Tuesday, December 16, 2014

The Devoted Plumber

Harv walked up the sidewalk. It was a fine, sunny Sunday, and he felt damn good. He had a great life with a great job. He was one of God's chosen; he was a plumber. It was a responsibility that he took very seriously. The modern world depended upon him, and his brothers and sisters, to keep the fresh water running in and the shit moving out.  He anticipated the familiar squeak of wood as he stepped on old Mrs. Howell's front porch. He gave a happy three raps to the front door.

"Mrs. Howell? I am back like I promised. I have that piece for you."

The door was unlocked and he walked into the the front parlor. He stood in the entrance as the sun warmed his face and breathed in the old lady smell of the house, which was laced with a trace of cigarillo smoke. He smiled with the wonder of it all.

Mrs. Howell's teacup poodle, Prissy, ran up to him, wagging her tail. She was  a friendly little critter and seemed to join him in celebrating the day.

"A plumber's work is never done, Prissy." He bent down and pet the curly, white head.

He walked upstairs to the bathroom that was next to the master bedroom.  He placed his big toolbox on the floor and took out the necessary tool to finish his work.  Mr. Howell hung limply from the shower rod where he had tied him yesterday, unconscious, but still alive.  Mrs. Howell peeked in the door.

"Hi Harv! I just got back from church. Don't let me interrupt you, but would you like some tea? I made it this morning, and some cookies."

"Maybe when I'm done, m'am."

"Oh! I do apologize dear. I'll run along."

Harv picked up the ceremonial dagger and recited the prayer. Mr. Howell moaned lightly. Yep, a plumber's job was to get rid of the crap, and Harv was a very devoted plumber.


I participated in NaNoWriMo this year, which you probably already knew, if you  read the The Protector of Hartley  post. While writing, I decided to join my local group, which was the awesomeist (Roll Tide Druid City Wrimos!) Now that NaNo is over, I have joined a weekly writing group and it has been great. (I have been twice.) There was a posted prompt for the month called An Unexpected Gift, which I wrote a response to and will post and you can get to it by clicking the title above. I haven't shared it with the group yet, and I'm not sure if I will (I'll explain why in a minute). Tonight, I was given a title and I had to write a story for it. This post is what I wrote. The group had a positive reaction to it, if a little shocked. People who meet me in real life before they read my writing tend to be a little surprised by what I write.

I am worried, however, that I may be a little stuck when it comes to my horror writing, though. I really love a twist, and I am worried that it's all getting to be a little one note. An Unexpected Gift reminds me a lot of  Charity. This story seems to be a little derivative of Stephen King's The Lawnmower Man and the Milkman One and Two stories; Morning Deliveries and Big Wheels:A Tale of the Laundry Game. (Although, I am probably flattering myself with the comparison.)And I would actually be okay with rewriting King stuff, if that was my intent when I started writing. I did not start this story, though, thinking that I would like to write a reworking or even a fanfic of those stories. So, the similarities are a bit frustrating. I am interested in seeing how participating in the writing group will affect my writing. Maybe you will see more short stories here. Maybe I'll even get a third No Sleep story written. But for now, I may just flow with the group, see what happens, and work on the NaNo story I started. Plus, I want to get back into poetry prompts and NaPoWriMo is coming up fast!  Maybe (don't hold me to this) I can even be a little more regular about posting. I have so many drafts that are just waiting for me to hit the "publish" button. I guess we'll see.

An Unexpected Gift

In front of her apartment door, there was a small, exquisitely wrapped box.  Michelle looked down at the package and then up and down the hallway of her apartment building.  She was all alone. She held her bags closer to her body, so that she could unlock her front door and carefully shooed the box in with her foot. She left it by the door as she went to the kitchen to leave her groceries and then went into the living room to drop off the extra couple of hours' work she had brought home.  Michelle always brought home work. She had a very demanding boss.

The box stayed on the floor while Michelle prepared supper. She had had another hard day and was grateful for the chili that had been slowly cooking in her Crockpot since this morning. She stared at the box while she sat in her comfy chair and ate. She thought that she knew what may be in the box, but it would be too wonderful to hope for. After all of the years of hard work, all of his careless, hurtful words, had he finally relented? Had her boss finally given her what she had longed for all of these hard years?

Michelle thought back to lunch  two days ago with Berenice. Michelle had taken a couple of hours personal leave in order to spend time with her life-long friend.

"If only he knew what he did to me, I'm sure things would change." Michelle had spent the last hour chronicling her relationship with her boss, Jerry.

"Does he know how you feel?" Berenice took advantage of the hitch in Michelle's voice as  Michelle turned her head to wipe a tear.

Michelle, overcome with the depth of her emotion, nodded, ever so slightly, while holding her hands to her mouth.

With a faint inhale, Michelle said, "He just laughed at me. He..." Her soft voice broke and she shook her head, repressing a slight sob.

"How about I have a little chat with him? After all, what are best friends for?"

Michelle smiled and nodded, happily, tears rolling down her dewy cheeks. Berenice was a wonderful friend.

Michelle was jolted out of her reverie when her phone rang. She smiled sweetly when she saw her friend's picture on her phone.  "Hello, Berenice," she answered.

"Hello, Sunshine! Have you received any interesting packages today? I think that Jerry gave you something very precious."

"I have been looking at it all evening. I was going to do some work now before I opened it."

