(First few pages of my current project. Would love any and all feedback.)

Frank Denton believed wholeheartedly that feelings were overrated. In fact, he was often heard saying in his English lectures that if humanity ever failed anywhere along the evolutionary line, it was when they decided to give a crap about each other. Humans, he would argue with last night’s alcohol still on his breath, were garbage. All they did was destroy each other. If you ever met a non-garbage person, he said, stay away. Stay away because one of you will die.

He was a favorite among students. There wasn’t much in the way of entertainment those days and an alcoholic teacher who was obsessed with death, well, it was certainly better than nothing. There was also the small fact that he let his students come and drink at his apartment on the weekends. Frank’s booze wasn’t any better than the bar down the street, it was all watered down just the same. Unlike the bar down the street, Frank didn’t charge.

Frank thought he was a garbage human.

Frank had only met a few non-garbage people in his life. Sophia was a non-garbage person, probably the most non-garbage person Frank had ever met. They had been married for two years when she died. Frank didn’t really believe in God but he often thought of a man sitting on a cloud directing the delivery truck that hit her to run the red light. All these years later, Frank still did not like God.

And so, Frank sat on his misshapen couch and considered what he should do. He was jobless, wifeless, Godless, and boozeless. The bar down the street could fix one of his problems.

It had started to snow. Not enough to stick to anything besides the grass, but enough to turn your breath white. Frank cursed under his breath. Not too long ago, snow was a seasonal event. Due to the tilt of the Earth on its axis, half of the planet would experience colder seasons while the other half experienced the warmer seasons and then vice versa. When humans decided to start bombing each other they inadvertently blocked out most of the sun with all of the clouds and haze. Now it snowed most of the year.

A faint smell of ammonia greeted Frank when he walked into the bar. A half a second later his ears were assaulted with the typical bar noises, people arguing, a deal going sour, a woman crying, a whore propositioning a potential customer at the bar.

At least it was warm.

It didn’t seem to matter how scarce food became, there was always plenty of alcohol. Sure it was watered down and tasted like it was probably distilled in the bathtub upstairs, but it was alcohol.

Frank found a booth in a darkened corner to sit with his beer. He thought he would sit alone for a while and drink until his he felt numb enough to go home.

“Why’re you sitting here all by yourself?”

Looking up from his drink, Frank saw that the woman he had spied trying to proposition the now passed out man at the bar was standing next to his booth. She had apparently moved on to a new target.

“I’m not interested,” Frank said.

“In what? A conversation? Geez.” She plopped down across from him and readjusted one of her boots. “So what’s your name then?”

Frank looked at her. She wasn’t bad looking by any means. In fact, if she showered she may have passed for conventionally pretty. She had caked on her mascara in an attempt to hide the bags under her eyes and her lipstick was already smeared.

“Why?”

“Don’t you usually ask somebody’s name before startin’ a conversation?”

“I guess.”

“Then that’s what I’m doin’.”

“I don’t really feel like conversing at the moment.”

“Well that sucks because I do and you’re my only option.” She crossed her legs, propping them up on the table.

She was right of course. The only other single guy was the one she left passed out on his bar stool.

“What happened to him?” Frank gestured with his thumb.

“Not used to the top-shelf selection is my guess. Don’t worry though, he’s still breathin’.”

Frank was slightly taken aback when she stuck her hand into her cleavage and started rummaging around as if she were looking for something. Her clothing didn’t leave any extra fabric for pockets, but Frank was surprised at how much she apparently kept in her bra as it took her a good half minute to find what she was looking for: a package of cigarettes and a lighter.

“So, are you going to tell me your name or not?” She asked, placing a cigarette between her lips.

“Frank.”

“See, that wasn’t so hard was it?” She laughed and flicked her lighter on. She inhaled once before replying with her own name, “Taylor.”

“I was expecting something else.”

“What? Diamond or Rose or some cheesy shit like that?”

Frank shrugged.

“We only do that when we want to hide our identities. I’ve got nothing to hide.” Taylor watched the smoke leave her lips. Slumping back in her seat, she added, “I’ve got no one to hide from.”

“What?”

Taylor looked up from the smoke dancing in front of her eyes, “Don’t you worry about it none.” She shoved the lighter and pack back into her bra. “So what’s a city boy like you doin’ around these parts anyhow?”

Frank simply raised his glass in response. “I’m all out at home.” He paused. “What makes you so sure I’m a city boy?”

“You’re clean,” she said sticking out her chin. “Boys ’round here don’t tidy up like you do.”

Frank may have grown up in the city but he never considered himself a city boy. Assumptions came along with city-slickers, assumptions that he abhorred. If humans were garbage, city boys were sewage.

