"Unedited Selfishness"

A Poem

Am I trying too hard

To speak my mind

To those of you, who

Don't care to hear

About how I feel

Or what I have to say

About pointless things

In a rather fancy way?

So I want your attention,

Every ounce of it

and more.

I want you to care

And tell me that you do.

Because if you do care,

Then I matter.

If you don't,

Then my life is as pointless

As this poem

And every other work

I have ever done

And even written.

If you make me matter,

I will make you matter

To me, too.

But then again...

You don't care that much

About yourself, either.

By MFW III

"Better"

A Short Story

Can you fake this? Everyone is watching you, but no one is paying attention. Tell them everything is okay. Tell them you’re fine. Better yet, tell them how well everything is going. Tell them lies. You know as well as I do that it’s better for their sake; besides, you will be fine. The only ones who will know you’re faking are Santa Clause and God, and as far as you know, Santa Clause isn’t the only one who doesn’t exist. You can fake this.

            “Darling? Darling,” she asked, stirring him from his reverie.

            “What? Sorry… I was just thinking,” he said as he shifted in his seat.

            “About what, dear?” she asked with her usual sweet voice.

            “Everything, I guess,” he said, giving her only a second of eye contact.

            “Like what?” she asked worriedly.

            “It’s nothing,” he replied with a forced smile.

            “Okay.” Her look of worry remained. “I love you.”

            “I love you, too,” he said.

            The sun was beginning to set as their short-lived conversation ended. Light emanated from beyond the small forest outside of her house. He felt a searing pain in his gut; his face contorted into fear.

            “Love?” he said.

            “Yeah?” she replied.

            Don’t do this, you fool. You will only hurt her. She deserves better than this, better than you. Don’t burden her with your troubles. Just tell her a lie; it will work better than the truth. Don’t be a damn idiot. Ask her how her day was. Ask her if she’d like to go out for dinner tonight. Whatever you do, don’t do this. Don’t be a fool.

            “Would you like to go out tonight? Movies or something?” he asked.

            Looking sort of puzzled, she said, “That’s not what you wanted to ask. You have that look. What’s wrong?”

            “I don’t know,” he said. She didn’t reply. He waited, but she said nothing; she just stared at him, waiting. After a few seconds he repeated, “I… don’t know.”

            See, it’s not so difficult. It’s better this way. She won’t have to feel like she has failed when you’re gone. She’ll be sad at first, but someone will take care of her. She’ll be okay. Get through her, and everyone else will be a breeze. Your best friend will be okay; he’s got other friends, better friends. Your parents will be particularly upset, but they’ll get through. No one is going to blame you. Keep lying. It’s not so difficult.

            She got up from the couch on which they were both sitting and moved to her piano. She stood before the piano, pulled the bench to her, and sat. Hands raised above the keys, she began to play. It was beautiful. The notes flowed perfectly. She began to sing. She sang softly enough that he couldn’t hear the lyrics, but her voice was beautiful, perfect. He closed his eyes. Pain radiated from every part of his body. His head felt like it was swelling, and his face felt hot. Voices, images, scents, sounds, emotions, and feelings all began to flow throughout his body paining him in every imaginable way. Her voice stopped. Soon after, the music did, too. She sat quietly at the piano. He looked up to her and saw a tear roll down her cheek. Pain fired more powerfully through his being. His eyes locked shut. Tears welled within. One slipped.

            “I want to die,” he said.

By MFW III

Plans, Schemes, and

My subconscious conspiracy to overthrow life.

~~~

Pretty much nothing has come out this month due to my new apartment and my trying to settle in. I think I'm pretty settled at this point. I set two poems and two short stories to post for this month even though they're nowhere near on time. That's okay though. Things are about to get interesting, for me anyway. I'm beginning a novel finally. I plan to have the first draft completed by April 30, 2013. The working title is Project Civilization. More information to come.

~~~

This does NOT mean I will stop blogging. Just bare with me if I miss a scheduled post. I'll have a calendar up here for you soon.

"Stuck"

A Poem

I am broken like glass

And have no ability

To act or react

Accordingly.

My heart is pumping air

And my lungs are exhaling blood.

Hope is so distant

When all that is left

Is lost time.

I am broken down

And have lost control

Of all sound

Body, mind, and soul.

