Parenting for Sex AddictsThe half-day.Parenting for Sex Addicts1 year ago in Introductions & Chapters More Like This
We are not those folks that need an occasion to try. And that’s what they call it, too. Trying. As if the very idea of it is taxing. It’s not taxing and we are not those people.
No. We do not go by some magical calendar. Schedules aren’t really our thing in general. That’d be too organized. Too stuffy. Too… I don’t know… too planned. And we’re not the type of people whom plan.
If we could—plan—our lives would be much different. I think. It’s hard to say because this is how we’ve always been.
Our very togetherness is a result of impulse. I’m almost certain that the amount of time it took us to decide to move in together was significantly shorter than the amount of time it took us to remember each other’s names. We might have had our first conversation moments after that first… what I mean to say is we didn’t plan. Because planning would have been much t
Parenting for Sex Addicts - Daddy DayDaddy DayParenting for Sex Addicts - Daddy Day1 year ago in Introductions & Chapters More Like This
It's difficult to gauge how traumatized Kayla was after walking in on her mom and I. The neighbors, however, are far more readable. I waved at Thomas on my way out the door and the little brat burst into tears. All he saw was my butt. I mean, if my butt ruins the kid's perfect existence, it's safe to say the boy's got it pretty good.
His father. Morgan or Maury... one of those... he didn't return my smile. He looked at me like he'd just swallowed something bad. And that's not my fault. There are much greater problems in this world than my wife and I having a physical relationship.
If the kitchen sink's the issue, it's not like we've ever prepared them a meal or anything. Neither of us have used much other than a microwave since Jami, our oldest, was born. We rinse dishes in the sink... and occasionally, I guess, ourselves. Whatever? I'm over it... and that had to be more awkward for me, right? Nobody has nightmares of being the only one with clothes, I'm pretty
Mo (1,315w) The first time they met, Mo smiled. In her head, the girl knew that smile was one that the world would call “ugly”; however, she was still a child so her heart was bigger. Her heart smiled back.Mo (1,315w)8 months ago in Short Stories More Like This
It was a wintry Friday in February. Beth was almost thirteen—possibly the worst almost in a girl’s process of growing up, the almost of never catching a break from her own mirror and wishing her body would just make up its mind already. She poked at her soggy corn flakes and plucked at the itchy new strap of her bra. Wished her breasts were either big enough to actually make some shape, or small enough that she wouldn’t have to bother. Her parents lounged their way into a late morning with black coffee and yesterday’s crossword puzzles. This was a typical family snow day: nothing out of the ordinary was supposed to happen in t
Coming Back on a Day of ReturningComing Back on a Day of Returning2 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
It's amazing how wind can clear your perspective on life.
Walking out on my wife had been hard, but only because I couldn't take my daughter with me. I remember that I had to live in my truck until I got my next paycheck, and even then all I had was enough money to get a rented room. I still had to provide for my wife and child, and I had pay the mortgage on their house. I couldn't afford a place big enough for myself and Kelsey. And I'd lose a custody battle anyway.
I had sworn to myself that I wouldn't let the separation between me and Diane create a separation between me and Kelsey. But with two sets of living expenses to pay, I had to take every ounce of overtime I could get. Three months ago the foreman's position opened up. I took it because it meant a steady salary that kept me in the black, but the hours were long.
This week marked one year that I'd been out of the house, and I have been working like crazy
IronmanHear me read itIronman1 year ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
My friends used to call William "Ironman" because the first time we kissed he got a nosebleed and the taste of his blood haunted me for a long time after it. We'd only been twelve years old and apparently the anxiety spiked his blood pressure to the point of combustion... I remember that when we were forced to take sex ed a few years later we were divided into separate classes for boys and girls, in case a diagram of an ovary was too risqué and we became animalistic and started clawing at each other in our seats, but nonetheless when our teacher Ms Jacobs had explained to us what an erection was in my mind all I could picture was the blood rushing to his nose and then the slash of cranberry across my blouse.
With the idea planted in his mind it didn't take long for William's hands to start wandering, but the image persisted. Every time I thought about just letting it happen I wondered what would happen if he got too excite
A letter to people from my pastYou just can't go back,A letter to people from my past23 hours ago in Free Verse More Like This
even to the times you once thought were the greatest.
It's like the playground you played on as a child.
You have endearing memories of the unique mixture of warm mulch and cool metal,
but when you return to it years later,
it's not quite how you remember.
The once large play area now seems small compared to the large cities you've explored.
The slide that once seemed to go on for miles
is nothing compared to the walks and runs and car rides you've been on:
the thousands of miles you've conquered.
The swing that once made you feel like a bird high in the sky hardly gets you off the ground-
(maybe it's due to the weight time has put on your shoulders,
or maybe you no longer need a swing set to fly).
Yes, you can go back, but you can't have what you had.
Keep the memories fond, and carry them forward.
And if the people from your past are aware of this,
you'll see them in the road ahead.
There's one way to go,
and that's forward.
Hope to see you ther
Love Is...Love isLove Is...6 years ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
The stroke of a soft cheek.
The sound of anothers heart beat.
The feeling of their hair in your hands.
