Tag Archives: getting old

Back At It

Posted on by under Short Stories

I heaved the typewriter onto the counter and blew the dust off. A gray cloud rose into the afternoon light, drifted toward the window, and hung there for a moment as if even the dust wasn’t sure where it belonged. I coughed.

“Jesus.”

The typewriter, naturally, had nothing to say. It had sat where I’d put it fifteen years ago, though I had moved it around the house several times since then. Office. Closet. Basement. Back to the office. It had survived two moves, a leaking water heater, a divorce in the family, three presidential elections, and my increasingly impressive collection of unopened mail. The machine was the same. I was not. I ran my hand over the top. The metal was cold beneath my palm. A few flecks of dust clung to my fingers. I rubbed them together. For some reason, I thought of Margaret.

That was the problem with remembering Margaret. Everything led back to her. A typewriter. A cup of coffee. The smell of rain. A song I hadn’t heard in twenty years. Sometimes it was something obvious. Sometimes it was nothing at all. A red scarf on a woman walking down the street. A jar of marmalade in the supermarket. The sound of someone laughing in the next room. A particular brand of hand soap.

Once, years after she died, I opened a hotel drawer and found a sewing kit. Margaret had always carried one. Three needles, white thread, black thread, and a tiny pair of scissors she insisted were useful. I stood there holding that little plastic packet for nearly ten minutes. I hadn’t known grief could hide in a sewing kit. But it could. Grief was resourceful that way. It could get into anything.

I looked at the machine and remembered the first time I’d brought it home. Margaret had been sitting cross-legged on the living-room floor, surrounded by books she’d promised to organize. She looked up at me and laughed.

“You bought another one?”

“It’s different.”

“They’re all different.”

“This one is better.”

“You said that about the last one.”

“The last one was garbage.”

She smiled. “You’re a terrible liar.”

I had kissed her forehead and carried the machine into my study. That had been thirty-two years ago. Back then, I thought I’d spend the rest of my life writing books. I was wrong. I spent the first half of my life writing them. I spent the second half learning how to live without them. And somewhere in between, I lost her. I turned away from the typewriter.

The kitchen clock said 3:17. I had been standing there for perhaps thirty seconds. It felt like it had been hours. I poured myself a drink. Then I poured the drink down the sink. That was new. Not the drinking. The stopping. I had been doing too much of the former and very little of the latter lately. The whiskey disappeared into the drain with a thin amber swirl. I watched it go.

“Good,” I said.

The kitchen did not congratulate me. It had never been particularly supportive. I rinsed the glass and set it upside down beside the sink. Then I stood there with both hands resting on the counter. I wondered what I had expected to happen. That was becoming a problem lately. I kept doing things without knowing what I wanted from them. Getting out of bed. Making coffee. Going to the grocery store. Answering emails. Ignoring other emails. Sleeping. Not sleeping. Living had become a list of activities without a reason attached.

The conversation with Daniel had happened three days earlier. I could still hear his voice.

“You don’t have to write another book.”

I’d laughed. “That’s a strange thing for an agent to tell an author.”

“You haven’t been an author for a long time.”

“I’m still a writer.”

He’d paused. “That distinction matters to you?”

“At the moment.”

We’d been sitting in the back room of a restaurant downtown, one of those places with exposed brick and candles on the tables. Daniel had ordered a steak. I’d ordered soup because my doctor had recently informed me that my body was beginning to resemble an old apartment building: structurally sound, but with several systems in desperate need of modernization. Daniel had pushed his phone across the table.

“Remember The Last House on Mercer Street?”

“Unfortunately.”

“It tested well.”

I stared at him. “The movie?”

He nodded. “They want the rights.”

I almost laughed again.

I’d written The Last House on Mercer Street fourteen years before Margaret died. It was my fifth novel. My best-selling novel. The one readers still stopped me to talk about, when they recognized me. The one I’d spent three years writing. The one Margaret had read before anyone else. She’d hated the ending. So I changed it. That was the kind of woman she was. Not because she thought she knew better, because she usually did.

“How much?” I asked. Daniel named the number. I stared at him.

“That can’t be right.”

“It is.”

“For the movie rights?”

“For the movie rights.”

I sat back. There was a strange sensation in my chest—not excitement, exactly. Something adjacent to it. Possibility, perhaps. A word I’d almost forgotten. Daniel watched me carefully.

“You could use the money.”

“I have money.”

“You have old money.”

“What’s wrong with old money?”

“Nothing. Except it doesn’t become more interesting just because you don’t spend it.”

I smiled. He didn’t. Then he said, “They asked whether you have anything else.”

“Anything else?”

“Another novel.”

The restaurant seemed to grow quieter. I looked toward the window. Cars crawled through the rain outside.

“I don’t write anymore.”

“I know.”

“Then why ask?”

“Because people like you always write again.”

I laughed. Not because it was funny. Because I didn’t know what else to do.

“No,” I told him.

Daniel took a sip of wine. “You don’t have to decide today.”

“I already did.”

“I know.”

