Archive for the ‘My Writing’ Category

Wait Game

May 22, 2018

Wait

She sat there, under something or other. Water kept coming down. The protection offered by the thing wasn’t enough. She was getting wet. The street was busy. People walked down, they walked up the street. No one saw her. If only someone! If only someone could. I can’t. I don’t know how anymore. Where is it—the food, the whatever that is needed? It is cold here. It is not comfortable.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Say it

May 22, 2018

Say it

Please say it! Be quick! Say it before I get tired—too tired to listen to you. What is the life that I am supposed to look forward to? What is the life that makes me laugh, that makes me want to go places? Where is it? You must know where it is. I don’t. I have ceased looking for that life—I have ceased looking, period.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Horror Floor

May 22, 2018

The floor—the floor is your home. The floor is your refuge. It is where you spend your time, whatever is left of your life. You consume—you drink that liquid thing out of the can. You drink a lot of that liquid. It goes down your throat; you want another and another and then one more. The cans put you to sleep. Because of the cans you are not you. You are not the intelligent man you once were; you are hardly a person. You have become that can.

 

Horror Floor

May 22, 2018

The floor—the floor is your home. The floor is your refuge. It is where you spend your time, whatever is left of your life. You consume—you drink that liquid thing out of the can. You drink a lot of that liquid. It goes down your throat; you want another and another and then one more. The cans put you to sleep. Because of the cans you are not you. You are not the intelligent man you once were; you are hardly a person. You have become that can.

 

Burning Up

May 20, 2018

Burning Up

It is hot; it is so hot that it burns. It is stifling. I can’t get the words out. There is no one to hear them; there is no one to listen. Sometimes I think I’ll die if I don’t say it, even if it’s to me and me alone. I have to express how I feel. I have to do it, or else I can easily explode. The outlet that was once mine is gone forever. It will never return. Now I have to make do with crumbs, emotional crumbs.

‘t

 

 

You Just Can’t

May 14, 2018

You Can’t

You cannot do it. You just cannot do it anymore. I see you, all stretched out on the floor. Where is your energy? Where is your life? I do not think you can or want to find it. I am scared for you. I am scared for the rest of your days.

 

 

Home

May 9, 2018

There it is! Do you see it? It’s that one over there, the one with the green door. That was my home. I called it my bunker, my sanctuary. I was able to breathe when I lived there. I was free. The keys are in my pocket, but I can never go inside. My home is forbidden; it is a lost cause. I can never recover it. No matter what I do, it is gone. I have lost it forever. My heart is broken; no one can repair it, not even you.

The Man

May 3, 2018

The Man

His body is lean. The arms show that at one time he must have been a boxer or a bouncer, someone who can take care of himself. The muscles are good and strong. The man wears all black—black sweats, black T-shirt, black jacket. Only his baseball cap is white. He sits cross legged; a large bag is next to him. The noise of the traffic is all around him. It’s his—it belongs to him. The noise is part of his territory.

 

 

 

 

The Scrawny One

May 3, 2018

The Scrawny One

The sun left the sidewalk. Half an hour before it went away, the woman nearly fainted. She was razor thin and the veins were prominent on her sagging arms. Her cream-colored T-shirt had stains in front. She got up from her makeshift seat with difficulty, holding on to the tree behind her. People from all walks of life go past her. She stares at them without seeing who they are. What am I doing here? Why is this cup next to me? I don’t know. I don’t want to know.  She walks to the corner to throw something in the trash. Then it’s back to her black crate. Harsh as the crate is, it’s her home

Rubio’s River

April 18, 2018

It was all over—the great big puddle. It went from one end of the kitchen to the other. He didn’t mean it; he didn’t do it on purpose. It was his body’s fault. The yellow liquid inside him couldn’t be repressed any longer. Out it had come with a need never before known. The dog looked up at his owner, his brown eyes open and guilty. She took off her shoes. “It is fine. It is fine.” She walked over to him in the middle of the kitchen. “You are ill. The doctor will make you better again. You’ll see.” She didn’t believe a word she was saying. The dog’s illness had progressed too far for that. “Nothing can hurt you. I will not let that happen.”