The brush of fingers against their back.
The telling of secrets and stories.
The apology of a hidden lie.
The pair of lips pressed against a scar.
The sight of watching them sleep.
The softness of their voice.
The warmth of being held close
The sharing of an ice cream cone.
The quilt around two cold bodies.
The caring of their aching cough.
The confession of ones feelings.
The shakiness as they kneel.
The box with the ring inside.
A Wonderful PoemTwas the night before this oneA Wonderful Poem3 years ago in Concrete Poetry More Like This
And all through the house
Not a creature was stirring
But me and my mouse
A page here and a page there
Away I did click
Searching for pictures
Of adorable chicks
I wanted some pictures
Just one or two
But quickly the numbers rose
And that still would not do
I scowered Sankaku
Looking left and right
I could look for hours
I could stay up all night!
But slowly I grew weary
As the hentai did rise
It rose higher and higher
It coated my eyes
With pictures of cute girls
Most barely dressed
I found them adorable
I thought them the best!
But still I saved more
Putting them in a folder
To send them to friends
Getting bolder and bolder
Occasionally I found
Something cute on my screen
And that too I saved
Loving them to smithereens!
And as all the ecchi
Slowly filled my hard drive
I thought to myself
"It's great to be alive"
Because with all these cute girls
I could want nothing more
I love them so much
I want them galore!
Over one hundred pictures
I did soon acquir
Real MenThere ain't no real men anymore. I remember when men looked like men. They had the hair on their chest and they weren't afraid of it. These days men wax like pansies and all the girlies go chasing after the hairless fairies. Ha! My girl, she likes me the way I am, she likes the way I never use any of that sissy deodorant and come home smelling manly.Real Men4 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
I think Dwight might be leaving me for a man. He keeps going off on these rants about real men, and I've caught him looking at my vintage Playgirls a few times. And he keeps mentioning this bodybuilder guy Barry, who apparently is the epitome of a "real man." I don't think I'm masculine enough. I think I read somewhere that scrawny men like Dwane like masculine women.
I kept thinking this old geezer was gonna make a pass at me, the way he was staring. Then he tells me his wife started lifting weights. But chicks ain't supposed to do that! And then she stopped shaving her legs. I tell ya, the days of real women are long gone. Now th
here's to losing youhey, wow,here's to losing you1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
great! you do!
are you happy?
no, but here, have my
see me turn myself
upside down when we run
into each other.
while you are shaking hands
and kissing babies
still smiling for smiling's sake,
I've seen the real you
crying into wine. I've felt you
stain my shirt black-streaked
with hidden away things
creased things, folded
and in the process, you
soaked my soul in
spooning your vulnerability
was better than
in one blind night,
better than the electric jolts
you sent burning up my arms
when you grabbed my hand
one day, out of the clear blue,
better than that first kiss
when both our tensions
dissolved into each other
like butter in a hot pan.
nothing has quite matched the night
when I saw you naked, saw you
emotionally undress for the first time:
Twelve Moments In The Dead Of Summer1. The sunlight glistens on her wet skin as she's walking towards the beach. He has never seen anything so beautiful in his life and even if the words seem to dry up in his throat, he knows what he is going to do next.Twelve Moments In The Dead Of Summer4 months ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
2. It hasn't rained for months now so it only takes a small spark from the cigarette to set the undergrowth on fire. On the first sign of fire they panic and run, never to look back but to remember years later, in nightmares, the crazy old man who lived in the shack nearby and was never seen since.
3. They lay together on the grass, watching the sun slowly go down behind the treeline. He takes her hand, old, wrinkled and frail into his, and whispers: "I would give up everything I have for one more summer like this". She responds: "Darling, you already did that years ago". They burst into giggles, just like the one he was supposed to take her dancing for the first time and got lost on the way, and it seems that all these years haven't changed anything at all.
4. The thorn
The Paupers Who Saw the World It was fifty feet tall, and appeared to be made entirely out of smoke. When it spoke, it was with a voice of thunder. "You will bring me the Minotaurs of Doom," it said.The Paupers Who Saw the World3 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
The two humans standing before it had heard this before. The smoke-creature had made the same demand earlier. "I already told you," shouted one of the humans. "One of the Minotaurs disappeared twenty-five years ago. The other one alone won't do you any good!"
"You two are time-travellers. Yes, I know these things. You will fetch both Minotaurs and bring them to me."
"What happens if we don't?"
"I have extended my... I do not know the word in English."
"Arms?" asked one of the humans.
"Tentacles?" suggested the other.
"No!" shouted the smoke-creature, lightning flashing angrily within it.