That was the irritating thing about Daniel. He had known me for twenty-eight years. He knew when I was lying.

“You’re not going to stop asking,” I said.

“No.”

“Why?”

He looked at me for a long moment. “Because I remember who you were.”

I didn’t answer. Neither of us mentioned Margaret. We didn’t need to. Everyone who had known me before the silence understood. Every book I’d written had been dedicated to her. For Margaret. Sometimes that was all it said. Sometimes I’d added a sentence.

For Margaret, who believed in every word.

For Margaret, who taught me where the story begins.

For Margaret, always.

After she died, I couldn’t look at those pages. People told me I should keep writing. Friends. Editors. Daniel. Even Margaret’s sister, Elaine, once told me that Margaret would have wanted me to continue. That made me angry. How could any of them know? Margaret wasn’t a symbol. She wasn’t an inspirational quote. She wasn’t some beautiful ghost whose death existed to give my life meaning. She was my wife. She stole the blankets. She sang badly in the shower. She left cabinet doors open. She hated cilantro. She once drove forty minutes back to a grocery store because she’d accidentally bought salted butter when I needed unsalted for a recipe. She was real. And then she wasn’t.

My books had belonged to both of us. I wrote them. She lived with the man who did. Survived the process with little to no complaints. She listened to me bitch and moan about plots and characters and deadlines. She read every chapter. She told me when something didn’t work. She sat beside me when I couldn’t find the right word. Every dedication had been my way of saying that. So when she died, writing another book felt like taking something that belonged to us and pretending it belonged only to me. It felt wrong. An insult, somehow. So I stopped.

At first, I told people it was temporary. Then I told them I was taking a break. Then I stopped telling them anything. Years passed. The strange thing was how quickly a life could rearrange itself around an absence. The first year was unbearable. The second was merely terrible. By the fifth, I had routines. By the tenth, I had habits. By the twelfth, I had become comfortable.

That was the part nobody warned me about. Grief wasn’t always a wound. Sometimes it was furniture. You stopped noticing it was there. You walked around it. You sat beside it. You built your whole house around it. And eventually, you couldn’t imagine the room without it. Until Daniel called. Until the movie people came. Until he asked the question: “Do you have anything else?”

Three days later, I found myself standing in my kitchen with my old typewriter. I carried it into the study. The study hadn’t changed much. That was because I hadn’t changed it. Books still covered the shelves. Notes still sat in drawers. A broken desk lamp remained on the corner of my desk because Margaret had once said she’d fix it. She never did. Neither had I. I placed the typewriter on the desk. Then I sat down. The chair creaked beneath me. I stared at the blank sheet of paper. It was absurd how intimidating one white piece of paper could be. I’d written millions of words. I had killed characters. Married them. Buried them. Made them betray each other. I’d written storms, murders, weddings, fires, wars, ghosts, and love affairs. But now I couldn’t write a sentence. I put my fingers on the keys. Nothing. I lifted them. Nothing. I looked around the room.

“You’re not here,” I said. The words sounded ridiculous. I hadn’t spoken to her in years. Not really. Sometimes I talked to her when I was alone, but those conversations were mostly memories wearing her voice. This felt different. I looked at the empty chair across from the desk.

“I don’t know if I can do this.” Silence. I almost smiled.

“That’s what you’d say.”

I could hear her. Not literally. But close enough.

Then don’t do it.

I frowned. “That isn’t helpful.”

You always hated when I was right.

“I still do.”

The room remained silent. I pulled the paper closer. Then I typed the first sentence. The keys struck the page with a heavy, mechanical sound. One letter. Then another. I stopped. I stared at what I’d written. It wasn’t good. It wasn’t even particularly interesting. But it was a sentence.

After fourteen years, I had written a sentence. I leaned back. My heart was beating faster than it should. I typed another. Then another. The story didn’t arrive like lightning. It came quietly. A door. A house. A man standing in the rain. A woman who had been dead for twelve years. I stopped typing. My fingers remained suspended above the keys. I read the sentence again. A woman who had been dead for twelve years. My hands went cold. I hadn’t planned the woman. I hadn’t thought about Margaret. I hadn’t meant—

I looked toward the empty chair. Then back at the page. For the first time in fourteen years, I wondered what might happen if I kept going. So I did. The next sentence came slowly. The man did not know the woman. At least, he believed he didn’t. I stared at that. Then I laughed. A small, nervous sound.

“Well,” I said. “That’s convenient.”

The typewriter offered no opinion. So I continued. The house stood at the end of a road that had been washed out by the storm. There was no address. No mailbox. No porch light. Only a narrow path leading through wet grass to a front door painted blue. I stopped again. Blue. Margaret had loved blue doors. I had forgotten that. Or maybe I hadn’t.

That was the trouble with memory. You could never tell whether you had forgotten something or merely buried it somewhere deep enough that it took the right moment to uncover it. I leaned back and closed my eyes.

For a moment, I was thirty-four again. Margaret was standing beside me in a hardware store, holding paint samples.