"Open it first. Call me back when you can. Ta!" Michelle heard the smile in Berenice's voice. She pressed the phone to her lips in an almost kiss and then walked across the room. She sat on the floor and opened the beautiful box. What was inside took her breath away.

There was a card underneath her gift. She picked it up, opened it and read Berenice's script.

With love, from Jerry. He wanted you to have this before his little trip.

 Michelle picked up Jerry's ring finger with his ring still on it.  He had finally made her dreams come true. The lying, grabby, sexist, bully of a boss was finally fucking dead.

Michelle was so happy.


Response to writing group prompt.

Sunday, December 7, 2014

NaNoWriMo Excerpt From "The Protector of Hartley": Annie is Having a Bad Day

And now she was stuck at the fucking red light. Annie was in an awful mood. This week's nasty creature had just been a diarrhetic cow. It was quite possibly the nastiest thing she had ever encountered, bloodied wendigo and all. She had had her back to the cow when the next attack occurred, and she was standing at the business end. She was covered in cow diarrhea. And JT had seen that it was going to happen. He could have warned her, but, NO. It was more funny having her covered in crap after dragging her to the ass end of the county for a monster that wasn't. If they had been in his vehicle, he wouldn't have been so calm.

Now, sitting at this light with no other traffic anywhere, she fumed. Her teeth were hurting from how tightly she had her jaw shut. In her peripheral vision, she could see JT sitting very still and quiet with his eyes facing forward. Smug, asshole, son of a bitch, she thought.

"I SHIT ON EVERYTHING THAT MOVES!" And, immediately, Annie felt better. The light changed and she drove forward, already thinking that a hot shower would be nice. She could feel JT staring at her.

With a side glance to him she said, "What? You've never read The Bloggess? You should, she's hilarious, and just full of helpful tips."

The Volkswagen Beetle drove westward as the sun continued it descent.


I didn't hit my 50,000 words for NaNoWriMo, but I did manage 36,001. This is the excerpt I placed on my NaNo novel page. It just occurred to me to share it with you. I think NaNo fried me in a way the NaPo doesn't. It was a whole bunch of fun. Plus, you can go read The Blogess through the link. You are very welcome.

Wednesday, November 26, 2014

Remember The Time Jo-Pa Got Fired For Letting A Coach Rape Some Kids?

White people don't riot, I read
Right there on my  ol' Facebook feed
The truth is, I fear
Quite different, my dear
There was an old coach, quite "bullied."


I don't even know what to say here.

Monday, November 17, 2014

My First Novel

the writing is slow
my morale, an all time low
I think my book idea may blow
fuck you NaNoWriMo.


I think we know what I've been doing lately.

Wednesday, November 12, 2014


the results
and with a handful of numbers
the hope I didn't know I still had

the eternal motherfucker
that makes it easy for me
to reject her reality

"don't focus too much on the numbers"
so she can still catch up?
"well, you really don't see huge leaps, but she can make some gains"
all hope hears is: sure she can catch up

we talk about how constant seizures
can cause brain damage
and we need to work on building
new pathways

I never let myself consider that the seizures were causing damage.

her teacher emphasizes how wonderful she is
just as she is
and she is

And I don't give one flying fuck
I want her where she should have been
if only
I had been better and took her to the neurologist sooner.

at the eligibility meeting today
I learned that my daughter is average
when it comes to reading comprehension
and below average on everything else

except being a wonderful person-there she is above average

written 11/12/14

no comment tonight

Tuesday, November 11, 2014

The Evils of Halloween

when i was a kid
i thought that Charlie Brown
should teach those mean rock givers
the true meaning of

visiting later to return the rocks
through car or house

what kind of evil adult would give one kid out of a group rocks for halloween?

much less a whole neighborhood.

now that I am an adult
and a mom

I agree with my kid self.

What a bunch of evil motherfuckers.


okay so it's a little late. my sweetie-pies have just discovered charlie brown and the grinch and i keep hearing this stuff.

Wednesday, October 8, 2014

In The Darkness

at the corner
of my eye triggering
fear, they are out and they want to
eat me

written 10/08/14

Also inspired by Marina's dVerse prompt, but probably not what she meant.(not linked)


Don't be angry.
Life is too short to be angry

What? Speak up! I can't hear you!

Yes, I agree, you are sorry.

If you don't know, then just ask.
Uh! How do you not know this already?

I don't know why you have to be such a bitch.

Oh no! What happened? These pictures are horrible!
You're not going to cry, are you?

Don't be angry.
Life is too short to be angry. 

written 10/08/14 for dVerse Poetics

Marina Sofia is tending bar for Poetics this week and challenges us to write of a minor incident that you may have missed while living your everyday life.  Maybe the minor thing in this poem isn't exactly minor, but I like where the prompt lead me.

Monday, October 6, 2014

Winners Picked!

The No Sleep Podcast contest has ended and we have two winners! Congratulations Bijan and Adrian! And a big Thank You to everyone who participated!


Sunday, October 5, 2014

Welcome Weather

the chill
that quickly makes
the blankets now needed
and encourages cuddling
Hi Fall!

written 10/05/14

Saturday, October 4, 2014

Are You Going to Eat That?

the ice
tingles as it
slowly freezes and melts
teeth grind cold cubes compulsively

written 10/04/14

Thursday, October 2, 2014

Very Good Girls

Photo from @HorrorMyths on Twitter


these are patient girls
these are quiet girls
these are good girls

they know their duty

observe the rituals
mind the prayers
devour the souls

and receive their pennies.

