There are two kinds of people in the world: those who make excuses and those who get results. An excuse person will find any excuse for why a job was not done, and a results person will find any reason why it can be done. Be a creator, not a reactor. — Alan Cohen, A Deep Breath Of Life

Posts tagged ‘story’


Here’s a clip of another story of mine! If you’d like to see the entire story, just let me know! I’d be more than glad to share it with you. Enjoy!

I scratched my arm, dragging my brittle fingers across it.

When she sat so close, with her face so close to my face, it made me flare up inside. Her poop-colored eyes stared at me, and my matching eyes stared back.

I got teased when I was a child, for having poop colored eyes. I try to forget those taunts and jeers; that was the past, but it’s hard with her here every day, reminding me.

I scrawled loopy writing across a page of the newspaper, noticing the way I dotted and crossed my letters. There was a certain consistency about it. “Always the same old thing,” that seemed to describe my life perfectly.

I felt my eyebrows sink inwards, and the wood of my pencil snapped, freeing the graphite bar inside. Her writing was the same: the same size; the same style. Like myself, she also lived a brutally repetitive life.

I sighed, curling my fingers into a tight ball.

“I’m going out. Would you watch little Tony?” she wanders over to me, bobbing a gurgling baby boy, a smile placed on her face. She has a familiar smile. A smile that tells people that everything is great; this woman has her life on track.

Tony’s face scrunched up, and the sound a siren wailed out of his mouth.

I felt a brick of contempt lodge itself rigidly against my spleen. The pressure gave me a weak feeling and stirred my insides. I wanted to open my mouth and spew my breakfast all over her and her unexpected surprise from within.

Instead I looked up at her with the most placid look I could muster. It was not right for me to indulge in such fantastical thoughts. “I would love to watch Tony for you.”

She laid Tony in the playpen beside me in a bundle. When the door closed I began to hum freely, for I was able to finally be myself.

I peeked into the bundle. He was by far the smallest baby I had ever seen, but who can say small babies don’t cause trouble?

The monster was calling me. After spending the whole day, and the previous night, stuck inside this cluttered apartment, I needed a break. I needed to get away from her more often. Her, with her “holier than thou” attitude.

I lay back in the fluffy mass of pillows and ratty blankets on my bed, thoughts running quickly through my head. The thoughts came, and went. I had several epiphanies during that time, but soon dizziness was cast upon my vulnerable body.

I got a glass of water and slammed it back, only to be replaced by other. The water slid through my insides, landing in a freezing puddle. I could feel every muscle moving around in my body, and I didn’t like that. I wanted to feel the warm embrace of the monster. I wanted to feel the rush that used to come with it.

I felt a warm sensation rise up through my body, but it wasn’t a pleasant feeling. I wanted to hit something like it were a punching bag and I was a pro-boxer. I just wanted to make the uncomfortable feeling stop.

I caught my reflection in a hanging mirror and tensed. There she is, I thought. Her face was lost in a mass of big brown freckles. Small freckles are what I would consider cute; anything else just manipulates your face and turns you ugly. Big brown freckles can make anyone ugly.

I glared at her. She glared back.

I imagined myself shoving my mouth into her socket, sucking all the disgusting habits and ugly bits out of her. Of course I couldn’t suck all of it out, but I could try.

Over time there would be less and less of her. That thought sent a shiver down my spine. Whether it was a good or bad shiver? I didn’t know.

I could sense a plan beginning to form but I distracted myself from it. I knew if I allowed it to take roots in my brain; if I watered it with TLC, soon it would be very strong indeed.


Creative non-fiction

I went through some of my old creative writing stories, in case I lack inspiration this term, or maybe just to read. Either way, here’s a clip of a creative non-fiction piece I wrote last year. It doesn’t really have a name.

I walked along Avondale Road, keeping my eyes on the bus stop across the street. A few boys stood there, but the bus wasn’t yet in sight. I recognized one of them, Dalton.

To my right I saw anther boy I knew. Justin stood at the bus stop across the street from the other boys, and a lady in a silver car was waiting to turn left, between them.

The lady’s hair was brown and short, curling a few inches outward when it reached her chin. She had a very motherly look about her, and her car was sleek and new.

The sky glowed a dull steel color, illuminated by the morning light. My cell phone revealed the time as being 8:14, and I was sure the special bus would be rolling to a stop across the street any minute now.

The next moment I felt the breath knock out of my chest, filling my body with an intense pain all over. Blackness overtook my vision, and I no longer knew the meaning of direction; space; time.

My eyes fluttered open, witness to half a dozen people standing over my crumpled frame. At first they were hazy, altered by my confused state.

“Don’t move,” a hand pressed lightly on my shoulders as I struggled to sit up. “Are you hurt? You got him by that car.”

My head spun while I strained to make sense of the situation. I could make out the faces of a few of the faces of the people standing and crouching around me. “I’m okay, I’m fine. Can someone give me a ride to school?”

A babble of voices hovered around me, and my restless body fought to control it’s limbs. “I don’t think you’re going to be going to school today,” somebody said. “She has to have medical attention!”

“We should move her,” the motherly lady said, her gaze falling on the lineup of cars on either side of the street.

“My shoes,” I said breathlessly, my chest heavy. I pointed at a sneaker lying a few inches from my feet. My feet were cold and it was difficult for me to help the lady fit my foot into my shoe. My body was too limp.

