Commitment Problems



Good Morning,

Here I am again writing something before work. Except this time I only had half an hour to work on this piece. Ironically, this piece is about ignoring all of my other creations in favor of something new. Once again I found the picture form a random book. I think I’ll use it again as a prompt. Hope you enjoy these small exercises. Writing is a muscle that grows the more you use it. Maybe one day I’ll write something really awesome in only half-an-hour. Cheers.

As a writer, I have commitment issues with all of my creations. I ignore Essays, Poems, Short-sStories, etc. after creating them. They bang their fists against locked doors in a house with a million rooms. They want to run through hallways, screaming, letting me know they’re here. I just turn the radio up inside my laboratory downstairs.

Erratic beats fall out of speakers that hang from air vents. My fingers dance to the music, typing random words, with the hope that I’m creating something new. I hope my next creation will look thicker, taller, and more black than any of the others ones. I want something meaningful to live with me, here.

The house shakes despite the calm wind blowing from the Atlantic Ocean. I built this place as a sanctuary for my art. Walls cave in on certain rooms where Poems live. Red emotions pour out into the hallway. I don’t hear the slow rushing sound of beauty and keep working. A slow rhythm works itself into my body,


Where’s Charlie?

where's charlie? ?

Where’s Charlie?

Good morning,

I’m starting a new writing series for myself. Writing for me usually happens in the early morning, before work. I only have an hour to create something but the writer in me wants to share these rough drafts and short stories. So while the following story is incomplete, I did take immense joy and crafting it.

I found this photograph in a book found sitting in Stardust Cafe. It inspired me to write a short piece with the spirit of it in mind. The following is a short story about Cassidy and Michael, two teenagers, that are caught with their pants down, literally.

People always ask writers, “Where do you get your ideas from”. Writers never know where they get their ideas from. Stories happen the way some people fall in love and other people get into fights. The chemistry just feels right. So while I wanted to write a story about some lady dancing in the middle of a club, what I got instead, was a story about two teenager.

Inspiration is a good-bag full of unknown treasure. I hope you enjoy.


Michael and I stood in the center of our Penbrook High’s cafeteria with our shorts pulled down. A hundred other teenagers laughed and pointed at our muscular legs. We both ran track but couldn’t move out of fear of tripping over ourselves. Instead, Michael held my hand and waited for the laughter to die down.

Michael, a brown boy with two green eyes, made me feel more alive than any race or spelling-bee. Right then, with pants on the ground, my entire body felt warm like a fire rose from between the floor’s wood panels. Would he take me down to that special place in the basement where all boys and girls go to make out?

“We got to get out of here,” Michael said to me, interrupting my fantasy. The school’s dead, a tall thin woman in blue, waved her hands at the crowd surrounding us. In a matter of minutes, Michael and I found ourselves sitting in the Dean’s office, wrapped in blankets that smelled like my grandmother’s basement.

“What were you two thinking? Intimidating the other students like that. Don’t tell me you weren’t Cassidy Day.” the Dean said to me. I wanted to tell her that, yes, we pulled down our own pants but in the spirit of protest since the other kids kept making fun of Michael for wearing the same cut-off jeans to school everyday. The Dean shook her head and sighed.

“It was my fault,” Michael said. I opened my mouth to speak but Michael grabbed my hand again. Again I wanted to know if he felt the same as I did. Did he obsessively think about the time we TP’d Melissa French’s house last Halloween? He wanted to get back at her for making fun of my singing voice in Church Choir. I never had someone stand up like that for me before.

“Shut up, Michael,” I said and took my hand out from his. “I’m not letting you take the blame when I’m the one who thought it would be funny to pull down your pants. You see, I only did that because the other kids dared me too. Well once I saw how poor Michael was blushing I just couldn’t let him stand there by himself. Please, Dean, don’t punish the victim.” I said and took a deep breath. The Dean looked us both over with two gray eyes. My body shook from her cold hard look.

“Get out of here,” the Dean said and pointed to the door. “Be sure to give those blankets back to the Gym. They need them for the basketball game later. Boy can those kids sweat.”


Michael and I walked back to the gymnasium at the opposite end of the school. The hallways stood clear of any other students. I wondered how long everyone would talk about what happened in the cafeteria. How long would they keep making fun of Michael for wearing the exact same thing to school every day? Why did it matter to them? But more importantly, why did he mean so much to me? We only met last year in homeroom. He offered a pencil to me and then off we went to each other’s houses, parties, after-school activities, etc.

“What else do we need for the trip?” Michael said to me. His high-pitched voice echoed between the lockers and linoleum floor. He sounded like a bird that used to live outside my bedroom window.

“Nothing. We’re all set. We leave at two tomorrow. I’m so excited. Never seen the ocean before.” I said, still thinking about the bird that my dad shot, eventually, for waking him up in the morning.

“Are you sure you can sneak away for a couple of hours?” Michael said, folding over the towel in his hands. He looked worried despite my reassurances. Dad slept until noon most days, especially Saturdays, and wouldn’t wake so long as Michael did come into the house and start talking.

“Besides,” I said, “even he did wake up he wouldn’t check on me until like, that night.” We walked through the gymnasium doors and handed the towels back to Ron, the gym teacher.

“Heard about the thing today,” Ron said, squeezing his eyebrows together. He only ever squeezed his brows together when he disapproved of something like my high-jumps or Michael’s starting position in track. “Care to explain?”

I shook my head.

Erasing Dreams (Draft)

Good Evening, I hope you are all doing well. It’s been a while since I’ve posted anything but here it is: a rough draft. A rough draft is something I’m learning to take pride in. Like an ornament on a Christmas Tree, it is something that makes the masterpieces all the more beautiful once they’re finished.

I never knew about outer-space until someone erased all dreams from the canvas. A white archway hangs over my head. I pass by it every day, traveling to a red garden, and make a wish. Someday someone will know my journey to a familiar place. They’ll sit down on stone benches standing around a blue fountain bubbling up brown coins. I toss another a penny into water. Abraham stares through me and into an orange sky.

Birds call out into the abyss that surrounds us. Their shrill voices reach into the garden. Leaves press away from the green carpet that my bare feet rest on. I want to leave this Earth and find another if another one exists. This place pushes me out through the archway with one warm breath.

I stare into a melting pot of orange feathers. A cold marble top presses into my palms. I kneel over the kitchen counter, staring at all the ingredients, hoping that this will all turn out fine…

By Ben G.

Listening to: “Arisen My Senses” by Bjork

By BoyKitsch Posted in Drafts