I wanted coffee.

So I decided to make a cup of coffee.

I use the pour over kind, don't ask me why,

      and not the machine, but it was dirty at the bottom of a full sink.

And the dishwasher was full of clean dishes that needed emptied

     before the dirty ones could go in.

So that I could put the dirty dishes in the dishwasher,

     and reach the pour over coffee maker,

          down at the bottom of a dirty sink,

              so I could make a cup of coffee.

I took the clean dishes out of the dishwasher one by one, and started to put them away.

     but then I heard my Facebook messaging notification ding.

         Oh I wonder what that could say?

It was a family who was coming today to get my son's old bassinet

      He had never even slept in it, but I was still sad,

           but they were giving me twenty dollars, so I was glad.

Back to the kitchen sink.

Emptying the clean dishes one by one.

Soon I would surely be done.

"Mom! The baby needs a diaper change!" my middle son shouts.

I continue emptying the dishes, hoping he would leave me be.

"Mom! He stinks! He's right next to me!"

Sigh. I'll just change him real quick, and it'll be done in no time.

Maybe instead of coffee, I should just skip to the glass of wine.

Back to the kitchen sink.

Emptying the clean dishes one by one.

Soon I would surely be done.

Oh, no. What if the family who is coming to get the bassinet can't find us? I thought, worriedly. I better send them more info in a hurry!

Back to the computer, where I also noticed I had an email.

Oh my goodness, I began to wail.

It was an important email from my sons' teacher who was assessing their homeschool portfolios and needed photos of them doing science projects, on field trips, and more.

Oh, my brain began to roar.

I spent the next fifteen minutes gathering up photos to send.

Oh, this was never going to end.

Back to the kitchen sink.

Emptying the clean dishes one by one.

Soon I would surely be done.

The clean dishes were put away

So I filled the dishwasher with the dirty ones

Soon I would surely be done.

At last, the dishes were nice and clean

And the pour over coffee maker no longer at the bottom of the sink.

The water was heating up in the tea kettle.

And my nerves began to settle.

Finally, coffee aroma filled the room

    and flowers all around me started to bloom

A symphony began to sing

    and no more facebook notifications pinged and dinged

I held the hot mug in my hands

    and did a little inner dance

I gobbled down the liquid fast.

    Coffee at last.

My body was screaming.      

      What had I done?

Then I felt

warm

     numb

          sleepy.

The pain was gone.

I was gone.

In complete and total darkness.

I had known darkness, but this, this was real darkness, swallowing my entire being.

There I was for what felt like ages, in the dark womb. It smelled of dirt. Blood.

A light flickered somewhere off into the distant unknown. It was out as suddenly as it appeared. Then back again, becoming brighter and brighter, until it consumed me whole.

But what was me ?

The light filled me with warmth

        and so much love. Like my mother's kiss. My father's hug.

I suddenly remembered. I am not my body.

I am the soul that dwells within.

The letters shine 

brightly, 

white on black, 

from my

open laptop 

placed

in the window 

of my apartment. 

On the website

Im reading about 

people are conversing 

loudly

about issues of plot, 

character 

and writer's block

because

we all write

here. 

My body tingles lightly as the numbness spreads

My heavy heart sinks to the pit of my stomach

The nausea bubbles and rises

Higher

Higher

Higher

Overwhelming my senses

Uncontrollable tears flooding down my face.

Like Atlas, I am left buckling under the weight of this world

As reality sets in.

Now I am truly alone.

I open the letter hands shaking

Inside: the results of test taken

One name to set me free

The woman who gave birth to me

Eyes overflowing with tears

My heart stops beating in fear

For the name printed black and bold

Is the same name my current wife holds.

When you're Silent about your Success in Sobriety,

you're Loud about your Shame of Alcoholism.

If all we ever see and hear about are the failures,

we'll assume only Failures have the Disease.

Take the Shame out of Alcoholism and Addiction,

it's the only way this next generation will make it out alive.

https://hawkishunderdog.com/2017/05/30/anonymity-maintains-the-shame/

My thoughts keep me awake tonight. Snippets of conversations I had with friends and co-workers ebb and weave their way through my consciousness.

I probably shouldn’t have told my boss about that concert I went to last weekend. She probably thinks I’m all about the sex, drugs, and rock and roll now… Katherine’s birthday cake was so delicious, I wonder how Amber made the icing so fluffy… William definitely needs to leave Jenny – he deserves so much better…

My phone buzzes quietly next to my head from the bedside table. The screen glows faintly. I push myself up onto one arm and reach for my phone, wondering who would be texting me this late. Last time I checked, it was close to midnight. Jake’s name appears on the screen under the words “Text Message Received,” begging to be read. I hesitate for a moment.

