What about…

I was sitting here thinking about writing.  But the question is “what do I want to write about?”  I thought about writing about a book that I love.  But then I thought well, it’s been a long time since I have read it, would it mean as much?  Mind you, I talk like I’m in my eighties & I’m not.  But it has been a long time since I’ve personally read a few of my favorites.

I thought about writing about Blood & Chocolate by Annette Curtis Klause.  Then I thought about writing about The Silver Kiss by Annette Curtis Klause.  Then I thought about writing about 50 Shades of Grey by E. L. James.

Here are my thoughts on my I haven’t.  Both novels by Annette Curtis Klause I read in high school.  I know I”m only 25 but I am a high school drop out who dropped out at 16.  It’s been awhile since I have read them.  I didn’t think I could write about it.

EVERYBODY writes about The 50 Shades of Grey.  & when I say EVERYBODY I literally mean everyone.  Every time I click on the internet someone is writing about it.  Mind you… I do love those books & I have read them multiple times.  But there are books I’d rather read over & over than them.  For an example: Gabriel’s Inferno & Gabriel’s Rapture by Sylvian Reynard.  But, I’ve already wrote about those books.

I don’t know.  I should probably just get off of the internet and work on chapter three.  Or go hide in a corner & pick my nose.  I will say this much.  If you’ve never read Blood & Chocolate or The Silver Kiss, read them.  One is about werewolves & the other is a vampire.  They really are great books.  & if you haven’t read 50 Shades of Grey; seriously?

Off to find a dark corner.

Chapter Three.

I have made a decision.  What is this decision?  Chapter three will be the DEATH of me!

I wonder if all authors go through this.  Is author a proper word to describe me?  Eh.  Probably not.  I’m still going to use it.  Live.  With.  It.

I have been trying to write chapter three for nearly three weeks & I have gotten no where.  I am up to a page and a half, when after twelve hours of writing the previous chapters, I’m done.  As soon as I begin to tackle chapter three, even if I have notes & the knowledge that I need for the chapter, I cannot write it.  Three is the chapter I always seem to stop writing.  I’ll put the story aside & tell myself I’ll go back to that later.  I just need a break.  Three hundred years later, it’s still collecting dust in the corner of my bedroom because I haven’t picked it up.

When I was still in college, English Composition 2, I wrote a short story.  (I italicize ‘short story’ because a lost of people couldn’t consider it a short story because it was over twenty chapters, as we speak.)  I have been working off & on with that story for the last few years attempting to finish it.  I’ve been working hard on getting it to the point that I like it.  There were a few, when it was still a short story, that liked it.  As I have looked at it the last few years with a large clip on the top I feel like there should be more to it.  So I have been adding and taking away.  But I think – THINK – think I am going to take it back down to a short story and be done with it.  Just end it.  And be done with it.  But who actually still reads short stories?  What exactly is a short story?

When I was nineteen I began writing something called Ctrl. Alt. Delete.  Third chapter – stumped me.  I never finished it.  That work is still in a shed at a house that we own in a whole different town.

Frost.  The work I’m attempting to write right now.  Chapter three.  A page and a half.  I know the details & I know what I want to happen.  But putting the words on the paper is beginning to give me a hernia.  Is that even possible?

I write the best at work.  That’s where I wrote chapters one & two.  I tried all weekend to write chapter three & nothing.  A few words.  But nothing worth keeping.

I still keep wondering if I am able to do this or not.  Writing, that is.

Daily Prompt : Live to Eat

Today’s Daily Prompt is called Live to Eat.  I’m not sure if I’ll be able to write this, but I will give it a shot.

Some people eat to live, while others live to eat. What about you? How far would you travel for the best meal of your life?

I remember a time where I could actually answer this question that I live to eat.  That every moment of the day I was wondering what I would eat next.  That everything in my life revolved around food.  I remember, when I lived in Marietta the first time, I sat in the kitchen in front of the ice box and anything I could reach I ate.  I didn’t chew it.  Just shoveled it into my face and swallowed.

Food is one of my issues, always has been.