They really are very good little girls.

written 10/01/14

My friend, Bone, included me on this conversation on Twitter, thinking it might inspire me. I think he was right.

Make sure you've entered the contest to win a Season Four Pass of the No Sleep Podcast!

How did I forget? Happy National Poetry Day! Go write a poem!

10/05/14 Posted to Reddit forum Dark Tales

Wednesday, October 1, 2014

Aren't They Though?

from the midst of despair
the knife calls from the kitchen

draw my cool sharp steel
down the warm inside of your arm
let loose the misery
that plagues you

let me help you sleep

 the temporary prick from my blade
will end the continuing pain
that is your failure

the knife is a real dick.

written 10/01/14

Have you entered the contest yet? There's just a few days left!

Monday, September 29, 2014

Tailgating the Zombie Apocalypse

It is essential that your tailgating supplies are easily accessible if you are going to successfully survive a Zombie Apocalypse. Jenn knew this in her bones. And here it was...tailgating time. She was gathering her supplies and yelled over her shoulder.

"Mama! Have you heard from Anna and them yet?"

"No! I can't reach her on the phone and she would have been here by now if she were okay."

Jenn knew that Anna would stay too long at work trying to help people. Her big sister was trying to save the world, and she knew that she needed to save  her sister. She had already attached the reinforced, homemade camper to the back of her four by four and loaded it up. She gathered the extra weapons and headed over the the agency to get her sister.

written 4/11/14 in response to Would Alabamians Survive a Zombie Apocalypse? and as a companion piece to A Brief Conversation Between Two Social Workers.

Have you entered the contest yet? You could win a Season Four Pass to the No Sleep Podcast.

Monday, September 22, 2014

My Big News!!!!

Final Update: The contest is now closed. Congratulations to Bijan and Adrian for winning a Season Four Pass each. Thank you everyone who participated. :)


UPDATE: David Cummings of the very awesome No Sleep Podcast has generously donated  a SECOND Season Four Pass!!!!! So I have extended the giveaway by a week. Click on "A Rafflecopter giveaway" below and enter the contest, and while you're online, check out the Podcast, maybe even give it a high rating on your podcast server. Halloween in coming and this podcast will jump start the holiday for you. Thank you so much to the most excellent David Cummings for his generosity and wonderful work. 

Hey y'all!

This summer, I had a horrible case of ringworm (that I think will become a scary story one day).  And I didn't feel like writing. Although I did teach myself to knit, weave, loom, and crochet and I worked on some embroidery. Since I was always online watching tutorials anyway, I decided to swing by reddit to see what was new on No Sleep. The first thing I noticed was that I had a message. When I checked it, I has a month old request from the No Sleep Podcast requesting PERMISSION TO RECORD PEGGY FOR A SHOW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! (you may so totally shout with glee here.) The whole reason that I finally wrote out Peggy and posted it to No Sleep was because I really wanted one of my stories on that podcast. I immediately wrote back and gave permission. The reply I received was that they thought the story had been abandoned and went ahead and recorded and posted it already. AAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

My story was published on the third episode of Season Four on June 29. Since they didn't know who I was, they gave me the pseudonym Lisa Garfield, which is kind of stuck on the audio. My story is the fourth one which means that it is not one of the stories that you can listen to for free.  It is $1.49 per episode or $19.99 for the season pass. Since I love this podcast, and I am over the fucking moon about my story getting chosen I want to give away a Season Pass, so I have decided to host a giveaway using Rafflecopter. Sign up below and I will let Rafflecopter to chose a winner in a week. Once the winner is chosen, I will get in touch with that person and get the information necessary for their subscription.

a Rafflecopter giveaway

 I'm not sure if this is necessary, but this is open to anyone who is 16 or older and lives in a place where they can receive a subscription. I have chosen to use Rafflecopter because most of my readers are my family and friends, who are allowed to participate. I am not receiving any compensation for running this give away, I just want to share the scary joy!

Please take time to check out the No Sleep Podcast and the No Sleep forum. This recent story is particularly terrifying!  With reddit, you really want to read the comments.

Thanks for sharing this with me, y'all.


Friday, September 19, 2014


I apologize, but there has been a delay in my exciting announcement. I hope to post it Monday. Thank you for your patience and I promise I won't hint at future posts again. (I really should know better.)

Thank you,


Wednesday, September 17, 2014

Moonlight Travels

my fingers wander
over your body's hills and
down the valleys

the texture of skin
warm to touch
compels me onwards

our journey together
illuminated only by the moonlight
brings us home

as the heat subsides
sleep sets in
come with me there too.

written 9/16/14 for dVerse Poetics

Yay! A poem for the ever awesome dVerse Poets Pub . Gabriella challenges us to use travel to inspire our poetry. Since all I have really wanted to write over the past couple of days could best be categorized as porn, I took a little creative license with the prompt. I also tried to tone down the smut, and decided that Lunes might help with that. For this poem I have alternated Collum and Kelly Lunes to make the stanzas. I love Lunes.  Why not hop on over to dVerse and check out the other travel poetry?

Also, if you get a chance, swing back by Friday for my good news.

Monday, September 15, 2014

More on Blogging

Once again, I have had a burst of writing followed by a long silence. And I realized some things about how I blog.

