Tag Archives: grief

The Day a King Died

Posted on by under Short Stories

I had come to Memphis for a lie. That’s the cleanest way I know to say it. A lie wrapped in a good suit, tucked into a borrowed smile, paid for with cash I didn’t tell my wife about. The Lorraine Hotel sat warm and familiar under the April sun, its turquoise doors open like it was welcoming family instead of secrets. I signed the register with my real name anyway. Habit, I guess. Or guilt.

She was supposed to arrive later that afternoon. We’d planned it carelessly, like people do when they don’t believe the world can interrupt them. I stood outside my room on the second floor, leaning on the railing, listening to laughter drift up from the courtyard. Someone had a radio playing Sam Cooke low. Somewhere a man joked about barbecue. Life, ordinary and stubborn, kept moving.

Then Dr. King stepped out onto the balcony.

You could feel it when he appeared, like the air shifted to make room for him. I’d seen him once before, years earlier, from about half a block away, his voice rolling over us like thunder you trusted. Seeing him now, so close I could count the lines at the corner of his eyes, I felt suddenly exposed. Like he could look at me and know exactly why I was there.

He laughed at something someone said behind him. That’s the part that stays with me, the ease of it. The way his shoulders loosened. A man unguarded for half a second.

The sound that followed didn’t belong to the day. It cracked the air open. At first, my mind refused it. Firecracker. Car backfiring. Anything but what my body already knew. I saw him jerk, saw hands reach, heard shouting rip through the courtyard. Someone screamed his name, stretched it long and broken like it could pull him back.

I remember gripping the railing so hard my palms burned. Remember thinking, absurdly, this can’t be happening while I’m here for this reason. As if the world owed me better timing.

Chaos took over fast. Doors flew open. Feet pounded stairs. Sirens rose in the distance like a wail from the city’s chest. I backed into my room, heart hammering, and stared at the bed that had been waiting for sin. It looked small and stupid now.

I didn’t pack. I didn’t wait for her. I walked out of the Lorraine with my head down, moving against the crowd, against history unfolding in real time. I felt like a coward slipping away while something sacred bled out behind me.

That night I walked until my legs gave out. Memphis burned in places: anger, grief, disbelief spilling into the streets. I found myself sitting on a church stoop I didn’t recognize, listening to an old woman pray out loud for a man she’d never met and loved like kin.

That’s when it hit me: all my careful distance, all my excuses about bills and fear and “not being that kind of man,” and history had still dragged me into the room. I’d been close enough to hear the sound that changed everything, but not close enough to have earned it.

Dr. King talked about the mountaintop. About seeing the Promised Land even if he didn’t reach it. Sitting there in the dark, I realized I’d been living in the valley on purpose: ducking, hiding, telling myself survival was enough. It wasn’t.

I went home the next morning and told my wife the truth: not all the details, but enough. Enough to start over. I quit my job within a month and took work where the pay was thin and the days were long. I marched. I registered voters. I stood between angry men and frightened children and learned what real fear felt like, and what it meant to walk anyway.

Sometimes I think about that balcony. About how close I was to a moment that split the country open. I went to Memphis chasing something small and selfish, and I left carrying a weight I never set down. But it’s a good weight. A necessary one.

I didn’t get to choose the day I woke up. I only got to choose what I did after. And for the first time in my life, I chose to stand where I could be seen.

One Wish Left

Posted on by under Short Stories

“You have one wish left,” the small genie said. The words hung in the air, delicate and heavy and alive, shimmering like the motes of dust in the slanted afternoon light that glinted through the open window. I looked down at the ancient brass lamp beneath my hand, the indelible swirl of its handle worn smooth by centuries of use—and by me, only a day ago, idly polishing its tarnish before realizing what I held.

Only one wish left. I closed my eyes, crestfallen. My heart hammered. This is always the moment in the stories, the stories I loved as a child, before I believed—I brushed a lock of hair from my forehead and lifted my gaze to the genie, whose luminous eyes watched me with infinite patience. Two wishes gone—and folly.

First, I had blurted something silly: “I wish for a lifetime supply of chocolate!” The genie blinked, nodded, large eyes widening in surprise. In an instant, carts of treats appeared, boxes and boxes layered in my cramped apartment. At first, joy: rich, melting sweetness, dark and bittersweet, milk chocolate with caramel, white chocolate with pistachio. Friends came to marvel—and eat. But by day three, the sheer volume overwhelmed me. I cared less and less for the chocolate; it cluttered my space and weighed heavily on my conscience, knowing waste is a sin some larger than taste. I’d feel guilty even tossing a wrapper. The glamour faded fast.