I used to call myself an emotional eater, but it began getting farther away than that.  Emotional eaters eat when they are sad, mad, extremely happy.  I didn’t have to be sad.  Mad.  I did it because it was there and I didn’t have anything else to do.  Is boredom eater such a thing?  Or is that still emotional eater?

As the years pass I have slowly come up from the depths of issue eating.  I still have my issues, and I think I always will.  I do find myself, even to this day, thinking about food constantly.  It’s not that I want to, but it’s something I cannot get a grasp on.  I know it’s possible.  I know a person can go from this state to knowing better and doing better.  I’m just not sure how long it’s going to take me to do it.

Sadly, the only way I can find that I can get over this is to have no food in my house and only buy it for the moments that I need to eat.  But is that honestly anybody than having the issue to begin with?

I will one day get passed it.  Find a way that I am not always fighting with food.  Finally be able to put the guns away and use a fork and knife instead.  One day I’ll be able to look at food and it not look like a three headed devil beast drooling out of the mouth.    Until then I’ll find a way not to die from a heart attack.  I’ll find a way to look at food  and not wonder to myself “is this going to fill me up?” and know for sure it will fill me up.

How far would I go to get the best meal of my life?  I’m not sure if I would.  I have some really good food in my 25 years of living.  Although, I’d love to go have pasta in Italy, or a Philly cheese steak from Philly.  Other than that?  Probably as far as my kitchen because I’m one hell of a cook.  There lies another issue with food I have.  I’m a good cook so as I’m cooking it I’m eating it.  Then, I eat again.  Maybe I should start cooking horribly.  That might fix my issue all together.

Daily Prompt : Just a Dream :

Today’s Daily Prompt : Just a Dream.  It sounded interesting so I figured I’d go ahead and attempt this one.

“You’re having a nightmare, and have to choose between three doors. Pick one, and tell us about what you find on the other side.”

I pick number three.

Inside I find nothing.  A white room filled with nothing.  Absence.

I walk in and shut the door quietly behind me.  The background flashes to a playground.  I blink a couple times attempting to focus on the backdrop.  The playground is empty.  Toys.  A swing set.  The swing swaying back and forth.  As if someone had just gotten off of it and ran off.  No footprints.

I come up on the jungle gym.  On top is my brother’s ex-girlfriend and his best friend.  Giggling like kids.  Having fun.  I stand on the bottom looking up at the two of them.

“Where is Tim?”  I don’t recognize my voice.  It comes out in a song.
Juan, his friend looks down at me, and smiles.  “I haven’t seen him.”
I freak.  My heart tries to punch out of my chest like a boxer.  I can’t breathe.  “Where is my brother?”
His ex-girlfriend looks down at me.  Her annoying smile shines in the moonlight.  “He was just here.  But he’s gone now.”

I back up and stare at the two of them.  Still playing like little kids.  I back up a little more and glare.

I tilt my head to the side as smoke begins to form at the bottom underneath the jungle gym.  They continue playing as if nothing is going on.  The smoke turns into flames as I watch the jungle gym engulf in flames.  I hear screaming.

I blink.  The background is white again. Nothing.

I walk forward.  Tripping, I slide down a long winding slide; hitting hard on the bottom.

I’m in a room.  A large room.  I know this room.  Where do I know this room?  I blink.

My grandfather is standing before me.  Smiling ear to ear.  He is so happy.  Glad to see me.  I smile.

I blink.  A gun is in my left hand.  Why do I have a gun?  What is this gun for?

I lift my hand up.  His smile fades.  I pull the trigger and watch my grandfather fall.

I jump backwards landing through the third door.

I wake up.  Sweat rolling down my forehead.  I sit up in bed and look around my bedroom.  Nothing is different.  I’m tangled in my sheet and have three pillows laying all around my bedroom floor.  The television is turned down and the fan is on high.  I fall backwards on my bed, staring at the ceiling.