I like NaPoWriMo and it revs me up for writing. It feels like I could write and write and write everyday forever. And then something, usually depression, happens and I stop. I also stop reading and visiting other blogs, waiting for it to pass. [Although this time, it was a combination of feeling weird after participating in the blog hop (I'm not sure why) and a remarkably nasty, hardy, contagious, and itchy case of ringworm. That thing lasted for over two and a half months. >:-( ]

It's the not visiting my favorite blogs (and to a lesser extent replying to comments to my posts) that seems to get me in the most trouble. I begin to feel like I can't post until I have caught up in visits. And, at that point, blog reading becomes homework, and if I wanted to do homework, I would still be working on my PhD. I turn something I like into a duty, and that's not what I want. If I read and comment on 20  posts from the same blogger like a stalker binge-reading, I would rather it be because I am enjoying the writing and not because I feel obligated.

I may be the only person who blogs who feels compelled  to reciprocate out of duty, but I kind of doubt it. I have read the other occasional, "I-have-to-catch-up-on-reading-blogs" posts. So I have decided to liberate myself and the five of you (A,B,B,B,&B) who read and comment on the lasagna with regularity. Reciprocity is not a requirement here.  That felt good. Let me write that again.

Reciprocity is not a requirement here. 

Even if I am visiting you via a community that encourages reciprocity. If I have been by and commented, please don't feel obligated to return the visit. That feeling of obligation reduces my pleasure in reading blogs and stokes my anxiety to the point where I can't write.  Fuck that shit, this is supposed to be fun y'all.

So, we are starting over with a clean slate. I am going to start profiling writing I like on Mondays via my Twitter and Facebook accounts again. #FridayFartPoems will also return to Twitter and Facebook. I'm ready to get back to writing. (And you may notice more bodies-are-gross poetry popping up.)

Finally, something super exciting happened this summer that I didn't find out about until a month later. I don't want to announce it at the moment, because I want this up for a couple of days to get some views.

Thanks for stopping by


Wednesday, August 27, 2014

It Sneaks Up On You

i don't want to be in the house
with my family
i want to run far


i'm grumpy and
i want to sleep all
of the time.

i hate these clothes
it's a struggle just to get my bra off
and it makes my breasts hurt.


my breasts hurt?

oh, fuck me, my period's coming.

no wonder i feel like shit.

come on and start already

and let me get back to my life.

written 8/27/14

Yep. I'm beginning to think I'm a confessionalist.  Can anybody spare a heating pad, some Mini Snickers, and a 70's disaster film?

Saturday, August 23, 2014

Too Much Mystery

I've known my husband
          20 years...this August.

In October
          celebrate our ninth wedding anniversary.

This week I made a
          about the size disparity between my breasts.

He said
          They aren't the same size?

Maybe our marriage
          a little too much mystery.

written 4/11/14

The stuff I find when I'm early morning browsing my rough drafts.

Tuesday, August 19, 2014

Ask Gradual Grampy Watching an Alabama Football Game

Dear Gradual Grampy Watching an Alabama Football Game,

I am at my wit's end!  I have been dating a woman, and I think that she's "the one." She is beautiful, smart, funny, successful and we rock in bed. The problem is that I hate her dog. She has one of those little rat-dogs that is always underfoot and constantly growls at me. She has to put it out of the bedroom and shut the door when we want to be alone. How soon after I pop the question can I tell her the dog has got to go? I have even considered taking the dog out one day and "losing" it on the side of the road, but, with my luck it would find it's way home.

sign me,
I Hate That Bitch

Dear I Hate That Bitch, 

You do have a problem, go. You have a wonderful woman with a pesky dog, go baby! I am left wondering a few things, What! Is He Blind?!!! You have listed many positive qualities about, "the one" but, Roll Tide,  you haven't clarified GO BABY GO! GO BABY! GO BABY GO! GO...ROLL TIDE! TOUCHDOWN ALABAMA!  ROOOLLL TIDE ROLL!

Gradual Grampy Watching an Alabama Football Game

written 8/19/14 at 4 fucking 30 in the morning

I don't like being up this early, but I'm all writey now and I can't sleep. I will do some catch up posting about what's been going on later, although some of it you probably already know. This has been one hell of a summer. No wonder that I wanted to write something to amuse myself. I may be the only one who thinks this is even halfway funny, but I was inspired by some comments I read on reddit by /u/Gradual_Swede. I thought that I wanted to do something similar, but with the way my Grampy used to act when he watched Alabama Football. And so I also borrowed the advice column format from The Onion. If you want to ask GGWAAFG, please feel free to send it end. I'm sure he has an answer for you.

Sunday, August 17, 2014

My Son's Name Is Jack.


Please, please help me. My son’s name is Jack. His name is Jack. He is only five years old. He stands a little over three feet tall and has fair skin and blue eyes and dark curly hair that he likes to hang down in his face. He is smart and he is funny. He loves Captain America and dinosaurs and My Little Ponies. Please think about him; remember him; believe in him. His name is Jack and he is fading away.

It started this summer. He caught a case of ringworm that spread all over him and he wasn't able to go to day camp with his brother and sister. I don't know if it is connected, but that is when I noticed that something was going on. When I went to talk to the day camp about withdrawing Jack until the ringworm cleared, they said that it was okay. He was never registered.  I thought that it was me being flaky, and let it go. Jack and I would spend the day together while Ava and Evan went to camp.

