Tears and Anger


I can’t. I won’t go in there. Not with them. Not in there. Not ever again. There is suppose to be people in every child’s life that take care of them. A mother and a father. Two separate beings whose love of their child transcends everything. They will cross heaven and earth for their child. For their child they will do everything to provide for the happiness of their offspring.eyes

I was born with a sense of destiny. I know what I want and what I need. Give me that one thing then I will be the nice and respectable young woman you want. What I don’t want is to tell my business to another social worker,counselor or PH.D. jerk.

They couldn’t satisfy the volcano inside of me. My English teacher might be proud of me for that metaphor. Maybe I could write a poem about my internal rage volcano and get some extra credit. Then I would have to admit that I understand some poetry. Not that boring shit that she reads to us, but other stuff. My secret stuff and yes I know that I am suppose to read along with her, but I don’t feel like it.

Just like I don’t have time to sit here and listen to everyone judging me, including my English teacher who now knows more of my business than she should. Everyone who thinks they know more about me then I do. They can’t. I am not angry because I have daddy issues or think I am always right.  I am angry at how unfair life is. Angry at the lies that have been sold to me.

It doesn’t come from my mother who isn’t so much angry as she is insane. That isn’t a hyperbole. She really is crazy. It runs in the family. Five generations of schizophrenic fun waiting for some brain doctor to study us and find nothing, because they don’t have any answers. Never have and never will.

Mom is gone. There is only one person who can help me. The man who has been both father and mother to me. The man who isn’t listening to me now as I shout. It isn’t a issue. It isn’t an issue. But if I am crying there is an issue. And I shouldn’t be dismissed. Every time, I am angry I am dismissed told to be grateful for what I have.  All I need to do is finish school, but I am not going to be happy until I have a car, a job and a place of my own. Or I am heard. I am tired of waiting. I don’t want to go to school after this twelve year sentence is over.

Things are switching around in my mind. Every time I am mad. Every time I feel like I am going to explode. They, he, brings up my mother and her family.  Another lie. Another shoveling of the truth off to someone else. The truth is I need to be heard and no one but my daddy should be telling me what to do.

No one, not even his wife . It doesn’t matter that she has taken care of me since I was kid. She isn’t my mother. She isn’t my mother. I have nothing to lose. Nothing.


If you’d like more information on Lucinda’s work subscribe to this blog, follow her o nTwitter or like her page on Facebook.  Her new novella, Blood Child is available onAmazon.

Killing Elsa

Elsa was caught in a nightmare. Everywhere she went they knew her. Called her by name, knew her favorite color and foods, and always they tried to hug her. She hated hugs. Hated all of the attention.  College in England was just what she needed. She needed to go some place where her fame would not be impressive. She thought of going to France, but her accent had always been horrible. There was no desire in her soul to be tormented over an accent when there was so much better material in her film catalog.  She would have been ready to go in just three short weeks. Everything was being handled by her manager. Everett Millstone was making a hefty fee as Elsa Bravo’s manager. His fee was doubled by her parent’s generous bribes.

She cursed her father for years for putting her on that damn show. She was America’s sweetheart for ten years. Ten miserable years for her. Ten years of smiling and sing with her bratty sister. Ten years of her parents lining their pockets and skimming money from their trust fund. It wasn’t enough for them. No matter how many deals they made, it wasn’t enough. Ten years of flying their kids around the world and back had made them rich on paper. The greedy, however, are always hungry.

Elsa was currently cursing her father for putting her in the trunk of his Jag.  She couldn’t fault his reasoning, although it was definitely a cliche, kidnapping and killing your own child to get the insurance money and the money in the trust fund would automatically go to the grieving parents. They had already decided on wearing black for a year after the body had been found. It was difficult for Elsa’s mother not to begin shopping for her mourning wardrobe immediately upon hatching their plan.

They looked incredibly lovely in their newly purchased ensembles in court and were properly horrify at the discovery of her body. Even dead,everyone knew her. And they won’t let it go…

If you’d like more information on Lucinda’s work subscribe to this blog, follow her on Twitter or like her page on Facebook.  Her new novella, Blood Child is available onAmazon.


The Blade…..

I wanted to reach for the blade like I had every night for the last year, but Ronald’s touch stopped me. I couldn’t clasp it with his heart beat pounding so close to me. I wanted to be angry and reach through the ether once again stabbing and slicing Dahila.

From the first moment, I found my hand around the hilt I knew I could strike anyone I wanted.  Anywhere.  So I reached out and sliced her. One thousand and eighty three miles away, she woke up with a panic attack, screaming.  Night after night, just before the darkness dies I would reach out, find it and strike.   It was a stupid and petty thing to do. It was a cruel thing to do, but one that made me smile down to my soul. I could hurt her like she had hurt me. I could make her suffer.