“This one,” she said.

I pointed at the darkest blue. “That one?”

“No.”

“The one you’re holding?”

“No.”

She handed me another. “This one.”

I looked at it. “That’s basically the same color.”

“It is absolutely not the same color.”

“It’s blue.”

“It’s called midnight harbor.”

“Of course it is.”

She smiled. “You have no imagination.”

“I write novels.”

“You write novels with imaginary people. That doesn’t mean you can recognize blue.”

She bought the paint. We painted the front door that weekend. I had forgotten that. Until now. I opened my eyes. The room looked different. Not changed, just sharper. I placed my fingers on the keys. The man walked toward the blue door. He knocked. Nothing happened. He knocked again. Then, from somewhere inside the house, he heard a woman say his name. I stopped breathing. I looked at the sentence. My name was not in it. Neither was Margaret’s. But I knew the voice. I knew it so completely that for one irrational second I expected the study door to open. I waited, nothing. I looked at the clock, 4:02. I had been writing for forty-five minutes. It felt like it had only been five.

I stood up and walked to the window. Rain had begun tapping against the glass. The sky had darkened. I could see my reflection hovering over the backyard. An old man in a gray sweater. Hair thinner than it used to be. Shoulders slightly bent. A face that looked familiar but no longer belonged to the person I remembered being. Behind my reflection, the typewriter sat on the desk waiting. I turned around. I walked back to it. The page had only a few paragraphs. I read them again. There was nothing remarkable there. No masterpiece. No revelation. Just a man. A house. A dead woman. A blue door. And yet I felt something I hadn’t felt in years. Not happiness. Not exactly. Hunger. I wanted to know what happened next. That frightened me more than anything. Because wanting to know meant caring. And caring meant risking the thing I had spent fourteen years protecting myself from. Loss.

I sat down. I reached for the next sheet of paper. Then I heard a noise. Three soft knocks. I froze. They came from the front door. I looked at the clock, 4:11. Three knocks again. I stood. For a moment, I considered ignoring it. Nobody visited me without calling first. The house was quiet enough that I could hear the refrigerator running in the kitchen. Another knock. I walked down the hallway. My heart was beating harder now. I told myself it was the mail. A neighbor. A delivery. Someone at the wrong address. Anything ordinary. Anything except—

I opened the door. A woman stood on the porch. She was perhaps thirty years old. Dark hair. Gray coat. Rain shining on her shoulders. She looked at me without speaking. There was something familiar about her face. Not familiar in the way a stranger can resemble someone you’ve seen before. Familiar in the way a photograph can be familiar. She reached into her coat pocket. My stomach tightened. Then she held out a small envelope. It was yellow with age. My name was written across the front. In handwriting I knew immediately, Margaret’s. I stared at it. The woman said nothing. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe. I looked from the envelope to her face.

“Where did you get that?”

She lowered her hand slightly. “Your wife gave it to me.”

The world seemed to tilt. “My wife is dead.”

The woman nodded. “I know.”

I looked at the envelope again. There were only four words written on it. For when he writes again. My knees nearly gave out. The woman caught my arm.

“Are you all right?”

I stared at her. “No.”

She nodded as though that were the answer she’d expected. Then she said something that made the room inside my head go completely silent.

“She told me you wouldn’t believe me.”

I swallowed. “Who are you?”

The woman looked past me into the house. Her eyes settled on the study. On the typewriter. Then she looked back at me.

“My name is Claire.” She paused. “And I think you should read the letter.”

I took the envelope from her. My fingers trembled as I turned it over. The seal was still intact. Fourteen years. Fourteen years since I had heard Margaret’s voice. Fourteen years since I’d seen her handwriting. Fourteen years since I’d allowed myself to imagine that anything she had left behind could still change my life. I looked at Claire.

“Did she write this before she died?”

Claire hesitated. “Yes.”

“When?”

“Two days before.”

I stared at her. Margaret had known she was dying. I knew that much. What I hadn’t known was that she’d prepared for this. I looked down at the envelope. Then back at Claire.

“What does it say?”

“I don’t know.”

“You haven’t read it?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

She gave me a strange, almost apologetic smile. “Because it wasn’t meant for me.”

Rainwater dripped from the edge of her coat onto the porch. I suddenly became aware that she was shivering.

“Come inside.”

She stepped over the threshold. I closed the door. For the first time in fourteen years, my house contained a stranger. For the first time in fourteen years, I wasn’t alone.

And towards the back of the house, in the study, the typewriter waited beside a story I had not intended to write.

I carried the envelope into the study. Claire followed. I sat down. She remained standing. I ran my thumb beneath the edge of the seal. For a moment, I couldn’t do it. Then I thought of Margaret. Not the woman who had died. The woman who had lived. The woman who had laughed when I bought another typewriter. The woman who had painted the front door blue. The woman who had read every word I wrote. The woman who had apparently known I would write again. I opened the envelope. Inside was a single sheet of paper. I unfolded it. The handwriting was unmistakable. The first line made my hands begin to shake.

