Monthly Archives: October 2013

Antidote to Boredom – A short Story

Sometimes I don’t feel either way about things. It is boring in those times. Sometimes I am content in the boringness, sometimes I fall asleep because of it.

The moral is, boring stuff is borrring.



But, to quote an imaginary friend of mine, “Boredom is a pleasing antidote to fear”, and as I gaze at the horde of flesh eating zombies crawling and limping toward me, I recognize just how valuable boredom is.

I never really valued boredom when I had it. That one evening, when my parents were watching a documentary on a cartoon rabbit traded for a sports newscaster, and I was sitting at the computer next to a steaming cup of English tea and wishing I had something to do with my life, bored out of my mind, I didn’t appreciate the fact that I wasn’t being chased by bloodthirsty monsters. You should really take the time to appreciate those things, because then the day comes where you can’t just lie on your bed and fall asleep with your ukulele in your arms, because when you wake up you might not have arms anymore, let alone a ukulele.

I appreciate things like that now. Like the short moments in the morning, right after I wake up to the post-apoctalyptic sun, in the few moments where I’m awake enough to think, but still too disoriented to make out the low grumbling sounds of the creatures of death nearby, those are the moments I treasure. I sit in the morning glow of sunlight, and I remember life like it used to be, where one had time to make and drink the perfect cup of coffee, with cream and sugar and purified water flowing from gleaming silver taps.

I miss coffee…and tea…and my ukulele. Well, actually, I don’t miss my ukulele that much because, let’s face it, when will I be in a time and place again where it is safe and sane for me to sit there and start singing “Somewhere over the rainbow” in this day and age? With the hordes of death, and the people scrounging for shelter and weapons, and the tasks of daily life, playing the ukulele would just be very…off.

Anyhow, right now I shouldn’t really be thinking about my ukulele anyway, because this nomadic tribe of monsters isn’t going anywhere anytime soon, except toward me, as I sit in this chair, with duck tape wrapped around me inhibiting my movement immensely. “Why are you taped to a chair?” You ask, well that’s a brilliant question, and I’d be happy to tell you all about it, except right now I kind of have to concentrate on how to wiggle the knife out of my right boot and into my right hand, so that I can free myself from the silver tape wrapped around my upper body. I do, and I am now trying very hard, scratching away at the tape, little shreds of it tearing away, trying to avoid stabbing myself as I wrench the tape off of me. The zombies are beginning to notice me in greater numbers. Instead of vaguely crawling toward me simply because I occupy this moment in space and time directly in front of them, they are crawling with purpose, eyes wide and jaws clacking open and shut in anticipatory delight. You don’t want to imagine what anticipatory delight looks like on the face of a zombie. Let’s just say, I begin trying even harder to escape.

Wouldn’t things be nice if they always turned out the way you wanted them too? Like if my doctor would have just signed that paper and the insurance agency would have just let me take that test so that I could start working in a special education classroom and work towards improving the young lives of children? Or if instead of falling upside down onto the floor and being destroyed for ever, that bowl of double chocolate chip ice cream and hut fudge sauce had stayed where it was, balanced precariously on the edge of the microwave, until I had the chance to pick it up and consume it?

But no…instead of escaping from the confines of the duck tape chair and escaping to continue my life of scavenging and fighting for survival, one of those zombies snuck up on me from behind, and suffice to stay, this is an account of my life post mortem.

I half freed myself from the chair before it happened and now I spend my days, wandering through the woods, attracted to the lights and sounds of the world that surrounds me, occasionally catching glimpses of beings that move just a little too fast and a little too well, and then my eyes grow wide and I begin to open and shut my mouth in anticipatory delight until…but that’s rare. Mostly it’s just me, crawling and limping, with a wooden chair half taped to my arm, dragging behind me as I drag myself along the road. Boredly going on with no purpose or reason, boredly existing…bored, but never scared.


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I didn’t know there were people actually like you in this world.

I mean, you’re what, sixteen, seventeen? And already you’re hating the world like James Dean as a rebel,

and then who am I? Because I’m sure not Natalie Wood.

Even if I could somehow make you see something or be something better;

less hating, less fighting, less inciting rage,

I don’t know how I’d ever make it to that page without crossing some line in your story, and getting too involved.

Problem not solved.

Stop it. Just stop.

No, I haven’t got a clear cut plan of how to grow up and be a man,

but for some reason I know growing up has got to be better

than you living in this rage of lightning weather

and lashing out,

like you’re about to shout at anyone and everyone,

because for some unknown to me, crystal clear reason, you hate them all.

Who ever made that call? That that was an option? No, it’s not.

Why? Because I said so,

and because you’re here and when you talk to me I see your spark of humanity,

and how clearly you love, and if you love one person that’s enough,

because one is part of the whole and each one has a soul, and in each there’s something to love. Just find it. I dare you.

I dare you to stop pretending you hate everyone, even if you were hurt by someone, I dare you to try again to understand, to see the heart in fellow man, and love.

Just do it.


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Letter to a friend.

Mina, dear, friend of mine

you’re in the hospital, but you say you’re fine?

You have pneumonia, you’re coughing up bile,

you respond with “meh” as if apathy is going out of style.

Why are you so cool when your life is in your hands?