Of course, my crime was intentional and karmic very unhealthy. It was a crime. No delusions or justifications there. One unintentional act that harms another does not merit the damage I caused each time I took up the blade. And yet, I did it again and again.

The knife was a gift from the universe, one of many treasures hidden in the Akashic records. Not everyone can touch it.  Not everyone should touch it. Why I was the recipient of such a blessing, I didn’t know? And I wasn’t questioning it. I liked the blade. Loved the way it moved when I sliced her. It felt good. I woke up happy. Not depressed and full of sorrow.

Then Ronald came to stay and I had a hard time pushing through the ether to touch it. Sometime I would have it in my hand and it would slip away as he moved into cuddle. It is hard to be a revengeful soul when a puppy wants attention.

Ronald, I love you, but tomorrow you are getting a crate.


There are clothes tossed about the floor. My clothes, my floor,my bedroom floor. This isn’t the way things should be. This isn’t how I live or how I have been living for the last three years. Things get picked up and put away. Everything in order. My sleeping chamber a place of peace and tranquility. My haven within a haven.

Now everything is scattered about. Trashed. It isn’t so much the clothes. Although they are annoying, more annoying are the shoes. How is it that shoes never make their way back into my closet. They have homes there. Each and everyone of them a place, a home of its own. Still they are constantly wondering about. Just like the clothes now adorning the floor.

But I just can’t think with the smell you create. It makes me want to flee every time I come home.Into the room, I dash as soon as I get home spaying air freshener and get out of my work clothes. Then I drag  myself back out to the shed and get the machete.

Everyday, I chopped another bit of you off.  It has been quite difficult to dismantle you this way. I’ve had to boil some of you and break the bigger parts down with a hammer. Most days I am so tired afterwards, I barely have time to scrap you out from under my nails before bed. But rest assured, you won’t be a bother for much longer another couple weeks and I will have my room back and you will be returned to the earth. One doggie bag at a time.

Placed (April Page 9)

It wasn’t a torrid or trashy scene.  It was really beautiful and tender with ambient light and two lovers laying next to each other. Their bodies blending together as if they were created for one other despite the decade difference between them.  The look on their faces wasn’t sinful or awkward, but peaceful and content.  The sheets of the bed were artfully shielding any impropriety that their arms and legs did not cover.  Perhaps the gods of love had posed them there, placed them together where their hearts had always belonged.

Whatever deity or circumstance had placed them there was cruel and malicious to Malcolm. He already felt like a failure, unnoticed and unloved.  Opening the door to the studio whose key he should have lost and seeing them without them even stirring in their slumber should have caused some drama. Some outburst from his already defeated soul, a last gasp for love or maybe even outrage. He just stood for three heartbeats, each ticking in his head echoing in the silence, begging to be noticed.

It was a muffled mewing that caused their eyes to flutter then their lips to smile and finally a small gasp when they noticed the grey kitten peeking in the door.  There wasn’t a rush to close the door and hide in shame.  Just two lovers falling in love with a kitten, named Karma.



His eyes averted themselves from me as I strode on the porch. The young man accompanying him did the same. I hadn’t bothered to turn down the music before I came out from the darken house.  There was a bounce in my step as I reached for Luther’s collar.  The lab-pit mix took note of his correction and moved to wait patiently behind me, thumping his tale in anticipation. The man, gray haired and balding, stammered out an invitation to his church and tried to push the pamphlet into the gap between the screen door and frame. His hands were still trembling when I opened the door all the way.

“Thank you, but I have my own church.”  I said looking at a face not looking back at me.

He looked at my chin, careful not to make eye contact or let his gaze linger on my breasts loosely contained in a tank top. It was Saturday. Cleaning day and I like to be comfortable when I do it. No bra, just a tank and yoga pants.   Speechless and tried to pass back the flyer.  The young man still was not looking at me.

“Please sir, take your flyer back. I don’t need it.”

“Perhaps your husband…” He glanced towards my rounded belly.  I knew the implication and wasn’t offended.  There were others who needed saving in the world. Some that I was sure lived just down the block from me. I just wanted him to save his flyer for them.

“I am not married.” Suddenly, he straightened himself up and met my hazel eyes with his glassy blue ones.  He had met his enemy and I a lost soul.

