When I was 16 I was a deck hand for Capt. Dukes Boat Service in Destin, Fla. How I wound up here at 16 is a whole other story, but nonetheless here I was. I grew up on Watts Bar Lake in Spring City, Tn. so I was familiar with boats, but much smaller, and with water. Same thing, much smaller. I had never seen the ocean in my life and here I stand looking for a job. The owner, Earl Robinson, was there and I asked about working for him. He asked me one question. "Do you get seasick?" I replied that I had no idea. I had never been on an ocean. He looked at me a second, and I've never known what he was thinking. But, he told me to get a rod and go out with next group and go fishing. He said " if you don't get sick while your fishing, you can help the boys clean the boat on the way back. Absolutely frightened. Running from the law in TN. Before the whole NCIC thing. And Absolutely excited! I ran 2 trips a day. Ushered people on the boat. Passed out rods and stringers. I was monickered the " Master Baiter" lol, of the Kelly Docks because I was so efficient with a knife, I could prepare 50 pounds of squid as bait in 30 minutes. So I am familiar with most things in fresh water, and now I've seen the "regular" party boat catches. But here is a lady with an Octopus on her line. I have NEVER seen one in real life, let alone had to deal with one. But I'm 16. Not only did I know everything there was to know, but I had the confidence to back it up. I was working the stern ( back ) of the boat. There's 25 ppl there and every one of the remaing 50 from the port and starboard that can get there are as well. So... I GOT AN AUDIENCE! mix that with a know it all with no common sense and you got a "viral video" in the making. I'm an Athiest but I thank God there was no cell phones with camera's or social media then. So I seized my opportunity to shine. I grabbed the Octopus around the smallest part of its body where it's legs come out but I have it upside down. So tentacles up. It's legs are squirming around my hands and wrists but it's soft. Slimey and soft. I have no idea what an Octopus does or doesn't do and these places are all eyes on us, being me and this lady's Octopus. It's about 14 or 16 inches across with arms out. So little bigger than a plate. It's red also. Kind of a yellow red that isn't orange. So I proceed to tell everyone about this thing and I'm sure what follows is a reason why I can't remember what I said about it except one part. Which coincidentally is the last thing I said about the damn Octopus. But holding it like a dead mushroom I said "they can't bite". If memory serves me correctly, as I was in the middle of speaking I was also moving my eyes toward the Octopus. While my eyes were in motion so was this fucking little alien. A small, jet black, jack-o-lantern tooth looking bird beak, came out of the hole in the center of its body, layer the fuck straight down flat and bit the side of my index fingers 1st knuckle.i scream, throw this sumbitch down on the deck, adrenaline has my ears humming like a street light. And now it's slowly crawling toward the edge of the boat where he can slip under the railing and bye bye. But these ppl keep what they catch and I can have her say she caught an Octopus and I let it go. I'm so embarrassed at this point I can't even think straight. If we weren't 12 miles off shore I'd have jumped ship n swam for the bank. I'm 16. Fully adrenaline, and I'm a big guy. I reach to grab this thing and even though I broke the high school deadline record with a 660 deadline I can't pull him up. I can't grab him either because he is like a snot covered stress ball and he is still moving toward the edge. I grab a rag and my "dehooker". It's a 6 inch piece of a broom handle with a 2 aught shark hook on end of it used to take fish you don't want to touch off of hooks. I grab half of him with the rag and hook him with the dehooker o other side and I go for the record again. I fight with this thing what was only a clue minutes but damn it felt like forever. Finally I get it up, run to the ice chest and relish watching it squirm on the ice. When I turn around there are 75 tourists. 2 mates and a captain in full tears laughing so hard I hear people fart. I know I finished the trip. There was no way not to. But I don't remember any of it except from "they can't bite" until someone farts. This was the most embarrassing thing ever happened in my life. Fuck an Octopus

At the end of the day

The bottom line for you

When all is said and done

Clichés: just accents aigu

It takes one to know one

And two to tango

And three's a crowd

So far

North is South

In the mirror

But who's looking

Yeast?

A pun is upon you

A pox is the vox that riddles you

Say it ain't so

That ain't ain't a word

So plant your dipthongs oily

And reap what you sew what?