Ava and Evan are my other two children. Ava is six and Evan is four. Jack... Jack is five. Unlike Jack my other two have blonde hair. Jack is also more introverted and quiet than Ava and Evan.  
People often comment on how Ava and Evan look like their dad or each other. They say that Jack looks like me. I think it's the dark hair. I would have never admitted this to anyone before, but I have always felt closer to Jack than to my other children. Now, I don't care if that makes me a bad mom. Jack is mine and I can't lose him. Not my Jack. 

When Ava and Evan would come home from camp, they would eat a snack, excitedly tell me about their day and then run off to play together. From the start, Jack seemed excluded. I would see Jack sitting alone, watching his brother and sister and ask why he wasn't playing with them. 

"They forgot me, Mommy."

I felt nauseated and didn't know why. 

"Sweetheart, they don't forget you. They just get busy. Do you want me to get out Candyland, and we can all play together?"

"No Mommy. I just want to watch them for a while." My son looked sad and old. Babies aren't supposed to look that old.

I went outside to my other two children. 

"Hey! Did y'all forget about Jack?" I was kidding.

They both stopped playing on their swing set  and looked at me for a moment. It was maybe ten seconds, but I could see in their faces that for that ten seconds, they had no idea what I was talking about. 

"Jack, Mommy? Jack is inside."

And I stopped there. I didn't push it. I should have.

"Alright my sweetie-pies. We're going to eat supper in about a half an hour. Y'all are coming in then and I don't want any fussing."

"Yes Mommy!" in unison.

I don't remember seeing the three of them play together since then. 

A week later, the ringworm cream wasn't working and so I tried to make an appointment for Jack to see the doctor to get a prescription. Our doctor's office has this website where you can just send in a request for an appointment. I had spent an hour inputting us all into the system and setting up passwords a year ago. When I went to request an appointment, Jack's name was not listed on our page. I sent an email. I even remember the exact wording. I wrote:

"Good morning! I would like to request an appointment with Dr. Harrison for my son, Jack. He has had ringworm for a week and it is not responding to the cream I bought at the pharmacy. When I went to request the appointment in his name, it had been removed. I would also like to request a code key for him, so that I may reenter him into the system. His name is Jack Graves."

The reply they sent me was:

"Good morning Ms. Helmer. We have processed your request for a new blue card for your son, Evan Graves. You may pick it up at any time. If you would rather, we can also mail it directly to the school, since you have already signed the release."

I reread their reply and then my original email. Evan needed a new blue card, but I had not submitted a request. I couldn't make sense of it. I felt a chill on my right arm. 

"They forgot me, Mommy." 

I jumped. His hand was the cold spot on my arm. I didn't even hear him. His hand seemed to have no weight at all.

"What baby?"

"The doctor's office. They forgot me. Everyone is forgetting me."

"Sweetie! I'm not forgetting you." I picked him up and almost sent him over my head. He was lighter. He looked the same, but he wasn't as heavy. I squeezed him as tight to me as I could. I could tell by the way that he moved, that he was hugging me back just at tightly, but I barely felt any pressure. 

"Jack. Sweet boy. You stay with me. I love you. I am not forgetting you. You stay here with me, okay?"

The slight pressure relaxed and he looked at me.



"You'll forget me too, Mommy."

"Never! I promise. You are my boy and I am never going to forget you. And I'll make everyone else remember too!" 

I called my husband and asked him to leave work and come home so that I could talk to him. 

He looked worried as he walked in the back door 20 minutes later. 

"Devon, something is wrong with Jack. He's cold and he feels lighter, and as crazy as it sounds, people are forgetting that he's here. That he exists. They aren't even responding to me when I talk about him. No one even seems to see him."

"Heidi, it's okay. We can work it out. Once both Ava and Evan are in school, you should be able to pick up your hours. But it's also no rush. We'll be okay with you easing your way back in. Don't trigger a panic attack worrying about that job."

"Devon, what the fuck are you talking about? I am telling you that no one seems to be able to remember our son! There is some crazy shit going on, but it's not me having another panic attack. Jack. Jack is....disappearing. He seems to be losing substance. No one remembers him. You have to help him. Help me!" A cold draft on my leg and a small voice.

"Daddy forgot me, Mommy. He doesn't even hear what you are saying. He thinks you are talking about something else. You are the only one who knows me now."

I looked down, at my small, beautiful son. He seemed almost translucent.  I noticed the rug underneath him. I had bought it with my first paycheck. I started to worry. How was I ever going to get back into the swing of things at work full time? Part time was overwhelming as it was. Was I cheating my children by picking up hours? They are only four and six once...

And there he was. Jack! My sweet boy. I had forgotten. That quick. He was gone because I had forgotten. I don't know how I remembered, but it brought him back. 

I sat on the floor and pulled him into my lap. I wrapped my arms around him and felt them go almost through. 

No, he's my son. He's my Jack.

Devon thought I was going to throw up and brought me an anti-emetic. He sat with me on the floor while I cried and apologized to Jack.

"Devon, just say his name for me. Say Jack"

"It will be okay. I love you, too. We'll get through this."

Jack just sat cradled in my arms with his head on my chest. 

"I'm tired, Mommy."

"I'm sorry baby, please hang on."

"You forgot me for a minute."

"I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. I won't forget you again. I promise. Never. Never ever. Mommy loves her Jackie."

"It's okay, Mommy. And it will be okay when you forget."

