She was hunched over on a chair in the dim hallway. Her small frame cast an even smaller shadow on the dusty floor. Her eyes were swollen, her face rigid. It was almost funny how her heart felt numb yet ready to explode at the same time. Read the rest of this entry »

I’ve always had an odd habit of waking up at the unholiest of unholy hours. Sometimes it’s because of that weird funk I can’t shake. If I’m lucky, it’s because I have a story brewing.

This particular evening, I have a story in the works. So here I am, in front of the trusty PC, still arm from a long stint of programming. I play my usual ninety-something games of solitaire, just to get warmed up. My little ritual. Read the rest of this entry »

If it hadn’t been for the rain, this story would never have happened. It wouldn’t have mattered that Mariel had forgotten to close the west window. And it wouldn’t have mattered that there was a pile of books neatly stacked under that same window.

But it did rain.
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It’s one of the things you just know. I know when I wake up in the middle of the night beside a cool dent in the rumpled sheets. I know when he thinks I’m asleep and crawls back into bed, totally spent. When he mutters in his sleep. When I see the dark circles under his eyes as he shuffles around the house in his worn slippers and faded green jersey. When he dawdles over his coffee with that absentminded look on his face. And when I catch him with that expression…like he’s high on a heavy dose of electricity. I know his thoughts aren’t always with me. Read the rest of this entry »

It takes me ninety-three games of solitare to get my thoughts straight. It has become a habit of mine. I click drag click drag click drag the cards across my computer screen into piles of alternating red and black while ideas gather in my head. While I wait for the spark. The single idea that sends my fingers into a frantic tapdance across the keyboard.

I finish game ninety-three and double click the word processor icon. My fingers hover above the keys. The cursor blinks mutely, waiting for a new poem, an essay, or the one great novel I have yet to write to spill out onto the white screen. I type the word

The

hoping it’ll grow into the first sentence of the first paragraph of the first page of many more to follow.

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