From up here, the city view was magnificent. A million, bright lights. A hum of noise. Tall buildings, skyscrapers brushing against distant stars. A magical kingdom full of strange and wondrous creatures. The only thing that separated me from going over there was a large, electric fence.
Suddenly, a dark cloud filled the air. It was chased with orange and red flashes of light. The noise heard before was drowned out by screaming sirens. A building disappeared, and some stars went out. Not all creatures were strange and wondrous, and in the distance, a thunder of bullets shattered the night…
I would be lying if I said that I wasn’t broken.
I’ve done terrible things in the past.
Sometimes, I just lose control.
There’s no excuse for it,
but I’ve tried to be a good person.
I push myself,
I set goals,
and I force myself to stay on track.
I fell off that track this week.
I fell hard,
feel really terrible for what I did.
There is absolutely no excuse.
I cried a million tears afterward,
angry at myself
for that part that I cannot control,
that part that I have worked so hard to keep quiet.
Since I joined Wattpad, I’ve received numerous messages. All of them ranging from Hi, Hello, and How are you? You are beautiful. I’m sorry. Did I join a dating website? I thought this was a place to post and share stories and not be picked up on by some stranger, and there seems to be something strange about Wattpad. They’re all channeling Adele.
I read a great write up on Wattpad in a Poets & Writers Magazine. This was the place to post your stories, gain more followers, and maybe, just maybe be discovered. Well, I’ve been discovered, but it’s…
Yesterday was a very hard day for my family and me. We had adopted a golden retriever three weeks ago from a breeder, and in the beginning, she was nothing but an angel. Then, aggression surfaced. At first, we thought that she was a puppy and she’s going to chew on everything, everyone. We were fine with that, but this was more than just gnawing. This was something else. Then, more aggression. I looked down at my brother’s arm, and it was covered in bruises. My father had a scratch on his face from her nails, which might have been…
It’s like in that Christmas M&M commercial. “They do exist.” I found some on Long Island. Their heads held high up. Their features tight and pristine. Their giggles and laughter faux and insidious. Their gazes penetrating, eliminating. Maybe, that’s why they didn’t see me standing there, walking in front of my face, a strand of hair gracing across the tip of my nose, and they move like ballerinas do, spinning and tiptoeing as not to bump into anything unpleasant. They are eye candy, catching those yum-yums without their shirts on, flexing their biceps, not caring that nobody’s home inside. After…
There is no letter burned into my chest,
but there is a mask on my face.
I put it there,
and that burns you.
And you would prefer me gone
for I am a reminder of fiction not truth.
The nightmare has ended,
or so you would like to believe.
But here I come as a mad parade,
and if you had it your way,
and you think you do,
you would tie me to the stake,
throw rocks at my bones,
and burn this mask off my face,
scar my skin
because I am living truth
that this virus…
I used to take walks when I lived on Long Island. I used to walk along Merrick Road and Sunrise Highway. There was always a lot of traffic, cars speeding by, and I would wait for the light and cross the road. It still wasn’t easy, and the drivers didn’t care if I was there. But I always made it to the other side.
I could see him heading in my direction. His feet set for collision. My head lowered toward the pavement. He did the same. No eye contact. We brushed past one another. Our bodies barely touched. …
Writing is easy to do. How many times did I want to smack someone for saying that? Writing is not easy. It takes time, time that some of us don’t have when we’re chained to a day job working eight to four, then we come home, and we have to do the dishes and make dinner. There is only a slice of time during the week for me to write, which is why I love the weekends. I devote most of my Saturdays and Sundays to writing, but then there’s distraction, procrastination. Thank you, Social Media, so no, writing is…
I hate feeling not comfortable in my own skin.
At work, I feel out of place,
unable to connect to those around me.
I’m more comfortable at home in my room,
writing my stories and poetry.
That is when I am real,
my authentic self,
and sometimes, I can be too real, blunt.
I have to remind myself to pull my claws back,
but at work, I am not real.
I am covered in layers.
I don’t know what to say to my coworkers.
I don’t have their lives.
Marriage and children.
I think that’s off the table for me.
Horror, Science-Fiction and Dystopian Author and Poet.