I just sat there and cried. I won't forget. It won't be okay.

This has gone on for weeks now. Everyone interacts with me like I am not screaming "Look at Jack! He's right here! Believe in him!"

So now, I am alone in my room with Jack. He sits in my lap dozing as I type this. I don't know what else to do. None of my friends, family, or casual acquaintances remember Jack. I can't even get them to hear his name. 

So here I am. 

On the internet.

This is the only place on Earth that I think may be able to understand what is going on. The only place that will comprehend what I am writing and believe. Because I need you to believe. 



I know I sound like some stupid speech from Peter Pan, I don’t care. Please believe in my boy Jack. I have a son named Jack. Please think about my boy, Jack. Picture him with his dark curls and serious face.  Please. Help him. Help me. I need Jack. He is my little fella and I love him. Mommy loves you Jack. Mommy loves you. I won’t forget you Jack. I won’t forget you Jack. I won’t forget you. I won’t forget. I won’t forget. I won’t forget. I won't.

My son is Jack.


Please, Jack.


written 8/17/14


Friday, August 15, 2014

And Because Now I Am Missing My Meme and Grandma...


the last time I saw you
  you were
    in a bed,
    tucked in.
you looked so small.
i brought you my baby girl.
you didn't recognize me,
but you liked seeing my daughter.
you stuck your finger from out of the cover
    held it out to her. She smiled and
  grabbed it and you smiled back.

a few months later, your body was in a box.
my heart was breaking and the preacher...
  was a dipshit.
i wanted to yell "Shut up! You don't know
what in the fuck you are talking about!"
then my sweet girl loudly crapped her diaper.
the women in the pew behind us giggled.
it was perfect. and i knew that you were laughing.


originally written 8/9/11


I never said goodbye
I didn't see the necessity
I long for just one more hug
One more smile
one more chance to be your sweet girl
I miss you more than I knew
I could miss anybody
and I wish you could have been here to meet my babies
Goodbye Grandma, I love you.
i think this was originally written 8/2000


Walking with Rachel

I like to walk with Rachel
with her angel hair in the sun,
Her brown eyes full of joy
when she is having fun.

She may find a beautiful flower,
or a smooth stone in the sand
Or sail from a jumping place
Into loving arms - treasures still in hand.

She dances ahead to find
The cardinal in his trace.
Or just to feel the warm wind
Kiss her on her face.

Hand in Hand we walk
Using her fresh eyes to see,
Rachel brings the world into place
and gives it new to me.

Frances Hood King

Rachel and her Grant

Maw-Maw and Sweetie-pies

I wanted to do something a little different today. This poem was written by Frances Hood King, my friend Rachel's grandmother. She shared it with me when he grandmother died. Yesterday my mother-in-law died. And since she was also a very good Maw-Maw, I thought that I would share this with you. I included the picture of Rachel and her Grant,because, obviously, it's frickin' adorable. Thank you Rachel. Thank you Grant. And thank you Maw-Maw. heidi

Thursday, August 14, 2014


This post is a bit different from my other posts. I am overwhelmed with recent violent events, and, as I sit in my Mother-In-Law's hospice room listening to her sleep, I have a need to talk about what has happened in Ferguson. I have a need to confess. (Thus, as a confession, I am not going to do any editing or rewriting. You are getting my first draft here. )

If you have read this blog before, then you probably know my writing is very confessional. I have a need to get what is in my head out of  me.  Today I want to talk about  racism and rioting and privilege.

I like to think that I am a pacifist. The reality is probably that I am not, but it is an ideal that I aspire to. And so, for more years than I am okay with, I was very judgmental about rioting. After the L.A. riots, I focused not on what lead up to the riots, but the stories of the bystanders who were hurt during the riots.

And then, a few years ago, I read about the Stonewall riots. And it clicked. I understood why people riot. Why it is ridiculous to expect the people who are being oppressed to behave "better" than their oppressors.  We have limits. What else is there to do when you are continuously being attacked? At that moment, I thought about what Thomas Jefferson wrote to James Madison, "I hold it that a little rebellion now and then is a good thing, and as necessary in the political world as storms in the physical."  I have to admit (since I'm confessing) that I felt a little smug and wise when I finally "got" rioting. Then came my second epiphany. With Stonewall, there was a raid and an arrest and that lead to a riot. Why was I okay with the Stonewall event and not the L.A. one? The attack on Rodney King was more violent, and the jury's verdict acquitting the officers who attacked him supported the idea that you could beat a man and put him in the hospital if you thought he was high and you were an authority figure. But wait...it was more than that. It supported the idea that you could beat a black man and put him in the hospital if you thought he was high and you were a white authority figure.

That's when I understood that I'm racist. I don't like it. I don't actively support it. But it is ingrained in me. And, as a racist and Guilty Liberal, I felt awful. And I tried to deny it. And I realized that denying it doesn't make it not true. And I had to face my privilege. 

