Losing a Love and Losing Your Mind

painted black

    Charles sailed down the interstate. He was 38 years old, but he felt like an 18-year-old. Even with his receding hair, he was a handsome man. In fact, he worked out at the gym three times a week and would run on the treadmill for an hour. His wife had nagged him to exercise after his doctor warned Charles that cigarettes and fattening food would be his downfall. His wife began to fix healthy dinners and- no- he did not like them at first, but Charles would grow accustomed to the food.

   His life was excellent. Everything was perfect. The keyword is “was.” Before long he would make partner in his firm, and his wife was pregnant with their first child. It was a boy and although he told his wife he would be happy with a boy or girl- the truth was he wanted a boy. A boy he could go to baseball games with, spend nights telling him scary stories on camping trips, a boy that would love working on cars, a boy he could talk to about girls… yes, he felt blessed. He held life by the strings He was listening to the rolling stones when his cell phone rang. It was his wife, and he answered the phone, “Yes Dear.”

    “Charles,” she said in a troubled tone.

    “What is it dear?” He asked.

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Who I Am is NOT Who I Want to be: Falling in and Out of Love

mens weding ring.jpg

  I now sit in my penthouse as I toy with a silver ring. It was my wedding ring. My eyes fixate on the silver band, and I turn it sideways as I read the inscription, to my true love, Max. It would’ve been our ten year wedding anniversary. Exactly one-year to-the-date that he left me. I walk to the fridge and opening it; I pull out a 200 dollar bottle of champagne- Dom Perignon from the refrigerator. Although I had never cared for the champagne, it was Matts favorite. Let me explain how I find myself in this predicament- alone- on a ten-year anniversary,  nursing wounds that should have faded into the past. However, first, let me pop the top. I pour myself a glass and head to the balcony of this lavished suite. This cozy penthouse cost a nifty penny… and I think that is where it all went wrong… my success… my success as a homosexual.

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Losing the Love of My Life

guy at bar

I guess what bothers me the most is knowing that I will die with nobody batting an eye. Perhaps that sounds selfish- but the idea of dying alone has made me a regular customer at this bar. The only person who might notice my absence is the bartender that I tip generously. There will be others that will tip graciously and in time- I will be entirely forgotten. Is this God’s way of punishing me for something I now believe might have been my own choice? Or perhaps that is the liquor talking. I toy with my drink- my eyes glazed and wandering- as memories turn through my head like a photo album- my thoughts continue… Heterosexuals have the privilege of relying on their children, while I- I have nobody to depend on- nobody. I know there will come a day when I reside in a hospital bed- completely and utterly alone. Being alone in those moments is what scares me the most, and I have been alone most of my life. Even in this bar- surrounded by alcohol hungry customers as conversation flows as carelessly into the air like cigarette smoke- even now- I feel alone. My mind always replays the footage of the only person that understood me- the only person I loved- the only person who never left me on the roadside. I never felt alone with him…

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The Red Rose


  It was the 1960’s, and France was flourishing. Their economic growth was, on the rise, as the French had a great boost in their economy. Throughout the past several decades France had become increasingly powerful. In fact, during this period, they would succumb to the largest population of their nearby European allies, as their cities grew and they became wealthy. The French are commonly thought to be snobbish, by the accounts from those who wander the streets with maps and questions. The truth is- they like to enjoy life and having Americas peddling around their streets, as they ask residents for guidance to tourist landmarks- it would wear on the occupants- much like it would any flourishing city that wanted to exist peacefully. The French believe in moderation, and they also believe that life should be taken with strides. They are not accustomed to working endlessly- like Americans- No, they found relaxation was essential to a healthy and happy life. They worked hard and played hard.

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ChainSaw Charley


ChainSaw Charley

Sweat was dripping down his chin as he cut through the power line pole. The chainsaw ate the post- wood was spitting into the air- The power line pole groaned as it fell into the streets- the wires snapping. “No more light for anybody! Nobody can see in the darkness! Now you understand?!” Charles screamed as he stumbled blindly to the next pole. The chainsaws serrated blades rotated in a fury of madness as he tore the next power line pole down- much like the last- it began to lean until it finally toppled over- sparks jumping as the wires split. The neighbors were outside watching- the police would be there soon. Not a single person was going to try and talk any rational into a man wielding a chainsaw dangerously into the air- stumbling- as he screamed maniacally, “How will you see without light?” As people heard his insane ranting, it became apparent that he had lost his mind. Children were guided inside by their parents and told to lock the doors. Eventually, most of the adults would retreat to the safety of their houses while they looked from their living room windows as Charles continued in a fleet of madness. You could hear sirens in the distance.

  However, you might find interest in knowing exactly how this event came to transpire. Charles was- by all accounts- a happy man- a man that was always friendly, and he was a teacher at a nearby middle school. Although Charles may seem like a monster in this moment of insanity, you will see that most people considered him a victim. Let me explain:

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My Misery is Diluted by Coke and Rum


          A mist of rain began to fall as I parked my blood red Chevy truck in the driveway. I cast my half opened sunken eyes upward towards my two story house and wondered when I became so jaded about my life. In all honesty- it is not that big of a mystery. When our last child moved out of the house- the laughter vanished like birthday candles being blown out in a dimly lit room. The only noise was between my wife, and  I.

My kids have their own lives- they live in other states. In fact, they only call on holidays and birthdays- if that. Every time I talk to them, they promise they will visit home soon. Of course, I get my hopes up only to have them shatter. I think they do not realize they were shattering more than hopes- they were shattering my heart- and if my children did understand this, I guess I was nothing more than an old picture in a photo album- I was in the past and they were living for the future. Still- I gave them the best years of my life.

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Capturing the Glimpse of Your Soul in a Photo


    A loud groan dispersed from my mouth as I see my mother’s phone number illuminate the screen on my iPhone. It was two days from Thanksgiving, and I had promised her that I would show. I had not seen her or my family members in over a year- And when I had spoken to her a couple weeks prior- the alcohol that surged through my body and her tactful method of guilting me into attending- well- it worked. I told I would attend Thanksgiving dinner. It was her favorite holiday, and although I loathed the idea of visiting- as I sat in the darkness I had begun to feel it was something I needed to do.

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The RedStick Baron


The Red-Stick Baron was a man with black hair and an equally black heart. He was said to be the biggest drug dealer in Louisiana and his reach extended to Texas where he had connections that kept heroine steadily flowing into Louisiana. He was a man with no morals, no conscientiousness, and did whatever he could to succeed- even if that meant killing his best friend. The story had become elaborate, sophisticated, and developed to the point that pictures of the man circulated like the overcast Louisiana days. It was said that he had the police in the right pocket and the politicians in his left. People claimed that when they snorted or shot up heroin, you could see the Red-Stick Baron in the shadows as he watched you with deep burning red eyes. Drug addicts would swear of his existence. I was not so sure.

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The Devil’s Playground

devil short storyM.D. Laternstien. Psychiatrist. Age 34. Single. He was in Mercy Hospital having an operation to have his gall bladder removed. Of course, hospitals make all sorts of mistakes, but this mistake would cost this psychiatrist, M.D. Laternstien, his life. You see, just one room down, in the same wing of the hospital, lay a man- Paul- in a significant amount of distress. He was Schizophrenic and placed in the hospital against his own will for an acute case of psychosis. Continue reading