“Well, I’m not.”

“Alright then,” Taylor laughed. “No offense meant.” She put her hands up as if surrendering.

Her high-pitched laughter reminded him of a bad hangover.

“So, what’s it you do?” She took another drag from her cigarette.

“Nothing.”

“That’s now, how ’bouts before?”

“I was an English teacher about a month ago.”

“An English teacher, huh? Why don’t you tell me a story then?”

“Nah, I’m not the storytelling type.”

“Then, what type of English teacher was you?”

“Literature analysis,” Frank paused. “And grammar.”

“Ha ha very funny.”

Frank let out a small laugh.

“Well, look at that! Mr. English Teacher has emotions.”

“Yeah, yeah. It’s been a rough few weeks.”

“Welcome to my world, darlin’.”

Magic Mirror on the Wall

Can you see her smile wide

Lips as red as fresh blood

Hair as black as night

Skin as white as ice

Her eyes, lifeless and stale

Through the trees her voice is heard

Shrill and foul it cuts the air

Magic Mirror in my Hand

Reveal to me her plan

Show me where she lies

For against her I must fight

With a magic spell to guide the way

The kingdom's finest at my call

Seven hills of jewels to cross

To the land beyond the seventh fall

Magic Mirror Talk and Sleek

Tell me do you see her

As she commands the beasts of the land

By her hand innocents turn

Feathers of blue stained red

My knights bravely fight

As the deer trample the dead underfoot

Her laugh shakes the night

Magic Mirror by my Side

What can you tell me that I do not see

My kingdom in ruins at her hand

Destruction beyond the horizon

Abandoned by all but you

If you were free

Untethered from my spell

Would you too have forsaken me

Magic Mirror Shattered on the Floor

Did you see the inevitable

Was our fate known by you

Could you see what would one day be

Were you still sentient

Aware and alive

When my heart was taken

My chest torn wide

Magic Mirror Now Hers

Do you remember me

The one who loved you

Who always wanted you near

Do you think of me

When you answer her plea

Fairest in the land

Was never me

You asked me once what I had done to your little girl. Your perfect, sweet, little girl. I could not answer through the knife in my heart.

As I looked into your pain-filled eyes I wished I could say "I'm sorry."

I'm sorry that I'm what's left of your daughter, and I'm sorry that I want her to die.

This was a school project that I did. I had to meet the parameters of the project and the sound could use some tweaking, but here it is:

https://youtu.be/le_y6YfstpU

I haven't shared it with very many people. It was beyond terrifying showing it to my class but I couldn't bring myself to tackle the project any other way.

I plan to go back and redo it at some point.

Growing up, I never questioned who I was or where I’d end up.

Childhood optimism had no room for doubt or worry.

After all, roadblocks and plot twists only belonged in books.

My path was bright, my future clear.

I was diagnosed with depression at age 12.

Suddenly, my future didn’t seem so certain.

Without the saving grace of childhood innocence, the me, that I am today, can’t ignore the “ifs”.

“I will succeed.” Maybe.

“I will be happy.” Hopefully.

The me who I am today takes notes, carefully detailing the context of my life. As if somehow a strategic history of my past could change the future. That maybe through study and careful understanding, I might find a way out.

When I was 12 I couldn’t stop crying.

By 13, the tears gave way to violent breakdowns.

At 14, I was numb

At 15, I wanted nothing more than to feel again.

At 16 I found a way to feel.

I was 18 when I stopped.

It’s in my moments of sanity my inner romantic screams out,

“this isn’t all just a fluke, a freak accident,

when you forget your future and struggle to continue on just remember that your very existence is proof that you belong

The state of the chemicals in your brain does not make you less of a person. It’s a side effect of a society that refuses to acknowledge an epidemic, a society that refuses to understand.

When we refuse to be silent, others are forced to hear. In the comfort of illusions nothing will every change.”

I’m not just fighting for myself, I’m fighting for others like me.

That they not only find the courage to get help, but the inspiration to fight, and the belief that they will be victorious.

I fight to give a voice to the me that I was.

It’s okay to not be okay.

It’s okay to ask for help.

Frank Denton believed wholeheartedly that feelings were overrated. In fact, he was often heard saying in his English lectures that if humanity ever failed anywhere along the evolutionary line, it was when they decided to give a crap about each other. Humans, he would argue with last night’s alcohol still on his breath, were garbage. All they did was destroy each other. If you ever met a non-garbage person, he said, stay away. Stay away because one of you will die.

