Sitting in silence as the red sky ripens
Nearby a woodpecker already labors
Shhhh
The time is not yet for infant eyes
Now the wrens join in song
Dappling rays dance down
It’s the calm before the…
Alright
let’s go

Shhhh was originally published in half truths on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

It feels funny how the years already slip by now. From what I hear it only gets more strange and slippery as we go.

Reading through my notes from last year hits hard. Nothing worth sharing for now. Those thoughts I will keep to myself and save for another time.

But what I will say is what I’m reminded of in seemingly seeing the same day a year a part. And that is it’s okay to not be okay.

As long as you keep going — there’s a light up ahead.

Somewhere.

I turned 29 today. was originally published in half truths on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

There’s blood in these veins I have never bled
Tears that have never run
That & more
Plenty to spare for friends,
Beggars, and anyone in between
No sense in saving it all
So, cut right here, my love
Blood first, tears second
Take your offering
Take pleasure in my pain
I sure do

XXIII was originally published in the Cafe on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I always said I would never live far enough north that it required me to get up before the sun in order to scrape ice off my windshield. Coming from central Texas the thought of living in such a way always felt bizarre — and frankly unpalatable. As far as I was concerned, I would never allow my life to come to such a thing.

Then, the world as we knew it got turned upside down. And that led my wife and I to migrate to eastern Colorado for the last three months. Far enough from the mountains that there’s nothing on the horizon except more horizon dotted with windmills jutting from the landscape like sticks a child has jabbed into their sandbox.

As a technical matter, I do not have to scrape ice off my windshield in the morning.

As a practical matter, I do. My wife is an emergency room nurse who leaves quite early, so it’s her windshield I’m scraping.

So, I guess, ultimately it’s half true — I don’t have to get up to scrape ice off my windshield. But it certainly is my pleasure.

My Pleasure was originally published in half truths on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Scratchpad №107

Recommended Reading

What’s in a name? — Liyana Shirin

Today, I lingered in the verandah watching the Earth.

Soggy soil made way for the first leaves of monsoon, heaven’s tears dripped onto feeble twigs and the shrill chirps of young birds decorated the misty garden. The sunflowers that obeyed the radiant deity now tormented, searching for a beam amongst the low-spirited skies. Eventually, they surrendered to each other craving for light. The icy cloudburst wind swelled in my lungs.

Charms and Shattered Sea-glass on the Highway — Cat Baklarz

Spineless strangers with’ring past snapped chain-link. Twenty yards apart our doorstep, another realm. Tesseracts tumbling Middle-Earthers ’midst highway lines — mayhem crowds them to the edge in tents no bigger than cinched fairy rings. A bridge, its t̶r̶o̶l̶l̶s — not trolls for I know nothing of their blood, worn-dagger serum flows more poisonous ’twixt the weeds.

Out of the Storm — Lynda Coker

She’d done the right thing to run from the man who’d continued to abuse her despite his protestations of love. If she’d done the right thing, why was life kicking her in the teeth? How could she be completely lost in the middle of nowhere during a snowstorm?

Bethany looked over her shoulder at her two-year-old daughter, Olivia, asleep in her carseat. She needed to get her child to a safe place.

Valentina — Taha

Like the Valentina she was
my love stood there, strong
committed, holding her ground in the midst of entropy
fiercely fighting, resisting the pull of life
refusing to let my hand go

Trimming — Keith R Wilson

The snow fell heavy around Christmas time last year and remained ass deep for months. Phil pruned his vines all winter with Jack, the hired man, strapping snowshoes to their feet. The snowshoes allowed them to walk on top of the drifts; but their feet, not insulated by the snow, froze every day by noon. The vines were half buried in snow and they had to bend over all day to reach them. By noon, Phil’s back stiffened up, also. He and Jack made their way to the house each day at lunchtime to thaw out and straighten up. Phil told his wife, Carol, he’d rather lie on the hard kitchen floor than eat.

The Friend I Made on the Subway — Sarah C. Schafer

We had known each other all our lives but we became friends twenty years later, on the subway. We were both interns. I was copywriting for a startup company. She was working for a cartoon network. She joked about how I was doing unpaid ‘real work’ while she was getting money to be bored and occasionally watch kid shows.

We didn’t talk about work much on our commute. She would pick me up in the morning and drive to Finch Station. Then we would fumble for TTC tokens or loose change while balancing thermoses. Mine contained coffee; hers had a blueberry smoothie. I was in ‘on’ mode in my caffeine addiction cycle; she was on a health kick.

Bright Star — Nikos Vitorakis

Let me whisper a poem in your heart,
a poor poem about a man
whom you make his own life’s parasite
begging for every moment to pass.

Every time he stared at the dark sky
he was looking for a star,
a bright star to descry.
Until a woman showed up
sparkling in the night
sparkling like this star.

The Writing Throuple — Nick Bundarin

Writing and creating can give you strange bedfellows. On my right is the cold and serrated Inner Critic, and on my left is the manipulative and cloying Comfort Zone. This rock and a soft place I have found myself between paws at me day and night for a mile of attention I shouldn’t be giving an inch to.

