Long ago when I was a child, I remember sitting on the floor using an old wooden chair for a desk and writing short stories, while my dad sat in his chair reading.
Here is a piece about the journey:
A Writing Journey
I used to think I was a scribbler
I became a writer with practice.
Soon someone called me a poet.
With publication came the 'author' title.
I became a writer with practice,
though in my heart the scribbler lived.
With publication came the 'author' title.
I am never sure of rhyme and clarity.
Though in my heart the scribbler lived,
with publication came the 'author' title.
I am never sure of rhyme and clarity,
I used to think I was a scribbler.
Here are a couple of short stories:
Having My Cake
I am by nature a pretty generous man. In fact, I would share my last dime with a beggar on the street. I would give the shirt off my back to a man in need. If you want a handout, come to me. That is the kind of guy I have always been.
However, I do have one downfall in life. I do not like to share cake. I have been called gluttonous, greedy, and even a miser when it comes to sharing a chocolate dessert. No one else gets even a bite on my birthday, and I do not smile and offer children a slice of ice-topped wonder.
God knows, I would do almost anything for more. He also knows I hate cockroaches. There they were, boiling out around the knife blade as I cut the cake. How the hell did they get in there? Why would they invade the one sinful delight I have left?
I had expected a slice of fudge frosted heaven. Up the handle, across my fingers march the nasty vermin. To my arm, across my shoulders and toward my face scurried 10,000 or more. Their legs scrabbled for purchase and tickled the hairs, making my entire body tickle and itch.
My skin crawled as I opened my mouth to scream. They began to rush into the opening.
I was about to have my cake and eat it too.
Immortalized In Wax
What price would you pay to be immortalized forever?
I awoke screaming in agony. The beautiful dark haired lady I have been sharing my art studio, loft apartment, and intimate moments with said, "look, I made a beautiful wax sculpture of your talented hands. Now I will have a piece of you forever." I slipped into unconsciousness from the searing, burning pain of the flesh of my fingers melting.
A horrible feeling wrenched me awake yet again. The terrible pain in my wrists started just as it had in my hands. The agony moved up my arms, encasing them in a napalm-like grip of sulfurous hell.
"I think I shall work on capturing the intricacies of your face as it captures the greatness of a masterpiece after I finish detailing your strong muscled shoulders."
I really wish that if my countenance was going to be highlighted forever it did not have such a grimace on it. I groaned, tears coming to my eyes, wondering what part of me was next going to be trapped eternally.
What price would you pay to be immortalized forever?
Saltwater Surprise
"Mmmmm saltwater taffy. I can't wait." I quickly looked around, then picked up the mostly full
New England Taffy box from the counter of the break room and headed back to my desk. "I
wonder who left these here...Ah well, their loss."
I opened the white box and grabbed a pink and brown piece, quickly unwrapping the paper and
slipping the candy into my mouth. A red and blue, green then black piece rapidly followed.
The sugar and confection ran down the back of my throat like pure heaven. Heaven, quickly
turned into hell; fire and a painful constriction in my larynx.
Pure, liquid wax seemed to burn my mouth and esophagus, choking me. A sticky vomitous mass
exploded from my mouth onto my desk calendar in the middle of the stack of candy wrappers as I
collapsed onto the floor.
Sometimes the biggest surprises are the worst.
Skin Art
I was sure the inks and tattoo needle could not be dirty or dangerous. The shop looked sterile and clean, maybe a bit too clean, but I was eighteen, and lots of friends my age already had tattoos.
Now I am in my mid-thirties, and every time I take off my shirt, the skeleton etched on my breast looks a little bigger and definitely more angry.
This morning, I woke up sore, and looked at my chest. It was scarred and gory, missing something. A deep, vile coffin shaped gash is ripped open; like looters tore a temple asunder searching for treasure. From my rib cage to my right breast was a gore covered trench.
Now, seconds later, a swinging harvester's blade cleaves the air above my face. Grave dirt peppers down, sticking to my tears of anguish and fear. First the man craved the ink, now the ink craves the man.
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