He was a favorite among students. There wasn’t much in the way of entertainment those days and an alcoholic teacher who was obsessed with death, well, it was certainly better than nothing. There was also the small fact that he let his students come and drink at his apartment on the weekends. Frank’s booze wasn’t any better than the bar down the street, it was all watered down just the same. Unlike the bar down the street, Frank didn’t charge.

Frank thought he was a garbage human.

Frank’s boss also thought he was a garbage human and Frank was fired for teaching drunk one too many times. His students visited once or twice out of pity but the pity ran out around the same time that Frank’s stock did.

Frank had only met a few non-garbage people in his life. Mrs. Harrison, his first-grade teacher, was the first. It could be childhood innocence but Frank remembered her as distinctly not garbage. Frank would sit on his own during recess. Mrs. Harrison didn’t force him to socialize. She mostly left him alone. His other teachers would hound him with questions. Is everything okay at home? Do you need to speak with a counselor? Why did you tell Samantha? She tried to exercise the janitor.

Sophia also was a non-garbage person, probably the most non-garbage person Frank had ever met. They had been married for two years when she died. Frank didn’t really believe in God but he often thought of a man sitting on a cloud directing the delivery truck that hit her to run the red light. All these years later, Frank still did not like God.

And so, Frank sat on his misshapen couch and considered what he should do. He was jobless, wifeless, Godless, and boozeless. The bar down the street could fix one of his problems.

Once he made sure his face was free of any errant whiskers, Frank made his way through his disheveled apartment and onto the street.

It had started to snow. Not enough to stick to anything besides the grass, but enough to turn your breath white. Frank cursed under his breath. Not too long ago, snow was a seasonal event. Due to the tilt of the Earth on its axis, half of the planet would experience colder seasons while the other half experienced the warmer seasons and then vice versa. When humans decided to start bombing each other they inadvertently blocked out most of the sun with all of the clouds and haze. Now it snowed most of the year.

A faint smell of ammonia greeted Frank when he walked into the bar. A half a second later his ears were assaulted with the typical bar noises, people arguing, a deal going sour, a woman crying, a whore propositioning a potential customer at the bar. At least it was warm.

It didn’t seem to matter how scarce food became, there was always plenty of alcohol. Sure it was watered down and tasted like it was probably distilled in the bathtub upstairs, but it was alcohol.

Frank found a booth in a darkened corner to sit with his beer. He thought he would sit alone for a while and drink until his he felt numb enough to go home.

“Why’re you sitting here all by yourself?”

Looking up from his drink, Frank saw that the woman he had spied trying to proposition the now passed out man at the bar was standing next to his booth. She had apparently moved on to a new target.

“I’m not interested,” Frank said.

“In what? A conversation? Geez.” She plopped down across from him and readjusted one of her boots. “So what’s your name then?”

Frank looked at her. She wasn’t bad looking by any means. In fact, if she showered she may have passed for conventionally pretty. She had caked on her mascara in an attempt to hide the bags under her eyes and her lipstick was already smeared.

“Why?” Frank drank to remind himself why he came to the bar in the first place. There wasn’t any booze at home.

“Don’t you usually ask somebody’s name before startin’ a conversation?”

“I guess.”

“Then that’s what I’m doin’.”

“I don’t really feel like conversing at the moment.”

“Well, that sucks because I do and you’re my only option.” She crossed her legs, propping them up on the table.

She was right of course. The only other single guy was the one she left passed out on his bar stool.

“What happened to him?” Frank gestured with his thumb.

“Not used to the top-shelf selection is my guess. Don’t worry though, he’s still breathin’.”

Frank was slightly taken aback when she stuck her hand into her cleavage and started rummaging around as if she were looking for something. Her clothing didn’t leave any extra fabric for pockets, but Frank was surprised at how much she apparently kept in her bra as it took her a good half minute to find what she was looking for, a package of cigarettes and a lighter.

“So, are you going to tell me your name or not?” She asked, placing a cigarette between her lips.

“Frank.”

“See, that wasn’t so hard was it?” She laughed and flicked her lighter on. It was supposed to be covered in glitter, but it had begun to wear off. She inhaled once before replying with her own name, “Taylor.”

“I was expecting something else.” Frank didn’t do a very good job of hiding his surprise.

“What? Diamond or Rose or some cheesy shit like that?”

Frank shrugged.

“We only do that when we want to hide our identities. I’ve got nothing to hide.” Taylor watched the smoke leave her lips. Slumping back in her seat, she added, “I’ve got no one to hide from.”

“What?”

Taylor looked up from the smoke dancing in front of her eyes, “Don’t you worry about it none.” She shoved the lighter and pack back into her bra. “So what’s a city boy like you doin’ around these parts anyhow?”

Frank simply raised his glass in response. “I’m all out at home.” He paused. “What makes you so sure I’m a city boy?”