My eyes are screaming tears

And my ears are tasting regret.

Hope has always felt so distant

And all that is left

Is to find what has been lost.

By MFW III

"Talks With God"

A Short Story

From a Broken Father and the Daughter He Holds

* * *

A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance…

Ecclesiastes 3:4

“God,” pause, “Thank you for everything you have given me. Thank you for my beautiful little girl. She is so beautiful. Please, take care of her. Please, keep her safe when I cannot. And help me raise her in a way most pleasing to you.

          “And Father… I come now for guidance. I need your help. I need you to keep me strong… for my little girl and for you. I… I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up. She’s the only thing keeping me here… keeping me with you. I love her so much,” louder now, “Oh, God… please, help me! Please, take away this pain! Take away this misery! Please. I need you,” almost whispers, “Father, please,” tears streaming, “please, help me. It hurts so much. It’s like nothing I’ve ever felt.

          “I’m sorry, God. I’m sorry. Please, forgive me. You’ve graced me with this sweet darling and I am so ungrateful. Forgive me. Thank you so much for her… for this piece of me… this piece of Sarah. Thank you. I love you,” deep breaths, “Amen.”

          Darkness swallowed him at the foot of his bed, all of him but the necklace. Little light from the alarm clock on his dresser reflected off the silver butterfly charm. After his prayer, he remained kneeling with his hands clasped together, tears continuing to stream down his face. Slowly opening his eyes, he saw the dangling shine of the butterfly. With his deep breaths, the butterfly flew, defying gravity with silver strings holding its wings.

          As his wife’s charm swung from his neck like a steadily slowing pendulum, images flooded his mind: Blonde hair danced around a pale face in the evening sunlight during a calm breeze. Holding her hands in his and smiling at her, he disappeared into the blue of her eyes. She smiled back, and the sounds escaping his mouth sounded much like laughter. They danced together among trees, and as they danced he saw the necklace bounce against her chest. When the charm caught the light of the descending sun in his memory, he returned to reality. The necklace was almost completely still. His eyes then caught the blue LED of the alarm clock: 2:50 AM.

          A pitter-pattering of footsteps came from outside his bedroom door. Rising slowly, he wiped his tearstained cheeks with his bare forearm. He pulled on a shirt before moving to the door. He turned the knob with little noise and pushed the door, revealing a low light from the hall. He left the door open behind him and walked toward the kitchen. No one was in the hall, but his daughter’s bedroom door was cracked slightly. The bathroom door was closed, as well as the door to his office. His headache pressed him to continue into the kitchen.

A light that originated from above the stove guided his way; he moved toward the fridge. He opened the door and instinctively grabbed a bottle of soda. “Drink some water, Love. You’ll feel better,” he remembered her say once. Changing his mind, he kept the door open a moment longer. He replaced the soda and closed the door. Instead, he grabbed a small glass from a cabinet, and then filled it with water from a door on the fridge. He raised the glass to his lips and drank slowly. When he stopped, his empty mind filled with thoughts out of nowhere. He set the glass on the counter and walked slowly toward his room when his heart began to abuse the confines of his chest.

The hair on the back of his neck rose for more than just the cold. Thoughts of his wife attacked him from every vantage point. Each and every lovely memory was another stab to his gut. Every memory, except that of a dance. The first time he laid eyes on the girl who would become his wife, his wedding day, his honeymoon, the birth of his daughter, and finally, the sight of his wife’s dying form; they all attempted to take his life. But again, there was the memory of a dance. An evening outside, feeling the subtle wind, the sun on his face, his wife in his arms, and the presence of God all around him. This memory resounded again, slowing his heart and soothing the pain in his stomach.

He realized he had stopped walking in the middle of the hall. Before he went to continue on his way back to his empty bed, he heard a voice.

          “Dear God,” he heard come from his daughter’s room, which was just before his and after the bathroom. He looked through the partly open door at his kneeling, six-year-old darling. She was kneeled at the foot of her bed, hands clasped. A night-light illuminated her being and much of the room. “Thank you for this day. Thank you for my good daddy.

          “Daddy needs your help. He misses mommy a lot. Is mommy having fun in heaven? I hope she is. I can’t wait to see her again; I miss mommy, too. Daddy says you helped mommy. He says you helped her to not hurt anymore. Will you help daddy to not hurt anymore? I hope you will.

