"If I should die before I wake..."

This post is a result of a writer's group event. We were given three prompts and then 20 minutes to write 500 words on the one we chose. I chose "If I should die before I wake" This is the result. Please excuse any typos. I haven't edited it other than within the 20 minutes.


“If I should die before I wake,” she said as she knelt before her bed. Before she could finish the nightly ritual, a force she had never felt before swept her up. Wrapping itself round around her a like whirling wind, it lifted her off the floor and carried her to a place she had never been before. Nothing was the familiar to her; everything around her was foreign and new. It felt like she was experiencing everything rather than seeing anything. Bright colors, exotic sounds all filled her senses at once. The scent of blue wafted into her nostrils, the sights of sounds filled her eyes.

Her mind could not even begin to comprehend where she was or how she had gotten there. It was too busy trying to process all the new information it had never encountered. Had it just gone haywire? Was she still kneeling before her bed and never even left her room? These were simply unanswerable questions. Her mind, like eyes adjusting to the dark, had yet to “see” what was all around.

Her body felt weightless. The force unknown had taken control and was carrying her body all through this maze of perception. It was an unwelcome, yet not unpleasant, tour that took her mind to places it had never been before. The colors, the sounds, the sights, the smells all mixed into an impossible combination. She did not know what she was seeing. She did not know what she was feeling. She did not know anything. But her mind felt no fear; her brain didn’t tell her panic. She floated along as if down a peaceful river of twisted perceptions.

Then, just as sudden as she had been lifted, she was set back down to where she had been kneeling in front of her bed. She did not feel scared. The experience left her feeling a calm she had never felt before. Like her body had been washed of all anxieties and fears. Like she was a brand new person whose painful memories no longer haunted them. They had left; gone away like a shadow as the sun slowly sunk behind the horizon.

She had yet to open her eyes. They were squeezed shut like they always where when she prayed. Each lid opened, slowly revealing the same bedroom she had always known, but had never felt before. She was back to reality, back to where she had always been. Although her journey had been pleasant, she was still relieved to be back in her familiar world. The one she understood.

She finished her prayer and crawled into her bed, pulling the covers over herself. The softness and warmth of the blankets made her feel at home after her journey that seemed much longer than it had to have been. Just before she leaned toward her bedside lamp to turn it off, she was going to perform her other nightly ritual. She reached for the frame, but it was not there. The picture of her beloved grandmother who had passed years before was no longer there. This was the first time she felt panic. She was confused and scared that something she cherished so much was gone. She yelled for her parents.

But, before the sound even echoed down the hall, a wave of peace suddenly washed over her again. She heard a familiar sound, a voice long unheard…”Dear, are you ok?” A figure appeared in her room…”Grandma?”

American Bridge

American Bridge is falling down. The rungs are shoddy and rotting and its tenuous hold to the bank is being broken away fiber by fiber with each negative shot fired from one side to the other. Once it falls, all that will be left is a deep crevice of resentment creating an insurmountable separation that will make compromise impossible.

Every four years, our nation's only large-scale political discussion becomes a sad display of gotchas, one-liners, told ya so's, smearing and scare tactics. We choose a side early on and then turn a closed mind to nothing but what we want to see and hear as we tear the opponent down as loudly as we can. From yard signs and bumper stickers to Facebook posts and emails, negativity rules as everyone becomes an expert and opinion becomes indisputable fact. We all become spin doctors twisting and mutilating words and statistics into whatever we please. Context? What's that?

Both sides know what's best for our country and that the other side is full of disconnected morons with nothing but their own selfish interests in mind. We label each other and create an image of the other side. We paint each other as villains. "Republican" and "Democrat" take on a life of their own as examples of everything that is wrong with our country, so much so that the words themselves conjure up a predetermined idea of a person's entire personality. We are no longer citizens of these United States. We are red or blue. We are callous or lazy. We are simply right or simply wrong.

We need this middle ground we're destroying. But instead, the side that wins will see no wrong and the side that loses will see no right. There will be resentment among the losing side and they will spend the next four years reveling in, if not hoping for, the failures of the "winner". They will actually be happy when something goes wrong and our country is worse for it. They will have "I told you so" at the tip of their tongues, ready at all times to feel the sweet satisfaction of their utterance.

