Creative Writing

Love Each Other | A Poem

we take our losses in stride

can’t win every time

after all we know what it’s like

to be the underdog

with nothing to lose

but a lot to prove

there’s nothing we can’t do

because our love for each other

is all that matters


Why Blogging Is Better Than Dating

I may be single, but I’m in a serious relationship with my blog.

You call the shots. Do what you want, wherever you want? Don’t have to wait for anyone or anything? Free reign over any and every decision? Sign me up.

You can take breaks. If you’re busy, you can put blogging on hold. Mow imagine telling that a boyfriend or girlfriend you want to put your relationship on hold.

You make your own happiness. Never rely on someone to make you happy. Why would you when there’s an always reliable blog in your life.

Your blog will always be there for you. Unlike human beings who are too busy living their own lives. Their loss.

You confront a blank page, not a real person. It’s the best and worst thing about being a blogger. There will always be a brand new post waiting for you in the wings.

Blogging is, without a doubt, better than dating.

Creative Writing

Forces | A Poem

I don’t need a reason

They want us to explain

Question our definition

I’ll never be the same

You came in

Changed everything

It doesn’t matter

What strangers say

If people knew better

They’d understand

We win together

Still everyone thinks

Nothing lasts forever

But they haven’t seen

The force of you and me

Creative Writing

Make It Through | A Poem

Where’s the boy

Who told me

What was on his mind

Talked for hours every day

Shed tears during the night

Had nothing to hide

And a friend for life

Yet you substituted

One for someone

Bit what will you have

When that someone becomes no one

When the former still hasn’t forgotten

You think you’ve found happiness

So enjoy what you have

While you still have this

I hope you make it through

I want you to love her

Like you loved me

When we were a team

Personal Reflection

Burning And Building Bridges In Life

For once, I’m not going to write about writing or blog about blogging. Instead I want to talk about building and burning bridges.

My strength lies in burning bridges. I’ve done it often. I’ve done it well. For one reason or another, I walked away from a lot of relationships.

I like to think burning some bridges was for the better. I’m happy where I am right now. But sometimes I think about all the people I’ve cut and just how different my life would be if I didn’t.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not an angel or a saint. I’ve messed up, made messes I’ve never cleaned up.

When I was younger, I burnt bridges faster than the average person can blink. I walked away. Often I never looked back.

I’m realizing now I didn’t always give people the benefit of the doubt. I rarely cut others any slack. But I expected people to do so for me. Herminia is a hypocrite.

I believe everything in life happens for a reason. That some individuals come into your life for a normal season or maybe a baseball one (about six months). Other people teach you a lesson about life or love. Maybe even both.

Moving forward, I hope I don’t burn too many bridges over my ego, which is too fragile to take a joke. If you’re wondering, yes, I burned a perfectly great bridge over bad jokes.

I know what it’s like to cross bridges again after burning and rebuilding them.  But unfortunately, it’s not the same. It’s never the same.

Perhaps you don’t have to light a match or the whole box to watch a bridge burn. Maybe you’re better off walking away and building a different one so you can cross it instead.

At least when one bridge burns, another gets built. Right?

Anyway, I hope something I’ve said makes sense. Feel free to disagree with me. I’m not even sure how I feel about bridges right now. Can you blame me? I’m in this awkward transitional phase in my life where I don’t know anything, and I’m just pretending. I am a fake, a fraud.

Now you know.

Please don’t burn our bridge.

Creative Writing

Where Are You? | A Short Story

When her aunt didn’t come home from work, Vince began to worry.

She got off at six. Her commute took an hour, give or take depending on road conditions.

So at seven-thirty, he felt his heart beat just a little faster. Felt his palms produce a little more moisture.

Surely she would have called or contacted him by now. His aunt expected the same from him. If he was ever running late and he was expected to be somewhere at some time, he had to call. No matter what.

His mother and father passed away when he was still young. His mom died after giving birth to him. His father held out for almost a decade but losing her took a toll on his health. Physical, mental, emotional. Vince didn’t blame his dad for anything.