          “Amen,” she finished. She then crawled quickly onto her bed, lay down on her side, and placed her hands under her head.

          “Annie,” he whispered as he pushed open her door. He walked to her bed and laid himself down. He pulled his daughter’s small form into his arms and held her. “I love you,” he said.

          “I love you, too, Daddy.” She looked up at him as he embraced her. He saw her lids slowly close over her blue eyes. He brushed her blonde hair behind her ear and kissed her cheek.

          He held her there until she fell asleep. Even after she entered a world of beautiful, happy dreams, he held her. After some time, he whispered to God, “I love you.” And with the gift of sleep to him, God said, “I love you, too.”

By MFW III

...

Looks like daddy has to make up for lost time.

New Home

I've been gone so long. Here's why.

War and Love

What is it like to wake up to a changed world? 

When citizens of the United States woke up on the morning of December 7, 1941, what did they feel? When they heard President Roosevelt say in his Infamy Speech, "Hostilities exist. There is no blinking at the fact that our people, our territory and our interests are in grave danger." We and our children are in danger. When they heard the anti-war and isolationist leader Charles Lindbergh say, "Our country has been attacked by force of arms, and by force of arms we must retaliate." Peace is not an option. I wasn't alive then and neither were you, most likely. It is simply history. The horrifying date of infamy.

When the citizens of the United States woke up on the morning of September 11, 2001, what did they feel? I was in fourth grade, eight years old. I didn't feel anything. I was in a world where I witnessed everyone around me feeling a great emotional, sad, confused, and angry response to the terrorist attack. I was not afraid because all I had was fourth grade math and English and my best friend next door. None of that felt like it was in danger. So even the modern day of infamy had no emotional impact on me. Bush said, "We have seen their kind before. They are the heirs of all the murderous ideologies of the 20th century. By sacrificing human life to serve their radical visions - by abandoning every value except the will to power - they follow in the path of fascism, and Nazism, and totalitarianism. And they will follow that path all the way to where it ends: in history's unmarked grave of discarded lies." Gives me chills, though I hadn't heard it then.

Ever since I started gaining an understanding, or rather, the birth of the internet and social media during my teenage years, I have checked the news religiously, waiting to wake up to some form of terror. Don't be mistaken, I have done such not because I am afraid of what might happen, rather I am afraid of not knowing it has happened.

The closest I've come to any sort of grave news was actually good news when Obama announced the catching and killing of Osama bin Laden. It was late at night, I don't remember the time exactly, but I remember seeing something on the internet about bin Laden's death. I went to the living room in my mom's house and turned on the TV. Every station showed a hallway with the President's podium, lacking simply the President himself. A scroll across the bottom of the screen read that Obama was to brief America on the death of Osama bin Laden. I waited maybe fifteen minutes, staring at an empty podium. Finally Obama came to and started, "Good evening. Tonight, I can report to the American people and to the world that the United States has conducted an operation that killed Osama bin Laden, the leader of al Qaeda, and a terrorist who's responsible for the murder of thousands of innocent men, women, and children." I felt chills and a sort of excitement. I woke my mom up so she could watch too.
There was this big ordeal going through social media, Facebook specifically, where everyone was all gung-ho about bin Laden's death. Then, all of a sudden, there was backlash from some people about how we shouldn't be celebrating his death. So I responded, and I'm paraphrasing because I can't find the damn Facebook status from May 2011, "No death should be celebrated. The fact that someone had to die does not permit joviality. However, the fact that no more deaths will come at the hands of this terrible man is cause for celebration."

Even with these things, I have not woken up to a world that felt as if it had changed. No. For me, the world changed when I discovered love, and also when I lost it.

Sure that sounds romantic and all, but truly, my world view is what changed. I think anything that has the ability to disrupt and threaten your happiness can change your world, at least from your perspective. Do you think the Japanese were as terrified as Americans on December 7, 1941? No. Do you think Americans were as terrified as the Japanese on August 6, 1945? Probably not. Do you think you were as terrified as I when I felt a world without my love? You might not have even known. And if you did, if you were around then, you would say no to that question. And are the likes of World War II and the War on Terror comparable to my own personal and infamous love? Maybe not from your perspective. World War II and the War on Terror threatened life. Love threatens happiness. What is one without the other?