Short Stories

Before you get to the story, I should let you know that this story is about 99% true. It's also the only story I ever wrote that made me break down and cry when I edited it. In fact, it's the only story that has made me cry. Period.

Out of any story I've ever written, this story means the most to me, which is why I decided to feature it first on this lens. I wrote it as a tribute to my Nan, who was one of the greatest ladies I've ever met. She was strong, intelligent and I loved her very much.

I sincerely hope you enjoy this story.

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The small brick, wartime house, on the quiet suburban street with an addition built onto the back always brought back fond memories for me.

Memories of water fights fought under the old maple tree that still stood proudly in the front yard. Of the numerous afternoons spent playing road hockey in the street with the neighbor's kids, or quietly learning how to pick rhubarb, while my Nan gave me sound advice.

Whenever I found myself walking up her front steps, the memories would always flood my mind, bringing a smile to my face.

My Nan was no longer able to garden, or even get out of bed. In fact, she could barely string together three sentences without coughing up phlegm.

"Hi, Nan, it's Mike!" I would yell, upon entering the house. Since Nan couldn't get out of bed to see who had come calling, I only thought it polite.

From around the corner would come her reply, beckoning me into the bedroom where she lay. Often she would have a pile of yarn in her lap, a crossword puzzle, or a dog-eared book, and she always had a smile for me.

However, that smile couldn't cover up the fact that her body was crumbling around her. Tired, watery eyes and a body, which looked like it was made of sharp angles of bone with no flesh, were always the first things I noticed.

My Nan had suffered from Emphysema for about twenty-five years, and it showed. She was also diagnosed with angina, chronic bronchitis, osteoporosis, cracked disks in her back and a hiatus hernia.

Yet, despite this, she still somehow retained her sense of dignity and purpose. Although watery, her gaze was still keen, and full of wisdom.

A pile of yarn and some knitting needles lay in her lap, as I walked over, smiled and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

"Whatcha working on, Nan?"

I made my way across the room, spreading open the curtains, which hung by her bed to let in the thin autumn sunlight.

"Oh, you know, just some hats and mitts for the Salvation Army. I might be old, but I still have my uses."

I nodded my head, and took a seat in the armchair, which always sat like a silent sentinel by her bed.

"So, what's new?"

I proceeded to tell her, leaving nothing out. It was never wise to leave out details, or try to hoodwink my Nan. Her mind was still as sharp as ever, and while her body was emaciated, her tongue could be as rough as sandpaper, if she had a mind too.

During our conversations, she'd ask polite questions, and watch with a gleam in her eye as I answered them. She'd once told me I was the worst liar ever.

"Mike, you have no business lying. You're terrible at it, and your eyes tell everything," she'd said while shaking her head and doing her best to look stern. "Now wipe that stupid grin off your face."

But although I couldn't lie worth a spit, I knew the grin was my secret weapon. My Nan would always tell me to wipe it off my face, but deep down, I knew she adored it.

On this particular day, as I was thinking about leaving, she decided to tell me something that shook my world.

Folding her hands in her lap, she regarded me with sad eyes. "This is going to be my last year. I'm going to make Christmas, but after that, I think I'm done with this world," she said, her gaze steady on mine. "I've seen everything I want to. I saw your cousin go to College, and I was lucky enough to see my great-granddaughter born. My hands shake so badly that I can barely knit now-a-days, and I'm tired."

I sat there unable to speak, my mouth opening and closing like a guppy out of water. The ever-present air conditioner-Nan couldn't breathe unless the air was just right-hummed in the background, adding a backdrop for my racing thoughts.

I wanted to tell her not to give up. Although she'd been lying in the same bed for the last seven years, I'd never seen her look so vulnerable.

Although sad, her eyes were determined. Her hands were clenching and unclenching on the coverlet, as if she were nervous and unsure of herself.

Then I realized she was worried about my reaction. Although she was talking about her own death, she was more worried about my feelings than she was hers.

I looked down at my hands, more to break eye contact than anything, and noticed they were wrapped so tightly around the chair arms they were turning white.

My mind raced, picking up and then discarding things to say. I relaxed my hands, and felt them tingle slightly as the blood returned.

Then, like a hammer to the forehead, another realization hit me; Nan wasn't admitting defeat--she was saying goodbye, in her own way.

The same woman who lay here, day after day, knitting hats, mitts and scarves for needy children as a means to go on living, and who fought a war against death, more valiantly than the most courageous knight ever had, was saying goodbye to her grandson.

