tried to lean forward, I wanted to say something, but I couldn’t. My eye lids felt heavy like I had anvils on my lashes. As my body sunk deeper into the stretcher, I wanted to yell, I even opened my mouth to scream but I couldn’t… I was speechless.

A tsunami of consciousness waved through my body, as I sat up like a child who was just baptized. The first thing I noticed was all the tubes that were plugged into my body. I felt like the project of Frankenstein or a cheap entertainment system. I began to panic once again as I snatched the iv out of my arm and yanked like I was starting a lawn mower. A small puddle of blood formed and began to gain momentum as it cascaded down my arm. Glancing at my other arm, my neck felt stiff and restricted. I rubbed my throat and felt a small metal pipe inserted. I collapsed back into the cheap pillow that was provided. As I was feeling the metal tube, I also noticed a rubber tube that traced to my nostrils. I automatically thought it was a breathing tube so I snatched it. What I thought to be half an inch turned out to be deeper. My stomach turned cartwheels and my chest began to arch. I didn’t understand what was going on, probably still in shock, so I continued to tug. The pain caused my chest to arch even higher. I relaxed and allowed my body to deflate. As I glanced down at my progress I saw blood and chunks for which I told myself were clots of flesh. My panic meter exploded as I gripped the tube in preparation to get it over with. I waited till my heartbeat was no longer beating through my hospital gown, then I snatched it. I felt the tube as it slid from my stomach to my nostrils bringing along vomit and more blood. I leaned on my side and puked what felt to be my stomach out. After the vomiting seized, I lay there gasping for air and spitting out residue and tears that escaped my eyes and fled to my mouth. Finally when the tears stopped along with the excess saliva, I wiped my face with the pillow case and sat up. I was still bothered by the metal tube in my throat, but I dared not tamper with that one. I had no idea where I was going, but I knew I had to get out of that hospital. I felt lied to.

“A simple procedure, you’ll be out of here in no time.” The doctor lied. As I tried to stand I felt yet another restraint; this time in my penis. My eyes turned to Volkswagen headlights as I felt the remaining tube. My only thought was that I didn’t do all of that for nothing, I had to finish.

My eyes were watching God as I grasped the final tube. I didn’t want to snatch this one, so I decided to just ease it out. I clawed the edge of the bed as my penis felt like it was on fire. I stopped for a second to regain my strength and motive to continue. I went for the kill and pulled harder. What I felt next was a pain unmatched, that made the nostril tube feel like a Q-tip. I fell off the edge of the bed and screamed like an amateur actress in a horror movie as I knocked over the iv machine. I laid there wondering if I had actually got it out. Either way it was pointless because I no longer had the energy to escape.

“Oh my god Reggie what have you done?”  The nurse shouted as she responded to the commotion. She stood over me with her palms covering her mouth. At that moment I became scared. My body trembled like a Chihuahua surrounded by horny pit bulls. She was staring at me as if I had ripped my penis off. I reached for it to make sure, but she stopped me.

“Now we have to put everything right back in. Reggie why did you do this to yourself?” The nurse asked as she helped me back on the bed.

“This is going to hurt…” she said with a pitiful face as she began to slide the tube back into my penis. It hurt and stung fiercely but not as much as it did coming out. Now the nostril tube was a different story. As soon as she inserted the tip into my nose my body jumped at least a foot. She put her arm across my chest to restrain me, but it was very little she could do. Another nurse rushed in to assist her in holding me down.
“Let me know if at any point you can’t breathe, ok Reggie?” the first nurse asked as she continued to slide the tube through my nose and into my throat. I shook my head violently like I was experiencing an exorcism as tears flung from my body like a bathed dog.

“Reggie can you breathe?” the second nurse asked.  I wanted to answer; I needed to tell her that I couldn’t. I opened my mouth but no sound came out. I was speechless…

"Reggie... Reggie can you hear me baby?" minus the pain pulsating through my entire my body I felt relaxed by the nurse calling me baby. Maybe after all of the suffering I endured I'd now be the victim of a playboy short story. With my eyes still closed I smiled at this teenage fantasy.

"Reggie, baby can you hear me hun? This is your mother." so much for that article huh. My eyelids lifted slowly like garage doors. I re-smiled at the site of mother. She returned the body language with a sense of relief. I tried to sit up but she put her hand on my shoulder and instructed me to just relax. I complied and my smile faded once I realized that the tubes were back in my body. I tried to speak but it felt as if something was in my throat blocking my words from coming out. I couldn’t even grunt or hum. My eyes translated that I was about to enter panic mode. My mother put one finger to my lips and told me to shhh. I was beginning to get angry at my failed attempts. I wanted to bite her finger off.

"Reggie, I have to tell you something. Now I want you to listen carefully and don’t get crazy on me. Your vocal cords were slightly damaged so right now you can’t speak..." she stopped and dropped her head for a second. I knew the haymaker was coming next. I didn’t have time to try to guess so i waited as she raised her head and stared me in my eyes. A pool of tears had begun to fill up her reservoir and i knew the dam would break any moment now.

