I'm writing again

I used to be a writer. I used to have ideas and could whip up a quick story that satisfied the urge, and then I'd come up with another idea. Then my worst fear struck. I became happy. I lost all my ideas. In college, I'd worried my stories came from my sadness--despite the fact I wrote stories when I was a child, and I was, by no means, an unhappy child. College made me sad. It made me sad and filled me with imagination, and after I fell in love, moved in with my fiance, and got married...I just wasn't sad anymore. And I didn't write anymore. And I didn't mind that I wasn't writing. I'm still happy, but I'm no longer happy to not be writing. I used to be a writer. I'm still a writer.

As it Gets Colder

Most of the months we were together were cold. Sometimes freezing. And we drove many places to break up the monotony without numbing our toes on a walk. I liked sitting in the cab with the defroster blowing hot air into the car and onto the windshield as you, in a muted brown, chunky coat, brushed and scraped the snow off and waved at me to make me smile. You looked so responsible and manly, like when you wore a suit and told me about backhanding that kid in middle school—fifties manly—the kind of man who works hard and demands respect from others. You’d get back in the car, making “brr” noises, the kind where you blow out air and shake your cheeks to get some feeling back; it involves a lot of “huffing”, then you’d rub your hands together for a minute or two or give them to me to rub since I was already warming up.

Asleep at all Hours continued

"Okay. Okay. What if. . .what if he was so fast, nobody ever got a hit in on 'im? He could win that way. I've seen him move. He's fast. I just don't think it's right to tell people they should give up on their dreams. And Jake's such a good person." -Karen Scott

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"I've already said it once. Un. Realistic." -Paul Dempsy

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"Hello, I'm. . .Jake Krantz. Uh, I want to be a boxer. I'm not sure why you're asking me this. . .."

"I want to be a boxer. . .but. . .I have my defense. Are you sure? This is embarrassing. Aren't there other people you could ask about this stuff? I don't see what makes me so interesting. I want to be a boxer and I fall asleep to defend myself. It usually works, okay? Can you get this stuff off me? I have things to do."

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On a Friday after school Jake approached Mr. Dempsy with a proposition: "Hey, Paul, wanna go to the gym and spar with me later?"

Paul's response was calm, but less than positive. "Jake, man, can we talk about that?"

Mr. Krantz laughed to himself in response to his sixteen year old friend and answered, "What? You sound like you're about to break up with me."   Jake's demeanor changed when he saw the unamused expression of Mr. Dempsy he then fumbled out a worried response. "Uh. . .what's up, man?"

Paul's answer was, "Man, I don't see the point. You're not gonna be a boxer. You just aren't. . .you just don't. . .you know what I mean?"

"You know, I just remembered that Karen wanted me to help her can some apples. Forget I asked. It's cool, man, don't worry about it." Mr. Krantz's cheeks visibly reddened before slapping his pal on the back and reassuring Mr. Dempsy with a half hearted, "No worries."

Asleep at all Hours

"Jake, come on, man, wake up."

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"Well, yeah, it's his dream to become a professional boxer, but. . .every time he's threatened he goes to sleep. I don't want to put down his dreams, you know. . .but he has to know it isn't gonna work out, right?" -Paul Dempsy

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Jake has a girlfriend who fully supports his dream. Karen, the aspiring boxer's girlfriend, age fifteen, enjoys canning apples as her hobby.

"Why wouldn't he be able to do it? If a cripple can win a marathon, why can't he win a boxing match? I mean, I guess it would be hard if he couldn't stay awake, but he might get a K.O. on his first punch, right?! Then he'd win!" -Karen Scott

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On a cloudy afternoon Jake Krantz and his friend Paul Dempsy were assaulted on their way home from the local library. The assault took place around 2:30 P.M. on a Saturday in November. The perpetrators were looking to confiscate the young boys' wallets. Mr. Dempsy gave the perpetrators his wallet at the first sign of trouble, but the attackers, presumably after a good time more than money physically assaulted the two boys despite already attaining their prize. The first strike directed at Mr. Krantz's abdominal region resulted in the boy's capitulation to sleep. The teenage assailants, upon seeing the boy fall to the ground, fled the scene in panic. Mr. Dempsy cleaned the blood from his battered face and moved to check on his friend, making sure not to touch, sixteen year old, Jake to be sure the boy would not shut down further. Paul attempted to awaken his friend with the words, "Jake, come on, man, wake up."

And People I knew were in the Hall

And People I knew were in the Hall

You and I were

bathing in a white

tub with green claws holding

it up. Your pants

were still on

because you’re a little self

conscious about showing

your legs to me.

I was naked,

and we were watching a movie

on the TV across from our tub.

Kissing your jawbone,

“My mom will be mad

if she walks in on us.”

You smiled with the smile

you use in devilish pleasure

rather than out of joy.

I focused on tiny, dark hairs

above your lips, and you told me,

“We’re fine.”

I got out and started

dressing.

Water sloshed from the basin

and you were out.

“Oh, hey,

I’m gonna take off.”

I became a cape

around your neck.

“You can’t leave me

now.”

And you were already

in the doorway when you said,

“But I like England;

it smells like Spain.”

Night Melting

Night Melting

Remembering real life

exists coincides with feeling

the lemony soreness

of my shoulders. Realizing

I never opened a door—one

with little turquoise

gems and gold paint

incorporated lavishly into the framework—

that led me to a stair-filled

world of demons, is exactly

the same as finding

a miniscule mound of gunk

piled in the corner of my eyes. I’m always

trading love-filled ship rides

for bright lights and bad breath.

Something Much Needed

I dreamt about my grand—

father last night.

He trembled oddly

as he hugged me. I thought

perhaps it was because

of his age, but

he seemed no older

than I ever knew him.

He was still sturdy,

round and wearing

suspenders.

I’d call him Grandpa

Malcolm if I had another

who shared his title;

just like I had a Grandma

Marie and

Grandma June.

But there was never a reason

to do the same for him.

And when he died

I stopped talking

about him altogether.

Not that I spoke

of him much in his

life.

But I’m certain

there’s something bringing

him back. Because I

never knew him, never

received his sagely

advice, I must have

called for his hug

in some way.