“You’re clean,” she said sticking out her chin. “Boys ’round here don’t tidy up like you do.”

Without thinking Frank passed his fingers over his chin. He missed a small spot above his left jaw.

Frank may have grown up in the city but he never considered himself a city boy. Assumptions came along with city-slickers that he abhorred. If humans were garbage, city boys were sewage.

“Well, I’m not.”

“Alright then,” Taylor laughed. “No offense meant.” She put her hands up as if surrendering.

The alcohol content must have been higher than Frank thought as he found that her high-pitched laughter was still ringing in his ears. It reminded him of a bad hangover.

“So, what’s it you do?” She took another drag from her cigarette.

“Nothing.”

“That’s now, how ’bouts before?”

“I was an English teacher about a month ago.”

“An English teacher, huh? Why don’t you tell me a story then?”

“Nah, I’m not the storytelling type.”

“Then, what type of English teacher was you?”

“Literature analysis,” Frank paused. “And grammar.”

“Ha ha very funny.”

Frank let out a small laugh.

“Well, look at that! Mr. English Teacher has emotions.”

“Yeah, yeah. It’s been a rough few weeks.”

“Welcome to my world, darlin’.”

Rain poured down from the heavy clouds onto the sullen over-congested streets of the city. The religious may have thought that the swarming masses below had earned the wrath of the heavens above. Perhaps they had sinned. Perhaps they had forsaken their God. Or, perhaps the water droplets fell heavy without giving a care about God or Man.

A dense, gray fog hovered above the streets, threatening to crowd out the bleak lights struggling to show the wandering people where to go. Porchlights, streetlights, stoplights. The masses hurried along, crowded under umbrellas, hustling into buses and cabs, anything to get out of the torrent.

A man called Doug paused outside of a worn building and listened to the wind beating against the loose glass of the windows. Hopefully they would hold.

Inside, though dry, offered little refuge from the bleakness of the streets. The aftermath of the previous morning was still evident. Glass shards were scattered across the floor; a vase was turned over by the window. The drafty room carried the faint scent of copper.

Doug sat down on the side of the couch not covered in still-drying blood. Whisky bottle in hand, he studied the room around him.

What a sight this must be, he thought to himself. A man sitting alone in the wreckage of his own self-destruction. Or attempt thereof.

Doug figured that if there was ever a time to believe in God, this would be it. He reckoned the hole in his head was still present. If not, he could always put it back. His eyes fell onto the gun laying to his right.

Perhaps a different location this time.

Passing the whisky to his other hand, he reached for the gun. Deja-vu swept over him as he felt the cold metal of press against his palm.

Maybe he should put some papers down, just in case he failed again. The couch was ruined enough as it is.

If it worked, however, that wouldn’t matter.

Doug laughed and pulled the trigger.

Laughter turned into screams. The screams subsided back into laughter as Doug continued to pull the trigger until the gun clicked.

As the room around him swam back into focus, Doug realized the ringing in his head was not actually in his head, but his doorbell.

He staggered over to the door, drink still in hand. On the other side was his neighbor, Martha.

"Would you cut that racket out? I'm trying to sleep."

Doug looked down at the spent gun.

"That's not going to get you out of here."

"What?"

"Just how many damn holes did you put in your head?"

Doug paused before holding up four fingers.

"Just my advice," Martha leaned in and took the gun. "Stick to drink. It's quieter and," she glanced at the burgundy stain on his couch, "less messy."

Doug looked past Martha into the congested city streets. He didn't remember moving to the city. "Where am I?"

"You're not talking to Jesus, sweetie."

*I'm going through my old poetry that I wrote to vent out my feelings when I was at my lowest points and "recycling" it. My hope is to keep the emotion while amping up the prose just a bit. My style has since changed and poetry doesn't come to me quite like it used to. I hope this "recycling" will help me find a poetic voice that matches both the writing style I've adopted and my current outlook on life.

What's this?

This emptiness inside

A hole where something else should be

A husk

Where the wind whistles by

I think this emptiness is me

Mindless routine

Without thought or try

A future I'm unable to see

I fight

For a future to take wing

For a future that may not come to be

“What’ll it be?”

“Whatever’s cheapest.”

“That would be the water.”

“Mix it strong then.”

The bartender chuckled a bit as he poured his sullen-eyed patron a beer. The cheapest he had.

“Bad day?”

“Ha. That’s one way to describe it.”

Sensing the conversation had run its course; the bartender turned away and began to clean up for the night. It was nearing one and, aside from the two of them, the small pub was empty.

“Is this what you saw yourself doing ten years ago?”