And watch what you're saying

If you want to move your vowels

Words can enlighten

Words can inform

And words can irritate

When the right ears are left

So say this poem

Right out loud

And be sure your taxes

Are as sure as your death

The worst thing is

It will live on but you won't

You can right it left in your accent gráve

But these words laugh at you forever

This is a true story. It was related to me by my grandmother, my Omi, before her dementia set in. I honestly, truly, believe this could be made into a film.

--------------------------------------

On October 21st, 1952, Omi's 20th birthday, it was time for her to leave her family and country. She was to leave the Netherlands and reunite with her fiancee in Canada. He had gone on ahead 2 years prior. He was a hardworking man, and had served in Indonesia in the Dutch Navy before going to Canada. During his time in service, he wrote Omi 360 letters.

Omi could not pack very many belongings. She had to decide what to do with the letters, and did not want her younger sisters to read them - so, she burned them.

Omi's mother, sister, and aunt said goodbye to her at the train station. Her dad and father-in-law-to-be went with her on the train to Rotterdam. Once there, they got permission to come aboard for a visit, since Omi's father had been a customs officer. They toured the ship, and the time came to say goodbye.

Omi, now age 92, told me, "I can still see my dad standing there. It was the last time I saw him."

From Rotterdam, the ship sailed to France. Upon leaving Le Havre, the weather became very stormy. Omi shared a hut with seven other woman and a baby; his little steel crib would slide from side to side in the cabin, moved by the swaying of the ship upon the ocean.

Staying in the cabin was lonely; several of the other women were standoffish. They were traveling with family, and did not talk to other people. She had no one her age to talk to in her living space, so she spent time touring the ship.

Her wanderings led her to meet a young gentleman with a story similar to hers; he was sailing to Canada as well, to meet his own fiancée. Omi and the young man had something in common, and it made her feel safer and less alone. They spent most of the trip in each other's company, talking about Canada - what would it be like? How would the landscape look? How would life be different there? They would have to study English. Dutch was not the common language in Canada.

After 12 days of sailing, the ship reached Canada. Omi's plan was to take the train from Halifax to Union Station in Toronto; the young man was also going to Toronto, and asked: why do we not travel together? We can keep each other company a little longer.

Omi agreed.

The train was very old. There were no blankets, and passengers had to sleep on wooden benches. Pillows could be rented for $0.25 a night.

Omi did not like the Canadian scenery; the weather was very dreary. But the trip was a lot more pleasant in the young man's company.

He lent Omi his coat to use as a blanket. She was shy to sleep next to a man she did not know, but he turned his back to her and faced the wall so she would feel more comfortable. She turned her back to his and they slept like that for the 2 nights it took to arrive.

At 6:00 a.m. on the 3rd day, they arrived in Toronto and disembarked. The young man waited with Omi at the station for her fiancée.

Omi's fiancée arrived with a cane. He had been in a motorcycle accident, and was still recovering. Along with him was his brother, who had just gotten off work at a mechanic shop, and was covered in grime and oil.

The young man was hesitant to leave Omi when he saw this. He was concerned for her safety. She reassured him that she would be fine, and, eventually, he left.

Omi and her fiancée were married a week later.

Life in Canada was a hard adjustment. Omi did not speak much English, and her husband did not either. They had not been together for 2 years, and it took time to grow used to each other again. He found work at a factory doing manual labor, and Omi busied herself with housework. It was not long before she discovered she was pregnant.

A year passed.

Things were easier now then at the beginning. Omi was a happy mother, doting on her little boy. Her husband was learning conversational English from his workplace, and Omi was doing the same in her bible study at the church they had recently become members of.

On a warm Saturday morning, Omi was serving pancakes to her husband, and spoon feeding applesauce to her little boy, when there was a knock at the front door of the house.

She went to open it. Standing in the doorway was the young man from the ship.

He had not married his own fiancée. They had gone their separate ways.

He had used the passenger listing information from the ship to track down Omi's whereabouts.

He wondered if maybe - just maybe - if she had not gotten married either.

He wondered if she would be with him.

When Omi told me this story, she could not give all the details of the interaction; she could not bring herself to say everything.

She told me, however, that after saying goodbye and closing the door, she stared at that door for a long time.

Then, slowly, she went back to the kitchen, where her little boy and her husband - my Opi - were waiting.