That’s why he came to live with his aunt, his mother’s sister.

He loved her. The thought of something happening to her was almost too much to bear.

Right before eight o’clock, Vince heard a noise from outside.

His heart rate sped up. He took shallow breaths.

Someone knocked at the door.

The thought of his aunt having a key to the house didn’t cross his mind at that second. He just needed her to be on the other side of the door.

But she wasn’t.

A man in his early fifties stood on the doorstep.

Vince furrowed his brow.

But the older man opened his mouth and started talking before Vince could say anything.

“She didn’t come into work today.”

He felt his world split open.

Creative Writing

Forever | A Short Story

“You like Philip, don’t you?” Lisa said, raising her eyebrows at Emily. 

“No, I don’t.”

“That’s what they all say.”

Emily fingered the heart-shaped charm on her necklace. “I really don’t.”

“You can lie to me all you want.” Lisa’s eyes widened as did her smile. “Just admit it.”

“I don’t have to admit something that isn’t true.” 

Lisa pointed at Emily. “You always touch your necklace.”

Emily didn’t say anything to this.

“You never take it off.”

Still, Emily stayed silent.

“I swear you’ve worn that necklace since…forever.” Lisa’s lips were no longer curled upwards but instead set in a straight line. “What gives? There’s no way Philip gave that to you—”

“He’s dead,” Emily said. Her voice was barely above a whisper.

“What?” Her friend’s jaw dropped.

Emily shut her eyes. “The guy who gave me this necklace is dead, Lisa.”

“But how is that even possible? How did I…” Her thought trailed off because she didn’t want to complete it.

“Anything’s possible. You say that all the time.” Emily shrugged. 

Creative Writing

Lost Time | A Short Story

He knocked on her door, hoping Bella still lived here. Seven, nearly eight years have passed. He wouldn’t be surprised if she had moved. Her house looked the same to him. The reddish brown roof shingles. The empty flower bed near the front of the house, underneath a window. The cracked driveway with its fading gray paint job.

Seconds later he heard footsteps coming from inside the house.

The door opened. He hadn’t expected to see her, but she expected him even less.

“Grant?” She covered her mouth with a hand. “What are you…”

Her expression changed from surprise to confusion. He wondered if someone could hold a grudge for eight years.

Bella opened the door wider. “Come in.”

He did, removing his shoes slower than normal, first untying his shoelaces before slipping them off.

“Eight years.”

His head shot up. She wasn’t looking at him.


Her shoulders rose as she took a breath. “What are you doing here?”

“I ask myself the same thing,” Grant said in a low voice. 

“Why did you come back?”

“For you.” He glanced at her, but she didn’t meet his gaze. “I came back for you.”

She crossed her arms behind her, staring at the ground. “Don’t.”

“I did.” Grant made a move towards her, which made her back away.

“I think you should go.” Bella sidestepped around him and gripped the doorknob with one hand.

“Don’t you want to hear what I have to say?”

“After all this time? After eight years? No, not really.”

Her face changed. Her eyes narrowed, her eyebrows furrowed.

He placed a hand against the door. “Don’t you want to hear an explanation?”

“I lived eight years without one. I’m sure I can live another eight.” The door wouldn’t budge even though she had the knob turned and was pulling as hard as she could.

Grant put more of his weight on his front leg, leaning into the doorframe. “Can you listen?”

“I don’t want to.”

“This has been eating at me for eight years.”

Bella exhaled, moving away from the door. “Then it can keep eating at you for eighty more.”

“You let me in.”

“Now I want you to leave.”

“That means you wanted to know. You wanted an explanation.” His voice cracked on the last word.

She tossed her head back, faked a laugh. “That doesn’t mean anything. Get out.”

“What about the four years we were together?”

Her eyes closed. “Four years isn’t exactly eight, is it?”

“No, it isn’t.” A pause. “What do I have to do?”

“Nothing. You can leave and—”

“I went to jail.”