The bartender paused for a second before starting to wheeze violently in a way that resembled laughter.

He swung a browned towel over his shoulder and steadied himself against the bar.

“Look, fella,” he said, grabbing an empty glass and filling it for himself. “Uh, what’s your name?”

“Thomas.”

“Alright, Thomas. I’m Vincent. Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise.”

Vincent took his time knocking back a few swigs before continuing.

“Alright, see, you gotta understand one thing: ten years ago, I was a dumbass. I certainly wasn’t the same snapping gentleman you see standing before you today.”

Thomas stared, despite himself.

“I will say though, I was a good spot better looking. Certainly was not bad with the ladies, if you know what I mean,” he wheezed again. “Didn’t have a care in the world. Worked a job here and there. A good day for me was havin’ enough money after rent and some food for a whore.”

“What about now?”

“Ain’t a bad thought.”

Thomas was silent for a moment.

“Hey, I never said I quit bein’ stupid.”

He took another swig. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand he added, “I just ain’t as naïve as I was.”

“What happened?”

“Wrong question, mate. It ain’t what happened. It’s who. Helen happened.”

“Helen?”

“My Helen.”

Thomas waited for Vincent to continue.

“My Helen, well, she was a whore.”

“Seems a little harsh.”

Vincent laughed. “She wouldn’t let you call her nothin’ else. Slap you if you did. Didn’t like delusions, you see. Said reality was enough of a bitch on its own.”

“How’d you meet her then?”

“Like I said, life was good as long as I had me enough money left over at the end of each day for a whore. And for a while I did. Not sure how long I was messing around before I picked up Helen. Didn’t realize she was different at first though. Nah took me until three or four whores later.”

“What do you mean?”

“Fuckin’ just wasn’t the same anymore, you know? It wasn’t enough. It didn’t do enough for me. And then that damn whore kept crossing my mind,” he shook his head. “I went out looking for her. Think part of me was hopin’ seeing her would break whatever fuckin’ spell she had on me.”

“I’m guessing it didn’t quite go as planned?”

“Goddamn right it didn’t.” Vincent burped. “I was a sucker gone mad. I wanted to get her out of that situation, to save her.”

“What a thought, huh? Hell, she probably made more than I did.” Vincent began to wheeze so violently that he spilled his beer and nearly toppled over.

Thomas waited until the wheezing stopped. “What happened?”

“Well, she laughed me off at first. Can’t really blame her. But I was persistent, bought every hour of her time that I could. Even took my first steady job at this hellhole. Must have proven somethin’ ’cause she came around and gave me a chance.

“Probably shouldn’t have. I never could get her out of there. Off the streets, I mean. But I was a dreamer. Unlike her, I didn’t let things like reality knock any sense into me.”

“What do you mean?”“I’d tell her I was gonna buy her off the streets one day. That she wouldn’t have to sell her body no more. I’d support her like a proper husband should. Pretty sure she knew it weren’t goin’ to happen, but she stayed with me all the same.”

“You still love her, don’t you?”

“More than anythin’.”

“What happened?”

“Fate I guess. Found her in the alleyway leaving work one mornin’. Police ruled it an overdose or somethin’. I told ’em she weren’t into that stuff. That they needed to investigate. Nah. A whore’s a whore and that was it. Police ain’t gonna waste their time and resources on someone like her.”

“Goddamn, man. Why do you still work here?”

He shrugged, “they don’t have no one else to close the bar.”

“Damn.”

“How’s about you then?”

“What? My girl?”

“If you have one.”

“I did.”

Vincent raised his glass, “share away.”

“Well, she was older than me, not by much, but enough. Her name was Elizabeth but she went by Mary. Never did tell me why.

“She was tall, for a woman, and always wore heels. Never saw her without. She was always up with the latest fashion trend. I swear she’d set them half the damn time.

“Five years. Five years and nearly every night we went out. She was never satisfied with me or my attention. It was never enough. She needed whole nights of never having to buy a drink and swinging between more dance partners than I could keep track of.”

“You’re kiddin’.”

“Wish I was. In the beginning, I’d fight it. Threaten. Fight them in the street. It never did shit. I’d end up in the back of the police cruiser. She’d never leave the bar. I’d come home the next morning and she’d look up from some fashion magazine and ask me where I’d been. So I stopped.”

“Five years?”

“Five years.”

“Why you stay with her so damn long?”

“I was a fool.”

“I take it she’s gone now?”

“Yup,” Thomas drained his glass. “Fell in love and left.”

“She didn’t love you?”

“Not a bit.”

“But you loved her?”

“Too much.”

Vincent took the glass from Thomas. “Tell you what, this round is on me.”