Fiction Friday: [Waking in NYC]

I fell asleep cradled in a New York lullaby.
The steady pulse of passing traffic.
The blaring tenor of honked horns.
The biting falsetto of a siren’s wail.

The city’s rhythms worm their way into my dreams.
Fireworks of inspiration ignite all around me.
Their vibrant colors rain down, dropping
hopes and dreams
at my feet.

I am jolted awake by a New York symphony.
The shuffling hum of commuters.
The shrieks of school-bound children.
The crescendo of a new day filled with possibility.

Fiction Friday: Leonard's Blind Date

Leonard didn’t like poetry. Hated reading in general. But he knew better than to say so since responses fell into one of two categories: pity or disgust. He would fare better if he didn’t own a television or was gluten free. So, he kept his mouth shut. It was this lack of sharing that had led him to this moment.

“You’re going to love her,” his sister insisted. “She’s smart and funny. Cute. And she’s a poet.”

She rolled poet off her tongue like it was bubbles or candy or unicorns. But Leonard felt the sharp edges of the word striking through every nerve in his body. The instant dread sent his mind grasping too quickly at excuses, mushing them together and leaving him unable to form a single, cohesive argument against it.

Now, as he shifted uncomfortably in his chair, his blind date tried in earnest to dust away some of the awkwardness between them.

“So, Kelly tells me you work in corporate sales?”

Leonard flipped his fork over a couple times and nodded. He knew social norms required him to respond with: And she tells me you’re a poet. But the thought made his fingers curl around the fork handle and he had to will himself not to it jam in his eye.

“Sounds…interesting.”

There was an underlying plea in Juliet’s tone. For him to respond with actual words or to even send a glance her way. The problem was that his sister was right. Juliet was cute.

But the future he imagined with her was bleak. A never ending carousel of feigning interest in words she slapped together in the name of art. Why couldn’t she have chosen a life as a dentist? Or a barista?

Thankfully, the waiter arrived to take their orders. Juliet lit up at the opportunity to really talk to someone. The comfortable Juliet was light and funny and the waiter genuinely laughed at her clever banter.

Leonard knew he should appreciate this. The real her. But he also knew he couldn’t. For as long as he could remember, he fixated on things. Too many times it led to him being alone. Snorts when she laughs? No thanks. Inserts ums between every word? Nope. Yammers on and on about whatever book she’s reading? Uh-uh.

And it wasn’t like he was such a catch. Leonard wasn’t foolish enough to think that. Clearly his social skills needed a complete overhaul. And that was just the tip of the iceberg. He was ruthless at his job and grew more isolated every day in his personal life. Evenings consisted of getting food delivered and watching television. It was no wonder he didn’t know how to talk to people. How to make them comfortable. How to give them a chance.

The waiter took their menus and a tortuous silence fell over the table again. Leonard swore he could feel the heat generated from Juliet’s mind working overtime on what to say next. With her gaze focused absently out the window, he found himself staring at her. She gnawed at her lower lip and her furrowed brow twitched every once in a while. No doubt the manifestation of an idea of what to say being shot down. The passing headlights lit up her eyes and despite the intensity in her face, Leonard couldn’t overlook her softness.

It triggered something in him. A lightness. An understanding. His sister was one of the only people in the world he trusted. And one of the smartest. She had to have known what she was doing when she arranged this date. She didn’t need him to tell her about his aversion to poetry. That was the kind of thing she just knew. Just like how she probably knew the path his life was heading down was a lonely one.

Juliet’s poetry wasn’t what was ruining the date. Or what made him believe her to be undateable. Reality socked Leonard right in the jaw. Shocking and painful and difficult to accept, but ultimately undeniable. So, he cleared his throat, drawing her attention. The hope in her eyes scared him, but there was no turning back. Instead, Leonard took a moment to toe the edge before taking a giant leap into what he hoped to be a new life. A new Leonard.

 “So, Kelly tells me you’re a poet.” 

Fiction Friday: [Chiseling The Creative Block]

Yearning swells at the sight of it
glowing faintly through the fog.
Hands shoot out. Fingers flexed. Mind ready.
Fingertips graze, but the eagerness
sends it floating further out of reach.

Frustration swells as seconds pass,
ticking loudly through the panic.
Hands shoot up. Fingers flexed. Mind reeling.
Anxiety heightens, but life persists.
A reminder of another chance.

Lungs swell as breaths deepen,
calming the soul through deliberate gusts.
Hands float down. Fingers soften. Mind relaxed.
Chest heavy, but colors brighten,
clearing their way through the fog. 

Fiction Friday: Treadmill

Bare feet pound against dry, cracked earth.
Each step leading to nowhere.
The horizon never changing.

Heartbeats pound against tight, stitched ribs.
Each pulse leading to the last.
The horizon too far to care.

Despair pounds against ever-waning hope.
Each second leading to the end.
The horizon stares on, aloof and distant.

Faith pounds against the impatient horizon.
Each thump a call to believe.
The horizon swells. The horizon cheers.

Fiction Friday: At the Cliff's Edge

My legs dangled over the edge of the cliff. As far as I could see frothy peaks dotted the pulsing waters. Whispers skated on the wind all around me. I strained to hear them over the waves crashing below and the frenzied whip of my hair.