Tears pricked the corners of my eyes, and silently I got up and hugged her. It was the only thing I could do at the time.

I hugged her fiercely to my chest, careful not to hug too hard, not knowing if I'd be able to hug her again.

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Just before Christmas, my Dad called me, and told me Nan was in the hospital, and wasn't going to make it. She had been hooked up to life support systems, but the doctor said there was no chance of survival.

Without the machines, Nan had less than three hours to live.

"As per her wishes, I've ordered that she be taken off life support," my Dad said, his voice cracking with doubt, and probably a little bit of guilt, with a boatload of sadness thrown in for good measure. "There's no reason to come down to the hospital. She'll probably be gone before you could get here. I'll call you."

When she's gone, my mind added silently.

I could hear my Dad struggling with his grief, and knew it had cost him a great deal of pain to make this phone call.

I put the phone back on the receiver and waited.

The doctors unhooked the machines and watched as her blood pressure dropped steadily, and her vital signs faded.

I can picture my mom, surrounded by linoleum and the smell of antiseptic, holding my father as if she could shield him from the pain with her body.

But Nan had other plans. With death knocking on the door, and with no hope of recovery, she woke up. She didn't just wake up, but sat bolt upright in the sad aluminum affair that was supposed to be her death bed, and said: "It's not Christmas yet!"

Nan made it to Christmas, just like she'd promised me that sad autumn day. She not only made it to Christmas, but also almost made it to Christmas the following year.

Nan died October 15, 2000, at 4am.

I'll always remember my Nan's silent courage, and her funny, wisdom filled anecdotes. Her strength, intelligence, wisdom and spirit live on in my memory.

Sometimes, when a big decision of life altering proportions confronts me, I find myself wondering what my Nan would do.

In fact, sometimes I hear her voice in my head at such times, counseling me in soothing, conciliatory tones, as if she were still here with me, sitting in her bed, and listening to the small problems of my life.

In a way, I suppose she still is here with me. She lives on in my heart.

This story weighs in at a mere 259 words. I wrote it for a flash fiction contest.

While it was never published, I still enjoy it. There is something sexy about it, I think. I'm not really sure why I find it alluring, but I do.

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Danielle shivers with pleasure, as the stranger's hands trace ice down the gentle curve of her back. Each kiss that he plants on her torso ignites small fiery explosions that radiate heat long after he has moved on to another location. She hears herself moan softly in anticipation, and her breath comes in short gasps. She closes her eyes, savouring the feel of his long silky hair trailing spider like, down her chest and arms--and further still--down to her taut stomach. His tongue licks out, and caresses her feverish flesh, and he breathes in the delicate Jasmine scent of her, while her back arches to meet him.

When he ascends to eye level once more, she opens her eyes, and looks into his. They are like twin pools of swirling molten darkness, and she finds herself falling into them.

When he descends again, she doesn't notice the man's lips peel back, exposing too many sharp white teeth. She barely feels those teeth sink into the vulnerable flesh at her throat, and begin to feed off of her life blood.

He takes his time, relishing the warmth, and tangy richness of her blood. When she finally realizes the danger, it's already too late. Her arms beat feebly on the man's chest, and it reminds him of the last decrepit twitching of a dying bird's wings, just before it succumbs to death.

Within moments, he feels Danielle's heart tremble, and grow still. He raises his head reluctantly from the corpse's throat, and gently closes its eyes.

When I was eleven my uncle Mike was the most splendid person I knew. His infectious smile could win over even the most cynical of people, and his easy going manner coupled with his sense of humor were legendary throughout our family.

Uncle Mike was a big man. To a boy of eleven he seemed like a goliath. He stood a little over six feet tall, and weighed well over two hundred pounds, not all of which was fat. His hair was often mussed but his goatee was always neatly trimmed.

He had a habit of showing up at the most inopportune times. His favorite time to show up was when we were eating supper. Uncle Mike would stomp through the house, never taking his work boots off, tracking dirt throughout the hallway. My mother always frowned fiercely when she heard those boots coming towards the dining room. My father would just place a hand in front of his face to hide his smile.

His head would peek around the corner wearing his habitual sloppy grin. "So, what's for supper?" he would ask. Then he would reach around the corner and dim the lights. I don't know why he did this, but I suspect it was to annoy my mother.

"Supper? Go home to your wife and children you fool, maybe you'll find some supper there." My mother would say.

"Ah, but her supper can't compare with yours."

