#LyricalFictionFriday: Distance

“My love,” she says as she tilts the bottle under the rush of hot water raining down from the faucet. She looks over her shoulder. He’s standing by the door. It’s open behind him. Cracked. A sliver of light from the hall pours in. He reaches back for the knob…

Oh, how she wishes he would push it closed, take those three giant steps around the kitchen island with his long lanky legs to come behind her, as he used to, long days after work. Their bodies fitting together like puzzle pieces, how she wishes he would wrap his arms around her waist, whisper in her ear, “My love,” the way he did thirteen months ago, before—

A sudden cry from the monitor by the sink grabs her attention, for only a second, and in that second, the distance between them grows. The door is open wider now, his body fits between the crack, blocking the light, one foot already in the hall.

“Will you get that?”

But that isn’t a phone she can answer and tell its caller to ring back later, or a TV she can put on mute. That is a baby. Their baby. And has he even touched it? Fed it? Changed a single diaper? Does he know that it has his eyes? Does he realize that she still doesn’t feel like a mother, looks at it like it’s a thing, a thing that won’t be quiet, that won’t stop?

She wants to ask him…

If he comes back.

She’s left in darkness. The door closed, she hears the echo of his footsteps down the hall, but they don’t grow faint, they get louder, and the speaker from the baby monitor triples in size, the cries rising, flooding her ears, pushing her down to the floor, curled in the fetal position, hysterical, waiting for some kind of a miracle.


Written for #LyricalFictionFriday, a challenge that uses song lyrics as prompts. Today’s prompt is: …He’s only happy hysterical … I’m waiting for some kind of miracle…

Lyrical Fiction Friday Reveal: “Waiting For A Miracle” #lyricalfictionfriday

I took a walk down memory lane this morning, so excuse me while I wipe away the tears after listening to this week’s Lyrical Fiction Friday song choice…

I’ve always loved Kelly Clarkson. So many of her songs have touched my soul, but I must take a break from the sad love stories on this one. My emotions can’t take it!

Anywho, if you’re up for the challenge, head on over to Marquessa’s page to participate, find new blogging friends, or just to cry with me. 🙂

With all the love in my heart,

#LyricalFictionFriday: Muse

I still hear Pete’s voice in my head when I knock on Carrie’s front door…

“Remember what happened to Ron?”

First of all, Ron can’t drive. Not a car—he’s totaled three. Not a bike—motored or pedaled. Even walking, he can’t drive. If you want my opinion, bruh was asking to get hit.

And yeah, I know they still haven’t caught the guy who did it and ran, and that the description of the car fits Carrie’s Subaru almost exactly, even down to the first three letters on the license plate—Ron passed out before he could read the rest.

I look over my shoulder at her ride parked in the driveway. It does appear to have a sizable dent on the front fender, but that could also be how the shadow hits the hood from the porch light.

Truth is, I couldn’t give a damn about Ron. If she did run him over, hey, that just means he’s out the picture. Besides, she’s told me countless nights that I’m her muse. What has Ron done for her except get caught cheating?

She opens the door slowly, her blond, waist-length dreadlocks swaying in the draft the door creates.


“I’m living in an empty room, with all the windows smashed.”

It takes some getting used to, talking to Carrie. I gotta be honest, the first time I heard her speak, I was on the same boat as Pete, thinking she was coo-coo. But spending a few nights with her—bass-throbbing hip-hop the soundtrack to her drumming pen to pad on knee as she sits criss-cross applesauce on her basement floor and spits lyrics like a conversation without even glancing down at the words—made me realize, Carrie is a living, breathing poem. And to a guy who once had wet ink dripping from his own tongue, that’s sexy as hell.

“I got your text.”

“Bleeding soles treading on the shards of broken glass.” She plays the love-scorn damsel well, and it reminds me of what seems like ages ago, when I wanted to be an MC—always had my earbuds plugged in, free-styling straight fire as I walked the streets, not caring who heard me, who called my music noise.

“Let me be the welder who mends your heart.”

Like Carrie I let love get in the way of my greatness. I turned to writing love songs, but the passion was gone. Anything that came out of my month was dry and arid, like a California desert, but no matter how many sparked matches I tossed on the ground, it wouldn’t light up.

You see, you can’t rhyme when the only thing on your mind is pleasing the person you’re with, and Charin was hard to fucking please. I guess Ron was too, since he chose the one chick every dude on the block has been with over this gem, this diamond in the ruff.

Truth is, Carrie is my muse just as much as I am hers. The sounds we could make together as we mourn both our losses…

Maybe I’m the one who’s crazy. To want this girl, barely 100 pounds, with dreadlocks and a bull nose ring, who writes poetry and cant’t speak unless it’s in metaphor, who may or may not have attempted murder…

But then, we’ve all got skeletons in our closets.