Three O’Clock in The Morning…

  The sting was surprisingly epic.  Epic as in tornado in a trailer park but getting stuck in the bottom of the pool, getting pissed, and going back up into his cloud.  I feel like something should be going through my mind.  Screaming perhaps?  I scrunch my face.  I should really be thinking about something.  Maybe the pain.  But instead I’m standing here.  In the middle of the room.

No one notices.  Shouldn’t they?  Of all things, shouldn’t they notice?  Or have they noticed?  Am I oblivious?

Everything seems to be going in slow motion.  I’m not sure if it’s supposed to do that.  My hand hasn’t moved from my side since the noise ran through the building.  For some reason, I knew working in security wasn’t a good idea.   I just knew something weird was going to happen.  But I was honestly just hoping to ‘accidentally get tased’.  That would be fun.  Hilarious even.  But this?  Really?

My head is hurting.  That doesn’t seem right.  My head shouldn’t hurt.  It should be my side.  That I am still holding.  I wiggle my fingers.  Pain.  Ow.  I shrug to myself.  At least I was right.  It is hurting.

I hear mumblings to my left.  I cannot tell what they are saying, though.  That saddens me.  I wish I make it out.  It sounds like they have towels in their mouths.

I’m sure that’s not a good sign.

It’s beginning to get hot.  I chuckle to myself.  That could be a good sign.  Right?  They say when you begin to die you get cold.  The sweat rolling down my forehead shows that I am not cold.  Oh, no.  What if.. can a person get so cold they sweat?  That is a really unnerving thought and I don’t want to think about that.

I should have called in today.  I thought about it.  Sitting up in bed staring at the alarm clock.  It played through my mind.  Today is not a good day.  Stay home.  But I figured that thought was only because I woke up on the wrong side of the bed.  Or that I had a hangover from getting drunk last night.  It was fun, though.

The mumbled talking is closer.  Are they talking to me? About me.   I turn my head.  Concern etched the supervisors face.  I can’t make out what he’s saying.  Did I put head phones on?  If I just stare blankly at him nodding every now and then, I wonder if he’d go away.

Oh.  He noticed the spot.  My hand.  He moved it.  Ow.  I close my eyes and shake my head.  No. No. No.  Don’t touch.  It hurts.  Ow.  Like really bad.

My hands are shaking.  I glare at my hand.  It’s covered.  Blood?  Sticky.  I flip my hand over a couple times.  My stomach feels weird.  Like something is pushing.  Flip flops.

I pinch myself.  Hard.  Twice.  Three times.  Please wake up.  Please wake up.  I think I’ll make that my mantra.  Wake up.  Wake up.

The supervisor wants me to sit.  I can’t seem to make my legs move.  I need help.  I look at him.  Pleading.  Help!  I scream in my head.

My stomach convulses.  Everything comes out.  All over his shoe.  Oh no.  No.  His poor shoe.  It was so pretty too.  He’ll never get it cleaned properly.  He’ll have to throw it away.  I feel so bad.  But I feel it again.  My stomach.  Once again.  Everything out on the floor.  I squint my eyes.  Is that blood?  That’s not good.

The supervisor helps me to a chair.  It rolls.  I fall.  Hitting the floor I sit there.  I don’t want to move.  The pain is too bad.

A part of me has always wondered what it would feel like.  Slipping through the skin.  Lodging itself tightly inside.  I knew it would hurt.  Like this?

I blink quickly.  Leaning against the wall I try to breathe.  Ow.  That hurts too.  It’s not smart to stop breathing though.

I am trying so hard to remember what happened.  My mind is blank.  Is that a bad sign?  Amnesia?  It that possible?  No, that’s stupid.

If I cry I wonder if anybody would care.  I really want to.  So much pain.  So much blood.  So much vomit.  My stomach heaves again.  NO!  I will not do that again.  The tears begin streaming down my face.  I want it stop.  Too many people in here.  Too many pretty people.  Can’t they go back to work?  Why worry about me?  I’m nothing.

I feel my eyes getting heavy.  Sleepy.  Oh, so sleepy.  I wonder if they’ll let me nap.  My lips part and I inhale air.  Slowly.  Feeling my lungs completely.  My eyes close.  I drift.

