Tag Archives: short story

Bite into the Onion


I said “bite into the onion!”

Only because of a memory of

sitting at some stranger’s apartment

feeling hungry:


The countertop was an aqua shade of blue

But not the good kind of blue that
reminds me of Caribbean waters

It was dirtied with specks of black and green

a form of modernism that some

person imagined ideal for eating


I was analyzing the marble

only inches from my face

Instead of focusing on the objects

and shapes alive and breathing, those

dancing around in their frenzied confusion

There was a chef of sorts, making his

claim to fame from the hours spent

grilling at one of the downtown bars


He was watching me and I only

realized because he told me and

I looked up, saw his affront

Staring intently, as if he were challenging

to inspire embarrassment with a shade of

question, for me to offer an explanation

Or, maybe both…people always

tend to think more thoughts than

what seems plausible;

An apparent stereotype of my own

relating on close mindedness that only first

glances can conceive


His stature was clear

The game was on, without both

players realizing when it had started

A chess match apparently already won, seeing his

daggers slice and tear through the

layers of vulnerabilities on the surface

Wearing his best victory grin, he

came closer thinking the game was

over as he thought about his checkmate

King riding Queen in complete



All of the while keeping his hands busy

pretending to cook something and

almost abandoning his own disguise

to celebrate his achievement

Peeling back the first few layers

of the onion, slowly and methodically

More interested in appearances

than anything substantially filling


That was the story, the tale in my mind

When I tried to explain myself to a

different person later on in life

As if I could relate the feelings and emotions

of one moment and transpire it

into the next

“Bite into the Onion!” was met

with distracted thickness and

judgment of appropriate responses


A different chess game, perhaps

With no victors or losers to give


Only me and my bad breath

with the pieces laid out on the table



I am grateful for challenges ❤

The Little Girl


photo (9)

There is a little girl with blonde pigtails

and white ribbons, wearing

A frilly blue dress adorned with a

red nautical helm

Maybe five, by chance six

Staring blankly through the



“All the world knows is only

what we can see

All the words we speak, clearly

are only heard by any of the

random opportunities given

Who would listen to a few questions?”


She asks in her little girl

squeaky voice


“Are we so quick to deny any

interpretations different

That we can ignore the

explanations floating on

the tips of our tongues

Shut out the chances of awareness?

Wave your hand, stand up to meet

the people just out of reach

Wake up, open your eyes

to see the ones staring at you.”


Maybe I’m going crazy

maybe I’m going blind

Maybe the little girl speaking is

only a figment of my vapid


Maybe someone is listening

on the other side;

maybe another lost soul

in an altered time?


The picture sits in a book with

other similar photos of other

People with their smiling faces peering out and

saving some of the stories long forgotten


“Until next time…”


She says,

As I box away the memories

Adding a few additional pieces

to contemplate and to store inside;

A metaphorical reflection created of a mirrored image of

the cardboard container




I whisper.

And the little girl waits until she

is remembered again…

I am grateful for lost treasures ❤

Originally Written


Sometimes feeling the power of movement from pen to paper offers a

more satisfyingly embrace of a language

uncharacteristic of fingers to keys;


unless of course the keys produce the vibrational

sound of something inspiring like one of Mozart’s symphonies


but not in the case of this definitional confusing

of one word or phrase, meaning something entirely

different from the former thought before

getting distracted by the various amounts of rants, excuse me…


Ahem, so thereby standing on the placidly positioned

soapbox of feministic qualities, though I

rarely try to label an individual’s activities,

especially those to classify as my own,

My restlessness speaks volumes, as my

injured hand can attest


To feel moved to creation whereas typing any word seems

disheartening, not as interesting as to

Write for the excitement of feeling; of the trailing of thought

shooting out of psyche and sprouting down into index finger

and thumb, balancing on the delicate


bird only addressed, usually by some

douchebag distracted: one hand on wheel, one hand caressing cell;

A momentary lapse of judgment that is peculiar for this gender,

or so it would seem, portrayed as even now

as I continue choosing dedication over comfort


With sword in mouth ready to slice down,

willing to action of emitting random passions

Sharp intestinal misgivings of simple realities


even as unaware of own, claiming idols

worthy of noteworthy admiration and a bit of honorary

imitation, but there is still a slightly

less than relatable piece for me, missing from their

well-versed lines and spiritually bending

phrases, as if human can only relate to human

a true bond, for sure but not quite the answer


to the riddle playing its familiar melody of

whispering quandaries of

culture, gender, religion, spirit, death, life

Where do we belong in a piece written

by one but to be addressed to us all?

To connect in hand, placing words in text to hold onto,

instead of a sweaty handshake

or an awkward hug


My silence is weak, I sometimes can go

days without tracing out some thought

through the maze of my head

Trudging through the hedging, trying to

find the way out

Lost, alone, Nay!


That’s what they say; if a hedge is a wall built to stand up against those

willing to blindly follow an isolated pathway


Getting lost in the tunnel vision view of the artistically enhanced corn

being recorded for the loner’s documentary of the world;

it’s numbing to write of everyone else,

to escape one’s thoughts that lead to the downward pathway

to hell? No,

but it’s easier to see than to ignore, easier to sleep than

stay awake with the unmistakable guilt, my definition of hell

Maybe different than yours? like a cliché metaphoric

labyrinth comparison to fields of starches:


Indefinable routes to confuse, to make it difficult to navigate, persuading

looping circles of repetitive moments of frustration

lapses in navigation of self that lead to the same heartbreaking dead ends

Any escape out of the hedge is congratulated

by storytellers who sit on the edge

addicted to the thrill of the tournament and the shame of the


Continuing tradition of keeping score, figures as pawns

in a different kind of sport

Hiding in the leaves, forever writing down their perceptions in

sketches and notes


But as for me, I see a hedge and branches, breakable twigs

Moldable objects destined to be worked by an imagination capable of cutting down

any barrier presentable to man, or woman;

(boots firmly placed on box of stance

asking for attention in the power of height

Raising the volume of the mic and positioning spotlight

as if declaring awareness just by the production of it all)


If a hedge is a wall and a wall separates two pieces of the puzzle

that connect everything together

then the wall is a chapter, a small hurdle of

situation and placement

easily defeated by will of the heart;

mine fueling the fire to burn each green leaf

to the ground, flaming up in an orange shade of rust

A hole in the greenery


Burning out a definable pathway, following the trail

Laying out my own personal depiction of the yellow brick road of

escaping the sticky spiderweb of self and

Introducing one’s own world of amazement at the end of the

short story;

Originally written.


I am grateful for peppermint patties ❤