I lie because there are no true words to describe the feelings in my soul.

No words to describe the tremendous amount of anxiety and fear I hold in my heart.

No words to tell of my over whelming sadness.

No words to explain that these feelings overtook me.

I lie because my face doesn’t match my soul.

I lie because I don’t want to be a burden.

I’m doing great.

*Recently, I have been having the worst anxiety, and writing about it and acknowleging that it is there helps immensley. Everytime I look at this short piece, it helps calm me a little bit.*

America,

Your rotten core,

Built of blood and tears,

And a veneer of good intentions.

America,

You came up from nothing,

A bunch of religious runways,

Yet now you scorn the other runaways.

America,

Your blood is boiling,

Polluted with plastic and grease

America,

Your heart is breaking,

Smashed to bits by rioters waving flags.

America,

Your throat is tightening,

Knelt on by your own people.

America,

Your skin is peeling,

From the sunburn of progress.

America,

Your cancer is growing,

Fed by the flesh of

Childhood obesity.

America,

Your Miss America Models are crying

Because they're starving

For the love they can't give themselves.

America,

Is this what you wanted?

America,

I think you need to sit back.

Restart.

Let your body heal itself

From these self inflicted wounds.

America, you are more than this.

America, don't drown in this.

America,

If you want us to heal,

You need to start with yourself.

So I haven’t posted any new stories lately which I feel bad about but being a part of this site has really been helpful.

When I was 16 my high school English teacher (a really great person, one of my favorites) took me to the Clark County Event Center for a writing convention.

He did this with his own money on his own time on the weekend. He did this because he loved my essays, creative stories and even my nonfiction works or opinionated historical research papers... He believed that I could do this for a living and for a long time I still couldn’t see what he saw or believe in myself.

I tried many times to since then but recently I had a baby and I don’t know how many of you know this but full time daycare for infants so mothers can go back to work is on average $1000 a month and much higher for more reputable establishments. And you know I’m not going to send my son anywhere I might think a daycare teacher might hang him ( seriously there are horror stories like that all the time). So I decided to stay at home and we found a way to make it work financially.

With all this time on my hands now ( I was working 60 hour weeks before I got pregnant so I almost didn’t know what free time was like anymore) and seemingly no purpose besides making my son not die, I decided it was time again. This time I have to really buckle down and remember that I am this person who used to love writing, that used to create people and whole worlds out of thin air.

It’s my solution really. It’s my way to work without killing myself for some employer who would replace me before even reading my obituary. It’s my way to combat this relentless postpartum depression. It’s my way to finally be who I am supposed to be without sacrificing being able to provide for my family even if it’s not fiscally immediate.

I’ve written myself a schedule, because I’ve realized I do better with one rather than left to my own devises, and so far I’m on track and doing well. Happy even.

My goal is to finish and release a 500 page collection of short stories (either self published or through a publisher) while simultaneously working on and completing one or two full length novels to be released after, staggered.

These full lengths will mostly be completions of teasers included in the original collection to get people excited for upcoming publications.

Im so excited to finally be doing this and more so to be making progress. So if you don’t see me on the site for a while just know I’m still writing.

It doesn't happen much these days but in my childhood, on breezy afternoons in the spring, my grandma would open all the doors and windows and let the Carolina air flow throughout the house. I was free to go in and out at my leisure, so long as I stayed in the yard.

Most of the time, I would stand outside picking crab apples off the tree in the front yard. Some days, I'd just watch bugs crawl in and out of the rotting fruit that'd fallen to the earth. On one particular day, I grew bored of this and walked inside seeking entertainment. As I stepped in, I heard a woman's voice floating down from one of the bedrooms. I walked by the staircase and saw my grandparents' bedroom door wide open, sunlight pouring into the hallway. Music swelled behind the woman's voice as she sang longingly in a language I did not understand. Her vibrato bounced off of the walls and rode the breeze down into my ears. The notes she held were endless, and I stood and listened before going on my way.

My grandparents' love for opera and classical was nothing new. They cared very little for the noise of contemporary artists, and took great joy in easy listening or antiquated musicals. The two were deceptively intellectual and artistically-minded, qualtities I did not fully appreciate until adulthood.

The reason this sticks out is because it is the only moment I can recall in which I took the time to just....be. It was not a concious effort, simply a point in time in which there was no more than an operatic cry, a breeze on my skin and the crsip smell of spring in the air. Sometimes, I go back to this memory and am small child looking up into the hallway. Other times, I am an adult watching myself experience bliss for the very first time.