Written for #LyricalFictionFriday, a challenge that uses song lyrics as prompts. Today’s prompt is: I’m living in an empty room, with all the windows smashed

Lyrical Fiction Friday Reveal: “Empty Rooms and Broken Glass” #lyricalfictionfriday

Oh, writing. I’m walking on egg shells when I’m with you and broken glass when I’m not.

Let’s just say my relationship with writing these past couple of years has been rocky at times, but I bet your story to Marquessa’s #LyricalFictionFriday prompt will be a little less figurative, huh?

Be sure to head over to her blog to participate! Happy writing! 😉

#LyricalFictionFriday: Hoedown

When I told Janay I wanted to try something different, I was thinking nerd-ish, maybe religious. Hell, I’d even go with corporate; there were plenty of fine-looking brothers working well-salaried office jobs.

Anything was better than the fake-ass wannabe rapper, not a cent to his name, grills on his teeth cost more than his rent, more Jordan’s in his closet that dollar bills in his wallet, burnt lips from all the cigars he smokes, lying-ass, cheating-ass, baby mama drama having-ass scumbag I was used to with JT.

But never in my wildest dreams did I imagine she’d take me to a New Year’s Eve, Farmers Only dot com, cowboy hoedown. It’s criminal to have this much denim in one room, unless it’s being burned. The sea of leather boots scuffing the floor makes it hotter than a black church on Christmas, and the height of their heels make my wedges look like pre-school training wheels for sluts.

I feel out of place, and extremely overdressed. My off-the-shoulder minidress barely covers the butterfly tattoo on the back of my upper thigh, and it’s no secret that the dress isn’t the only little black thing in the room—all blue, green, and steel grey eyes on me.

“What the hell is this?” I whisper out the side of my mouth to Janay as a cowboy in a fringe vest brushes by, says in a husky voice with beer-soaked breath, “Ma’dam.”

“Something different.” Janay winks at me. I hate her.

“Just because they’re a different color doesn’t mean they’re not still dicks.” I look over my shoulder and lock eyes with another leaning up against the wall by the door we’d just entered. Had he always been standing there? He spits into a can by his feet, sucks on his teeth, though it looks like he’s sneering at me, his bushy eyebrows furrowed. I bet his is the black pickup parked right outside the door, with the Confederate flag displayed on the front bumper.

I have to remind Janay how many we’ve seen flying over the two-lane highway on our drive out here to Middle of Nowhere, USA. Half-shaved dying pine trees on every side of us. There’s not another building for at least five miles back the way we came. If anything happened to us—I eye the holster on his hip, too small for a gun, but make not a pocket knife—who would come looking?

“You said it yourself. You’re sick of the candy-coated misery.”

Ok, so I break out sometimes when I eat chocolate, but do lactose-intolerant people give up ice cream just because it makes them a little gassy? Hell no! And I’m not that stupid either.

“Howdy, ladies.” For all the stomping of the dancers to the banjo and harmonica bluegrass music played onstage, I don’t hear him approach from behind. Not doorman; he’s disappeared. Maybe he’s had enough of the party already. I sure have.

This one tilts his hat to us. His long nose, dips over his thin lips, curled in a smile, barely visible through the five-o’clock shadow of a beard slowly growing in that covers the entire bottom half of his face. He opens his palm to the ceiling. “Care to dance?”

Why? So he can slide his hand down my back, cop a feel to see if our butts really are bigger? So he can get a taste of forbidden fruit, come back to the lodge and tell the boys about his wild night of jungle fever? So he can confirm just how animalistic we are in bed?

“No thanks,” I say, but Janay pushes me so hard I nearly knock myself out on the zippers stretching down the shoulder of his jacket.

“Don’t be so pretentious. It’s New Year’s! Have fun!”

The spurs on his boots spin as he kicks up his feet, marches me down to the front of the stage. The crowd parts for us like the Red Sea. My skin burns under their stares, but he doesn’t seem to mind. Thumbs hooked behind his belt buckle, feet squared, knees raised to elbows in an awkward sideways lunge shuffle. He doesn’t even notice that I’m not dancing with him, and just as quietly as he snuck up on me, I slip between the bodies clad in hip-hugging jeans and bolt for the door.

It’s just my luck that Mr. Confederate is resting his elbows on the hood of his truck when I come crashing into him. He catches me in his arms, holds me firmly against his hip. “Where you going, little lady?” he says, and swiftly pulls me up for a ride.

His muffler is too loud for anyone to hear my screams, so I don’t bother. I wonder, has Janay noticed yet that I’m missing, or has she found herself a cowboy to dance with too? I tug on the seat belt and click it across my lap, fixate on the toothpick in his ear as he backs out of the dirt driveway and pulls out onto the road, hitting every bump on the highway as we cruise deeper into the country.