"Lightning! I have extended my lightning a
VerbatimOn June seventeenth at 2:33 PM, Jacob Fantana falls off the roof and hits his head. This is the approximate time that Cory later gives him. It is a particularly nasty fall: The house they had been roofing is two stories, built on a hill. At the hospital, the doctors wreathe thick gauze around Jake's head and subject him to a series of tests. Rachel cries as Dr. Dubey explains that x-ray computed tomography has revealed a mild skull fracture and bruising on his inferior frontal gyrus. Jake stares without interest at the diagrams and fiddles with his bandages. He attempts to console Rachel, but he is embarrassed, and worried about his insurance copay.Verbatim3 months ago in Short Stories More Like This
They keep him overnight for observation. As Rachel drives him home the next day, she repeatedly reaches over to touch Jake's hand on the armrest. He smiles politely and grasps her fingers in return. Through the window, he watches the bland streets of Sandusky pass by. The brakes on Rachel's Lumina whine quietly at every stoplight. Ja
Cell DivisionI. ProphaseCell Division1 year ago in Short Stories More Like This
Mom’s heels hit the tile floor like gunshots. Dad saunters from the opposite direction. As they come into view, meeting at the kitchen doorway, they robotically move together as a single unit, as if to assure us that they are still sleeping in the same room. They split at the table. Dad sits at his place, grunts into his newspaper, and spoon-feeds cereal into his half-open mouth. He hides his forearms under the paper to cover up his goose bumps. Mom, in her unraveling, tacky, autumn sweater stops short, pausing to stare out the window. Her shoulders run perpendicular to her husband. The face on her cheeks is pulled tight enough to blend in with the October clouds and fog. She’s cold enough to melt into the glass and fade into the sky.
Nobody notices that breakfast was already on the table.
“Nice weather we’re having,” Dad lies.
I place my hand on the small of Abby’s back and shuffle her into a chair. She’s only ten, but she knows be
fabled lifei.fabled life3 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
she talks through her wrinkles,
'i have no desire for food', she says.
i take her plate to the kitchen
noticing how the beetroot shavings bled into the skin of the chicken and brown rice.
it was blood, skin, and bone,
and the rice was a million starlike cells floating between.
this reminds me of my anatomy textbook:
we've been learning what's beneath our skin,
we learned that all cells divide. some cells often don't stop dividing.
other cells divide and stop when they should...
but not my grandmother's.
starlike, they explode, they shatter, they consume
i want to be mad at my grandmother's cells,
but what would that do?
i want to talk to my grandmother's cells,
i want to tell them they can be alive
and not kill her.
i have to catch the moon,
i have to visit hades and bargain with beautiful music,
i have to sell my voice for legs,
i have to sail the ocean blue in search of a good reason why cancer can't just be what it is.
this is not a fabled life
The Gods Are Fishingi.The Gods Are Fishing4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Stray satellites catch
hearts in nets designed for souls;
the gods are fishing.
is life's purpose,
She says. We are damned.
of the children? I muse,
They giggle - full with purpose.
are most lost of all, toys
of the gods. Toys, She insists.
grow from grins
to smiles constrained
with dreams into futures
of lists and week-to-weeks.
grope in the dark
for meaning; sustenance
found only in others --
adults play pretend:
donning shirts and ties.
They keep the keys.
Meaning is found in
musings of gods; promise in
Midnight Thought ProcessPerhaps the trees live so long because they have no idea how long they've been around.Midnight Thought Process1 year ago in Philosophical More Like This
I stood with my wine glass and cigarette staring into the night as I heard the sound of fireworks, I wondered if the giant tree before me knew it was new years. There is nothing different from 11:59 to 12:00 yet we feel like it's a world away, because we judge many things in time, and we keep track of time in years.
I sat hugging a pillow, watching a 4 month old baby sleeping during his dream-feed and I wondered if the baby knew it was a boy. There is nothing different from a boy baby and a girl baby yet we feel like we have to define them because we judge others in life, and we keep track of others by categorisation.
Perhaps we should forget what year it is, and what we are…and just be.
© Rocio Belinda Mendez
eloge [la jeunesse d'une cousine]1.eloge [la jeunesse d'une cousine]4 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
i was nine and you'd just
taken a third year when our
grandfather taught you how to box
on the overwaxed hardwood in his
kitchen; i was reading you some book
about a purple lizard; he put his teeth
on the table, crouched
and said: "hit me
on the mouth"
[you would have cracked his teeth if
they weren't removed, you were
a loaf of heavy bread made with
too much shortening and not enough restraint]
laughing you punched him again—
in the gut this time—but
after he chastised your form
you spent the balance of the month of august
practicing instead on my arms
you came of age in a trailer park
full of nostalgia for the 1970s and i
grew up in a yellow house
in the middle of a gothic suburbia:
neither would serve us
long, we said.
you had an enviable stoicness and i had
gutrot the day of our grandfather's interment:
you gave me tissues, told me
we would go on enduring, asked me
for a cigarette and then
spent twenty minutes vomiting on the carpet
of my car between puffs
HateI really hate the way she lies. She says she’ll listen, but she won’t. She promises she’ll be there, but she isn’t. She tells me it wasn’t her, but it was. I don’t hate her you know. I just hate everything she is, everything she does. Her smug smile. Her mud brown hair. Her green eyes with a drop of evil. The way she knows how to hurt me. The way she can make me cry. The way she likes it. She knows me too well. She knows how to hurt me. Knowledge is power and power corrupts. She’s the most corrupt person I know.Hate3 months ago in Emotional More Like This
But I can’t hate her; not entirely. After all, hating yourself isn’t healthy.