Privilege has been a hard concept for me to understand. In part, because I think the word is one that triggers defensiveness. I embraced that defensiveness. The way I understand it now, is that it means there are adjectives about me that I never have to think about. I can ask "why does race matter?" because I almost never have an adverse interaction due to my race. And the ones I have are insulated because I have all sorts of proof around me that the color of my skin is Normal. Almost all the faces I see on TV and Magazines and Movies look like mine. And the few that are different are, just that, Different. Race matters in America because I don't have to think about mine, but other people have to think about theirs. More than that, they have to think about their race within the cultural lens of my race. Where I live, that's the way it is. I think the idea of being "colorblind" fits in here. It is a tool of assimilation. If we are all the same, and the Normal is white, what happens to culture that is not white.  If you are colorblind, can you not see it? Can you not see what is cool in the many ways that people can be? Must all Different conform to Normal? Or is it to be set to the side and used for amusement, or titillation, or a bad excuse for art? Is the main benefit of Different the chance for Normal to appropriate what it wants and discard the rest?

(Okay, so I think I may have gone a little confusing tangent there, but I know what I'm writing about and privilege is slippery for me.)

 I guess I needed to write this down and get it out of me. In Ferguson, a child was murdered. The events after that murder, by the people who are supposed to make it right, have been incompetent (if I'm generous) and horrifying (if I'm truthful). In the same letter to James Madion, Thomas Jefferson wrote (without any seeming ironic self-awarenss) "Malo periculosam, libertatem quam quietam servitutem." My white privilege allows me to add that quote to this post, without having to consider if my approval or opinion of any of the events going on in Ferguson is even wanted.

The reality is that I don't have to think that someday someone may be afraid of my son or want to harm him because of his skin color. I don't have to think about his race in relation to how to keep him safe. I can not remember reading a white kid gunned down article in the news. And I am very (guiltily) grateful for it. Privilege, allows me the luxury of not even considering the question of how do I raise my white son? Some things seem obvious. Teach him that it is wrong to murder kids. Teach him that it is obscene to use someone's clothes or childhood mistakes as justification of brutality against them. But I also have to teach him (and my daughter) that, even at our best, we may have ideas that we are unaware of that influence our decisions. We have to make ourselves aware. We also have to be aware that not everyone has the same reality and you can't judge other people on your reality. Maybe, despite the popular saying, not everyone has a right to their own opinion.

I am a middle-aged, middle income, educated, white, married, heterosexual cis-gendered woman living in the deep south. I have privilege out the ass. Racism, sexism, classism, trans-and homophobia have been in the very air I breathe since I was born. They are a part of me whether I want them to be or not. The best I can do is be aware of what influences my thoughts and actions. And when I discover that I am not living up to my ideals, then I try to do better.


For Robin Williams, A Repost of Last Love Letter

Last Love Letter

My cousin was a year older.
He was the second grandchild.
He was the younger brother
I was the first granddaughter.
My cousin lived three hours away.
I saw him and his brother
only some weekends. Two or three a year.
He was a sweet, quiet baby.
When I was six, I wrote him love letters
on scrap paper.
When I was ten, he taught my brother
how to turn his eyelids inside out
that made me run screaming.
We played baseball with socks wrapped in electrical tape.
I privately competed against him.
He was a funny, reserved, young man.
He once wanted to be a store Santa
because young women liked to sit
in Santa's lap for a picture.
When I was twenty-six, he died.
and I forgot everything but the pain.
and a vigilante hummingbird.
I forgot his smile.
I forgot his laugh.
I forgot his wit.
I forgot his love for his nephew.
I forgot.
I would have traded anything to have
him back.
To hug him the last time I saw him.
To Tell Him I Loved Him.
And I cried
Tonight I found some pictures.
And I remembered:
How he was sweet
How he loved his nephew
How he was funny
His desire to be Santa
My notes
The woods
Hawaiian Punch
Hot Chocolate
Hide and Seek
His eyelids
His smile
and i cried.
originally written:3/13/97

Wednesday, August 13, 2014


217 published posts
on this blog

mostly poetry
trying to make something

out of something




and still I can't find a better


to tell you

Maw Maw's dying.

written 8/13/14

how do i help my sweetie-pies through this?

Tuesday, August 12, 2014

On the Outside

A life spent outside others
mostly watching events
makes me my own ghost.

written 8/12/14

Maybe a too obscure comment on anxiety. Because anxiety was the first thing that popped out at you, right?

Monday, August 11, 2014


consuming the emotions of others
gorging to satiate
their own unexamined howling emptiness

written 8/11/14

Yeah, I've had better days.

Wednesday, June 4, 2014


just when everything



I am overwhelmed

by the bland lonliness

of my life.

thedis tance bet we e n m y h u s b a n d a  n  d  I   s   t   r   e   t   c  h   e   s

e     v     e     n      f      u       r        t         h            e           r.

I am 


in a

with two lovely








when a second ago

everything seemed


written 6/4/14

blah. one of those get it out of me so I can fucking enjoy watching my son surround himself with all of his toys on the kitchen floor.

Wednesday, May 28, 2014

Virtual Blog Tour

I was asked to participate in a virtual blog tour by the most awesome Susie Clevenger. The purpose of the blog tour is to introduce talented bloggers and learn about their creative process. Please go check out Susie's tour at Confessions of a Laundry Goddess.

Its goal is to introduce talented bloggers and have them share insight into their writing and creative process. You can visit her tour post at The Edge of Silence - See more at: http://confessionsofalaundrygoddess.blogspot.com/2014/05/virtual-blog-tour.html#sthash.MR4fkyV6.dpuf
Its goal is to introduce talented bloggers and have them share insight into their writing and creative process. You can visit her tour post at The Edge of Silence - See more at: http://confessionsofalaundrygoddess.blogspot.com/2014/05/virtual-blog-tour.html#sthash.MR4fkyV6.dpuf

  Susie Clevenger
Susie Clevenger is a Poet, Author, Blogger and Photographer.  Her debut book of poetry Dirt Road Dreams is available on Amazon and Susie is currently working on her second poetry collection, Insomnia's Ink.  To view her work visit Confessions Of A Laundry Goddess.