When asked about a happy place, this is where I go. I came across a passage in a Hermann Hesse novel in which hearing a symphony is described as a transcendent experience that quickly gives way to a dream-like state. When I read this, my brain shifted to that old memory, and I was forced to set the book down and revisit my early glimmers of transcendence.

Papa died five years ago. Grandma is still here. She doesn't hear so well anymore, and so their old records are in the basement collecting dust. She chills easily, and so the windows stay closed, even on temperate days.

I moved back into the house a year ago, and brought a record player of my own. I plugged it up next to Grandma's favorite chair and every once in a while, I put on something I think she'll like. Luckily, she tends to hear the music just fine. And every time she listens, I secretly hope to catch her looking up the stairs into the hallway and catch sunlight pouring from her room.

When I was four months pregnant, and I was going through the worst time of my life with my child's dad, I needed something. My anger was so bad at that time hormones were like off the charts. I had terrible days at work I was going off the deep end the water literally to my fucking female mustache! I read one book that I was recommended not personally but it was recommended for beginners in spirituality ”Fear.” by Thich Nhat Hanh. It was a tool of enlightenment for me its this one passage where he elaborated on things that may seem like annoyances like dishes piling up and even stopping at every red light, it is the universe telling you to slow down and take a breath take in the moment. This practice has helped me with confidence fear of the unknown any possible thing you believe you lack it teaches you it's within and shows you how to bring it out of you! It was never in the book; it was in me meditation helped bring it out of me. The experience has transformed me into someone I'm very proud of, even with my writing and taking new risks and being more open to new opportunities. It helped me submit my works to you all, and I appreciate every single person on here! Thank you so much!

I’m sorry I didn’t say anything. Sorry that those few minutes you managed to make for me were ruined by the accusing way I looked at you. I’m sorry that you felt the need to look away.

What I wanted most was to say I understand-- that I still love and respect you and that I could never hold any of this against you.

But when I gave you that coffee mug all those years ago, I didn’t buy it because it was the cheapest thing I could find-- I bought it because at the time I believed you were the greatest Dad in the entire world.

I didn’t think about the other fifty mugs on the shelf, each one bearing the exact same words.

But I’ve gotten pretty good at seeing things in context now-- I can see that you’re just another human, that you get stressed and lonely and thrilled and make split second choices without even knowing you’ve made them just like everyone else does.

You’d think that discovering the context of someone would make them more understandable and interesting-- but all it seems to do is make you look so small.

But that’s really all just a part of growing up, right? You find out what sex is, your parents gain new dimensions, and you realize that you won’t be a kid forever.

But the world’s been starting to reveal itself to me in ways id never considered-- with jokes about where prostitutes come from and comments about the excessive amount of melanin in absent fathers--

To be clear I know you’re more than this. You’re more than a statistic or a stereotype-- like I said, I’ve discovered your humanity.

So when someone mentions that everyone’s family seems to be broken these days, I remind myself that we’re different-- that you’re different-- that I know who you are at heart, cocaine be damned. I remember how good you are at chess, how your tone softens when I cry, how you cover up your social fumblings with jokes.

But it’s hard to remember any of these things when I haven’t seen you for a year. When I can’t send you a fathers’ day card because I’m worried you’ll take it the wrong way. When you couldn’t make it to my graduation even though you knew about it a month in advance.

It’s hard to remember you’re the same man who taught me how to eat crawfish and told ghost stories to my friends-- hard to believe you’re any different from the other deadbeat dads when the first word that comes to mind when I hear your name is absent.

So I can tell you how much I love you, how much I admire you and how much I want you to get better.

I can even tell you I forgive you.

But I can’t tell you I understand.

My dad didn’t die. He was supposed to. I flew across half of our madly spinning space-rock to be with him, and he didn’t die. I packed up my notebooks of equations and cancelled my meetings in the dim offices of old men healthier than him to be by his side. But he didn’t follow through. Not the first time he hasn’t followed through. Not the first time I’ve dropped everything for him. It’s always his heart that doesn’t work right; that’s what puts him into the hospital, and what makes him stay out of my life.