I’m sitting on a large white table, the walls are blank.  The floor is covered in dirt.  That seems weird.  I hear screaming.  Frantic screaming.  I ignore it.

I jump off the table and walk around.  I feel better.  I dance around the room.  Dirt flinging everywhere.  I smile playfully; giggling.

“Do you even realize what happened?”

The voice scared me.  I tripped over myself and I fall.  Hitting the ground hard.  I glance up at the figure standing in front of me.  They look familiar.  I tilt my head to the left.  I chew on my thumb nail.  Staring.  Where do I know this person from?

“Am I dead?”  I sigh at the thought.  I wasn’t ready to die.  Nowhere near.  I’m only twenty-five.  Oh.  Died at work.  That’s a horrible thought.  I slouch in the dirt.

The figured laughed.  “Would your heaven really be dirt and white empty walls?”

My heart drops.  “Oh.  No.  I’m in hell?”  The word sounds contorted.  Was I really that bad growing up.  That I deserve to be in hell.  Oh no.

The figure sits down on the ground.  In the dirt.  “Hell?  Really?  You’re not dead.”

Oh.  “Oh.”

Waving it’s hand around in the air it stares at me.  “You’re…. dreaming.”

“Dreaming.”  Hm.  That sounds strange.  Why would I go to sleep.  “What happened?”

“You were shot.”

My eyes widened.  Alarmed.    “Shot.”  My voice isn’t there anymore.  It ran.  Hiding.  I don’t blame it.  I wish I was with it.  Gone.  Somewhere else.  Hiding.

“You shouldn’t have went to sleep.”

The figure was staring at me.  Not moving.  I vaguely remember going to sleep.  It feels like a dream.  Maybe it is a dream.  Maybe I’m dreaming a dream inside of a dream.  It wouldn’t be the first time.  But that wouldn’t make sense.  Would it?  Maybe it would.

What is wrong with me going to sleep?  I was tired.  That is what you do when you’re tired.  You sleep.  Horrible thoughts go through my mind.  Coma.  My head spins.  Am I in a coma?

“Am I in a coma?”  I stare at the figure.

A creepy laugh emerges from the pits of the figure.  “A coma?”

Shivers.  Why did that laugh just make me get shivers?  Why is the figure being creepy?  Too many questions.  My head feels like it’s about to explode.  I wonder if that’s possible in a dream.  One minute your head is intact.  The next.. a million pieces.  Splattered all over the dream wall leaving a nasty stain.  Ugh!  Stupid head explosion.

The figure tilts its head to the side.  “A penny for your thoughts.”

“Do you even have a penny?”  Why would a dream figure have a penny.  To play a dream penny machine in a dream casino in dream Las Vegas.  That’s stupid.

“No.  I guess I don’t.  I don’t have pockets.”

I should have dreamed up a pocket in their pants.  Had I known I was going to dream up a creepy figure I might have.  And a penny.

I wish I was at home watching television.  Should I be thinking about this sitting in front of my dream figure that is still staring creepily at me?  But I do wish I was.  Television sounds nice.  I wonder what I would be watching.  What times is it?  “What time is it?”

My dream figure contorts their face.  “That’s a strange question.”

“What time is it?”  I feel my eye brow lift.

“Fifteen after seven.”

What’s on television now?  I look around the room.  What day is it?  “What day is it?”

“Thursday.”  My dream figure looks confused.

Oh!  Vampire Diaries.  I love that show.  I could be at home watching television.  In my bed.  With a soda pop.  But no.  No.  I’m having a strange dream about a figure who keeps staring at me and laughing with a creepy giggle as I wonder whether I’m actually dead or not.

I pinch myself again.

This is stupid.  “This is stupid.”  I stand up and cross my arms across my chest.

The figure stands up with me.

I wonder what the figure is thinking.  How long am I going to be stuck here?  Will I ever wake up?  Should I pinch myself?  Would that help?  Why am I asking myself so many questions?