It’s late… He will know if I open and read his text… If he really loved me, he would be here right now…

A moment of weakness overtakes me and I unlock my phone.

“Hey!”

Seriously? That’s it? It is 12:22 and all you say is “Hey”?

I run my fingers through my hair, untangling the knots that have already begun to form. I look down at the screen again, wondering if Jake was even worth a response. I lose myself in thought, debating the consequences of responding to the text, absent-mindedly stroking my hair. A soft tingling sensation slowly makes its way up my arm breaking my trance. I am back in my bed, alone in the darkness. I look down at my arm, and in the faint glow of light, a black coin moves towards my hand.

I try to calm myself, rationalizing that I’m just being paranoid. I move my other hand slowly-the hand holding my phone-and open the flashlight app, bathing myself in the blinding white light. It is not a coin on my arm after all. As my blood turns to ice, the pounding in my chest blurs my vision. For a moment I cannot move – I freeze in fear. Then as quickly as the paralysis takes hold of me, it evaporates, leaving me with the energy to furiously flick it off my arm.

Adrenaline kicks in and I sit up straight, eyes darting back and forth, seeking out my attacker. I find him perched on my pillow, and we lock eyes. For a moment neither of us moves. We stare each other down, daring the other to make the first move. He moves - hurtling his body full speed towards me. I jump back horrified. He doesn’t quite reach me, but he does not have the height advantage my pillow provides either. He stops. We both pause, trying to anticipate the other’s next move. Still holding my phone in my right hand, flashlight aimed at him, I slowly reach back and grab a handful of blanket. I swiftly flick my wrist, casting my blankets off the bed and onto the ground. I am not going to allow him the satisfaction of seeking refuge between my sheets. My two eyes never leaving his eight.

He charges again and I jump off the bed, arms raised in defense. The light illuminating from my flashlight app bounces around the bed and he follows. In that moment, it dawns on me that he is hypnotized by the glow, like a cat chasing the little red dot of a laser. From a safe distance, I move the flashlight around, testing my discovery. Sure enough, he follows my lead, every twist and turn. Fear slowly gives way to fascination. Perhaps this monster is not here on an assassination assignment, but rather an explorative expedition.

As the seconds, turn to minutes, my anger and fear returns. As perplexing as this situation is, it didn't change the fact that I am now standing in my underwear in the middle of my bedroom. He is conquering new territory - my bed. Without thinking, I throw my phone onto the bed, distracting him as I run to the bathroom for my glasses. The war has begun.

On my way back, I grab one of my new white and gold sandals. He may have won the opening battle, but I will not let him win this war. I take a deep breath and walk back into my room, sandal poised. He has moved closer to my phone, inspecting the source of the light. I slowly and silently inch my way closer to the bed. Squeezing my eyes shut, I swing my hand down with all my might, a high pitched squeal escaping from my lips. I jump back and open my eyes in time to see that I have missed. He crawls under the sandal, now discarded on my bed. He has won again.

I step back and shake out my trembling hands. This is not how the plan was supposed to go! I glance around the room, searching for anything that I can use as a weapon. I see a plastic blue clothes hanger lying in the corner of my room, sticking out from the jeans and t-shirt I had worn earlier. I pick it up with my left hand. I also pick up one of my black ballet flats in my right hand, desperately wishing I had bought the bottle of Raid like my mother had suggested weeks ago. I clear my head and focus on him again. This time, victory will be mine.

I turn on all the lights. He cannot hide in the shadows anymore. Using the hanger, I coax him out from his hiding place. He doesn't cower. He emerges confidently, ready for the fight. Once again, we lock eyes. His eight beady eyes make my skin crawl and I stifle the scream threatening to take me hostage. I take another deep breath. This time I keep my eyes open as I swing my shoe, never losing sight of my target. I am fast. He is faster. He moves away and bounces off the bed. I retreat hastily, eyes searching everywhere for him. He is gone. He has won the third challenge.

I am ready to admit defeat. Naked, alone, and afraid I slowly back out of the room. I pause at the doorway, looking back –hoping or dreading - to see him one more time. He is wise and does not let me see his victory celebration. I close the door behind me, acknowledging his conquest. Bowing my head in humiliation, I stumble to the couch and curl up under the tiny fleece blanket. I lie motionlessly on the couch, replaying the war in my mind. Body aching, I slowly drift to sleep, waiting for the morning light to rescue me - but morning never comes.

“Have thy tools ready and God will find thee work,” Pa yelled, as he removed his belt from his britches and walloped my hin’ end. “I’se told you time and time ag’in that yo' has to git the tools clean after you uses ‘em.” Pa was a big ol’ giant of a feller and I cringed as he backhanded my mouth, causing a little trickle of blood to run down my chin.