If we want to save our precious middle ground, we must make a decision to get more satisfaction in finding compromise than in finding fault. The cheap jabs and mockery must be put aside and we must at least attempt to work together before the bridge falls once and for all, leaving us staring from opposite banks as what's best for our country is crumbling into the vast ridge we have created between us.

Here We Are...

Doing circles around a star. Clothing hiding the animal beneath it. Longing for the affection of others. Focusing our lives on the opportunity to propagate the species. Going through the motions without asking questions. Unsure of our purpose. Living because we do. Distracting ourselves with our day-to-day lives. Waking up and going to sleep with not much in between. Working to feed ourselves. Desiring arbitrary status symbols. No inherent value in anything...

Except relationships. They are the real meaning of life. The greatest people aren't those with power and control, they are those who make the lives around them better. And that takes no money or prestige. It takes caring and interest. It takes selfless decisions.

That's the purpose. To make every decision and action with diligent care. To know that our time is short. To know that we have the power to make or break a person's day. A smile. A concern. Or simply to listen.

When all the false motivations and superficiality is stripped away, we are simply animals sharing a confined space, being driven by unseen instinctual forces and doing what we do because that's all we know to do.

We exist on a small rock. We are small. We are insignificant to it all. But, we are significant to each other. We mean the world to each other.

But, that world is at odds with itself. People kill each other. We battle. Maybe it's because at the core we are all the same. We're the same animal. The same desires, the same wants and needs. And like any animal we do what's in our power to ensure we get those things.

However, unlike other animals, we can decide. We can decide that sometimes getting what we want isn't worth the consequences to others.

But, of course, we're selfish. We have to be. We can't give of ourselves to the point of having nothing left. Even more so, we have the absolute right to personal happiness. But there's a line. A line that too often gets crossed. When our own selfish desire devours the good of all. That's when things go bad.

And, more often than not, that's how things are. We aspire to fit a mold. We want. We covet. We won't stop until we get it. We have perverse goals. We want things that make others jealous. We want to proclaim our superiority with material possessions. Possessions that are fleeting, meaningless, and pointless.

More than what we achieved, our real mark on the Earth should be with those whose lives we have touched. Those lives that were a little brighter because of us. People hurt. People cry. Nobody can do it alone. We need each other more than things. That should be the central focus.

It's tough, though. We're all preoccupied with ourselves. We're all stuck in our own heads. We're self-centered. When we hurt, no one else matters. When we hurt we want someone to be there for us.

But, too often we run. We don't want to deal with it. We take each other for granted when that's all we really have.

Magic Breakfast Land

Every time I see that McDonald's commercial where the little girl asks her parents where breakfast comes from, I always think that it'd be funny if they told the truth rather than come up with some "Magic Breakfast Land."

So...

"Where does breakfast come from?"

"Well, honey, it all starts with the birth of a cute little piglet. You know, like the one in Charlotte's Web? Eventually, after spending most of its life in a cramped feed lot, they send the fattened-up little piggy to a processing plant. That's where the magic occurs. First, they send its soul to piggy heaven. Then they gut it, slice it up into pieces, and turn into the sausage you're eating right now.

Oh, sweetie, don't cry. The pig's life was miserable. You're doing him a favor by eating him. He was probably counting down the days until he could put a smile on the face of a happy McDonald's customer. The moment they ran that blade across his neck was the first time he'd been happy since the day he was born. Plus, if God didn't want us to eat pigs, he wouldn't have made them taste so good.

And do you remember that time we went to the petting zoo and you saw those cute little baby chicks? Remember how you wanted to take one home so bad and we wouldn't let you? Well, the egg in your breakfast could have become one if you hadn't eaten it. So, in a way, you get to take one home now.

But, the bad news is that if you really cared about chickens you'd have ordered a chicken sandwich rather than the egg. At least then the mother hen would have felt the sweet kiss of death rather than being kept barely alive, standing around in its own filth and longing for the day that its egg production goes down enough to make it no longer worth keeping around.

Oh no, no, honey. You're not a terrible person. Chickens are actually really dumb. They have no idea what's going on. I gave them feelings they probably don't have. I was just having fun. Pigs, on the other hand, they're pretty smart. Though, I guess they're not quite smart enough or I wouldn't have just finished my second sausage biscuit.

So, to answer your question, breakfast comes from dead animals and unborn baby chickens...aren't you gonna finish that sausage?"