I’m hungry.  “I’m hungry.”  Well this isn’t good.  I can’t dream up dream food.  I’m sure it wouldn’t do me any good.  Hm.  I wonder what I would dream up.  Hamburger.  Pizza.  Eh.  Oh.  Chinese food.  I laugh to myself.  Of all things.

“You should really stop over thinking this.”  The dream figure seems bored.  Why are they bored?  I’m the one who cannot go home because I don’t know how.

“What else am I supposed to do?  Exercise.”  Why is this figure looking at me like this?  I didn’t drag them here.  Oh wait.  Heh.  I guess I did.

“You’re supposed to learn something.”  The figure is dancing.  Why are they dancing?

“Am I supposed to learn to dance?”  I don’t need some dream figure teaching me some weird dream dance.  I know how to dance.  Or at least I can fake it well.  Annoyed I stare blankly at the dream figure.

The dream figure huffed.  “Don’t be ridiculous!”

The dream figure just screamed at me.  Why did it scream at me?  The sound was strange.  It was deep.  Loud.  The urge to cry came back.  “Why did you yell at me?”  That didn’t even sound like my voice.  It was loud.  Squeaky.

The dream figure dropped its head.  “I’m sorry.”

I couldn’t help myself.  The laugh escaped my lips quickly.

My eyes flickered open.  A bright light searing into them.  I lay motionless on the floor.  The ceiling is dark.  Dirty.  This is my job.  Why am I still here?

I try to move but I’m shackled to the floor.  Why am I shackled?  At work.  This doesn’t make any sense.

My ankles are hurting.  I try to move them.  Get the blood moving.  Nothing.  They’re shackled too?  This is weird.

There are things hanging from the ceiling.  I squint my eyes.  Ties.  Grey ties.  My lips part making an O.  I try to sit up.  I don’t want to be here anymore.

I wish I could pinch myself.  I’m sure this is a dream.

I hear something.  What is that?  Boots.  Oh I wish I was better at this.  It’s getting closer.  What IS that?

The noise stops.  Close.  Right beside me?  I turned my head toward a tall guy.  I swallow hard.  He is tall.  Very tall.  Built.  Half naked.  Holy crap.  My friends aren’t going to believe this!

He is holding a whip.  Why is he holding a whip?  He cracks it on the table.  It was loud.  Echoing through the room.  I feel my eyes widen.

His hair is shaggy.  Dark.  Oh his eyes.  I bite my lower lip.  With the whip he flicks my lip.  He shakes his head as if to say no.  My lips part.  His lips part enough for me to see the tip of his tongue between his teeth.

Should I be thinking about something?  Was I thinking about something?  I think my mind was erased.  I wonder if he did it.  Maybe he’s an alien.  Was I abducted?  Does that sound weird?  It does to me.  If an alien was to abduct someone it sure wouldn’t be me.

He is moving.  What is he fixing to do?  He lays the whip on the large wooden table.  He pulls something out of his pants pocket.  What is that?  He lifts his hands up in the air.  Oh, it’s a remote.  He hits a button.  Music fills the room.  Loud music.  I know this song.  I’ve heard this before.  It’s on my phone.  Isn’t it?  Asking Alexandria.  Yeah.  This song.  It’s a cover.  I close my eyes and let the music move through me.  He has it on repeat.  I lick my lips as the voice echoes through the room.  Louder.  …I miss you much.  Cause you are the apple of my eye.  I hum to myself.

When I open my eyes he is standing above me.  I wonder what he did with his shirt.  Shouldn’t he have it on?  We’re in public for Pete’s sake.  He should be dressed.  Although.  I don’t mind it.  His pecks well defined.  Reminds me of Jay Ryan shirtless.  My mouth waters.  His eyes are dark behind his thick rimmed glasses.  Brown, perhaps.  So entrapping.  Dark bushy eyebrows.  Oh, just like Ian Somerhalder’s.

Yeah.  This is most defiantly a dream.

I close my eyes.  Tightly.  If I open them again I’ll be awake.  Yes.  That will do.  I open them slowly.  I turn my head.  I growl.  It didn’t work.  My jaw drops.  What the hell?

