Pa calls me dumber than rocks all the time, especially when he asks for my help, but also when he doesn't. He called me dumber than a rock when I was sitting at the kitchen table stirring my Ovaltine and Ma was right by us fixin' breakfast on the stove. "I didn't mean to spill it." I said, cause I didn't and then cause he made me real mad I also said, "My name is Ralph, not Dumber, not Than, and not Rocks, and then he said, "You're dumb like a fox," and Ma said afterward, patting me on the back real soft, real nice, "That means he thinks your smart, Ralph." Why doesn't he make up his mind?

Ma calls me stupid, but never to my face, only when she's on the phone with Gertie late at night and she thinks I'm fast asleep, but I'm not. Sometimes I just lay awake for no reason at all listening to night sounds, the owls hoot and the squirrels scurrying on the roof, wishing I was one of them instead of me, cause they don't use words; just screams, barks, hisses and coos, which are much easier to understand and less likely to maim.

It would make me smile if Ma could call Gertie when I do things right, like turning the compost, or stacking the wood, or shoveling the snow, but she doesn't. She only calls Gertie to tell her everything I want to forget and hearing it again makes me sad twice in one day. I didn't mean to kill Miss Sarah's kitten. I only squeezed it hard because it was the cutest thing I had ever seen I forgot for a minute how strong I am. And I didn't mean to look in Mr. & Mrs. Gimbel's bedroom window next door and see them both naked. I thought I was supposed to go help people when they moan or scream. Gertie lives so far away, I never get to see her face when Ma tells her about my mistakes. That's what she calls what I do, mistakes, and then she always says, "He's just too stupid to know better. He's really not a bad person."

So if I'm a good person, what's so bad about being stupid, or being dumb? As far as I know there are lots of really smart people, that do lots of really bad things, and not by mistake. On purpose. And as far as I know, I've never done anything bad on purpose, so why can't they just let me be just Ralph, instead of stupid Ralph or dumber than a rock Ralph. I've never met a fox, but if I do, maybe I'll ask him, "Are you really dumb or really smart, and does it matter?" Maybe he'll answer and maybe he won't.

Dear Kid,

I’m running out of ideas.

I’m not sure how much more I can give to this world, seeing as my thoughts are becoming increasingly mundane with every passing day. A window that I once stared out of, concocting characters dancing across the grass below, is now just a window. The glass is dusty. I should probably get around to cleaning it, but all I can do is pace and look at the cleaning solution like it’s a ticking time bomb. But that’s not what matters to you.

I’d be lying if I said that I don’t miss the spark that came with imagination, but I’d also be lying if I said that it wasn’t nice to have a roof over my head. Running water. Food. Most days are back and forth like this. Give and take. No more messy notebooks, but at least I have light. No more inspiration striking my stomach like lightning, but I will live. I am living now, I think, though I keep wasting our time because I’m not sure how much I have left in me but I’m letting myself become distracted by fancy prose and metaphors. Forgive me. This might be my last chance to use them properly. A friend of mine who went through this told me that creating art a month after the procedure feels like using scissors with your non-dominant hand. At least my house won’t be taken away.

Anyway, I’m not sure how much more I can give to this world, but at least I know exactly how much it can give me.

Every idea might be my last, so against my better judgement I’ve been scribbling them down wherever I can - napkins, clothes, a piece of toast at one particularly frantic breakfast. A part of me knows that this will make things harder later, when I have a list of ideas and no means to create them. A few days ago, I came up with the idea that I might pass them on to someone better off to write, someone who hasn’t had to bargain away their creativity for life and who never will. I remembered a kid from a well off family on the other side of town I’d spoken to one or two times; from my memory, she’d seemed friendly, though a bit shy. Most importantly, she’d had that spark of life to her, as every writer should. Or, perhaps more important than most importantly, her family was on scale tilting towards wealthy, meaning she would never have to make a desperate income from selling her thoughts. She would never have to resort to filling out a government form online confirming that she consented to exchanging her creativity for cash, eventually leaving her crying over a letter that would never match up to the books she’d dreamt of as a little girl. I can only hope that they use my imagination well, that they put it towards new concepts of clean energy or solving world hunger rather than dreaming up new weapons. But it’s out of my hands, and what other option do I have, anyway, other than to burn my napkins, clothes, and toast? Then no one would see my almost-creations, and I’d rather you massacre them than they never leave my head.

