Unwritten

Author's note: The violence starts in chapter 2.             “Phil?” The windows are dark, he’s probably not be home. The light flickers on as I flip the switch by the kitchen door. The screen door snaps shut. I lock the deadbolt behind me as I enter. I clean out the fridge before loading the new groceries in. Dave had put a few containers of my favorite yogurt in with the groceries, not yet at their sell-by date. It’s the little things in life that make us happy.             Too tired to cook, I nuke myself some ramen, and empty the contents of my school bag onto the dining room table. There is an essay due on Monday and midterms to study for. After a few hours, I feel confident enough to come to a stopping place. My noodles had been salty, but filling. I bring my bowl to the sink and sigh, too many dishes, too late at night. It is a flimsy excuse, I am a night owl and I...

Authors note: I'm posting it with the working title, this is not even half of the first chapter.                 A Mission From Death             Thwack!                        I am interrupted from marking down discounted soup by the force of a bean bag baby connecting with my cheek. I hear the sensible black dress shoes of my boss scuffle and squeak away as he scurries in the opposite direction. I hold out my pricing gun with both hands as if I am on a cop show and walk as quickly and silently as possible after him. Very carefully I round the corner. He is nowhere to be seen. No matter, this is a familiar game. I head quickly toward produce hoping to cut him off at the deli counter, knowing that any resultant mess of our exploits will...

We're not celebrating Christmas this year; too hard. We're still attending church and all, I'm singing, but that's it. So Dad and I decided to open presents tonight. That means I get to give Himself (my significant other) his present. I hope he likes it. I've been doing nothing but art for a few days in a row. Made some really cool things, learned new things, always learning. I think that's important. I've never been the kind of person to think I know it all. A lot of people tell me they did when they were my age. Yesterday was rough. Just kind of sinking further into the realization that's it's going to be the rest of my life without her. Himself helped. I think it's the season that's getting to me. Mom and I always did our shopping and planning together. Today is better.

Turns out I'm not quite done, though this might post after midnight. Song lyrics I'm working on: I was surprised by the light of your eyes that reflected the moon on a November afternoon. I was unprepared for the kindness you spared and the care you took with my heart an open book. I am humbled by your openness, you're respectful of my honesty. We will never know how far this will go or who we will become when the day is done. I want to write the kind of songs that speak to people. Songs that share a common thread, some kind of universal feeling. Not just "bubble gum pop" as Mom called it. ( though there is a place for that too, not trying to knock anyone) I don't think I'm there yet. I don't know if I agree with Yoda, I find myself trying a lot in a lot of different ways. I write a lot of love songs. They used to be mostly unrequited. She gives it all away: She's beautiful but she's trapped beneath all her self denial getting no relief fro...

I really don't know what I am attempting to accomplish.  My Mom was a blogger. Now I am a blogger. Simple. I miss my mom. If anyone is reading this there are some things I will share with you, some context, sort of the reason why I'm even here on this site. My mom died this April. She was a great writer. She was a phenomenal singer and musician. She is the best Mom. I don't know how life goes on, just that it does and I with it. I will forever miss singing with her. I will forever regret not recording more videos of her wonderful self and beautiful voice. I have two videos to show her grandchildren (if there are any to come in this life.) I went looking for journels written by her last night. I found one entry and a drawing that I had done, probably as a six year old, that she had tucked into an empty journal by her bedside. The problem is that once she wrote the pages she usually burned them. Sort of a spiritual cleansing. I do not journal, I write fiction; ...