My love, If you are reading this, then you have started writing again.

I stopped. Claire looked at me. I kept reading.

And if you’ve started writing again, then I suppose I was right about one more thing. You never really stopped being a writer. You only stopped believing you were allowed to be one without me.

I closed my eyes. A tear fell onto the page. I wiped it away quickly. Then I read the next line.

There is something I never told you.

I opened my eyes. Outside, the rain had become heavier. The windows rattled softly in their frames. The typewriter sat between us. And for the first time since Margaret died, I understood that perhaps I had been wrong about grief. Maybe it wasn’t furniture. Maybe it wasn’t something you simply learned to walk around. Maybe grief was a door. Maybe you could spend years standing in front of it, afraid to turn the handle. And maybe, if you finally did, you would discover that the person you lost had been standing on the other side all along—not waiting to come back, because she couldn’t, but waiting for you to understand that loving her did not require you to stop living. I looked down at the letter. The next sentence waited beneath my trembling fingers.

There is something I never told you.

I read it again. Then I turned the page. And began

The Old Couple

Posted on by under Short Stories

Their wrinkled fingers still fit perfectly together. She kissed his forehead as he slept. The room was quiet except for the slow, steady rhythm of two lives winding down in unison. The soft hum of the ceiling fan stirred the curtains, letting in a pale ribbon of moonlight that rested gently across their bed. It traced the lines of their faces—etched by time, softened by love.

He stirred slightly at her touch, not waking, but knowing. After all these years, he always knew. Her thumb brushed over his knuckles, memorizing the shape of his hand as if she hadn’t done so a thousand times before. Her breathing was shallow now, but calm. There was no fear in her chest—only a quiet fullness. And then, like the tide pulling gently away from shore, memories began to come.

—

She is twenty-three again, standing in the rain outside a small train station, clutching a suitcase she packed too quickly. Her hair sticks to her cheeks, and she’s laughing—nervous, uncertain. He runs toward her, breathless, coat half-buttoned, calling her name like it’s the only word that matters.

“You’re late,” she teases.

“I couldn’t let you leave,” he says. That was the first time he held her hand.

—

In the present, his fingers tighten just slightly around hers, as if he, too, is following the thread backward.

—

He is twenty-seven, kneeling awkwardly in a field of wildflowers he didn’t realize would stain his pants. His voice shakes as he asks her to marry him. She doesn’t let him finish the sentence before saying yes. They laugh then—loud, unrestrained, the kind of laughter that echoes into forever.

—

A soft breath escapes her lips in the dim room. Her head tilts closer to his shoulder.

—

She is thirty-two, sitting on the kitchen floor at midnight, crying over a burnt dinner and unpaid bills. He sits beside her, pulling her close, whispering that they’ll figure it out. They always did.

—

He shifts faintly in the bed, his face relaxing, as if hearing those words again.

—

He is forty-five, holding their child for the first time, terrified and awestruck. She stands beside him, exhausted but radiant, watching him fall in love all over again.

“You’re going to spoil them,” she says.

“Absolutely,” he replies.

—

The moonlight moves slightly, inching across the room like time itself refusing to stop, even now.

—

She is sixty, dancing with him in the living room to a song neither of them remembers the name of. Their steps are clumsy, but it doesn’t matter. They sway more than dance, laughing when he nearly trips.

“Still got it,” he insists.

“Barely,” she smiles.

—

Back in the quiet bedroom, their breaths grow softer, slower.

—

He is seventy-eight, sitting beside her hospital bed after her surgery, refusing to leave. He reads to her from a book, though his voice cracks every few sentences.

“You can rest,” she tells him.

“I will,” he says. “When you’re home.”

—

Her fingers curl slightly, as if answering him across time.

—

Now, there is only this moment. The years have folded into something small enough to hold between their hands. She leans closer, her lips near his temple, her voice barely more than a whisper.

“I’m still here.”

And though his eyes never open, the faintest smile touches his lips.

“I know,” he breathes.

Their fingers remain intertwined as their breaths grow quieter… then quieter still. Like a song reaching its final note, gently, without resistance. And then—stillness. But not emptiness. Because somewhere, in the space where memories live, they are still laughing in the rain, still dancing in the living room, still holding hands for the very first time.

The Journal

Posted on by under Short Stories

As she packed his things, a journal fell open on the floor. Curious, she turned to the first page. The spine cracked softly as she lifted it, as though it hadn’t been opened in years. Dust floated in the late afternoon light, settling over cardboard boxes labeled in her careful handwriting: Kitchen, Clothes, Important Papers. She brushed her thumb over the first page, tracing the deliberate strokes of his pen.

Her father had always written like he spoke—measured, controlled, never wasting a word. But here, on this page, something felt… different. She began to read.

June 12, 1963 — Birmingham, Alabama

Mama says I’m too young to understand what’s going on, but I understand more than she thinks.