So I thought to myself, I can’t just give the kid my lists and say “do what you will.” No, I need to write her a letter, delivered with care. Forgive the tear stains on this letter, kid, I know they’re cheesy but I’ve got my favorite soundtrack on, the one that used to send my fingers flying across the keyboard as I got lost in other worlds that I had created. But it’s not making me feel anything anymore. Something feels missing in my brain, like one of those circular, elementary school electrical circuits where if you disconnect one wire, the little lightbulb won’t turn on.

When I was younger and time stretched before me, I’d wondered what my final work of writing would be. I’d assumed it would be my last because I would die soon after its publication in that dramatic tortured artist way. I never thought it would be because I couldn’t afford to go on. Unfortunately, I think I’ve found my final piece, and I still have many years to go. You’re reading it, kid. Aren’t you special?

I took a pen and paper out of a drawer and sat down at the kitchen table, the toast stained with sharpie still molding on a glass plate. I began like this:

Dear Kid.

Boy do I wish I could remember her name. I think it began with an M. Margaret, maybe, or Mackenzie. Hopefully that won’t matter to you, I really am sorry. Ink dove off the tip of the pen clenched in my shaking fist and seeped determinedly into the page, a soldier on its final mission.

Dear Kid,

I’m running out of ideas.

there’s no explaining this multitude of sadness because even my bones ache without answers and my heart bleeds out looking frantically for the location of the wound—finding Nothing.

yes, Nothing—the exact value at which you have priced my soul.

Gemnah Maley Bray

Take me home, take me back, I’ve been here way too long; I’ve went to battle, I tried my best, I was defeated, now let me rest.

To my comrades I salute you, you served me well, to the ones who defeated me, “Go To Hell.” I leave with laughter, not with shame, life’s a bitch, so live well through the sweat and pain.

I wandered through these plains feeling lost, cast out to become a man; searching for the secret, riding down the road, going down a highway I couldn’t understand.

Then finding a family, one I never knew I had, all of us with different blood, yet love was unconditional through the good times and the bad.

I was on my way to figuring it out, then I stumbled, I fell down, I had my doubts. When I wasnt looking Satan passed through my door, after that it was over, I couldn’t hold on, I couldn’t hide from my demons anymore.

Dont hold your breath, come up for air, the answer Is within you, open your eyes, do not forget me, remember me when I was still there.

I found the love I was looking for, It was just a different kind, my family, my friends, I finally know now, it’s a battle but its worth the climb.

Give yourself credit, your worth being loved, I took the hard road, I tested my fate, I know now, it’s never too late, so never give up.

Goodbye, I’ll tell you one last time, hello and goodnight as I protect the streets, this is my final ride. Freedom however comes with a price, so when tomorrow arrives and all is quiet, know I paid with my life.

R.I.P. my dear friend,

You’ll always be loved and never forgotten!

I sleep like a house on fire.

What I mean is

I sleep not at all.

I sleep like the ease of turning away from double-fatalities car crash.

There’s blood in the carpet.

Definitely won’t come out.

Windshield, shivered itself into bits.

And the rafters keep crumbling.

Crumble, crumble, charred-mistakes.

Too much heat to still the bones.

Too much smoke to inhale, exhale, repeat, repeat.

Eyes wide.

Like earthquake tumbles.

Seismic pulse.

Like storm, unpassing.

Like brain-thoughts, tumble-cycle spin, turn-over, spin.

Like end over end.

Eyes wide.

Mattress made of food poisoning to stomach-lining me.

I sleep like it’s vomiting me up.

Or I sleep like I’m vomiting my sleep.

Or I sleep like I’m vomiting myself.

What I mean to say is

I sleep not at all.