Empathy is not a sport.
It doesn’t come a little at a time-
Yelling out the window at
homeless people begging for
money is a game played by
control freaks of the world.
“Mommy. What was that angry
man doing to that sad man on the street?”
“Widening the divide. Some people
are dark in the places where they
should be light but they like the dark more.”
“I don’t like that. I don’t want to like the dark more.”
“Don’t worry. You feel too well for that.”
He winced as the window rolled down. But, this time,
a little voice filled with hope filled his uneasy mind.
A mother’s murmur
lying beside the gravestone
of humanity gives peace
and tranquility a final hope
Come to the shadowed
spaces where the echoes live
I received a touching review on ‘Don’t Be A Sally’ a short story based on true events.
“Wonderful short story about Adam and Goldie, lyrical, honest, masterfully written (with a sad touch), plus a lot of suspense along the way and a great character building. A remarkable treat for short story-readers!” –Victoria Ohlsson
Victoria is a fantastic author and has a wonderful blog which you can find here: https://raynotbradbury.com/
An excerpt, Chapter 1
His heart pounded in his chest and his ears rang. He was in hell. He was sure of it. This moment; with this feeling of sickness, and pure hatred for what he felt, was hell. Welcome to hell.
No vomit came from his stomach. No vomit came from his throat and no vomit came from his mouth. His mid-section wretched up and down looking like an October cat in a filthy dance. Up and down his body rose and nothing came out. Yet he smelled his own vomit lingering all about him. Again, he rose up, and again he produced nothing. Beads of sweat were on his forehead and it wasn’t long before they fell onto the surface of the tub. He lurched heavily downward with a massive cough and something came up. Something vile and red landed onto the tub’s floor. Black. He saw nothing but black as he slowly faded and fainted again.
I think about my cousin, Adam, often. I haven’t spoken to him in months. He has chosen a path that most wouldn’t and I can only hope he is as happy as possible. The photo on the cover is the valley where the story takes place. I took the photo. This is a self published, raw and honest story.
Most of the people who walked by him looked happy.
He was curious about why and about how they were
so effortlessly happy without knowing they were.
One woman even laughed, her head raised slightly,
and her eyes shined as her fingers slid her
red hair behind her ear. She and her friend seemed to be
floating as they passed by while he studied their well-being.
The bench he was sitting on felt empty. He wanted to feel full and alive
and to feel and be like the two happy women without having to
study how to be anything at all, but he didn’t know how. Even the sun
shinning down seemed to brighten everyone’s hue, but he felt none of this;
he could only see it and he knew it wasn’t for him. He wondered if anyone
noticed him; his emptiness he was trying to cure while living. He closed
his eyes and hoped when he opened them again he would feel differently.
He decided he would count to his favorite number.
Thanks for reading!
My Published Work:
Hope needs no backbone
It’s the foundation and pillar
of every positive change
progressing toward our finality
while carrying us without weakness
The structure of one line can change mood and attitude. Much like receiving incredible news that you can’t share with your peers, but wish to so badly that you need to write about it using the iceberg theory made famous by Hemingway. I’m having an incredible day, and I hope you all are having the same. Years ago I hoped and prayed and now the steps are concrete. Hope lives in the wind and no matter where you are, you can find at least a little amount of wind.
The Less is leaving
Poured over by fulfillment
As these words and thoughts
continue to grow
There are 171,476 current
words in the English language.
There are roughly 6,500
different languages on Earth.
We have 195 countries,
and seven continents
with four gorgeous oceans.
There is one human race.
Let’s figure this out.
I have two specific writing goals in mind. One is out of my hands. I’ve submitted and now I wait. The other, I just found, and am hungry to attempt success. I think it’s possible, and no matter how I think about it, the future will not wait.
I enjoy writing so much that I believe it is a necessity in my life. To have it removed, or taken away, would be torture. I had enough of that in my childhood years so I think I’ll continue to write until I am moved from this word.
I’m ready for this challenge. To knock on the door of a publication the was out of reach a few years ago, that now is not, and I know this to my core. Even if I fail with them I will produce something concrete and lasting and it will find a place to be read. Either way, a form of success will come to fruition. I’ve yet to write the pieces. I feel them growing. I look forward to knowing them.
Life is a funny thing. And a lovely thing.
Thank you for being with me. I hope whatever goals you may have come to be in the best possible way.
We saw it during a snow storm. The face smiled at us and whistled a friendly thing. We hadn’t known many things friendly. We were alone again. Standing in the storm with the rest of the normal we knew. Only, there was something in that face which told of another way. So, we searched on, carrying Hope as our witness until fruition of proof shapes itself no longer around metallic rage.