How the Lost Get Found

Here is an excerpt from a recent short story of mine (245o words). If you’d like to read the rest, don`t hesitate to shout out !

He walked like a sedated mouse, kicking up rusty-colored leaves, and acrid yellow blades of grass. His Tommy Johnson’s flapped at the heel when he walked, but he dared not ask his father for new shoes.

The first time Marshall almost crossed the line with his father was a few weeks previous. He had wiggled his key in the lock, but the front door was securely shut. The lock even appeared to have changed. “Hello? Mom? D-dad?” He thumped a shaky fist on the door.

A cascade of footprints approached the door, quickly, and the locks un-latched, one by one. The horse-sized door swing open, sending one of the hinges toppling to the ground in a shower of single centimeter screws. A few seconds later, a man of about six-foot-three wedged himself between the door and its frame. “What do you want kid? Don’t you get the picture? Your mom and I don’t want you here.”

Marshall had ploughed past his father’s brick-red face, and chunky black eyebrows. He walked briskly into the kitchen, in search of a glass of water, or milk; anything. His hands were shaking when his eyes fell upon several open bottles.

Two were dropped on their side, glass shattered around the base, and only one bottle- wine -remained unscathed.

Marshall made a bee-line for the entrance to the stairs instead. He knew exactly what was coming, and didn’t want to face it, not yet.

“Get the hell over here, you useless bag of shit,” his father barked; words echoing in the tight kitchen. It easily covered the space between them, and almost seemed to fill the entire house.

Marshall could hear his mother croaking from the upstairs, but he walked purposefully away from her bedroom. He knew that her seeing them fight would do a number on her fragile frame.

His father lunged at him, grabbing one of the empty bottles as he did. He pushed Marshall against the counter, lodging an inch of granite into his lower back. “When’s the last time you ever did anything right? I’m working my ass off to provide for you and your,” he lowered his voice a bit. “dying mother, and you just run around acting like you’re beyond all this help and hurt. You’re a crackpot, you know that? Complete loony!”

His father’s breath smelled like a mixture of stale apple juice, and triple-distilled vodka.

Marshall leaned his body back, ignoring the screams which erupted from his spine, and pelvic bone. He twisted his head away from his father’s stench, and attempted to dodge the fist-full of poison.

Marshall’s head whirled with all sorts of things he could say, or do, to make his father’s life miserable. In a community like Dacreson, where the population has never reached more than 400, and even the children got to talking about one another’s personal business, nothing ever stayed a secret.

Fortunately for the other children, they didn’t have a father like Marshall’s.

“You don’t tell anyone, boy,” he rested the icy glass against Marshall’s lava-like cheek. Marshall felt the ice sizzle; fresh from the freezer. “I swear, I’ll make you wish you never had a tongue. Maybe I’ll even help you out.”

Marshall’s feet took him up and down the winding side streets of Dacreson, as if they knew the route all on their own. They brought him up the rich oak steps, to the familiar, giant-sized door, with ancient hinges, and a loose brass door knob.

He took a deep breath and said a silent prayer in his head: Dear Lord, please get me through another night. This week I’ve tried extra hard to break free from my father’s clutches. I want nothing more than to be successful in a field other than alcoholism and gambling. I wish my father could see that his job is risky behavior, but when I approach him, he almost slaughters me. Lord, please let me live another night.

Marshall felt his hand shake violently as he twisted the door knob and stepped in. His eyes scanned the foyer, but not even a string of steam flowed through.

He slowly stepped out of his running shoes, and edged up the staircase, raising both feet to each step before ascending to the next. At the top of the stairs, he followed the banister to the right, past his mother’s room, which held a sign; “sleeping.”

Marshall ran the last few steps to his door, and whipped it shut quietly. He took a deep breath and lowered his tote bag next to his bean-bag chair. He sat carefully in the chair, and leaned toward the computer screen, bringing up his instant messenger.

FuNgIrLfRiEnD125: How was school today?

Marshallll: It was okay. Who is this?

FuNgIrLfRiEnD125: Oh, just some girl hehe. Anyway, I go to the same school as you. You’re in               one of my classes. I noticed you don’t hang out with much of anyone, why              not?

Marshall continued chatting with her for over two hours before the front door slammed, and a rough male voice hollered up the stairs. “Marshall!”

Marshall jumped, and quickly closed his internet windows, jumping up right as his dad walked in. “Yeah, uh, hi, what?” His face flushed, and a droplet of sweat dribbled its way down his neck.

“Your mother’s sick, damnit, and you sit in this shit hole all day long. Why don’t you have a job? Why are you so lazy?” his father bellowed, shaking his fist in the air.

Marshall watched his father leave, and crept down the hall after him. He slipped into his mother’s room, and tip-toed to the edge of her white cotton sheets. He tugged on her pillow, and laid his hand atop hers.

“Marshall,” she whispered, opening her eyes. There were wrinkles on her forehead and chin, and her skin was pasty. “How was school, dear?”

Marshall broke eye contact and gazed out the window. He shrugged, and toyed with a loose thread from her blanket.

His mom watched his face, before dissolving in a fit of coughs. “I’m sorry that my being sick has affected you so strongly. I just wish you would talk, Marshall. You used to be such a loud, healthy boy. Regardless, I know you will be an exceptional psychologist one day.”

Marshall nodded, and gave her a hug before he slithered out of the room, quickly wiping his eyes before retreating to the bathroom to get ready for an early sleep.