Striding into the room, he would pull out a chair and rest his considerable bulk while eyeing my mother in expectation. She always made a show of storming into the kitchen, but always came out with a plate of food for Uncle Mike. He always took the time to ask me how my day at school had gone, and when we had finished dinner he would leave. While he was there--at the house I mean--the place always seemed brighter and my mother happier.

Uncle Mike would come over during the holidays with his wife Mary, and his two children Chris and Annette. Chris was ten and Annette seven, so it was up to me to entertain them. Not that I minded in the least. Chris was quick of wit like his father and we had great fun playing catch in the back yard or dinky toys in my room. Annette would tag along and complain, but we didn't mind much.

I never liked Uncle Mike's wife much though. Mary was thin, almost emaciated, with a pinched face and calculating look. I always thought she was a bit jealous of my mom's relationship with my uncle Mike too, but could never be sure. She would sit quietly in the background, never talking much except to tell Uncle Mike to "grow up," or "to act his age." Mike would just smile and nod, ignoring her for the most part.

Sometimes when Uncle Mike popped over for a visit by himself, he would come out and play catch with me in the back yard. I remember one time in particular, he came outside with a mitt on his hand, but his face looked troubled. Not at all like the Uncle Mike that I knew. He was quiet and threw the ball as if it were a chore. No, that's not quite right; it was more like he wasn't really there playing catch with me, but in his own little world. For a while we just threw back and forth, our mitts slapping each time the ball struck. I broke the silence with a question I have always wondered about.

"How come mom always puts up such a fuss when you come over for supper, but she still gets it for you Uncle Mike?"

He seemed to come back to himself, and he grinned at me and chuckled "Your mom acts tough, but deep down inside she's a softy. Your dad doesn't know it, or if he does, he doesn't take advantage of it. You see Bobby, sometimes people wear fake faces around people, but inside they are somebody else altogether."

Before I could think it through any further, Uncle Mike took his glove off, ruffled my hair on the way back to the house and disappeared.

I stood in the yard a while longer, staring into space and thinking about what uncle Mike had just said, but in the end I didn't really understand what he meant. To a kid of eleven who's only real dream was to play ball for the Yankees, it was all just more adult rubbish.

After that visit, Uncle Mike didn't come over for some time. I chalked it up to being an adult. They were always running around, cleaning, working and making kids lives a total hell. I don't know how many times my mother made me clean my room when it was perfectly fine the way it was. Why do you have to make your bed when you're just going to sleep in it in a few hours anyways?

However, I did notice that my mother was often upset. I tried to stay clear of her. If I did the least thing wrong, she was all over me. My father seemed to avoid her a bit more than usual too. He still tried to talk to her, and sometimes I would catch him mumbling to my mom in the kitchen. If I tried to listen in, I would receive such a fierce look from my parents that I soon thought better of my spying.

Other than that life went on as usual. I still dreamed of being a Yankee, tossed pop-ups in the backyard to myself and kept my grades up at school the best I could. I missed my Uncle Mikes visits a bit, but as a kid in the seventies, we learned quickly that not everything is roses and perfume.

One afternoon I was doing my homework at my desk. It was math, my least favorite subject of all. Sunlight was slanting into my bedroom window and I could hear the other kids in the neighborhood playing and laughing. At the time, their fun seemed like they were mocking me. The numbers on my page seemed to blur together, and I finally decided it was time for a break.

I'd learned years ago that if my parents caught me napping or taking a break when I was supposed to be doing my homework, a good spanking was likely to be coming my way, so the safest bet was to get a drink or do some other small chore that I could explain away with ease. I decided on the drink. Maybe when I came back the numbers would make more sense.

I made my way down the hallway and just as I was going to step foot on the stairs I heard my mothers voice. For once they were speaking loud enough that I could just make out what they were saying if I put my ear between the slats of the banister. With the scent of Murphy's Oil tickling my nose I listened with great interest. My mother had an affinity for the stuff. Every wooden surface in our house had Murphy's oil on it and was buffed to a high gloss, including the banister I now had my head pushed up against.

"Are you sure there's nothing we can do for him?" my mother asked.

"He's a grown man Phyllis, by sticking your nose in you'll likely make it worse."

"He may be a grown man, but he's still my brother. She's taken the kids from him for Christ's sake. He can't even visit them because she's so far away, and when he has gone up there, she takes off before he reaches the house and makes up some stupid reason why she had to leave."

I could hear the futility in my mother's voice and knew it was only a matter of time until she exploded. My father must have sensed this hidden truth the same way I just had, because his voice took on a placating tone.