We walked farther than we ever have today. My feet hurt halfway through, but I didn’t say anything. Everybody else kept going, so I did too. Mr. Henry let me hold onto his coat again so I wouldn’t get lost in the crowd. There were so many people—more than I’ve ever seen in one place—moving together like one big body.

They were singing. Not just humming, but singing from somewhere deep. I didn’t know all the words, but I tried to follow along.

Then the police showed up. The singing didn’t stop, but it changed. Got louder. Stronger. Like people were daring the fear to come closer.

I saw dogs today. Big ones. Growling. Pulled tight on leashes like they wanted to tear through us.

Mama pulled me behind her when things started getting loud. I could feel her shaking, even though she kept her head up.

I think bravery looks like that. Not being unafraid… but not running. I don’t think I’ll ever forget it.

She swallowed hard, her fingers tightening slightly on the page. She’d read about these things in textbooks—photos, summaries, dates neatly printed in bold—but this… this was something else entirely. This was a boy watching it happen. Her father. She turned the page slowly.

March 7, 1965 — Selma, Alabama

I saw something today I wish I could unsee.

We weren’t supposed to go all the way across the bridge, but people said it was important. Said history was happening. I didn’t know what that meant, just that everyone seemed to believe it.

When we got there, the state troopers were already waiting.

It happened fast. Shouting. Then running. Then screaming.

A man next to me—older, maybe someone’s father—got hit so hard he dropped straight to the ground. I can still hear the sound it made. Like something breaking that shouldn’t.

I froze. I hate that I froze.

Mama dragged me back before things got worse, but I keep thinking… what if she hadn’t been there?

What kind of man stands still while someone else gets hurt?

I don’t like the answer. And I don’t like how angry I feel now. It sits in my chest like it’s waiting for something.

She exhaled slowly, pressing her lips together. Angry. He’d used that word before. Now she could see where it started. She hated that he had to endure that.

October 2, 1968 — Montgomery, Alabama

The letter came today. Official. Stamped. No room for misunderstanding. I’ve been drafted.

Mama cried before I even finished reading it. I told her it would be alright, that I’d come back, that it wasn’t as bad as people say. I don’t know why I said that. None of it felt true.

I folded the letter and put it back in the envelope like that might undo it somehow. It didn’t.

I keep thinking about all the things I haven’t done yet. All the places I haven’t seen. All the ways my life hasn’t even started.

And now it feels like it’s already over. I’m not afraid to say it here. I’m scared.

Her grip on the journal tightened. He’d never let himself sound like this. Not in front of her. Not ever. Maybe the reason why laid within these pages. She decided to keep reading to find out.

May 14, 1970 — Somewhere near Da Nang, Vietnam

There are sounds that follow you. Not the ones people think. Not the gunfire. Not the explosions. Those fade, eventually.

It’s the quiet after that stays. The kind of quiet where you realize who isn’t there anymore.

We lost three men today. I knew their faces. Their voices. One of them owed me five dollars.

Now all that’s left is their gear and the empty space where they should be.

I don’t write their names down because I don’t want to remember them like this. I already remember enough.

Sometimes I think parts of me are getting left behind here, piece by piece. I don’t know what’s going to be left when I go home.

A tear slipped down her cheek before she realized she was crying. She wiped it away quickly, but more followed. She tried her best to stifle them, but her efforts were in vain. She contemplated stopping, at least for now, but chose to continue.

January 3, 1971 — Back Home

Everyone keeps saying “welcome back” like I went on a trip. Like I didn’t leave something behind I can’t get back.

Mama hugged me so tight I thought she’d break. I hugged her back, but it felt… distant. Like I was watching it happen instead of being in it.

I tried to sleep in my own bed last night. Didn’t work.

Every time I closed my eyes, I was right back there.

So I stayed up instead. Sat in the dark and listened to the house breathe.

I don’t think I belong here anymore. But I don’t belong there either.

I don’t know where that leaves me.

She closed her eyes briefly, pressing the heel of her hand against her forehead. All those quiet nights. All those times she thought he was just… distant. He wasn’t distant. He was somewhere else entirely.

August 19, 1973 — Atlanta, Georgia

I told myself I needed the money. That’s how it starts. That’s how it always starts, right?

But if I’m being honest, it’s not just that. It’s the feeling. The edge. The way everything sharpens when you’re doing something you’re not supposed to.

For a few minutes, I don’t feel lost. I don’t feel broken. I feel… in control.

I know where this road leads. I just don’t seem to care enough to turn around.

Her stomach twisted. He had always been the model of self control and stability. She couldn’t imagine a time where he didn’t at least appear to be fully in charge of the situation. She almost stopped reading. But she didn’t. Her curiosity wouldn’t allow her to not finish.

February 11, 1975 — Fulton County Courthouse

Five years. That’s what the judge said.

He didn’t look at me when he said it. Maybe that made it easier.

Mama was there. Sitting in the back. Hands folded tight in her lap like she was holding herself together by force.

I wanted to tell her I was sorry. But the words didn’t come. They never do when they matter most.

So I just stood there and let them take me away.

Five years to think. Five years to face everything I’ve been running from.