“But Pa,” I sez, “I was goin’ to clean ‘em but yo' was in town fer a spell so I stops choppin’ the wood, thinkin’ I gonna clean the axe after I goes to the ole swimmin' hole with Bubba. It was so dang hot! I thought I’d scrub it afore you got back!”

“There aint’ no excuse for sloth,” snarled my Pa. “If yo' wants to be ‘round here a little longer, yo' has best learn to min’ your manners and take care of yo work if yo' be wantin’ some vittles.

Well, I shore was hongry so I decides to do what he tells me 'til I be grown. I’se already eight so thas only ‘bout six more years. In this here county, tha’s considered ol’, fer sure.

I bides my time, doin’ mos’ all of the work, cleanin’ the tools and tryin’ to make ol’ Pa happy or at leas’ not stompin’ mad all the time.

But I’se angry inside, I kin feel it boilin’ aways. One day I decides I can’t take it no mo’ so I do what I has to do! But I cleans the tools after, until they shines, not a speck of blood, jes like ol’ Pa always sez to do. I had my tools ready and God did find me work so hallelujah and Praise the Lord.

**This is my imitation of the work of Andy Betz – first a ‘bon mot’ of wisdom, then a dark story, then the twist!  I noticed that he usually uses first person. Love his work and hope that I have been able to capture it!

In the summer of 2012, I watched him enter the cabin, navigating the small, intimate space ungracefully like a bull in a china shop, carrying haphazardly a six pack of beer and some bratwursts from the local supermarket in town. Desmond resembled a bear, covered in thick body hair, earning the moniker, “Jear-Bear” or “Bear-Bear.” Though, truthfully he was not much like a bear at all. Bears to me are loaners, right-wing nut jobs, living in seclusion to cultivate a safe interior world within the greater, unstable one that advanced without paying heed to their objections and idiosyncrasies. Jared—that is, Desmond’s given name—allayed any suspicion of malevolence with his wild, joyful presence, warm and inviting like a cozy fireplace on a cold winter night. His frame was massive, though not barrel chested, not quite obese, but robust and full figured, towering over most of his contemporaries, a bespectacled giant. Calm hands unpacked the food, steady and methodical. Inside the fridge, an array of scattered, half eaten food lie fallow and disorganized, though a particular order governed the contents, assuming categories associated by meal and time of day. One bed in the cabin, dressed with one ratty comforter and scattered clothing suggested there had been no one else living there prior to my arrival, save him and the occasional weekend guest. Below us, accessible by a roughhewn step ladder through a trapdoor a hobby room contained a small desk, a pool table, and a reasonable bookshelf. Well-worn spines, outward facing, arranged in order topically, then alphabetically spanned the shelves, some paying respects to classical poets and others to modern film writing. Yellowed pages stained with water spilled over the boundaries of the desk, filled with scant etchings of plots and characters from his myriad projects in process. A beaten, ragged chair, assaulted by hours of supporting Desmond’s genius was neatly pushed into the desk’s interior, an ingrained habit instilled from oversea boarding schools across the South Pacific. A daily itinerary, taped to the wall with blue painters tape, was filled out with a disciplined schedule. Letters from home, opened at the top, earmarked for future perusal were stuffed under the papers, should the time allow for such things. A second bathroom, covertly added on by his father, adjacent to the hobby room was full of board games of varying degrees of complexity, designed by complacent grunge era computer scientists to be played when the weather prohibited venturing out into the world. Hand painted miniatures shared the space, like sentries guarding a vault of precious belongings. In previous months I had added to the collection of warriors, goblins, spacefaring marines and makeshift terrain, contrasted from reclaimed refuse and dollhouses. My gaze was fixed to a single ogre, a green faced abomination burdened with appropriated bits of plastic representations of military equipment fastened to its body with hobby glue, unlike the others, lean and bent over with scatterings of acrylic blood on their dry brushed lips. Upstairs Desmond called me with his lumbering steps, and my focus was unmoored. As tradition dictated, we both were due for a hike to Strawberry Peak, and the sun was soon to set.

I was in this world,

before the 'self' awoke.

I was in this world,

manifest in everything.

though I did not pester

the course of the living,

nor hold a breath of air, 

I was in this world.

oddly enough, if I gaze

at a higher level, or

deep in profundities

of creation, and if I 

consider hard and true

a distance, I clearly see

transcendence...

a womb from which

my form took shape,

I see myself budding out

like leaves from a branch

I was wind before 

I became a word, 

a word before a seed, 

a seed before a pupa,

a pupa before an infant.

I was in this world, 

way before I drew 

the first breath...