David


As David splashed through the creek bed after leaving his mother, he couldn’t help but cry. He had loved her, and her death would have been horrible. Maybe he should have stayed and tried to help her fight them off, but she demanded he run. The fear in her voice had been so intense. He had to listen. He had to obey.

She had taught him to be strong, but she had also shown him there was great strength in recognizing his weaknesses. He would honor her with his life.

The creek was cold and he felt far enough along to step out and try to find shelter from the deepening darkness. As he clambered over the slippery rocks, his shin was gouged by a protruding twig.

Nothing like leaving a trail of blood when being chased by killers he thought to himself. Maybe they didn’t know about him. Maybe they wouldn’t try to find him. He has to get it cleaned up though, and he could see some smoke rising a little way away. The “Outcasts” don’t like fire, so it should be safe to venture toward it. Maybe they would have something to bandage his wound with as well.

David drew closer and could smell that some sort of oil was being burned with the fire. It looked like three old women were the only ones by the fire. David was out of options as he stepped from the cover of the woods.

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The Arrival


This is part of a book I’m writing as we go. A blog book if you will. Yeah, I know that’s not how people are supposed to go about writing/publishing/promoting books, but I’ve never been a fan of rules.

My previous post was the forward to it.

It’s too late. The fire is dying.

Shhh, I think I hear something.

Huddled around the dwindling fire, the women spoke with haggard voices that suited their aged faces.

They listened carefully for any movement, the smallest sign that tonight would bring what they had long waited for.

Leaves rustled in the distance, followed by the sharp snap of a twig.

Hurry, he’s coming! Bring the oil!

They placed the pan with the oil on the fire and soon a strange earthy aroma melded with the warmth from the fire. The rustling in the woods was coming closer. Even the fire seemed to quiver with anticipation.

Remember, he doesn’t know. It is not for us to tell him.

Shhh, he’s here.

The women’s knowing eyes looked at last on the face they had seen only in their visions…the frightened, dirty face of the boy who stumbled out of the woods.

Book: Forward


“Run, David! Dont let them see you!” He would never forget the look in his mother’s eyes. Desperation and fear were etched on her face.

David gave her one last hug, and with tears in his eyes he did as he was told. “Run David” echoed in his mind as he raced out the back door, willing himself not to look back.

The woods did not seem as frightening as the image in his mind of what was coming to his house. To his mother. He couldn’t have saved her. She was dead either way.

As he entered the saplings near the edge of the forest, he heard sounds of glass breaking, followed by a blood curdling scream. It would be over soon. Keep running, David told himself. After what seemed like hours, he came to a small river.

Though only 10 years old, David knew that the Outcasts wouldn’t venture into water. Even for him.

As he stepped into the cool water, he said quick prayer that his mother’s death would be quick and complete, and that he would survive the night. He didn’t know if God was real, but he needed all the help he could get.

Bedtime Stories: Double


Double, double, toil and trouble.

The steady surface hides a bubble.

One part works, the other plays.

One part runs, the other stays.

Part depressed, part amused,

Everyone remains confused.

How can two exist in one?

How can darkness hide the sun?

What the hell is wrong with me?

Chains of anger bind the free.

Ok, that’s fine. The way it goes.

It’s better mainly one side shows.

No one could understand what’s real,

Both parts make up the way I feel.

Show the pain, the somber side.

Easier the “good” to hide.

Keeping expectations low.

For days when there’s no joy to show.

But every now and then, I see

The part I wish was more of me.

The loving, happy, carefree part.

Deep within the icy heart.

If I can somehow find a way

To make that part grow and stay.

Then maybe in that burst of fun

The two would finally become one.

Bedtime stories: about a girl


Once upon a time there was a girl.

I know, I know, no one wants to hear another story about a girl. All the stories that could possibly be imagined, have been, until some psycho like Jodi arias comes along with an especially gruesome twist, but never the less, I’m a girl, and like all the other stupid bitches, Who go off doing their self-absorbed shit, I’m writing it.

This girl believed in love. This writer isn’t sure.

One day the girl received a letter saying her long lost love was returning. She excitedly got ready and started tidying her home. She wanted everything to be right, perfect.

When her love returned, at first things seemed well, but soon the arguments started. She knew she needed to do more, and be more of a good love, for the feeling of love to stay strong. She tried. She could be better. More thoughtful. Less moody. Happier. She tried. She worked. She learned.

The writer watched.

As the household got more under control, and as thing began to flow more smoothly. Life did become happier and still manageable. Love was kind of shelved during this time of transition, and when the time came to reexamine the feeling, it was still there, although through the process the girl had learned that love is not free.

Love is forged between endurance and sacrifice. It is bathed in pain and bears many battle scars. It is not a commitment to be made lightly, nor an adventure to go on with improper preparation. Love is synonymous with pain. Love should be revered, and love should be feared.

Wise women would keep that in mind.

This writer will.

goodnight , sleep tight.

Update


Haven’t been here in a while. Lots of things have been going on, and just in case anyone out there still comes by here, here’s an update.

Last year we had some bad storms. My in-law’s home was destroyed, but my mother-in-law saved me a few pieces of rubble which I’ve been making jewelry out of. I would like to sell them, but is that morally okay? People died in those storms.

I had a couple surgeries this summer. I have a sneaky suspicion my surgeon just has a thing for robots. My left leg used to be longer than the right (since the 1st surgery) but now (after the second) I think the right’s longer. It’s weird.

I’m still doing a clinical trial for a drug, and they extended the trial indefinitely. I’m pretty sure I’ve been on a placebo, but in a few months I get the real thing. It should be interesting.

We got a puppy. We still have our other dog. Puppies have sharp teeth. Like razors. And bad breath. And more pee than logically makes sense. I’m still more of a cat person.

My kids have been sick. Me too. Like, “wish I was dead” sick, but hopefully it will pass one way or another soon.

Lastly, I’m not sure about writing. I’m doubting my abilities. Being sick isn’t very inspirational either. I’m thinking about deleting this blog. If I ever started blogging again, I’d use my hypothetical pen name.

Signing off for now,