I don’t know if I’m strong enough for that.

She leaned back against the wall, staring at the ceiling again. Five years. Five years of a life she had never known existed. Five years that he never spoke about, that neither of her parents ever spoke about. She wondered why they kept it from her. Did they think it would change how she looked at him? But it also explained why he pushed her so hard to be a model citizen.

September 3, 1977 — State Penitentiary

There’s a man here named Elijah who keeps talking to me about God.

I told him he’s wasting his time. He just smiled like he knew something I didn’t.

He says grace isn’t about deserving. Says if it was, nobody would get it.

I don’t know if I believe that. But I keep listening anyway.

Started reading more. Not just the Bible—everything. History, literature, anything I can get my hands on.

Turns out I’m not as dumb as I thought. Just never had the patience to sit still long enough to learn.

Funny what you can find out about yourself when you have nothing but time on your hands.

A small, sad smile crossed her face. That sounded like him. She wondered if he was always that way or did prison change him. She softly shook her head, trying to dispel the image of her father being incarcerated.

April 28, 1979 — State Penitentiary

Got word today—I earned my bachelor’s degree. Never thought I’d see that sentence written down.

If you had told me ten years ago this is where I’d be, I would’ve laughed in your face.

Now it feels like the first real thing I’ve done right.

I’m starting to think maybe a life can be rebuilt. Brick by brick. Mistake by mistake.

She turned the page more gently now. As if the story was shifting. As if she’d ruin something if she rushed to read the next entry.

June 15, 1981 — Atlanta, Georgia

I met a woman today. Didn’t expect that to matter. But it did. It does.

She laughed at something I said—not a polite laugh, not forced. Real. Warm.

I almost forgot how that sounds.

We talked longer than I planned to stay. About everything and nothing.

I didn’t tell her where I’ve been. Didn’t tell her who I used to be.

I don’t know when—or if—I will.

But for the first time in a long time, I want to be someone worth knowing.

Her eyes blurred again. She could see her mother so clearly in those words. She remembered seeing pictures of them together before she was born. Her mind quickly imagined what they were like back then.

November 2, 1983 — Atlanta, Georgia

She told me today we’re having a baby. I felt the floor drop out from under me.

Not because I don’t want it. Because I’m afraid I’ll ruin it.

I’ve spent so much of my life breaking things—opportunities, trust, people.

What if I do the same here?

What if I become the man I’ve been trying so hard to leave behind?

But when she put my hand on her stomach, none of that mattered for a moment.

Just… possibility.

I don’t know how to be a father. But I know I want to try.

Her breath caught in her throat. For as long as she should remember, he had been the pillar of strength in her life. A shining example of what a man could be, should be. It was hard for her to envision a version of him that was full of self-doubt.

July 9, 1984 — 2:17 AM — Grady Memorial Hospital

She’s here. I held her in my arms, and everything else fell away.

Every bad decision. Every regret. Every piece of anger I’ve been carrying for years.

Gone. Or at least… quieter. She’s so small. So new.

And somehow, she feels like a second chance I don’t deserve but have been given anyway.

I made her a promise tonight. Not out loud. But I meant it all the same.

I will spend the rest of my life becoming the kind of man she can be proud of.

No matter how long it takes.

Tears fell freely now. She didn’t try to stop them.

May 21, 2005 — Atlanta, Georgia

She asked me today what I was like when I was younger. I told her, “Not much different.”

That wasn’t the truth. The truth is, I’ve lived more lives than I can count.

Some I’m proud of. Most I’m not.

I’ve seen things I wish I could forget and done things I wish I could undo.

But if she ever reads this… I hope she understands something.

Everything good I became—every bit of patience, every lesson, every quiet moment I chose to stay instead of run—

Started the day she was born. She didn’t just change my life. She saved it.

The room around her was still. Soft, quiet—but not empty. She closed the journal slowly, pressing it against her chest as if she could hold all of him there—every version, every mistake, every quiet act of becoming who she had known him to be.

“I understand,” she whispered. And for the first time in her life, she truly did.

Waking up 45

Posted on by under General, Rants & Random Ramblings

Alright… let’s get the formalities out of the way…

“Happy birthday to me, happy birthday to me. Happy birthday, dear Wordsmith, happy birthday to me!”

Now that that’s done…

Good morning, world! I hope these words find you healthy, wealthy, and happy. I’m technically writing this the night before my actual 45th birthday, because I don’t really foresee myself sitting down to do it at any point during the day. So let’s get to it…

Today is the first day that I woke up and felt old. Usually when someone says that, there’s a negative connotation to it. Their body hurts, their health is failing, something along those lines. That’s not the case here. Don’t get me wrong, my back and hips are on fucking fire right now (I desperately need to go see a chiropractor). I feel like a full fledged adult now (mind you, I’m 45 years old. I’ve been an adult for a long fucking time now). Maybe it’s the sudden emergence of my first gray hair or the laundry list of health issues I’ve had to deal with lately. Either way, I fully understand why my dad was beyond content to spend his free time in the house, watching TV.