My dad didn’t die. And so I have no idea what it is to grieve a father’s death. I have grieved his addiction, I have grieved his absence, but I have not grieved his passing. I got off the plane, jetlagged and a thousand euros poorer from the last-minute trip. I felt numb, trying to explain to the man at immigration why I was in Detroit. I didn’t know yet that my dad’s heart had started to work again while I was in the air. I didn’t know the music hadn’t died.

See, that’s the thing about him. My dad. His heart doesn’t work, but my god does that man make love to symphonies, embrace the curves of his violin, whisper sweet nothings to the classical masters. For every ounce of love that he withholds from me, he puts a magnum of wild, rushing adoration into that instrument. It overflows, it engulfs me, it overwhelms me, ever since my earliest days. With that adoration he gave our family life, provided us shelter, brought adventures to us. With that adoration he gave me the gift of passion and rhythm and the endless quest for the contradiction that is perfection in art. See, his heart doesn’t work, but his music – oh, his music – it works like the sun shines and the waves crash. The world can’t go on without it.

Up high in the clouds, disconnected from the truth, I grieved. I thought my dad’s heart stopped working once and for all; I thought he had died. And I didn’t grieve it. But in that same moment, when I thought the music had died, see, I grieved its passing.

So I do not know what it is to grieve a father’s death. I landed, and I learned that his heart – which the doctors say is bigger than normal, to all of our shock – had started to work again. I did not need to grieve that. But for one day, one transoceanic flight, I thought the music had died. And I know what it is to feel that loss.

It seemed like there was never enough in the foster home. Enough money, enough food, enough love. But at Christmas, my own mom came and snatched me away, a rare visit I hadn’t even known was coming.

The foster mom watched us drive away with folded arms, her brows heavy over her eyes. I tried not to think about what would happen when I had to go back.

In the car, I sat watching her drive. Her eyes on the road, she reached out often to touch my hair, my hand, my dress. I saw tears fall once, but she only glanced at me without explaining, dashing them away with her long, slender fingers.

My own hands were small, my fingers still chubby with childish roundness, and I wondered if they would be like hers, when I grew up. I examined them to keep from staring at her. She was so beautiful and she smelled like something exotic I couldn’t name. It was probably right that I should be in a foster home; I was nothing like her with my fat cheeks, and my hair that refused to be corralled. I shed my own tears there in the car, but I hid them so she wouldn’t see. My tears made me tired so I leaned over and fell asleep with my head on her lap, as she drove into the darkness.

I woke to the sound of her singing, her soft voice mournful as she poured her heart out. She sang of loneliness and regret, the pang of separation so intense, she could taste it. She sang of lying wakeful in the night, wondering how I was and if I missed her too. She sang of the fear that I would forget her. She shuddered with sobs and caressed my shoulder with one hand, the other still firmly on the wheel. I snuggled into her lap and went back to sleep, smiling. My mother loved and wanted me, missed me like I missed her.

Waking again to silence. I sat up and saw her standing outside the car, the golden rays of the sunrise framing her before them. I crept out and slid under her arm and we watched the sun come up together from a horizon frothed with waves.

“Where are we, momma?”

“At the beach, baby.”

“Whose house is this?”

“It’s our house, sweetheart.”

I clutched my hands to my chest. Dare I hope?

“I live here, too?” My voice squeaked out. She laughed as she gathered me in, picking me up like a baby and cradling me against her body. I grabbed onto her, a surge of joy building in my chest as she swung me around.

“You live here too.” She assured me. “Merry Christmas, baby.”

Arriving at the door with

ugly sweater adorned

coat taken and pleasantries made

I move about the party as

the minutes fade

Spirits in hand mostly hors d’oeuvres

some tasty and pleasantly devoured

but one - face frozen as the taste hits

my tongue and then a sound

I turn to see where it fits

A blonde, with the sweetest smile

laughing at my misfortune a while

”I should have said something

but wanted to see your face”

And with my drink, I washed the unpleastness

from its place

I smile, praying nothing between teeth

“I really should have said, something..”

She reached for another, and offered,

“here, this one’s better, instead.”

Taking it from her hand, our fingers

lingered, feeling honored

We begin talking, about subjects

most safe, but then she pushes the

discussion, to things unheard of

I smile at her determination

to see if she can rattle, but she finds,

we fit like a glove

For, I push back in the flow of words

She smiles and exclaims, “Why look, mistletoe!”

Her smile is like the sun and I would be remiss

If I did not adhere to traditions of old

So stepping forward, I bend down

and end our beginning with a kiss.