Unsurprisingly to the people who know me, I am late posting. I was supposed to have this posted Monday, but my sweetie had some unexpected time off...and I goofed a bit.  So, I am going to talk about my process a bit and then share some of my favorite bloggers.

 What am I working on?

When I am not trying to clean up my house or keep my sweetie-pies from eating glue, I like to write and take pictures. I have been experimenting with poetry inspired by haiga where I write poems directly onto pictures. I have also recently been introduced to scanner photography, which fascinates me. I have also been exploring selfies on Instagram (biggerthanalasagna). Because of all of this, I have become a huge fan of Pixlr Express

I currently have three short stories on the back burner that have me stuck (I miss writing short stories), and I am working on a series where each post is limited to 100 words. 

How does my work differ from others in it's genre?

Hmmmm....I guess if you were to ask me what I wrote, my instinct would be to reply "Flash Fiction Horror." A cursory glance of any lasagna related social media, however, would reveal mostly confessionalist poetry and poems about my sweetie-pies, with the occasional pissed-off social commentary. And, where some of the poems about me are rather scary, I prefer monsters (lately, zombies). My poetry seems to differ from other poems in that I like to tell a story, and, right now, I'm not very interested in being poetical. I like the puzzle of the form and the quick release of a short poem.  Although, I'm always an advocate for alliteration!

Why do I write/create what I do?

 I have no idea. Honestly.  I know that with some of my poetry, I write it because I think that if I don't get that feeling out of me it will slowly poison me.  Then again, some of my poetry is maybe a pretentious way of saying "Look how fucking cute my kids are!" I like writing that is unexpected and or surprising. The more surprising, the more I like it. The surprise tickles me. The photography and the audio recordings are mostly because it's fun.

How does your writing/creative process work?

Like I wrote earlier, sometimes I am just miserable and I need to get that out. Those are usually poems and they come out quickly and it's done. Sometimes, I just want to write or make something, and I will go to one of the awesome prompts online and see what happens. Sometimes, the idea comes and I am in a place where I can sit down and play with it.  I find that some sort of routine, like NaPoWriMo, helps and I get very writey if I commit to write something everyday. (She writes as she's late with this post :) )

So, that's me today. Let's get to three awesome bloggers that you will love, if you don't already! Next Monday-ish they will give their own blog tour, but you don't have to wait..go check them out today!

Talicha J.

Talicha J. is an American poet/spoken word artist, aspiring novelist, music producer and an avid reader (she is quite proud of her ability to read an entire trilogy in one week). In March she competed in her first national poetry competition, Women Of the World Poetry Slam, along with 71 other female poets. She came in 36 overall landing in the top fifty percent. Talicha J. also released her debut poetry album “In the making” on May 1st. She is excited about realizing her childhood dream of being a poet, although she could use a raise. 

Official Website: http://www.talichaj.com

Yves K. Morrow

I am a 33 year old living in Sweden with my husband of 14 years and my 6 year old daughter. Mindlovemisery reflects the subjects most extensively explored in my poetry. Mind- philosophy, psychology, mental illness, society  Love- loss, unrequited, infatuations and obsessions, sex, true love, new love, relationships of all sorts both dysfunctional and sublime Misery- childhood trauma, Depression, the search for meaning, loneliness, spiritual dilemmas grief, social ineptitude etc.  I was a rather peculiar child (if you have read my poetry I am sure you can imagine!) and so I taught myself very early on to read and read everything I could get my hands on romance novels, text books, manuals, porn mags, newspapers, dictionaries, adult fiction, adult non fiction, biographies, mythology, fairy tales, cereal boxes if I could find it I would read it. Speaking of my peculiarities I used to visit strangers homes and listen to them talk for hours in an effort to better understand human nature (my own nature and feelings). I also used to go on horrendously long walks from dawn to dusk as a child. I didn't really start writing until it became increasingly part of my school curriculum, until then I acted out all the stories in my head. My first influences were Sylvia Plath, Arthur Rimbaud, and Oscar Wilde (though his influence is not seen so much in my work). Once I started writing I realized how intrinsic it was to my nature. Being devastatingly shy writing has given me a voice, a means of coherently expressing myself. In school I continued my vicious pursuit of the nature of man and studied psychology, philosophy, anatomy and physiology, nutrition, religion anything that had to do with the mind, body, or spirit.  Jim Carroll is another influence, though he came significantly later, his poetry has definitely shaped my work. Aside from poetry I am very physically active I dance, weight-lift, do yoga and Pilates, and various other types of cardiovascular activities.  I also paint, bake, watch an obscene amount of documentaries, medical programs, and biographies, enjoy the very occasional video game, and eat a lot hence the need for so much exercise!  
That's Bone, on the left.

 Bone was born some years ago, according to documents he obtained from a woman claiming to be his mother. He grew, in size and age, as many of his species are wont to do. He describes himself as a thinker of thoughts. For most of his life, he has been stricken with long bouts of little to no productivity. And he likes to eat donuts.


*I'm considering a prize for the person (not Bone) who can tell me how many times Bone gets me to edit this post.

written 5/28/14