Speaking of my father, I’m picking up more and more of his habits as I get older. First came the affinity for coffee. It started off innocently, but I’m now at the point where I don’t really think I can function at my highest level without a cup or two. Hell, I kind want a cup right now! (It’s currently 12:15am for context) I’m even getting to the point where I prefer to drink my coffee with less sugar like he did. Next, came the mannerisms. It used to be a joke. I would lightheartedly say that Willis was speaking through me. But now, I think there might be some validity to that. Or maybe I was always this way and now I’m noticing it more. Either way, if you met me in my mid-30’s, you actually met my father. Lucky you.

I’m also coming to the realization that I need to do a better job of limiting people’s access to me. I’m starting to feel like I’m too old to be inundated with the bullshit that some people decide to populate the word with. With that being said, I’m gonna take some time over the next few days to prune my social media. Someone who shall remain nameless would say that I need to completely get rid of it. And while she might have a point, I don’t necessarily think I’m quite there yet. Maybe one day. Baby steps and all.

That’s all I got for you folks today. Thank you in advance for al the birthday well wishes. Peace and love

Birthday

Posted on by under Short Stories

The sound of the rain hitting the roof created a peaceful rhythm. He closed his eyes and let it settle into him, like a familiar song he hadn’t realized he missed. The living room smelled faintly of coffee and the cinnamon candle he had lit earlier, its warm glow softening the edges of the space.

Elias had always liked rain. It made the world feel smaller, cozier—like everything unnecessary was being washed away. And on a day that felt emptier than he’d expected, the rain was doing its best to fill the gaps.

He glanced at the small cupcake on the kitchen counter. It wasn’t much. But then again, he hadn’t intended to make much of a fuss. He told himself that celebrating alone wasn’t inherently sad—just… different. A quieter kind of marking time.

Still, a birthday had a way of making even a quiet house feel like it was holding its breath.

He moved to the window, watching the droplets race each other down the glass. Streetlights glowed amber, blurring into soft halos in the rain. Across the road, in the neighbor’s apartment, someone was laughing. A warm, full-bodied sound that reminded him of Sunday dinners from years ago—back when his family lived close enough for spontaneous visits and half-burned cakes and birthday songs sung off-key.

He smiled at the memory. Not wistfully, but gratefully.

He pulled the old patchwork blanket over his shoulders, the one his sister had made for him long ago. Though they didn’t talk as much now, he still felt her in every uneven stitch. Funny how people stayed with you, even when they weren’t physically there.

Elias returned to the table, running a thumb along the ridges of the cupcake wrapper. He hadn’t planned on lighting the candle; it felt childish, maybe a little silly. But the warmth of the room, the rain’s steady song, and the memory of those off-key birthday serenades nudged him gently. So he struck a match.

The tiny flame bloomed, reflecting in the kitchen window like a second star. It made the whole room feel brighter—not because it lit anything significant, but because it tried. There was something tender about that.

He took a slow breath and closed his eyes. What do you want this year, Elias? The question came softly, like a friend nudging him from across the table. Not success. Not perfection. Not a grand adventure. He wanted something simpler. Something steadier. He wanted warmth. Connection. A little courage. Maybe a little more softness for himself.

When he opened his eyes, the candle flame wavered—as if acknowledging the thought. He blew it out gently.

The smoke curled upward, mixing with the faint scent of cinnamon. And suddenly the room didn’t feel lonely. It felt peaceful. It felt like a beginning rather than an empty space.

He sat back, picked up his phone, and opened a blank message—this time addressed to his sister.

Hey. Been thinking about you today. Miss you. Want to catch up soon?

He hesitated only a second before hitting send.

Outside, the rain softened to a drizzle, as if even the sky was easing into a calmer rhythm. The house felt warmer now, not because anything had changed dramatically, but because Elias had finally let a little warmth in. And that was enough.

The Sleeper

Posted on by under Short Stories

Every time I fall asleep, one year passes until I wake up again. It started on my 18th birthday. That night was ordinary—cake with too-sweet frosting, laughter echoing off the kitchen walls, a wish made over flickering candles I barely remember. I went to bed thinking about college applications and crushes, about leaving town and starting something new. I closed my eyes with the weightless hope of youth and opened them to find the calendar read June 20, 2024.

My room was dustier. The posters on the wall had faded to ghosts of their former selves. The vines outside my window had crept deeper into the cracks of the siding, pulling the house back toward the earth. I stumbled into the kitchen, heart pounding, and found news clippings on the fridge: Local Teen Still Missing, Presumed Dead. My name. My face. My family frozen in an old photo, smiling like we hadn’t yet fractured. I thought it was a dream. It had to be. But then I blinked—and the world spun forward again.

I’ve tried everything—staying awake for days, flooding my body with caffeine until my hands shook, tying myself to doorframes, sleeping in hospital lights. But it always comes. That moment when my body betrays me. When exhaustion wins. And when I wake… the world is one year older.