"Baby, they said there is a strong possibility that you will never talk again." my dam beat hers to the punch and she instantly tried to console me.
"Baby don’t lose hope just yet, don’t give up on me Reggie. They said a possibility and that could go both ways. Don’t give up hope.  Have faith in god and he will bring you through this. Just pray, cause we are all praying for you. Baby... it doesn’t end like this." I wasn’t in the mood to hear any of that. i was just told that i will never be able to speak again. Oh, I’m sorry, there’s a possibility. I knew that was just verbal medicine doctors tell the family of the victim to instill false hope. I turned my head away from my mom and faced the wall. All i could think about was how was i going to communicate for the rest of my life. Was i going to have to moan like the elders do in rest homes requesting Jello? Or even worse, was I going to have to use that robotic device that chain smokers of forty years use? My thoughts were killing me. Trust in God... God? Could he give me my voice back? Would he? Of course not. What was the purpose of taking it in the first place then? To teach me a lesson? I wasn’t in the mood to become some biblical puppet or a source of a frantic testimony in church. I was mad at the world and the worst part was I couldn’t tell a soul. In the middle of my hissy fit, my silent temper tantrum at God, my mother placed a writing tablet on my shoulder. i turned my head slowly allowing anger tears to commit suicide down my cheeks. I glanced at the tablet and then back at her; my face was a billboard advertising confusion.  My mom handed me a pen and said "talk to me... tell me how you feel... write it." I smirked at the fact that even in my lowest moments my mother could still make me smile.

Our convos through paper went on for days. I didn’t remember talking to her that much when I had a voice but we seemed to go through two tablets. Soon I became used to this means of communication and actually pictured myself walking around with a miniature tablet to converse. I was accepting my fate, though I didn’t really understand it, I was beginning to live with it. My temporary happiness expired when my mother handed me the phone one night. My eye brows arched to the McDonalds logo as I wondered why she would hand me the phone as if I could really reply back to whoever was up there.

"Just listen for a sec. your grandma wants to speak to you." my mom said has she assisted me in raising the phone to my ear. "Go ahead momma, he’s listening."

"Reggie? This is grandma. I know you can’t speak right now, but i just wanted you to know that I love you and I’m praying for you; we are all praying for you. You are in everyone’s thoughts and prayers. You just trust in God and he will bring you through this. Have faith baby. God is a mighty god and capable of anything, and he loves you dearly... we all love you dearly..."
I shifted the phone to my other ear so i could hide my face from my mother. The mayor of my eyes had just received a warning that the twin dams were on the brink of collapsing once again.
"Baby just hold on, and when times get rough, when you feel like nobody understands what you’re going through, when the doctors and nurses don’t seem to have a clue, talk to God. We can’t hear you right now but he can. God can hear you Reggie. Talk to him. We love you Reggie. "
The dams broke. Tears shot down my face and I used a pillow as a silencer. The worst part about not being able to speak was not being able to tell my grandmother "i love you too." I buried my face into the pillow to the point I almost suffocated. i wanted to say something back to grandma; anything, just to let her know that i heard her, that I still existed. Maybe if I dialed I love you through the keypad... 456-8396 with U as the extension. Silly thoughts flooded my brain along with back fired tears. I wanted to say something, I needed to, but I couldn’t. I opened my mouth and nothing came out. Not even the cartoon flag that read BANG. I was speechless...


I woke up in the middle of the night to the quiet but annoying hospital orchestra. iv machines dripped, heart machines beeped, in tune with breathing machines... well, breathing. Once my eyes were awake and adjusted to the poor lighting, I noticed just how lonely this place was. When visiting hours are over every patient goes into the same condition; emotionally dead, and in my case socially as well. I couldn’t even talk to myself. It seemed as if my brains secretary had lost records of what my voice sounded like. So I had a mental tablet that I wrote on just to get my thoughts out. I focused on what my grandmother said, "Talk to god. When nobody else can hear you, he still can." or something like that. I needed to fire my brains secretary, memory, if I could ever remember to do so. I figured that since the doctors had given up on me it wouldn’t hurt to try god. At least after that I could honestly say I exhausted all options. So I called on god. I lay there on my back with my arms crossed and stared at the ceiling. My eyes went through and focused on the stars. I connected them in a pattern that I thought was a passcode that would allow me to speak to the all mighty. I called but there was no answer. I thought maybe i had called on the wrong name so I tried Jesus’s line, and then Lord's, messiah's, the guy up stairs, creator, Bruce almighty, still no answer. So I left a message.
"God, if you give me my voice back, i promise you this, the whole world will hear me" I kept it short and simple. I figured he was getting a lot of calls from this hospital anyways, so I didn’t take up too much of his precious time.