Sometimes writing a couple of sentences feels like a victory, but a few sentences don’t pay the bills, or get your name out there. My Inner Critic is a Mr. Belvedere type, everything in its meticulous place, which makes sense if you write content for PBS, but when your writing inspirations are Grant Morrison and Neil Gaiman (to name just two of many), you have to let the chaos in.

Imperfect — Subashini Nachimuthu

Seasons never set on time
Moon is ever same in shape
Mountain peaks of different heights
Rivers flow with bends and falls
Flowers of a bunch are not one size

Books+Bourbon+Bible Study — Adi McCasland

I stand on the steps between two sisters. I’m the eldest by one and two years, but I’m the smallest. I always was as a child. At 5'1", I often still am. Their names escape me, but the image vividly remains. They, comfortable in their long skirts and smooth, dirty blonde braids sandwich me, fidgeting, donned in an oversized ankle-length dress pulled from the back of the youngest’s closet and a wild ponytail unsuccessfully tamed with mismatched bobby pins. Their mom, whose name has also faded from memory, eyes me sternly and unambiguously to stand still.

I don’t know where my mom is because I’m ten and mothers like mine don’t answer to ten year olds. I don’t know where my dad is because I’m ten and dads like mine vanish at ten years old. I, however… I am standing on the steps, sandwiched between two sisters, waiting for the church doors to open.

The Ride — A.R. Hopkins

Harry grumbled under his breath as he leaned in even closer to the windshield, willing his eyes to work harder and wiping the condensation from the glass. The snow cascaded down in oversized flakes against the backdrop of an utterly black sky. His tires threatened to lose their grip as he maneuvered each winding curve, but he was not deterred. He didn’t care how far away his ex-wife and her rich husband lived or how much wilderness surrounded their pretentious mountain mansion. He would see his daughter on her birthday and he would not waste a single night of the measly two weeks he got to spend with her each year while her mother was away on vacation.

Filthy Was the Word — Aaron Teater

Filthy was the word. The word that describes the way Winston feels after he has defied the Party. But temptation is extraordinarily high. The fantastical delicacies that loom on the edge of reality are so detained and purged that one, at times, may even question their existence. Simplicities, once widely and conveniently distributed throughout the common home, are now indulged in only by the cynical members of the Inner Party. While the Party lives in utter gluttony, the Proles are bathed in cheap gin and cigarettes.

To The Wanderers of Life — Shams Shirinova

No matter where you are going in life, no matter where you will end up being, no matter if you are on the right or wrong path, I want you to remember that it is of no value, not more than the fact that you are a chosen one, roaming around the globe, moving, waking up, eating, growing, relaxing, breathing, reading, working, listening, tasting, smelling, being, living, doing anything that makes you alive; anything that defines you as a human.

I love how sweet it sounds. Being a wanderer of life, and being untied of anything that tries to tie you down; tries to encourage you to settle down and live happily ever after only to see that happiness should have been defined individually all along.

The Girl Who Ran Out of Light — Asmaa Achtaich

We met for the first time in a while. She looked very beautiful. She always does. She also lost a bit of weight. It suited her just as much as the bit of curves she embraced before. Her hair was long and dark. Her eyes were large and dark. But something was different this time. Something else was dark in the room.

As always, if you see a story that catches your eye, be sure to give it a read and let the writer know what you think. This community thrives around conversation, so start one.

Subscribe for prompts, more opportunities to contribute, and updates on new projects from Likewise. Grab a copy of our latest release, Shards by Pedro Jacob if you’re looking for your next great read.

Scratchpad № 107 was originally published in the Cafe on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

If these streets could speak
They would tell the story of
A homeless boy whose greatest treasure
Was an 80’s bicycle — barely unbroken

If these birds could talk,
They would swap gossip of
The bartenders who crawl
Through here and home at night’s closing — shaken,
unstirred

And if the northern wind,
Cared enough to pay attention
It would stop and stare
Like the rest of us do
Marvel in awe
At you

XXII was originally published in the Cafe on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Did you get any of my letters?
Every monday morn’
10am, pen to page
Then, to the post
I poured hot wax on each
To seal inside my love
Crimson red and scented of me
There for you
Hoping a whiff
Would remind you of home

Excerpt from Days Long Gone, Part I.

XXI was originally published in the Cafe on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Her home was the sea and
His love had never known the waves
Each day an encore performance
Of a long gone tragedy

Excerpt from Days Long Gone, Part I.

XX was originally published in half truths on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Drowning ants
As a child
That was my first regret

At best I am not a man
At worst, a monster

Excerpt from Days Long Gone, Part I.

XIX was originally published in the Cafe on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Inked lines
permanent
Grounded knees
repentant

Here it comes
There it goes
Blood oath

Excerpt from Days Long Gone, Part I.

XVIII was originally published in half truths on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.