I wrote my first novel during "NaNoWriMo" (National Novel Writing Month) in 2011. Since then, I've written four more and drafted two. I realized that I had to start on the road to publishing.

Did I have a plan? Yes, and sometimes no, I quit my ten-year volunteer gig. I took a leave of absence from my philanthropic activities.

I kept focused on rewrites provided by beta readers, a professional editor, and my critique group. I researched and decided on my choice of publishing.

My goal, publish by December 31, 2017, It's happening!

I tried. I drank, I smoked, I kissed, I fell in love with someone else. But I can't rid myself of you. From the moment we met, you settled beneath my skin, and there you've stayed for six years -- even though we haven't spoken for the last four.

If we never see each other again, I just want you to know that I've never stopped thinking about you. Habitually, compulsively, against my will, I think of you. And you will always be my greatest, most terrible "what if?"

School,

Youth,

Adulthood

I’m doomed…

Work once you’ve graduated

Never mind if you hate it

Forget the bullies

Just get through it

Life isn’t a pretty garden

Good grades mean good life

If you mess around

You’ll burn through the fire

Outside is a jungle

All filled with adults

Who doesn’t care

They’re all like bears

Hungry for that honey

They step on the weak

It’s a bottomless pit

All for that money

I hate this system

I hate it all

And this is my weakness

I’m becoming small

Everybody’s like:

Work for this,

Work for that

You’re the first-born baby

Go and work up your ass

Get your mom a house

Buy your siblings a doll house

I’m sick of this shit

This is my own life

No, I’m not a rebellious bitch

I just want a fun life

Where I could smile,

I could try

To be who I am

And what I am

And where I am

Or who I’m with

Don’t define my own self

I’m tryin to be me

What’s the issue?

Why they keep on stopping me?

Am I wrong?

Am I stupid?

For trying to think differently

Is it a crime?

Are my rhymes,

All about whining like a child?

I’m done

I’m so done

Society hates me

I’m free

Only when I’m asleep.

Yet I always wake up

In this tragedy

Called “Reality”

Alright mom, I’m going

I’m five minutes late

To school

Here I am

Again,

I’m dying

I don’t think I still want to live…

     Frank sits in the bed that he has shared with his wife for forty-five years, leaning back comfortably against the cushioned headboard. He watches the young red-headed woman dancing seductively for him at the foot of the bed. He devours every inch of her with his hungry eyes, as his hands clutch the sheet beneath him in tortured anticipation.

     She has already removed the black satin dress that she had worn that evening. She is left in nothing but her lacy black underwear that draws attention to, but still conceals her most exciting parts. Her hips sway languidly to the rhythm of the slow jazz pouring from a stereo speaker, then slowly undulate forward to every third or fourth beat. He notices the soft tuft of red hair rubbing against the lace of her panties as her supple hips push the fabric back and forth.

     He feels an involuntary moan come on and then escape his lips. It makes her smile as she raises her hands to tussle her hair about and then lets go, sending a crimson flow cascading down the front of her shoulders to gently lay across the exposed skin of her bulging breasts. She leans herself forward, placing her hands on the bed while licking her lips and looking straight into his eyes. Her bra, which he wasn't even aware had been unclasped falls to the floor. Her breasts now swing freely side to side, with nipples taut as top hats pointing down and yet angling toward him at the same time. This vision causes some stirring in his shorts, but the banner has yet to be fully raised.

     She puts one hand ahead of the other, and then, from behind, her knee has come to join the party. He realizes that she is now slowly crawling toward him on all fours. She is a feline on the hunt for her prey, and the certainty that it is him she hunts for is enough inspiration for a bulge to quickly take shape below before sinking slowly back down. Dammit, he thinks, almost had it that time.

     She has seen what happened, and she gives him a sly pout, but continues her forward prowl nonetheless. Her red hair is now dangling from her shoulders partially obstructing his view of her swaying breasts. Somehow, not being able to see everything at once fills him with a fresh excitement, and the bulge appears again, but unfortunately, doesn't stay around much longer than before. He looks at her, embarrassed by his shortcoming. "I'm sorry," he whispers, "I'm not sure what's going on down there."

     "Don't worry," she whispers back, "I know how to fix it." Her pout has now turned back into a smile as she comes forward and slowly lowers her face into his lap. He can now smell the sweet scent of her hair. It is intoxicating. He looks up at the ceiling as he feels her rustling in his shorts. His member is suddenly exposed, and he feels the cool room temperature on it for a split second before it is plunged into a soft, warm wetness. Euphoric stars explode in his mind. He hears her giggle and he thinks, well that didn't take long.

     She comes back up, breathing heavily now. He knows that she is just as excited as he is. She pulls herself up straddling his lap, as he reaches down to grab her by the ass and pull her as close to him as he possibly can. She begins to wriggle back and forth, grinding his manhood into the sheets beneath them. This is almost more than he can stand. Something has to happen, and it has to happen now.

     Something does happen, but not what he had expected. Suddenly, from the speaker playing the slow jazz, comes the blaring cry of a trumpet. Except, it's not a trumpet. It's more like thunder. No, not thunder, it's someone snoring.

     Frank wakes up in the bed that he has shared with his wife for forty-five years. He looks around and, She's gone, is his first panicked thought. It takes him a few moments, but then he looks to his left, and he realizes that she is not gone. She is lying next to him in the same spot that she has slept for the last forty-five years. She has gained more weight than she would ever admit to, and there is now more grey in her hair than red, but it's her. His member, which had been highly inspired by the dream, creeps back into its hiding place. That's okay, he thinks with a smile, you know she'll dance for you again.            He turns to the left wrapping his arm around her, and then falls back to sleep with his face buried in her sweet smelling hair.