My parents grieved, then grew distant. My mother’s hair grayed, my father’s eyes dulled. My friends moved on, their lives arcing forward while mine stuttered like a skipped record. Technology surged ahead. Fashion shifted. The slang changed. Seasons lost their rhythm—summer felt like winter, spring was hot and wrong. The sun started rising at odd angles, like even it was tired of keeping time.

By my twenty-fifth wake-up, the world had grown quieter. Cities had begun to erode. Streets cracked and were swallowed by roots. Trees leaned harder into broken buildings. My childhood home was boarded up, condemned. I wandered the neighborhood like a ghost until a neighbor—one of the few who hadn’t moved or died—spotted me.

“You haven’t aged a day,” he whispered, backing away like I was a specter. “They say you’re cursed.”

He wasn’t wrong. Eventually, I stopped trying to explain. You can only tell someone you’re a walking paradox so many times before the disbelief calcifies into fear. Instead, I began to plan my years like missions. I left letters in library books, hid instructions in vaults only I knew how to open, buried messages under stone. I studied languages. I watched how the world tilted—how solar flares impacted climate, how artificial intelligence reshaped the economy, how the sky itself sometimes flickered. I learned to garden. Not because I’d ever see the bloom, but because I wanted to leave something living behind.

Then, on my thirty-second wake-up, I met Aria. She was standing in front of an abandoned bookstore, painting a mural of a phoenix wrapped in clock gears. I watched her for an hour before she turned and said, “You look lost. Or late.”

She believed me—without flinching. Called me her Rip Van Winkle with a clockwork heart. She asked questions no one had before: What do you miss the most? Have you ever left something behind on purpose?

That day, we built a capsule together—filled it with pieces of our lives: her sketchbook, a photo of us, my notebook scrawled with maps of possible futures. We buried it under the old bell tower, sealing it with a promise: if we found each other again, we’d dig it up.

The next time I woke, she was gone. Only a note remained, brittle and faded like old leaves: If you ever wake again, find me in Florence. That was twenty-four wake-ups ago.

I’ve searched across continents. Florence, Italy first—then Florence, Oregon. Every Florence I could find. Some didn’t exist anymore. Some had changed their names. But I searched anyway. I asked about her in dusty towns and sleek arcologies. I studied old security footage, traced murals, found fragments of the phoenix in back alleys and gallery ruins.

I’m almost seventy now, though I still look eighteen. My bones don’t ache, but my soul does. I’ve watched decades pass by the handful. I’ve outlived my friends, my parents, and the future I once imagined. But I haven’t stopped searching for her.

Tonight, as my eyes grow heavy, I hold her last note to my chest. The ink is nearly gone, but I’ve memorized every letter. I whisper her name like a prayer, willing my dreams to hold steady. Because maybe—just maybe—next year will be the one I find her. Or maybe next time I wake, the world will finally stop spinning without me.

Peter Pan Vs. Captain Hook (aka The Eternal Struggle)

Posted on by under General

Good evening world! I hope this blog finds you in good health and even better spirits. If I haven’t said it previously, Happy New Year! Aren’t you happy that all that Mayan apocalypse talk was just a bunch of bull? I know I am, I got things to do in 2013. I know you’re probably looking at the title and wondering, “What in the world is this fool gonna talk about today?” Well, lets not waste anymore time and get right into it.

As I sit here on this dreary Wednesday in Georgia, I feel at conflict with myself. Those that know me, and I mean truly know me, know that I struggle with the Peter Pan Syndrome. If you don’t know what the Peter Pan Syndrome is, that’s what Wikipedia is for. I feel like I’ve said that before, but I digress. Now while I’m not a full-blown, Michael Jackson-esque man-child, I do have my moments where being an adult is just not what’s up. But then again, I think we’re all prone to those gaps in maturity at times. I just think mine are more pronounced, or they tend to last longer. So maybe the real gaps are when I chose to be mature and do what is necessary instead of what I want. Either way.

I think the reason why I’m so wrapped up in my Peter Pan lifestyle is because I have no real responsibilities. I have no children, no other life that I’m responsible for. No connections to others that would keep me from floating off with the slightest breeze. Enter our villain (read: hero), Captain Hook. Now, I know the image that comes to mind when you think of Captain Hook is nowhere near heroic. But, trust me, he’s the embodiment of everything that is good when it pertains to this story. Captain Hook represents the part of me that wants to become a real life grown up. That part that wants to settle down (not settle, that’s that s*** we just don’t do), get married, have some kids, establish some roots. So the next time the wind blows, I don’t feel the urge to float away.

Its funny to me to describe it like this. Because to you, these are just words on a screen. But to me, this is an epic battle. I can visualize Peter Pan, in a green graphic tee and some True Religion jeans (you weren’t expecting tights, were you?), doing battle with an Armani suit-clad Captain Hook. I wish I was an artist, I would put the image on canvas. Maybe I’ll see if I can find somebody to do it for me, sounds like an interesting piece to hang in my living room one day.

Well, that’s all I have today. So until next time, peace and love…