"How about this, why don't we invite him out for dinner? We can make it a family day. Hell, even I can see that Bobby misses his uncle, and if he wants to open up to us, then he can do it over dinner. If he doesn't, then we can back away and let him come to us when he's ready."

My mother seemed to contemplate the idea. She must not have been totally happy with this plan. Her brother was in trouble, and she desperately wanted to help, but she must have realized that my father was offering a compromise. I could almost hear my mother's thoughts. She would agree to the plan, and then get my Uncle Mike alone and badger him until he agreed to let her help.

It was at this crucial period that my nose betrayed me. I was listening so intently that I failed to notice that I was in grave danger of sneezing. It wasn't until the betrayal was complete, that I realized what I'd done.

I jumped to my feet as quietly as possible and booked it into my room. I knew I was finished. I could already hear the chairs scraping along the linoleum tiles of our kitchen floor. It was the sound of my doom. I just hoped that it was my dad who came for me. Usually I hoped it was my mother, but in her present mood she might just decide to take her frustration out on a spying, sneaky little thief like myself.
I sat at my desk and pretended to be hard at work. When I heard my father's voice behind me, I knew the jig was up. It was a small mercy that it was my father. I tried later to convince my ass of the fact.

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The dinner was scheduled for Saturday, two days after my attempt at stealth. My butt was still tingling from the punishment my dad had heaped upon it. Sitting was terribly uncomfortable.

The only good thing to come of it was that my dad confessed to what was happening to my Uncle Mike. He had no real choice. I'd told him what I'd heard and he hadn't wanted me going around with a half baked explanation.

He'd told me that Mary had left Uncle Mike and taken the kids with her. Apparently she lived a few hours drive away from us now, still within Ontario, because to do otherwise would have been against the law, but far enough away that Uncle Mike would have a hard time visiting.

I had a million questions I wanted to ask him, such as why she had left in the first place, but I knew I wouldn't get any sort of answer and I was likely to make my upcoming spanking worse by asking. I kept my mouth shut, nodded in all the right places and then waited for the punishment.

Around four o'clock we all piled into the old station wagon and made our way downtown to a restaurant that sported pool tables. I'd seen the place on one of our few visits to Uncle Mikes place, but had never been inside. Going to dinner wasn't a regular occurrence at our house. We ate at home and my mother wouldn't hear of spending money on such a frivolous expenditure as dinner.

The place was called "Andy's" and from the moment I stepped inside I was happy to be there. The place was dark, almost eerily so, except for where the pool tables, lit from above, seemed to hover in their own little spotlight. The bar was polished to a sheen, and the man behind it had a large scar that ran from the top of his nose and disappeared behind his shaggy beard.

My Uncle Mike was sitting at the bar and sipping from a glass of some unknown drink. I guessed it was alcohol, but couldn't be sure. His clothes were rumpled and he had a beard much like the one that the bartender had. His eyes were shadowed, but he acknowledged my mother with a nod of his head.

Although my Uncle Mikes appearance worried me, it didn't worry me enough to take away the pleasure of being in this unknown realm. I could barely take my eyes off the pool table, its green felt beckoned to me.

My father must have noticed because he took my hand in his rough ones and guided me toward one of the tables. He extracted some coins from his pocket and shoved them into the table. I heard the clacking of balls from within, and he gave me a gentle smile.

My mother gravitated towards my Uncle Mike, and soon they were forgotten while my father showed me how to play pool. He stood behind me and showed me how to balance the stick between my thumb and index finger, and tried to impart upon me the basics of trajectory and the force needed to sink one of the colored balls into one of the many holes dotting the table.

I don't know how many games we played. It didn't really matter. I felt exuberant that I was spending some quality time with my father, and I even won a game or two. I think my dad let me win, but I didn't care. I wanted to be a master of this game and I hoped we could play forever.

It wasn't to be.

"Craig, I'm worried," my mother said just as I managed to sink the red ball. "Mike's been gone a half hour already."

"Did he go home?"

"He forgot his wallet at home, said he would be back in five minutes."

"Okay, you stay here and watch the boy; I'll go down and check on him," my father answered.

I looked up in alarm. My father was leaving and I desperately wanted to go. I didn't want this day to end. Most of all, I wanted to spend more time with my father.

"Can I go?" I asked.

"It's only a couple of blocks down the road. You can stay here with your mother; I'll be back in a few%u2026"

"Please," I pleaded.

My father gave me an exasperated look, but he relented. That was the important thing. A few minutes later we were leaving "Andy's" and walking towards Uncle Mike's house. I'd managed to convince my father that driving was a waste of gasoline, and thus cajole a few minutes longer with him by walking instead of driving.