I got pregnant and dropped out of college one class away from a degree.

I've had three handsome men sweetly propose to me.

I have an overwhelming fear of being lost at sea.

I've had two surgeries on my bum left knee.

My husband of 10 years is four years younger than me.

sound echoes when

there's nothing there

to hold it,

and I keep bouncing

between the banks

with tears that stutter

on the way out,

so I let them fall

like angels

ready to rise

like demons from the dirt,

and my dreams

are murdered

by the creeping dawn,

and I can't click my heels

to get home,

just these dull thuds

that ache more

with each attempt,

holding a pillow

I haven't used,

and whiskey could teach

me to bleed straight,

instead of scribbling

bloody messages

for no one.

and it's me.

but I can't read

like I used to.

though I have

enough scars

so all you see

is a grin.

hello. nice to meet you. fucker.

will you join me in the field?

we can murder roses

and lay them on my name,

and you can give a speech

about the tragedy

of my heel,

about the sound of me drifting

as I run from mud,

tripping over the crispy halos

I let break without a fight.

and when it shatters,

we'll see havoc become confetti,

in a beautiful celebration

of wasted breaths

that shimmer on the forest

of my life,

growing fresh upon the rot.

I'm losing track of time, and these Irish waters bare their fangs while they spit in my face. I smell the salt in it's breath as it wails it's rage against my very presence. The deafening howls twirl my hair, and my skin is drenched, shining in the moon's light. 

Nature herself knows this is unnatural. She fights me. She needs me to leave, but I have nowhere else to go. Her rage is potent still, as if this transgression was solely my own. 

I'm sedentary in the sand, clutching at handfuls, but I can't catch hold. My head is pounding with the force of holding back mournful sobs, and even as a traitorous tear slips past, I don't feel it fall. 

In the distance the waters are restless. The feeling is mutual. Their deep indigo breaks own so many secrets; most of them my last moments. I can't remember how long it has been, but splinters of the wreckage are still lying along the shore. 

I haven't found the courage to see it up close. Not yet. 

My heart is lying somewhere in between sorrow and relief. Sorrow for what I have lost. Relief that the pain has ended. 

The crash was spectacular in the most horrific way. It was suppose to be fun and adventurous. My little girl and I, out on the open waters, a trained guide speeding us along the ocean's surface in a metal machine designed to go fast. We were laughing. Laughing so loud I almost didn't hear the hollow metallic sound of gears breaking beneath us. 

Laughing one moment, screaming the next. It was suppose to fun. 

Instead, I'm haunting this beach. I'm alone, and that should make me feel placated.

She made it then, right? 

My baby. 

I force my way over to what was left of the speed boat. Seeing footprints in the sand drove so much pressure into my chest I thought I'd explode. 

I was running. Just follow them...follow them. 

Flecks of red dappled the ground, and I felt so alive. I'm sure I couldn't possibly be flushed, but my face felt hot. Stagger-running up a grassy embankment, I could see flashing lights flickering against the black sky. Ambulance. This was it. I fell to my knees and crawled to the crowded parking lot. 

Men in dark blue uniforms waving flashlights. Women in firefighter jackets holding blankets and notepads. So many people, and no one I recognized. Except one. 

My little girl. 

There she sat, huddled under the arm of a man I didn't bother to look at. She was cold. She was scared. Her sweet face red and puffy. I ached to kiss the tiny scratch across her upper lip. I just wanted to make it all go away. 

"Everything will be alright, love. I'm here now." 

That voice...

Deep. Dreamy. I missed it. Spending months lying awake needing to hear it again. 

My daughter's father. He had been gone for so long. Hearing his sonorous tones, I was immediately reminded of all the nights my girl would stay up, asking where her daddy was. He was a good guy, and a marvelous father. I had been the one to push him away. My lies, my cheating. 

My drink.

It was too much for him. I drove him to leave, and hurt my angel in the process. 

I glanced over my shoulder to the beach below. The waters were calm now. Inviting. 

A hiccup and a cry brought me back to her shivering body. His arms held her tight, and I knew they wouldn't let her go again. 

I don't know if I smiled, but my baby did. It was a sad smile, but it was for her daddy. 

I turned to make my way towards the ocean, passing by a gurney carrying a white body bag, tufts of my red hair peeking out from under the zipper. 

They aren't blind despite pretending to be

They aren't deaf although they're numb

"It doesn't matter if it doesn't exist"

Just ignore like we do

Pretend till the world explodes

Then pretend you didn't cause it

Trends spread worldwide in a flash

Hashtags with tear stained characters

They were so brave and so loved

A good thing lost to the world but not our fault

It's never our fault no

Just faulty wiring 

I can't be this, I can't be that

I victimize the victim's rise

How dare they say I'm wrong

I didn't make anyone do anything

They're jumping to conclusions

While jumping off bridges

Opinions written and spoken in hush

Videos to disprove

Evidence made to make us lose

"It doesn't matter if it doesn't exist"

But then an exchange

Perhaps a change

Bullets for revenge

Bullets for hate

A bullet for color

A bullet for faith

Rainbow vendetta 

Red painted walls

Dampened poinsetta

Echoing halls

Not my fault 

What could I do

But maybe the hate

Could end with you