Hmmm, sounds like the beginning of a longer story… Written for  #LyricalFictionFriday, a challenge that uses song lyrics as prompts. Today’s prompt is: He looks like a cool drink of water but he’s candy-coated misery…

#LyricalFictionFriday – “Cowboy Casanova” #fictionfriday #marquessachallenge

How can I best describe this week’s prompt for #LyricalFictionFriday?

Tall, dark, handsome, and nothing but trouble!

So run for your life or run straight for that pen and give us your story!

Be sure to ping it back to Marquessa’s page so she can read it too!

#LyricalFictionFriday: Knock, Knock

There’s just something about him . . .

A woman’s decorative touch on the door tempts me to turn back, but the memories of Christmases spent alone keep me planted.

I pull the sleeves of my sweater over my fists to conceal what I hold in my hand.

I’m locked and loaded, completely focused. 

When she opens the door, I hook my finger around the trigger and fire. Point blank, dead center, right between the eyes. Her body crumples to the floor.

Now he knows how much I want this. Body still sore from the surgery— I’ve changed everything for him. My hair, the way I dress, how I speak. I’ve even killed.

As she lies dying, her eyes are still open. Sheer terror frozen in their gaze. I wonder about her last thought, before the bullet pierced her skull.

That an unsuspicious knock on the door, while gingerbread cookies bake in the oven, has snatched her life from her? Or that the face behind the wool-wrapped double-barreled pistol was her mirror image?


Talk about a “dangerous” woman!  😉Written for  #LyricalFictionFriday, a challenge that uses song lyrics as prompts. Today’s prompt is: I’m locked and loaded…completely focused…my mind is open…

#LyricalFictionFriday: “Dangerous Woman” #fictionfriday #marquessachallenge

Locked . . . Loaded . . . Dangerous.

Do you have what it takes this Fiction Friday to write a story that makes us all feel like dangerous women?

Head on over to Marquessa’s page to find out!

#LyricalFictionFriday: Real

“She’s way out of my price range.” I shake my head and turn back down the aisle. Plastic and artificial will have to do for another year. The memory of Bernadette’s acrylic nails piercing the skin of my back last Christmas Eve makes me wince.

I hate plastic and artificial.

“No way, man,” Michael says. “The company finally recognized all your hard work and sacrifice with a Christmas bonus. Treat yourself. Get the show-stopper.”

On the opposite end of the aisle I spot a guy, with half his face covered behind a bulky, padded winter coat, eyeing my prize. We both make a dash for it, but I, being closer and quick on my feet—those years running track in high school finally pay off—get to her first.

The woman trims the needles of the tree twice her size in height and girth. I glance down at her nametag: Marie.

At least it’s not Mary. Mary wore dentures. I found that out the first time I tongue kissed her.

“Excuse me–”

Let me stop you right there.” She holds the shears over her shoulder as if she’s about to sling them like an ax. “I think it’s so sweet…how you let your friend encourage you to try and talk to me…”

I look past her. Homeboy is frozen in mid-stride, ready to pounce the second I’m denied.

But I won’t be denied.

“Yes,” she says, and winks. Her back to my competition, she perks up her chest, and they look real. Proportional to her body, no nipples the size of bottle caps busting through her shirt like steel; soft, squishy—at least from what I can see—not hard like melon rinds, or unusually round and firm like apples. She takes a two-inch pencil missing the eraser out of the front pocket of her apron to write down her phone number.

A check right before the holidays, and to match, maybe even a date with a hot chick whose body parts didn’t come with a price tag—this is turning out to be the best Christmas ever!

I pinch the end of a lengthy branch she’s missed cutting, rub the sap between my thumb and index finger. Sticky. No paper cuts from the fibers. Sweet satisfaction.

At what I really wanted was the tree.


Hey, sometimes the answer is yes!  😉Written for  #LyricalFictionFriday, a challenge that uses song lyrics as prompts. Today’s prompt is: I think it’s so sweet…how you let your friends encourage you to try and talk to me…but let me stop you there…

#LyricalFictionFriday: “No” #fictionfriday

Since it’s Throwback Thursday, let’s look back to the time a boy sent his homeboy to talk to my best friend to see if I was single. Or when the scrub tried to holla at me from the passenger side of his best friend’s ride parked at the 7-Eleven. Or all those times I’ve been hit on at Walmart. Or those terrible one-liners like, “You look familiar. Have I seen you somewhere?” Lemme guess, in your dreams?


Needless to say, I have tons of material for this Friday’s #LyricalFictionFriday prompt. So head on over to Marquessa’s page for the details.

And remember, no means N-O!