Once my eyes retracted back from the ceiling, I quickly glanced around the room. Surely a nurse would think I was going Looney if she saw me staring at the ceiling in the middle of the night. Or maybe they see a lot of that. A smirk charged up on my face when i thought about I just did and the crazy thoughts that I produced. It was funny to me but i wasn’t able to laugh. That action required voice. But my body wanted to, I was in dire need of a good chuckle. I felt a laugh building up in my gut and climbing to my throat. I began to choke a little, the same feeling I got when it was time to clean my trach out of flem. I leaned on my side and starting coughing. I tried to keep it quiet so I wouldn’t alert any nurses and disturb them from reading their () magazines. Wait, quiet? I was making noise! Speaking is only the controlled act of making noise. I quickly rolled back on my back and smiled. I had a change of mind so I rolled back to my side. Maybe this position was the key to the process. I built pressure up in my throat and tried to release it. I was hoping for any noise, any at all, even a grunt. Nothing. I tried again, nothing. I tried again, nothing. Again... speechless. And again, till my throat felt like it would explode and my trach go flying through the ceiling. Wait, the ceiling... I rolled over and concentrated. How did i use to talk? I tried to remember the simple procedure of speaking. I couldn’t remember, damn secretary. So I just lay there and tried to clear my throat. I tried over and over. Then it happened.

Nobody truly remembers their first word, but I do. My first word was " unh". Followed by a few utters of celebration profanity. I was smiling so hard that you could probably see my wisdom teeth. So I lay there again on that pillow which I was sure the same pillow I lost my voice on, and I began to speak, quietly of course. My voice sounded like heaven to me. I defied odds and did what the doctors said I wouldn’t be able to do. All by myself, and of course God. I smiled as these thoughts that I was actually saying out loud now.  I wanted to tell someone but whom? So I waited. Visiting hours would start in a couple hours.

I stayed in the same position for hours that felt like days trying my best to suppress my smile as my mother in the room.
"Good morning baby." she said as she rubbed my forehead with both sides of her hand. I guess even in hospitals mothers will still play doctor.

"How are you feeling today, better?" she asked as she reached for the tablet on the nightstand. She handed it to me along with the pen and waited on my reply. I held the tablet in front of my face to hide my wisdom teeth as I pretended to write an answer. Then I handed her back the blank tablet. She glanced at it and then back at me with a puzzled look. I charged my throat up and fired.

"I’m doing fine mama, how are you?" I said with the biggest smile my facial muscles would allow. Her hands dashed to her mouth as she dropped the tablet. She began to stumble backwards and collapsed in the visitors chair with her hands still covering her mouth. I sat up to see if she was ok. I feared that I had possibly given her a heart attack. But she just stared at me with watery eyes soaking through her fingertips.
"Momma, are you ok?" I asked in my most worried voice. She didn’t reply. She just stared at me crying. She was speechless...

By The Way...

The plane lifted off the runway and into the air. The person next to you turns and quietly whispers in your ear, “I know I’m supposed to keep this a secret, but I absolutely must tell someone.”

                Three and a half hours till Washington. Three and a half hours till I’m free and away from this strange smelling citizen who just happened to be seated next to me. Three and a half hours of catching glances of his dirty blonde short and adult acne infested face decorated with the ugliest pair of shades ever Made in China. And of course, three and a half hours till I’m released and off duty away from his cheap Axe body spray and heavily starched button shirt; oh the horror.

                Almost on cue, he started talking. I made my bathroom trip early in hopes that I could peacefully sleep the remainder of the flight. I guess in attempts to ‘1 up me’ he took one as well. When he returned, before he could even buckle back in, he leaned over and whispered something into my ear.

“I know I’m supposed to keep this a secret, but I absolutely must tell someone. I have a bomb in my carry-on luggage… so I hope you didn’t make any plans for the rest of the day. By the way my name is Lance.” He said and faded back into position with an evil grin. I sat speechless and just stared at him while my brain interpreted what my ear drums had just received. I couldn’t move, I couldn’t speak, my eyes even failed to acknowledge the nature of blinking. I just sat there with pupils of stone and a physique to match.

“Oh, and in case you’re feeling heroic, I’ve already predicted that. So while you were in the little boys room freshening up, I slipped a paralyzing poison into you’re lovely cup of Sprite. Tasty eh?” He said with the most demonic grin I’ve ever seen outside of a Steven Spielberg scene. I didn’t know exactly what I was feeling or if I was actually feeling anything at all, but I knew I had to do something; I couldn’t just sit here a die with the only intelligence available to stop a current terrorist attack.

                The guy just leaned back in his chair and acted as if he had merely told me the time of day. It was written on his face that he was ready to die for his cause. But there was one problem… I wasn’t.

                After I built up enough energy within my concrete muscles, I somehow leaned over into his ear catching him fully off guard.

                “There’s something I should tell you as well. The flight attendant initially gave me the wrong drink… I drink Seirra mist…”

                The shock in his eyes was priceless. That very moment, I spoke for everyone on board, everyone against terrorism, everyone on land with loved ones who have lost their lives or would potentially lose theirs now. I spoke for souls of lost Soldiers, Marines, Airmen, Navy seamen, and anyone who has every stood up, or spoke up, against terrorism… and it felt lovely.

                “By the way, my name is Air Marshal Clemmons…”

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…”