We walked in silence, listening to the whir of the local traffic go by, and enjoying each others company. My father was never a vocal man. He liked to say he was a man of action, not a man of talk. Sometimes I wished he was more of a man of talk.

When we reached Uncle Mike's house we were both surprised to notice his car in the driveway still running. The front door was half open and I immediately felt a chill course down my spine. I looked at my father and saw the same surprised look that must have adorned my own face.

"Stay here. I'm going to check this out. I'll be right back." My father said before he disappeared within the house.

I waited a few moments, but my curiosity was piqued. Why would Uncle Mike leave the car running and the front door ajar? Before I knew it I was entering the house despite my fathers command.

I moved through the living room as quietly as possible. Nothing seemed to be out of place, except the fact that there were several beer bottles littering the coffee table. The house was silent, my fear forgotten. I expected my Uncle Mike or my father to suddenly appear around one of the corners and ask me what I was doing. That never happened either.

I made my way into the kitchen, and when that yielded no clues as to what was happening, or where my father and Uncle Mike had disappeared too, I turned my gaze towards the doorway that lead to the basement.

I knew that was the only place left that made any sense. They couldn't be anywhere else. I briefly considered turning tail and running back outside before my father saw me, but I couldn't. My curiosity was like a disease eating up my good sense. I knew that by opening that door and going downstairs, I would be sealing my fate. I guess I would just have to take my lickings. This secret was too juicy to turn away from.

I opened the door, glad that it didn't squeak and carefully made my way down the stairs until I could just see the basement laid out between the ceiling and the steps. My father's broad back was turned to me, and just a few feet away was my Uncle Mike.

He was lying on his pool table, one arm outstretched and the other dangling towards the floor. His eyes were rolled up so that the whites were the only thing showing and the side of his head that I could see had a neat black hole near the temple. By his outstretched hand was a rifle. Blood and white fragments littered the far wall and pool table like some macabre work of art.



My father just stood there. His hands trembled at his sides and I wanted to run to him and be engulfed in his warm embrace, where it was safe. I wanted to bury my face into his broad chest and forget the image of my Uncle Mike lying on the pool table with a black hole in his temple like a third eye.

Instead I screamed.

My father turned towards me and his face held a sorrow I'd never seen before. Tears streaked his face and suddenly he was holding me. He picked me up and carried me upstairs, kicking the door closed behind him as if that could somehow mask the atrocity below.

Still clutching me to his chest, he picked up the phone and dialed 9-1-1. I could hear his words rumble through his chest and into the receiver, but I didn't care what he was saying. I just wanted to go home.

Somehow Uncle Mike lived. I don't know how, and I don't think my parents or doctors knew how either. My dad told me that he used a .22 caliber rifle. He said that it wasn't a very powerful gun and that might be part of the reason why he lived. It might not have been the most powerful type of gun out there, but it was plenty powerful enough to put a hole in his skull I thought.

For weeks he laid in the hospital clinging to life. So many machines were hooked up to him that he no longer resembled my Uncle Mike. Instead he looked like a man undergoing an alien abduction. His power was gone. The smile that always seemed to light up a room was gone. He even seemed to shrink as the weeks wore on and finally the machines were removed.

The bullet had missed all of the essential parts of his brain. A miracle the doctors pronounced, but I didn't think it was much of a miracle. My parents informed me that he was a vegetable. He could still breathe on his own and his heart still beat independently, but he was a shell of a man; unable to do even the most basic of tasks.

His eyes were always open, staring sightlessly up at the ceiling. Sometimes while my parents and I sat vigil at his bedside a thin stream of drool would run down his chin. My mother would always wipe it off tenderly with a small cloth she brought just for this reason.

My dad and I would sometimes watch helplessly while my mother broke down and cried. She would always cry in dry ragged sobs that I'd never heard another human being make before. I always wanted to comfort my mother at such times, but was unable to do it. She seemed so fragile and lost. My father would sometimes reach toward her and try to comfort her, but if there was any change in her crying, I never heard it.

One time, after about a month of being unhooked from the grisly machines my mother held up a picture of his kids (with Mary carefully removed) and a strange thing happened. He started to cry. Tears just ran out of the corners of his eyes staining the pillow. My mother dropped the picture and ran from the room. She didn't return for several days.