I stare at the guy.  I didn’t wake up.  But oh wow.  This isn’t true.  Why can’t I wake up?  I want to wake up now.  This is freaky.  His grin slowly grows across his face.  He looks different though.  His eyes are even darker.  Is that eyeliner?  His facial hair dark.  His beard braided in two long lines with beads on the ends.  A small patch of hair covering where a labret piercing would go.  A small version of a handle bar mustache.  If I was to squint my eyes I’d swear I was looking at Johnny Depp.

I shake my head violently.  This is unreal.  Wake up.  Wake up.  Wake up.  I try to pinch myself, without thinking, and I realize I’m still shackled to the floor.  He is standing above me.  His left leg on my right side, and his right leg on my left side.  Staring down at me.  Grinning.

He grabs the whip he had placed on the table.  He slowly licks his lips.  My heart expands.  Everything below my belt convulses.  What the hell?  This dude, I don’t know, has me tied up and I’m turned on.  This cannot be happening.  I really need to wake up.  NOW!  I scream at myself.

Pointing the tip of the whip at my face.  He slides it in between my lips.

“Open.”  His voice is deep.  Deeper than Michael Clarke Duncan was.  Goose pimples form.  Without even thinking about it.  I part my lips.

He slips the tip of the whip into my mouth.  It touched my tongue.  “Close.”

I snap my mouth shut.

His eyes flashed black.  “Suck.”

Wait.  I spit the whip out.  “What is this?  Some fucked up version of 50 Shades of Grey?”

The man stops.  “What?”

I don’t want to play this game anymore.  I want to wake up.  I want to watch television for fuck’s sake.  I wish this guy would leave me alone.  He’s hot and all, but I am not in the mood to play whatever game he has in mind.

The guy drops to his knees.  Straddling me.  He stares at me.  His look unreadable.  He leans back onto his heels.  All of his weight.  I can feel him growing.

I sigh.

“Will you please tell me how to wake up.”  I pull on the shackles.

“Wait.”  He looks at me.  “You don’t want to play with me?”

“No.  No I do not.  I would like to wake up.  Go home.  And watch television.  I don’t want to be here anymore.”

He pouts.  “I’m bummed.  I really thought we’d have fun.”

“I do have a question though.”  Curiosity spewing out of every pore of my body.  I can’t keep on living this dream life if I don’t ask.

“Shoot.”  He smiles.  Oh yeah, now he smiles.  Ugh!  Guys.

I squint my eyes at him.  “Did you just read 50 Shades of Grey?”

He laughed.  “Yes.  Yes I did.”

“Should have known.”

I yawn.  A deep yawn that starts in my toes and ends in my fingertips.  I’m so tired.  I lay flat in a playground.  In the dirt.  I stare at the clouds floating by in the darkening sky.  It must be around eight in the evening.

My head is pounding.  I’m so tired of this.  Why can’t I just wake up?  Stay awake.  I really want to watch television.  Eat some popcorn.  Oh.  Popcorn.  My stomach growls.  Extra butter, please.

Am I in a coma?  I wonder if everyone does this during coma’s.  That would explain why people love coming out of them.  I shrug.  But then again.  This really is kind of interesting.

A small breeze blows across my body.  I look down.  What the hell?  I’m naked.  Why am I naked?  What happened to my clothes?  Jumping up quickly I try to hide myself.  I fail miserably, of course.

I glance around the playground.  Nobody is around.  I remember this playground.  Why do I remember this?  I feel as if I’ve been here before.  Have I?  Sometimes I wish I could remember my childhood.  Because then I’d know.  And possibly how to get home and put on some clothes.

I walk around.  Looking for clues, possibly.  I’m not sure.  My mind is blank.  Except for the obvious thoughts.  Television and popcorn.  I shake the thoughts from my mind.

I reach the road.  Laying in the middle I spot my shirt.  Why is my shirt in the middle of the road?  That doesn’t make any sense.  I look both ways before I bolt out to the street to pick it up.  I quickly slip on my shirt hoping no one has noticed me.  Naked.  I hate to be naked.