When there’s risk that you’ll soon be buried under those beachy sands

where you live, alone in Miami,

cut off from your parents, pretending you are happy.

Mina, dear, friend of mine

I could say that I love you and am concerned, but I’d be wasting time,

the words are lost on a heart so broken, from past wounds and all the hating words spoken.

Mina, dear, please please listen to me?

Take care of yourself and get better, just be

healthy again and happy and wise

and stay away from punks and bad guys.

And Mina, dear, I will still be praying

that somehow you’ll understand what I’m saying.

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“Hello young lady! How are you doing tonight?” The words drift off her tongue like a happy joke, friendly, but somehow poking fun. Flirting with sarcasm in a short bohemian dress.

“I’m fine… Thanks” I mutter. Needless words, as she is already five steps past hearing and stopped caring once the words left her mouth. I stare back at my phone and pretend I have someone to talk to. I press the on button, check the battery level, see if I have any new texts…I don’t.

People walk by on the sidewalk, glancing at me with curiosity, trying to figure me out. “What is that girl doing,” They ask themselves “she’s just sitting, alone, outside that hotel? She’s not drinking, or clubbing, or talking to anyone or anything. She doesn’t even look like she’s enjoying herself. And what is she wearing, a longsleeve shirt and jeans! In Miami!?”

Realistically they only have enough time to think one of those things, but there’s enough people passing for an entire conversation of that sort to formulate in my mind. Not to mention the table of three down the way, now the only other people sitting out here on this warm Southbeach night, they have enough time and few enough other options to judge to spend the whole night thinking about me. Unless they leave. Then it will be me, all alone, in front of this 2 star 4 star hotel. Which I won’t mind at all. It would give me more time to finish my writing and not feel like I’m ignoring the world and texting to someone who isn’t even there. Which I am.

Lonely. If I had a word for it, that’s what it might be. Watching couples walk and the table of friends at the far end of the balcony, I become a little jealous of their apparent felicity and companionship. All I have is this book. This imaginary literary composition that will bear my heart and feed my soul by finally letting me accomplish my lifetime goal of being a real writer.

And now all her friends have left the lone texter at the far end of the balcony, and now all she has is her imaginary friends and dreams. I wish I wasn’t texting. We make quite a pair, she and I. Lonely copies at two ends of the seating area, texting away and ignoring the immediate reality. The epitome of what technology has done to our world. Divided us so that ever closer and able to connect we are more truley farther apart.

But now she has left, lone texter, and I am most truly alone. A dark fear taints the night, lit with yellow street lamps and green neons, the fear that comes with strangers and the danger of the unknown. 

I stand to stretch and glance around the alleys and corners. No one. The roads are clearing out, emptying as the new day begins. It’s midnight in Miami, and as usual, I’m all alone.

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I remember sitting there

biting into a piece of pizza and being overly aware

of every move I’d make and how you’d take

it, positively or not.

You’d think with time I would have forgot.

But time passed and that simple memory still lasts,

me and you, two, together before we were together,

together before my childish fear and immaturity decided that we collided too much and I broke your heart.

Forgetting that and remembering the first burst of love and affection, making a more than just friend connection, I think of how much I wanted to hold your hand.

It was practically all I could stand, just sitting there on that couch next to you, hand in hand, happy with no clue of where I was going with this, no desire for more, not even thinking of a kiss, just holding hands and being content.

But then I had to analyze, avoid, and detest any surprise arrival of you in my life, because now it seemed we were no longer two but one, and the fun of meeting you was replaced by a fear of no retreating from you.

Introvert isolated from life, from you, from guys, and meeting you upset and confused the system and I couldn’t see, I couldn’t listen anymore, I just had to end the tour through unknown territory and divide us for forever. And I think that I should never have even held your hand in the first place, because now it’s so much harder to forget.

I’m sorry that I ever let us sit, and hold hands, and pretend we were always going to be



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Filed under All Poetry, Love Poems

Ready, set…

I write my poems so that they can’t simply be spoken, they are raced through and read tripping and broken, pieces and words, commas abound,

all to create a racing sound. Spinning thoughts, zooming fast, green means go, zip on past.

I enjoy my poems and their galloping beat, words that nearly take you out of your seat,

that’s my attempt, what I try anyway, but I suppose it’s up to the reader to say.


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Dear Love of my life I haven’t met,

With you I hope I won’t regret

these years spent waiting,

lonely, hating all the little distracting fillers of time, the pick up line, “Can I have your number? Can I give you mine?”

Whoever you are, please don’t stay far, staring and puzzling and avoiding the confuzzling first interactions and gauging reactions.

It annoys, interacting in ploys made to catch, snatch, and attach oneself to another whom you truly bear no wishes of ill health, but you simply take the heart because it’s there, and you don’t care about anyone but yourself.

Dear love, first and true, I can hardly wait to meet you,

I sit and wish and dream and sigh, and I suppose that sounds intimidating to the average guy, but I have hopes, I have plans, and I have an idea of the perfect man. He’s not actually perfect, that would be a fright, but he’s funny and good and he tries to be in the right, dear love of mine, you don’t have to be divine, but trying for perfection, that I wouldn’t mind.


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Filed under All Poetry, Love Poems