She had wanted to elicit some kind of a reaction. The doctors were unsure of how much my Uncle Mike could understand. Some of them were sure that he wasn't aware of anything around him, while others said he may retain some type of consciousness. I often prayed for the latter. To be locked in ones own body was the greatest hell I could imagine.

I guess my mother answered her own question. I'm sure she wishes now the she hadn't. It was easier believing he knew nothing.

Mary was informed of what had happened. To the best of my knowledge she never came to visit. Neither did Annette or Chris.

As for me, I suffered nightly from nightmares. They were always the same except for one small detail. In them Uncle Mike was lying on his pool table, hand still outstretched, and eyes still rolled up into their sockets. I always wanted to run, but was unable no matter how much I willed my dream self to do so.

Then the arm that had dangled from the pool table would rise and he would point at me. I never knew why. Sometimes I would sense another presence in the room with us. I never saw them, but somehow I knew they were there.

It was always at this point that I would wake, sour sweat drenching my body and a scream trapped in my throat.

I never told my parents about these dreams. I figured they were my personal punishment for not minding my own business. I should have obeyed my father and stayed outside.

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It was about three months after Uncle Mike had been unhooked from the machines. My father packed us into the car and we made our way down to the hospital. I always hated the smell of the place. The smell of disinfectant that barely hid the stench of death that lurked behind it was always present.

Once again I found myself in front of my Uncle Mike's lifeless body. My mother took the seat that always rested at the side of the bed and my father stood in the corner. He looked as if he wanted to disappear into that corner.

It wasn't long before my mother broke down once more. Again I felt helpless and my father eventually took her by the arm and guided her out of the room. As he passed me,he said: "Stay here and watch over your Uncle Mike. I'll only be a few minutes," and then he closed the door behind him and was gone.

I found myself alone with my Uncle Mike for the first time since the tragedy. I could barely force myself to look at him. But slowly I made myself sit in my mothers chair and take a very close look at him.

He had lost a great deal of weight by this time, his normally hard frame withered until it looked to me as if his skin was just a sac to hold the bones in, and it wasn't doing a very good job of it. His cheek bones were pressed against the skin and his eyes held%u2026nothing.

I sat staring for some time at the man who had been my idol, and I once again relived my nightmare. In my minds eye, I once again saw his hand rise from beside the pool table and silently point at me. I knew what I had to do.

With tears blurring my vision, I gently removed the pillow from behind my Uncle Mike's head. I stood with it pressed against my midsection and silently prayed to God to give me the strength I needed.

I closed my eyes and let the darkness envelope me. Slowly I pressed the pillow down over my Uncle Mike's face and said my final goodbye.

* * *

It's been almost thirty years since I took my Uncle Mike's life. Nobody knows what I did in that hospital room so long ago. Just like nobody truly knows what happened to my Uncle Mike in the basement of his own house.

The gun had belonged to Uncle Mike, but if he was going to take his own life, why would he leave the car running and the door ajar? Had he been so desperate to kill himself? The police ruled it an act of suicide, but my mother always believed it was Mary. She thought Mary had hired a killer, and he had taken my Uncle Mike's gun and laid in wait for him until he came home.

In the seventies there wasn't the forensic analysis there is today. There were no CSI detectives ready to solve the case. Chris and Annette could have reopened the investigation today, and maybe the police would be able to find some hidden DNA link or something that could solve the case. However, they had no wish to do so, and in some ways I think that's for the best.

I still live with what I did. Some days it's harder than others, but I get by. I hope my Uncle Mike is at peace. Sometimes when I eat dinner by myself in the dining room, the lights will flicker and dim for no apparent reason. I smile to myself when this happens and always think of my Uncle Mike.

The next piece you're about to read wasn't written with serious intent. I actually wrote it as a joke with my son, who at the time, refused to wear underwear. So, one night, we sat down and made up this rhyme for fun.

It actually worked!

He stopped going Cammando after that. :)

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Sometimes I swear
When I can't find my underwear
Where, oh where
Is my underwear?

I wear them backwards
And forwards
And sometimes not at all
But I always wear them in the fall

Sometimes I don't wash my underwear
Because of a friends dare
Or because I don't care
Or because I love when people glare!

I wrote this poem when I was going through a tough time in my life. I had broken up with my girlfriend, and I wasn't feeling all that good about myself. However, I do enjoy this poem today. It's actually one of my favorites.

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Laughter is a mask
That hides our true feelings in glass
It seems to shimmer and eddy with delight
But is delicate and can shatter at night

When the dread hands of darkness approach
We wrap ourselves tightly in doubt
And pray for the fear to disappear
But it's the evil inside us we fear