Second wish: “I wish I had perfect memory.” I craved something useful, intellectual—value, I told myself. But I hadn’t considered how overwhelming it would be to carry every moment, every fact, every sliver of experience forever. I could recite my childhood like a movie, recall every factoid I had ever absorbed. But it became exhausting—the intrusions of petty regrets, buried embarrassments, every dismissible conversation replaying endlessly in my mind, jangling like bells I couldn’t silence. And that’s why we were here now, poised on the third and final wish.

The genie held space around me, a fountain of soft blue incense and mild laughter—kind, curious, still bound by promise, by rules, by the burden of hope in my hands. I squeezed the lamp’s base, feeling the sense of potential—and peril. What did I truly want? What didn’t I?

Time blurred. The afternoon light shifted to dusk. I walked through my apartment, chocolate boxes half-open, dozens of unshelled memories drifting inside me, carrying the world’s cumulative weight. Nothing felt right. What need hadn’t I noticed until now. That’s when I thought of my sister.

Lily had been my little sister once—bright hair, dimples, an impish grin that meant she was about to ransack my room. We’d shared dreams: traveling the world, painting sunsets, cataloguing stars—anything to chase adventure. But Lily had fallen ill years ago. A rare disease, doctors gave us hope, then took it away again. She fought until she couldn’t, and then, she was gone.

Now the memory of her emptiness sat like a winter bloom in my chest: beautiful, tragic. I’d come to hate how memory could include everything—especially things you don’t want to remember. My second wish—my perfect memory—did nothing to comfort me. It simply replayed Lily’s younger laugh more clearly than before, sharper than any real memory could be. Could that final wish change something? Could I turn back time? Could I—dare I—erase some things? Or was that too… dangerous?

I lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling. The genie drifted near, curiosity peaceful, not expectant. Sometimes I’d catch it sliding like smoke between the furniture, adjusting to human space. It had already grown fond of me—timid laughter whenever I disclosed my regrets about chocolate or pointed and laughed at my own absurdity.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

For what? For frivolous desires when the world had swallowed more essential things. For not noticing sooner. For being selfish.

A breeze rattled the window. I heard cars passing. I smelled late-summer jasmine outside.

What if…?

I sat up. The genie looked at me, hopeful. I closed my eyes again, imagining each possibility. I imagined making a wish to bring Lily back. But then, the story pitfalls flooded my imagination: tragedies I couldn’t predict, infinite consequences—duping nature, old cosmic laws. I imagined a perfect world, change I could effect—and the knowledge of what that perfect world might cost. I pictured friendships rearranged, timelines snapped, histories rewritten. Another whiff of jasmine, warm evening light on my eyelids. And I thought: what if I don’t try to solve everything? What if instead I learn from what I’ve lost?

I brushed my fingers over the lamp. I felt its energy thrumming faintly. The genie floated closer, luminous glow illuminating my face, revealing worry lines I had only just noticed.

I swallowed hard, then asked: “Can I… ask for something to help me grow? To become more—worthy?”

It blinked, then nodded. That was allowed. Wishes didn’t require grand outcomes, just sincerity. I looked inside, trying to separate need from want.

I thought of memory—burdened—and the way I’m more than memories. I thought of chocolate—pleasure—but empty pleasure. I thought of Lily and how love existed beyond death. I thought of myself—and what I still could be.

Then I spoke:

“I wish… I wish for the strength and clarity to live a life that honors those I love, and leaves the world better than I found it.”

The genie’s eyes swelled. The lamp glowed. A hush of wind through the room, a pulse of light, and then… stillness.

It looked at me, and then at the lamp. “Your wish,” it said, softly. There was no cosmic shimmer beyond the light in its eyes—just calm. The lamp’s glow faded, and then the genie dissolved back into it, tiny again, smiling.

I held the lamp, trembling. Strength and clarity: not a power or potion—something intangible, something lived in choices. I cried. Grief, relief, possibility. I felt my chest uncoil slightly, memory still there—but no longer choice without pain. Choice with purpose.

The next morning, I woke early. The jasmine scent followed me. I brewed tea and opened the Duolingo app—Spanish lessons. Lily had loved Spanish songs, dancing in the living room when I played them. I opened a notebook and began: Para Lily. I wrote a single sentence in Spanish and smiled.

Later, I laced running shoes and jogged down a local trail. The sun filtered through trees; each step felt lighter and fuller.