“Still you should…  you should cover yourself.” He declared his voice moving from kindness to authority “The Lord, our God …”

“Why? It is only the stain of sin that makes us see our natural selves as wrong.  God made us all beautiful.” I replied with the same even tone that I had begun the conversation with. I could have traded verses back and forth him. Let anger rise in my heart at his presumption of judgment.  It would have been easy. Easy to toss my knowledge at him and call it wisdom. Instead, I just stood there and met his fierceness with love. I took the flyer and pressed it back into his hands.

“May God be with you, sir. “

“And with you as well” The young man replied.

If you’d like more information on Lucinda’s work subscribe to this blog, follow her on Twitter or like her page on Facebook.  Her new novella, Blood Child is available on Amazon.

Papa (Flash Fiction)

**Update – 7/26/2013 –  Please note this is a bit of flash fiction I wrote. My own beloved, Papa, is home.

Papa died in the morning and in the modern fashion he was buried two weeks later on a muggy afternoon ignoring every command he gave.  People wept, wailed and their eyes were dry before they hit the parking lot. His wife, children and grandchildren huddled by the grave until the director had them leave. Insurance purposes, he said.

He said it, but it was a lie.

Now you have Papa’s liver and I have to tell you something. He was an alcoholic. Drank a twelve pack a night sometimes more if his team was losing, it was just cheap beer, Milwaukee’s Best,  mind you, but the liver really doesn’t care if you drink the good stuff or not. They should have told you as well that it was harvested just past the expiration date; meaning Papa was cold when they cut him open. So really I am doing you a favor.

Yes, a favor. This liver won’t have lasted.  It has already begun to poison you.

Now, Papa, he wanted to be cremated Viking style on the Indian River and all I could afford was this old dingy which I am not even sure will burn.

So breathe deep. I am told asphyxiation is like dying in your sleep.

Papa, he died in his sleep.

The Gears of Strange Machine (Ten Cent Tales) – A Review

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Book: The Gears of Strange Machine (Ten Cent Tales ~ Vol. 2)

Author: Marshall J. Stephens

Available: $.99 Kindle Version or $4.99 Paperback on Amazon

Ten cents a story, and a penny off if you buy all ten, is a bargain especially for these delightfully twisted and ingenious tales.  Each is unique so much so that my job as reviewer is made more difficult because I don’t know how to summarize this collection beyond saying that it is eclectic, intriguing and you should buy it right now.   Go on do it!

Not convinced yet, ok.  Let me try again.

Most of the stories in the collection are brief but leave the reader totally satisfied, with the occasional cliff hanger. Some will delight the vampire lovers. Another will tickle the fancy of Steampunk lovers. And yet another will please those who enjoy Warhammer (if you aren’t sure what that is, think about it as Terminator style).  Most of the stories take place in the present or in the near future. And all of them have a sort of Everyman’s appeal to them. In fact the collection is dedicated to “every schlub who’s worked a thankless, dead end job and still did it with tireless commitment.” I think we have all been that person working long hours at place that helps the cogs of the world move in its own way and rather than ignore them this collection celebrates them.

One of the tales, Two Steps Back, is clearly an homage to Neil Gaiman’s work. Gaiman and Stephen King are two of the authors he acknowledges as having given him some of the best encouragement and advice on writing.  I feel the same about those two literary giants.

This collection is perfect for when you want something to read and don’t have a lot of time. Great for the beach, long traffic lights and the moments right before Master Chef.  Farewell to the Emperor is the longest story and has been divided up so that it won’t throw you off the rhythm established in the previous tales.

Stephens’ style is witty, but not snobby. It is down to earth and speaks in the language of those of us who work hard for our living. The key to that is that he speaks to us not down to us or another us.  He knows the secret of great writers knowing which details to give the readers and which ones to allow readers to build in their own imagination. After the first couple of stories you will start to look for the twist and still won’t see it until the end.  Every story added a sparkle to the evil little grin that resides on my face.

So now, go out, buy this collection and let the wicked smirks begin. As for me, I am investing in some of Stephen other works which are also available on Amazon both in digital and paperback forms.

For more information, please visit his website, Marshall Makes Media.

Working Sick Day

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Luke taking care of his momma.

Yesterday, I came home from school sick. An impressive feat for a school teacher since it involved obtain the principal’s permission. I slept most of the day with Luke on my feet preventing me from going anywhere.  Thanks to Sonia, I had dinner made for me while I continued napping on her sofa. A nice and yummy change of napping venues.  Life is good and friends are blessings.

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Booger helping me write

Today, I am home again resting with my old writing partner sitting on my lap. His poppa went on a fishing trip so last night on my way home I brought him over to my house.  Bogger felt asleep quickly, even snoozing under the covers for a bit. This morning, they woke me up and demanded attention. Maybe this wasn’t the best plan given my health.  But, the boys won out and outside we ventured at 3:30am.  They sniffed, did their business and came back into bed.