I walk down the side walk looking side to side.  Hoping to see something that I recognize.  Nothing.  What the point is this?  If I’m going to be sucked into a dream at least give me something to contain my amusement.  Another naked guy would do great.  I laugh.

The next thing I know I am lying flat on the side walk.  The fall was quick.  I had always imagined that kind of fall would take forever.  Slow motion fall.  But no.  No!  Why would that happen.  That would be worth something.  Slow motion would be hilarious.

I lay flat.  My nose touching the side walk.  What happened?  Why did I fall?  I reposition myself so I’m sitting up.  My face falls.  Really?  Really?  Really?  Really?  Ugh!  Of all things to freaking trip over.  I trip over my own clothes.  Why are my clothes littered all down this town?  Why would I strip?  Am I drunk?

Drunk.  That would explain so much.  But if I am drunk, and not in a coma, then where am I?  I look around.  I just don’t see anything I know here.  Maybe I came out of the coma and celebrated by getting drunk.  Then I stole a car and drove three thousand miles to a town I didn’t know.  Illegally parked the car.  Got it towed.  Then, still in my drunken stupor, I began walking.  Stripping as I went.  Passed out in the park.

Yeah.  You’re right.  That’s dumb.  I shrug.

I slip on my shorts.  Find my shoes in a bush not even fifteen feet away.  I slip them on.  Flip flops.  Must love them.

I walked some more.  North, I think.  Possibly South.  Hell, this is probably West.  I don’t know.  I was never good at directions.  I guess it really doesn’t matter all that much.

I feel the need to keep walking.  I’m not sure why, though.  I’m sure I’ll never find anything that will help me move on.  Keep going.  Wake up.  I don’t know.  But I suppose I’ll keep walking.

I walk.  And I walk.  And I walk.  And I walk.  And I walk.

I wonder how long I’ve been walking.  I stop misstep and look back.  The town is long gone.  It is beginning to get really dark.

If I was to die in a dream I wonder if I’d really die.  I heard you do.  I hope that’s not true.  We would never really know for sure, though.  If someone was to get a hatchet in their face in a dream and die.  Then die in person.  They’d not be able to tell anybody.  Why am I even thinking about this?  I’m just going to freak myself out.

Wait.  That looks familiar.  I squint my eyes at a small café that is sitting off in the middle of a field.  But I feel as if the last time I saw it, if I actually have, that it wasn’t in a field.  Why would someone put a café in a field?  That just doesn’t seem logical.

The field is large.  No road to get to it.  Right behind the back door is millions of corn.  It’s a corn field.  It’s a shame it’s not a cornflake field.  I snort laughter out.  I crack myself up.

The front door of the cafe is red.  Bright red.  Why would someone paint the front door red.  A large window engulfed the door.  The roof is in a large “A” shape.

I make my way slowly up to the building.  All the lights off.  I grab the door handle.  Might as well try.  The door flings open.  The bells hanging on the back of the door ding loudly.  I stand quietly inside the dining room.  The room is dark.  A small light lit up above the grill.

I walked up to the counter.  I noticed a small silver bell sitting on the top.  Next to a note that read ding for service.  So.  I ding the bell.  I ding the bell again.  And again.  I pick up the bell and hit it on my forehead.  Ching.  Ching. Ching.  I giggle to myself.  With the bottom of the bell in my palm I hit it on the counter.  Ching.  Ching.  Ching.  This is fun.  I’ve always wanted to do that since watching Gabriel Iglesias on Comedy Central.  I snort to myself.

“Can I help you, ma’am?”  An older voice said behind me.

I jump.  “Oh.  I didn’t realize you were in here.”

“I wasn’t.  But your insanity toward my bell got my attention.”  He sounded very annoyed.  He was short.  Greying hair.  With a bald spot on the back.  His eyes were glazed over.  Wrinkles all over his face.

“I’m sorry.”  I really was.  I have just always wanted to do that, and I’m sure other places would have shot me.  How ironic.