Reggie The King

For context, I wrote this after finding out Ray Allen had broken Reggie's all-time 3-pointers made record:

After staring blankly in a state of shock, I've finally been able to come to grips with it. Or, begin to. It's been rough so far. The weight of this new reality pressing down on me. It's almost too much effort to lift my head. The thought is still unreal. I can just stare at the ground and shake my head...

The joy. The triumph. The heartbreak. The amazement. He gave it all. Defying all odds and silencing thousands. Bowing to the crowd as boos cascaded down from every direction. Soaking it all in. Reveling in the hatred for him.

He knows they only hate him for what he's done. With a callous heart he's broken theirs. Time and time again. Enjoying it more each time.

He turned dreams into nightmares...

His foil was his greatest inspiration. To watch him suffer brought him joy. To stare him in the face and watch the gloom wash over it. To see his heart broken. That's why he did it. That's why he loved it...

Reggie Miller. The king. The record may not be his, but the title remains. The timing and the pressure. The killer instinct. The shear brutality of his cold-blooded shots. His three-pointers raining down like bombs bringing destruction to an entire city's dreams. The net exploding with each swish. The crowd erupting in agonizing moans and then falling silent. That's what fed him. And he was hungry...

More than just three points, his shots meant the elation of one city and the utter depression of another. His threes squashed hope. His threes brought opponents to their knees, head in hands, all hope lost. His threes made people either love him or hate him. But, most of all, his threes made us watch with bated breath.

And for some of us, they made him a hero. A hero who took a small town team and thrust them into the national spotlight by taking on the mighty Knicks. He brought down Goliath with his own form of that famous weapon. His arms his sling and the ball his rock. From long range he struck again and again with a fury unseen. Until the giant had fallen...

Raise your arms in triumph, Reggie...For you are still the king.

Sticks and Stones...

Every letter sliced through my skull
Cutting through like razors.

A black crust curved around the folds of my brain
As the words seared into my mind.

They became a part of me
Traveled with me

And singed every thought

They slowly burrowed deep into my subconcious

Unnoticed yet as powerful as ever.

Diverging Agreement

Imagine there's a wall. Two people are staring at it. One person says, "I think the wall should be red." The other says, "I think it should be blue."

One person runs to the wall and paints it red. The other runs to it and paints it blue. One person then paints it over with red. The other then paints it over with blue.

As they continue, the colors become less like themselves and more like each other. Eventually, the wall becomes purple. Both people stop painting, look at each other, and say, "Perfect."

Druggie Doggy

Last week I came home to a terrible sight,
My faithful companion had taken to the white,
Piles of drugs as far as the eye could see,
When I said "bad dog" she took a swing at me.

Snout deep in powder sniffing away,
Going through enough for five in a day,
Insatiable appetite her spirit has taken,
Only thing she loves more is hot crispy bacon.

Snow white fur hides what's illicit,
It blends right in so it's easy to miss it,
Shakes like she's drying and off her it comes,
She can make perfect lines without any thumbs.

Where she gets the drugs is quite a question,
I followed her once and learned a lesson,
She rounded the corner and met with the dealer,
Begged with her eyes and he became the fix healer.

The changes in my dog have been very drastic,
Signs of addiction she has all that are classic,
She used to crave my attention but not anymore,
My dog has become a giant coke whore.

The Murder

He was half asleep and contemplating whether or not to get up when the door mysteriously swung open.

"Oh, hey girl," he said. "How ya doin'?"

The dog walked into the room.

"Time to get up," the dog's hot breath seemed to be saying.

"Coffee, first..." he thought as he groggily got out of bed, the dog already out of the room and looking back with excitement.

"Calm down, we'll go in a bit," he said. "If you'd learn to make coffee we could go a lot sooner."

He walked out of the room and followed the dog down the stairs, then headed straight to the kitchen.

As the coffee brewed, he sat in the living room and watched television. Apparently, some celebrity had done something and it was supposedly interesting. The people on TV seemed to be excited about it, anyway.

The dog was now staring at him and panting. The coffee was ready.

He drank his coffee and continued watching television. The dog continued begging with her eyes.

He set the almost empty cup on the end table and went to get his shoes. The dog could barely contain herself.

The sound of the drawer opening sent her into a frenzy. Like a bucking bronco she ran through the dog door, did a lap around the backyard and then returned and waited to be leashed, her wagging tail causing her entire body to move.

He put the leash on and opened the gate. They headed toward the neighborhood park.