I looked at my phone, thought of the chocolate languishing in boxes. Not waste—it could feed others. I messaged a local food pantry: Hi—I have bulk unopened chocolate treats—would you be interested in them? They did. They came and took everything yesterday. I smiled at the relief of passing clutter on.

That night, I volunteered at a literacy program in town—an elementary reading group. I felt shy, shaky—still a new version of me. But I showed up, taught one kid to read “cat” that night, saw the pride in his eyes. I walked home thinking of Lily’s smile, thinking of the children I might brighten.

I tucked the lamp in a drawer, hidden beneath other simple things—a revised relic now just a keepsake reminding me of a choice made.

Because true wishes aren’t always supernatural—they’re the choices made every day, with strength and clarity and quiet courage. I think the genie left too, maybe forever. I don’t mind. I have enough magic here

Regret

Posted on by under Love & Relationships, Short Stories

I was sitting on the couch watching TV when there was an unexpected knock at the door. I paused the movie I was watching and made my way to the front door. “I wonder who it could be,” I said to myself as I bent down to look out the peephole. To my surprise, it was Elise, my ex-roommate’s girlfriend.

“Hey Jonah, I’m sorry to stop by like this.”

I stepped back from the door and paused for a moment. For the life of me, I couldn’t think of a reason for her to be outside my house. We hadn’t been particularly close when Matt and I lived together, kind of just existing on the edges of each other’s lives through him. But I decided to open the door anyway.

“Come on in. You want something to drink?” I heard her close the door behind herself then, softly reply, “No thank you.” I went back into the living room and slumped back into my spot on the couch. She shortly followed and sat down right beside me.

“We missed you at the funeral.” My heart sank to my feet as I took a good look at her. She was dressed in a modest black dress with her hair pulled back into a ponytail. Matt’s funeral was today and I had completely forgotten about it. Even though it had been a few months since he moved out, the two of us remained close. I stumbled over the words of my apology before she finally told me it was okay.

“I figured you probably weren’t gonna come, but I thought I’d stop by and check on you anyway.” She briefly gave me a run down of what happened at the funeral. She said the entire scene felt a bit suffocating – too many people, too many condolences that felt rehearsed, too much silence that would’ve drove Matt insane.

When she was done, we sat in awkward silence for what seemed like forever as we each tried to decide how to navigate the uneasy tension that had fallen on the room like a wet blanket. Eventually, I convinced myself to go into the kitchen and fix myself a drink. To my surprise, she was right on my heels.

“Great minds think alike, huh?” I nervously joked as I poured some vodka into a glass. We both let out a small chuckle that seemed to let some of the air out of the room. We went back into the living room and talked for a while. As she talked, I could tell that it was weighing on her. With the deft precision of a blunt instrument, I tried to change the subject to something a little less emotionally draining. Instantly, she was mass of sobbing humanity in my arms. I squeezed her tightly and did my best to console her through what was obvious an inconsolable moment.

“I’m so sorry to come over here and dump on you like this, but I didn’t know where else to go.” The stream of tears running down her cheeks was reminiscent of the Mississippi River. I didn’t say anything, I just hugged her tighter as my eyes began to spring a leak.

After what felt like eons, we released our hold on each other. But something else seemed to be drawing us closer to one another. I wildly shook my head, as if trying to free myself from a hypnotic trance. “Another drink?” She forced a smile for my sake and eagerly nodded as she handed me her glass. I decided to grab the bottle and return to the living room.

We drank in silence at first. Then came the stories – small fragmented pieces of Matt that we were clinging on to. We laughed, but it was the kind of laughter that cracked at the edges. But the third drink, Elise had stopped laughing. By the fourth, she looked at me with something unreadable in her expression and said, “I don’t want to go home.” And I knew what she meant, even if neither of us said it out loud.

We got up from our seats on the couch and slowly made our way towards my bedroom. Not because we were drunk, but because of the unspoken hesitation that I felt between us. Maybe it was a warning. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe it was too much vodka playing tricks on me.

When we reached the door to my bedroom, it was like something snapped. Elise reached out for me, fingers clenching at the waistband of my sweatpants, pulling me into a kiss that was all teeth and desperation. It wasn’t soft nor sweet. It felt like her grief had turned into something tangible – something she could sink into, drown in. I quickly lifted her up, my hands gripping her thighs as I kissed her harder than she had kissed me, like I was trying to erase the taste of vodka and sorrow from both of our mouths. She hooked her legs around my waist, pulling me closer to her. We fell back on the bed while Elise’s fingers fumbled with my drawstring, tugging at it impatiently before dragging her nails across my back. It hurt, but maybe that was the point.