“Is there anything I can do for you?”

I opened my mouth to say something but instead snapped it shut.  He didn’t look as if he really wanted to do anything for me.  “No sir.  I’m good.”

“In that case….”  He turned quickly on his heels and left the building.

I sighed.  I should have asked for popcorn and a soda pop.  Extra butter, please.

A noise behind me gets my attention and I turn.  A hooded figure.  Ugh!  What is with me and creepy figures?  I couldn’t see anything about this figure except the teeth shining in the light from the kitchen.  I stared.  Speechless.  The figure lifted his hand and snapped.

Just like that the walls blew off.  A cloud of smoke appeared in front of me.  It was so quick.  I couldn’t do anything.  Just stand there.  The roof collapsed, falling straight on top of me.

I jolt awake.  Eyes wide breathing heavy.   I look around.  I’m lying on a stretcher in an ambulance.  I sigh.  Relief stretching through me.  My body completely relaxes in a matter of minutes.

Dear Mom:

The Daily Prompt today :

“Write a letter to your mom. Tell her something you’ve always wanted to say, but haven’t been able to.”

I figured I’d go ahead & do this prompt.  So here goes:

Dear Mom.

Next year will be ten years.  April 10th.  It doesn’t seem like it’s been ten years since you passed.  I still miss you like crazy.

I don’t remember your voice, & I hate to admit that.   Tim & I are doing good.  Or the best we can.

I hope daddy is with you.  & y’all are watching over us.  It would be nice to have two people on our sides.

I wish I could have told you one last time that I loved you more than you’ll ever know.  I wish I wouldn’t have found those letters you wrote.  I wish I could have read them.  I know you loved us & I know you were sick.  Every day passes & I miss you a little more each day.

I love you & always will,
Your daughter:
Barbara

Writer Community.

I have never been published.  I’ve only finished two short stories in my life.  They are in my bedroom floor collecting dust.  I’m working on other stories ranging from short stories to something that will be larger if I finish it.

I read something somewhere that said if I want to be published one day then I need a strong following on a blog.  This is my blog.  I don’t have a strong following.  Is that because I don’t write small stories in my blog?  If I did would it make a difference?  Would more people read it?  Would less people read it?

I used to write small stories in this but stopped because I am a paranoid freak and I am convinced that someone somewhere will take it.  *rolls eyes*  Like anybody really wants to take my writing.  I guess I could just go back to putting stories in every now and then and see how my following would go.  The worse thing that could happen?  I don’t get anymore followers and it was all in vein.  Either way, I at least tried.

Daily Prompt : What is your worst quality?

It’s been awhile since I’ve wrote.  Been writing a lot and then of course work.  Cannot forget the days I choose to sleep in.  Since I’m connected to internet for a few hours I figured I’d write something really quick.

The daily prompt : What is your worst quality?

I thought about saying ‘nothing’.  That I’m perfect and awesome.  Although, just an FYI, I am awesome.  But everyone knows they have horrible qualities, and for a person to say no then they are lying to themselves and everyone around them.  I did have to think about this question though.  Not because I honestly believe I don’t have any.  But because I’m used to everything about me and I’ve accepted them.  Anymore for me I don’t find it ‘bad’.

After thinking a few minutes and asking other people I have decided that my worst quality is that I’m loud.  I’m not talking sexually loud, either.  I’m talking that I am really loud.  Mostly when I’m tired.  Or when I’m excited.  Now you’re thinking “well, I get loud when I’m excited.”  Take your excited loud and multiply that by ten, add fifty, and multiply that again by one hundred.  You’re almost to the extent of my loudness.  That’s when I’m excited.  When I’m tired, it’s two times worse.

Yes, I’m totally be serious man!

I try my hardest not to be loud by nearly whispering when I’m going around people.  They say it’s because I’m just so animated.  Being animated is one thing, being loud and annoying is completely different.  For me, I’m loud and annoying.

Then of course, if we’re bashing ourselves – my laugh is a really bad quality.