As they walked, dogs barked from behind their fences while she sniffed every tree, pole, and possibly interesting thing on the ground.

Every now and then, she'd find a spot worthy of being marked. He was never sure about this decision process, but the dog seemed to put a lot of thought into it. After several stops and futile attempts to chase squirrels, they eventually made it to the park.

As the dog sniffed a telephone pole, he looked up and saw a large crow sitting on the wire. He realized it was the first bird he had seen the whole walk.

He dismissed the thought as inconsequential and took the dog off the leash. She ran off while he headed toward a bench. As he was walking, he heard a caw. Then another. And another.

The sound of the caws got louder and louder as he approached the bench. Suddenly, a black blur flew by his head. He turned to look where it came from and was struck by an odd site:

A large line of crows had formed about ten feet from him. A couple flew low to ground and landed behind. The others stayed in front.

Suddenly, one flew right at him. Instinctively, he swiped at it as hard as he could. With a whimper, it fell and laid motionless. He looked down at it and kicked it around a little. It didn't move.

Save for a few insects, he had never killed anything in his life. Guilt and remorse ran through his body.

As he was trying to figure out what was happening, two more came right at him. He covered his face and tried to run, but was met by the ones that had flown behind him. They began to wildly peck at his arms. He could feel their beaks breaking his skin and blood began to flow down his forearms and clump in his hair. The others caught up. Their beaks plunged into his skin and warm blood ran down his neck.

With no other choice, he began to thrash around. They were relentless. He caught one with a swift hit and it fell to the ground. Then another. And another. More flew at him and he swung wildly, reluctantly killing them.

Suddenly pain rushed through his hand...

With a squirt of blood, he grabbed the crow and pulled its beak from his hand just as more were flying at him. With warm liquid flowing down his right hand and dripping off his fingers, he used the bird in his left to swing at the others that flew at him. One, two, three quick stabs...

As the dead began to pile at his feet, his mind had gone blank.

Blood and feathers flew. Each attack ended with another crow having the life leave its body.

The fury died down. He was surrounded by a slew of corpses.

He looked at the now red crow in his hand struggling to break free. He let it go. The crow half-flew off before falling to the ground, the blood weighing it down. It was a bit dazed and bewildered. It stood motionless. The dog ran at it and it tried to fly off again. It eventually made it over the fence.

He then looked down at his right hand and remembered the wound. It had gone numb, as he had, and had become black from dried and coagulated blood.

He felt the wounds on the back of his neck and poked around them with his finger. The blood that flowed from them had collected at the collar of his shirt.

He stood there, head down and shoulders slumped, unmoving and looking at the carnage around him.

The dog came over and began to lick his hand.

"Stop that," he said sternly.

The dog looked up apologetically.

"Sorry, girl."

He examined his hand again.

"Let's go."

He and the dog left the park. It was littered with black lumps. The back of his shirt was wet and heavy with blood. His hand was now throbbing from pain.

As they continued to the house, he noticed he was being followed. As he walked, the dull brown limbs of the trees gave way to a scorched black. They followed him, perched and staring like an inescapable thought.

Head down, he continued walking. They left him alone. He made it back to house.

He went into the kitchen and began to run water over his hand. The water stung as it hit the open wound. He stood there gazing out the window. The black trees were staring at him.

A sharp sting ran through his hand. He looked down. He looked back up. The birds were gone...

After the encounter, he was never the same. The scenario replayed in his mind over and over again. He was often disconnected and distant. He longed to make sense of it.

But, he never could.

When the memory and feelings took over, all would become trees and the crows would once again fill the branches, their yellow eyes peering from the blackness.

Though their visits became less frequent, the murder never left him.

Agonizing Fragility

An ungerminated seed of hope in the mind becomes a festering wound in the soul...

He held it in his hand. It was cracked and fragile, but still intact.

He moved cautiously, trying not to break it.

Every thought he had was about it. Every action was to protect it.

They consumed him. He was sure everything he did would fix them. He was positive it had only made them worse.

When he closed his eyes he saw the cracks growing. He imagined how every action and decision had caused them to do so.

He anguished over it. He could feel it shatter. He could feel it breaking. It was breaking him.

But then one day, he squeezed his hand shut.

He felt the shards rip into his flesh. His fist filled with blood. The pain sent tears down his cheeks.

But after, there was calmness. And over time the wounds healed.

Then once again he opened his hand.