She never saw the young man again. One year, while cleaning, she threw away her own copy of the passenger listing, not thinking about how time changes things, not thinking how one day, she might want to look at it again.

That is her biggest regret.

She does not even remember his name.

In a world painted in shades of gray, a love story unfolded, both heartbreaking and enchanting. Isabella and Alexandra, their names etched in the pages of fate, shared a love that burned bright despite its inevitable tragedy.

A delicate wisp of moonlight, Isabella carried dreams like gossamer threads in the breeze. Alexandra, a poet who found solace in ink and paper, bore the weight of her pain in profound verses. They collided in a bustling city, where dreams often drowned beneath the weight of reality.

Born from yearning, their love became a refuge for two souls navigating life's tumult. Isabella's laughter splashed color onto Alexandra's somber canvas while her words breathed life into Isabella's unspoken thoughts. Together, they teetered on the edge of joy, caught in the delicate beauty they'd found.

But life's cruelty loomed. Alexandra's strength waned as illness took hold, making her a mere echo of her former self. The anguish etched in her eyes mirrored the agony within. Unwavering in her devotion, Isabella stood by her, a sentinel against the storm.

Days melted into a tapestry of suffering. Isabella watched as the light in Alexandra's eyes dimmed, replaced by a hollow gaze that tore at her. Each smile she coaxed was a victory against an implacable enemy. Their world blurred as they navigated a labyrinth of medical jargon and futile treatments.

As Alexandra's condition deteriorated, Isabella's heart fractured. She clung to memories, the echoes of their laughter now fading whispers in empty spaces. Their love story's walls tightened, a symphony of heartache on endless repeat.

The inevitable darkness loomed. Alexandra's final moments painted a symphony of pain, a crescendo of farewells that shattered Isabella's heart. She wept for their love, the dreams extinguished, and the life they'd lost.

The world moved on, but Isabella's heart remained suspended in agonizing loss. Every sunrise felt like a betrayal, every laughter a reminder of the void that consumed her. She wandered through life, a phantom of her former self, carrying the weight of a love story that had both defined and destroyed her.

Isabella's tale wove love and devastation into an intricate tapestry. A testament to the human experience, where love's brilliance ignited even the darkest corners, leaving unhealed scars. A story that echoed like a haunting melody, entwining pain and beauty in a symphony of enduring sorrow.

Hello, Moth?

I know this is probably pointless, after all, you never believed in an afterlife.

I miss you. I miss you a lot.

I didn't expect you to leave my life, ever. We both assumed that I would be the one to die young and you would live to see a thousand worlds end.

Who knew hate would take you from me? Who knew someone would hurt you just because you were a little different.

I miss you. I don't think I will ever not miss you.

You were the only one who kept me together. I needed you. I needed you a lot. You are the only reason I didn't die three years ago.

or two years ago,

or six months ago.

or three weeks ago.

but then someone had to go and ruin it all. They had to go barge into your life and kill you. They killed you because your name was Moth and not Henry. They killed you because you lived the life you wanted, and because you were not afraid to hid it.

Moth I don't know how long I can last without you. You were my other half. You were the one who showed me living was worth it. I cannot do it without you.

Moth? Why were you the one who got a bullet to the skull?

Why wasn't it me?

You deserved the world.

You were my world.

-Siren

I will be straightforward and let you know that anything snd everything I’m about to say is designed to make you annoyed, not to attack you as a person or a writer. This is all part of the act; you are a respectable author and I am not this annoying as a real person. Travel on with care.

Have you ever seen tigers in real life? Great, giant cats with claws and fur and bite? Well, one thing that isn’t known much to them is how often people write about tigers. I mean, you’ve got Calvin and Hobbes, Go Diego Go, and even works like “Stellarwolf’s Haiku.” What a bungalowed cliché, one that works no doubt but it used by every spectacular wolf.

Have you ever listened to Outkast? Well Andre Benjamin from the band Outkast once said in a song that “Roses really smell like poo-poo” and I feel that it’s something people should understand and test for themselves. Go and smell a rose, and breathe in the fumes of a fart encased in time, preserved by rotting nature and maintained by the tigers starving nearby.