Today, I am feeling world’s better and determined to rest. Resting taking the form of bathing two puppies (puppies being a term of endearment not denoting size) and taking one to get his nails clipped.  The bathroom is now clean, the living room straightened and the kitchen mostly clean. A nap is in order soon. Progress will be made on Blood Child, today.  There is an ending to be written.

Yesterday, I had one puppy on feet helping me to rest and today, there is another puppy on my lap helping me to work.  I will rest and I will write, repeating as necessary until Blood Child is done.

Blood Child – A Preview

Dear Readers,
Below is a preview of my novella, Blood Child, which I am working on finishing by the end of this month. The story began with the first line and the image of a woman stalking away from an open door.
Enjoy and let me know what you think, please and thank you. 
 “I am not drueyesnk enough to talk about it, now.”

The interview I had lobbied over six months for just turned on her heels and walked back into the shadows of the house, leaving the door wide open giving me an excellent view of her curves. My appreciation was short lived as cool air slapped me as I hesitated before the threshold trying to take in the house’s details. The ten foot walk from the car to the house, however, had broken me out in a sweat making it difficult to concentrate.  It wasn’t even May, and already Florida was managing to melt British tourists and small yippy dogs into smelly sticky puddles. British born myself it was only being raised in the U.S. that kept me from disintegrating.

Watching the current Countess Bathory return with a fresh glass it occurred to me that she was nothing like her infamous blood bathing ancestor. She had no aura of power or authority. She was, in fact, a wino, judging from the bin overflowing with bottles on the front porch.

Albeit, an incredibly attractive one. Technically, she wasn’t a countess having renounced the title, but not the money.  Only people in fairy tales give up both and usually that is for love. As far as I knew, Ms. Bathory, was single.

Nothing about Emily Bath made sense. She was richer than Donald Trump and had more degrees than Neil Degrass Tyson, yet she lived in a tiny orchid colored house with floors that creak with each every step in a mismatched Orlando neighborhood and taught high school.  She could have done anything and willing chose to work in high school hell.  Literary since she didn’t work in a regular school, but an alternative one for students who had been kicked out of other schools.

The interior was modest, if not a little old fashion for a twenty-something heiress. There was no TV in sight just bookshelves and seating. All the furnishings looked like they were hand-me-downs from someone’s long deceased grandparents. The sofa engulfed me in patterned floral pillows.  The countess smirked as I struggled to right myself.  At least she had a sense of humor.

Still nothing about the home spoke of the mounds wealth she had; it was all understated and sadly normal.  I expected more, craved it to be honest.

Emily Erzabet Bath was the survivor of modern day murder mystery.  Nine years ago, she and her three older brothers spent the weekend at their late father’s estate in upstate New York. They died along with twenty three other souls As the ten year anniversary approached interest in the case was reemerging; making this an interview priceless. And I was the man who landed it; the first and only person to speak to the reclusive Ms. Bath.  Persistence, charm and just a bit of cyber-stocking had won the day; being unemployed finally had a benefit.

The manor had been drenched in blood, literally. It dripped off of tables, pooled in puddles on the floor and had un-artfully spattered the walls. The first officers on scene inched their way around the edges of each room as they searched for survivors. They weren’t trying to preserve evidence no one wanted to step in that much blood. And with that really weren’t expecting to find anyone alive. Pieces of victims were carried out bit by bit for nearly a week. It was a forensic nightmare.

The officers who found her had to break into the room after following a blood trail to the door, only to find her cloistered in the back of the closet beneath a bunch of old musky coats stained with her blood. The combination of the smell: musky fur, stale blood and human excrement remained with the two men. Their stomachs emptied upon seeing Emily broken and begging for help with her eyes. Even mentioning her or her condition made the two turn green. They thought she was dead until her emerald eyes opened.  Severely dehydrated with deep bloody scratches which had turned her flesh into ribbons; her wounds would seep blood for days after her rescue confounding the medical staff. It was months before she was released from the hospital.

Emily allegedly had fled to her room and hidden there until found. She couldn’t explain how she had gotten there or what happened that weekend. Many believed that she was at least partially responsible for the deaths of the twenty three people in attendance. Especially the media who kept the story alive even after the relatives of the deceased pleaded with them to stop.

No evidence was found linking Emily with the deaths according to the investigators’ report in my satchel.  It had cost a pretty penny.  Now, I was wondering if the expense had been worth it.  She was just so ordinary.  So painfully plain.