The sky, a marbled gray, vibrated with an angry energy and threatened to crack open. There was a connection. I was the sky. My exterior was merely the dam holding back everything I had held in for far too long. So much inside of me pounded against my sanity like the waves against the cliff. Relentless.

Sentences were impossible to make out, but the occasional word pushed its way through.

Do.
It.

The words came softly, but pelted my skin like daggers. I had no illusion to why I was here. What I came to do. But the encouragement from familiar voices was a slap to the face. A chorus of the people I loved: my mom, my dad, my sister.

The wind picked up and snatched away my tears before they could travel down my cheeks. I stood up knowing that the wind would do most of the work. With my toes hung over the edge, I raised my arms, breathing in the salty spray of the water. So caught up in the moment, I barely even noticed the gust of wind that took me over.

With the ocean racing toward me, the voices screamed to be heard. Desperation and heartbreak underscored their need for me to hear the truth:

Don’t do it.

The words warmed me against the chill of the ocean. But clarity stung my heart. All I could be now was thankful that I had no time left for regret.  

Fiction Friday: [Galloway House Pt. 7]

Welcome to Part 7 of Galloway House. If you have missed any of the previous installments, you can find them here: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6. And as always, thanks for reading!]


By the time Joseph Strunk began his ascent up the hill, he had worked himself up into a near panic. Convinced that his heart thumped harder and louder with each step he took, he worried it would burst from his chest before he made it to Galloway House.

Lightning continued to soundlessly flash across the sky, but thunder had taken its leave. The silence oozed ear-cloggingly thick and unnerved him more than the darkness. Almost more than the mission itself.

The lantern swung gently from his tight, sweat-slicked grip, sending shadows dancing long and eerie all around him. His other hand cradled the package tucked securely under his arm.

Up ahead, lights flickered from front windows, highlighting the intricate details of the lace curtains. Filled with anxiety, the beauty of it all was lost on him. Beauty was not on the list of reasons that candles filled the room.

Reaching the front door, Joseph was certain the knocking in his chest was louder than the sound of his knuckles against the wood. Light cracked at the edges and grew in the darkness as the door eased open. And despite a centuries-long feud between the families, a Strunk was once again face to face with a Galloway.  

Fiction Friday: [The Porcelain Predicament]

[I came across this article in the New York Times about how they're rolling out 'One-Sentence Stories' on Apple watches. Full disclosure: I didn't read the entire article. In fact, I barely got through the first few sentences. One, I'm not an Apple person. And two , I quickly lost interest when I couldn't tell the difference between these 'One-Sentence Stories' and their regular headlines. "So what's your point?" the readers asked. Well it's this: the actual headline made me think about containing an entire story in one sentence. This isn't a new concept. Plus, I've been a fan of Smith Magazine's Six-Word Memoirs for a while now. I suppose this was all a long winded way to explain why today's Fiction Friday is way shorter than this lead up! Enjoy!]

 

The weight of the divorce didn't truly hit me until I reached over and discovered the empty toilet paper roll.

Fiction Friday: [Hearts Ablaze in Charm City]

Stockpiles of pain
Sit heavily on tear-stained chests.
Hearts smoldering for a lifetime
Under the banner of:
Less Than.

Fires are burning, but
far beyond, far deeper than
the images splashed
across television screens.

The stockpiles fanned
again and again,
finally sparked, ignited
In the hearts of
The oppressed.

‘Legitimate’ news sources
taken to task
by Twitter.
Citizen journalism broadcasting
truths that don't boost ratings.
Ensuring that the world:
Sees.
Hears.
Understands.

And with each heart sparked
to action, to empathy,
another Less Than banner
Burns.

I felt that it was important for me to share the birth of this poem. The other day I watched an interview between Wolf Blitzer and activist Deray McKesson. And although I pride myself on taking most broadcast news with a grain of salt, this particular interview really got to me for the following reasons: I have lived in Baltimore. I have friends and family in Baltimore. I'm a black woman. And I'm a human being. To blatantly attempt to goad someone into creating the sound bite that you want is not journalism. Trying to coerce someone to condemn the legitimate feelings of the oppressed is not journalism. Those family and friends I told you about? They were posting images and sending tweets about what the majority were doing. Coming together in crowds of hundreds, sometimes thousands to figure out how to bring the peace. How to talk to the children and make this a teachable moment. But, not only was I not seeing this on the news, here was Wolf only wanting to perpetuate the 'If it bleeds it leads' work ethic of the news industry. Angrier than I'd been in a long time, I created and posted the following graphic on Instagram along with the caption that follows it:

Above is what happened after I watched #WolfBlitzer's interview with #DerayMcKesson.

I lived in #Baltimore for 9 months while working on The Wire and what I learned about the people there was that they love their city. They're proud of their city. I shouldn't have to go to social media to get the whole story and to recognize the strong people I remember so well. Especially when people are getting pretty hefty paychecks under the guise of being fair and impartial. 

I am in no way condoning the violence or saying that it shouldn't be reported. What I am saying is that if you only tell 1/4 of a story it becomes a tale of fiction based on a partial truth. This systematic grooming of people's minds to believe that people of color, especially poor people of color, are all violent thugs is a problem on the national level. And it's a problem that will never get resolved until we are shown the whole picture. The good and the bad.

To Baltimore...you are more than the picture they are painting. #StayStrong #Rebuild #TeachAndGrow