Now we arrive on a very unsettling post. I did not give you permission to write about me, but of course you wrote about me anyway because you find me a freak, is that it? Stellarwolf’s post “Never Trust A Vampire” includes the very hateful and disingenuous line “…tried to focus my gaze anywhere but on that bloodthirsty, hideous face of yours.” Obviously a jab on the nature of the underbite of my teeth, and how you even acquired this information I do not know. But what I do know is that the piece viewed me as the villain, when through its run, it was you who was spying on me and turning me into a bloodthirsty creature. I’m appalled, ridiculed, and outright horrified.

I hope this answers your question. Message me if you must, but also remember to not get too close. Roses smell like poo-poo, remember?

The boom of thunder forced my eyes to snap open and my whole body was seized by the tremblance of my house. A scream was caught in my throat, and I was choking on it. The indigo haze of confusion melted into a foggy blue hue against the lavender walls we painted less than nine months ago when we moved into this house. My eyes focused on the mistaken patch on the white ceiling, and I willed my body to relax. My senses took over. My brother screaming obscenities at Splatoon downstairs. The gust of rain on the window panes. The rustling of the trees. I stretched, regaining control of my limbs, and peered at my phone. Three in the afternoon and three missed messages. I answered quickly and got up. My mother would be home in an hour for our trip to Cleveland for my college orientation.

College had never been on my mind, but after being forced to one too many college expos and schmoozed by a college recruiter, I applied to a single college and got accepted. The college was four hours away, just outside of Cleveland. While I had been to other states, the looming thought of leaving home was weighing on me like an elephant was asleep on my chest. I was a late bloomer in the sense of teenage experiences. I had gotten my license at seventeen but still hesitated to drive anywhere. I had never slept over at any friend's house that wasn't related to me or connected to someone who was related to me. I hadn't even had a job yet, nor even looked for one, despite writing several resumes in classes. The idea of jumping out of the fishbowl and into the Great Lake was suffocating me.

I was still shaking at the thought of leaving, even in the car with Cincinnati disappearing behind us. My mother was beside me, tapping an Erykah Badu song onto the steering wheel. Kings Island was fading in the distance, looking like a masterpiece of geometric pipe cleaners. Maybe I'd go for my last summer in the city before the college hijinks I had seen on TV would set in. Part of me didn't feel ready. Well, all of me didn't feel ready. My mother seemed to notice. I wasn't the first to go to college, far from it, but no one had good stories. College was just a painful rite of passage apparently.

The queasy feeling was taking over my brain when my mother turned the music down. She knew that I hadn't been sleeping, but this was long before my mental health had begun to be unpacked. At that time, I was just a lazy, spoiled teenager who spent too much time on her computer and not enough time being an adult. Yet, my sleep schedule was getting concerning, especially since last summer, I was so depressed I could only bring myself to sleep, watch TV, scroll on dating sites, and research the arbitrary on my laptop.

"Did you sleep at all?"

"Nah," I murmured. I was looking at my shorts, making sure the faint red marks were covered enough that no questions would be asked. "I fell asleep around seven."

"The nerves will go away. Plus, you liked it before. I'm sure orientation is going to be fun."

"Yeah."

"It won't be like my experience," she assured me.

My mother had gotten into an extremely difficult arts program only to realize that not only did she hate her whore roommates, every frat boy they brought to her dorm, and the program she was in, but that her ongoing struggle with epilepsy and constant exhaustion from her program had her crying nightly and contemplating dropping out like my father had. The only reason she finished at all was because of her surprise birthday gift, hearing my heartbeat at the gynecologist. We were close to Columbus now, and the knot in my stomach had reached monkey fist knot status.

"I just am worried. I only applied to one college. I like the program, and I'm excited, but it's new. What if it doesn't work out?"

"You can always quit," she said, reciting one of the family quotes. "I'd rather you quit while you're ahead than stick with something you hate. I don't want you to be stuck in a job you despise."

"I understand." I squeezed my feet around my bookbag and answered a text from my friend in Maryland. We had been roleplaying for a while, though it was nothing serious. I had never done anything serious. "I'm hoping it'll go well."

"Of course it will. And if not, it's not the end of the world."

I smiled for the first time in a while. A Taylor Swift song was quietly playing on the radio. "Thanks, Mother."

"Don't call me that," she grumbled playfully. "I'm not that old."