In an instant, our clothes were a mess on the floor, and the only sounds between us were sharp breaths and the rustle of bedsheets. I unsteadily traced my lips down her neck, over her collarbone, leaving a trail of gentle kisses that would have almost been reverent if it weren’t for the vice grip I hap on her hips. Elise pulled me closer, her body arching into mine as if she needed more of something, anything. Every touch, every kiss, every movement between us felt like a plea – don’t stop, don’t think, don’t feel anything but this.

We moved together with the kind of desperation that had nothing to do with love and everything to do with forgetting. Everything about it was rough, feverish, our bodies colliding with an urgency that left no room for hesitation. Hands roamed freely, nails left marks, teeth grazed over skin – small, fleeting reminders that we were still alive, that we could still feel something, anything, even if it was only for the night.

Afterward, we laid together, our bodies slick with sweat, the air think with something neither of us wanted to name, let alone acknowledge. Elise laid on her back and traced a path across my chest while absently staring at the ceiling overhead. I laid beside her, my arm draped above my head and stared blankly at the TV mounted on the wall in front of me. The room smelled like a mixture of vodka, sex, and sweat. But the air between us had shifted, thickening with the weight of what we had just done. I could still feel the ghost of her skin on mine, taste her lips on mine, but the comfort our actions had given us both was already fading. There was nothing left now but the cold, creeping realization that it wasn’t going to make either of us feel any better.

“This was a mistake,” she whispered. I let out deep sigh, relieved that she said what was bouncing around in my vodka soaked mind. “Yeah.” But neither of us moved. The silence stretched out between us. But unlike before, there was a weight to it, much heavier than before, almost to the point of suffocating. Eventually, we lost our individual battles with sleep.

By morning, the feeling of regret was unbearable. It almost felt like Matt was standing in the corner, casting judgement on us. I woke up first, but pretended to be sleep so I wouldn’t disturb her. When she woke up, her hand immediately covered her face, I can only imagine that she was replaying the previous night’s events over in her head. She slipped out from under the covers in what I suppose was an attempt to not disturb me. Then she quickly got dressed and bolted for the door, never looking back to see that I was watching her the whole time. Maybe I should’ve tried to stop her, or at least said something. But what exactly? The only reason I didn’t do the same thing was because we were at my house. Once I heard my front door close, I quickly got in the shower and tried to scrub away the guilt and regret.

And just like that, we became strangers again.

Can’t Knock the Hu$$le

Posted on by under General

Good morning world. I wish I was writing this in a better frame of mind. Hell, I really wish I wasn’t writing it. But because these thoughts have been weighing so heavily on me for the past few days, I felt like I had to get them out.

Unless you just don’t care or you’ve been under a rock all week, you know the tragedy that happened on Sunday (March 31, 2019). There are too many superlatives to list that describe Ermias Joseph Asghedom (known to the world as Nipsey Hussle). Now I’m not here to claim that I knew this man, I’m not even claiming to be a fan of his music. He existed on the periphery of my consciousness. I was cognizant of what he was doing in the world and respected the hell out of the message he was putting out into the world. But when my girlfriend called me and told me of his untimely demise, I couldn’t help but cry.

I didn’t cry when ‘Pac died. I didn’t cry when B.I.G died. I did shed tears for Michael and Prince. I’ll probably cry whenever Hov leaves this mortal realm. And these are probably my 5 favorite artists of all time. But here’s a man who I couldn’t name more than 2 songs by him, yet I cried like I had lost a family member. I turned on his music, pulled a hat down low over my eyes, and grieved for a man that I had never met.

Then, like most of us did, I jumped on social media to post something that could potentially display the hurt I was feeling. And that first night, it was beautiful. People posted links to songs, pictures, etc. showing their respect for Nipsey. But after that, the shit got twisted. Since Sunday night, wild conspiracy theories and videos of his last moments have ran rampant all over social media. We’ve become so focused on his death that we’re ignoring his life.

I’ve taken the past few days to really look into what this man was doing with his life and platform. He was preaching black empowerment in a way that our community hasn’t seen or heard since Malcolm X laid down. This is what our focus should be on. Not how or why he lost his life. Lift up his legacy, don’t sensationalize his death.

That’s all I got for y’all today. Peace and love. Let’s run this marathon! #RIPNipsey