Childhood Photograph

Good Morning, I apologize for only posting once this week. I’m currently updating the entire blog and thus had time for only one post this week. I decided to write a story about someone finding a childhood photograph. It’s not complete, obviously, but I like where it’s going and decided to continue this story and will publish the final product on Friday. Here, you can see where I made small notes and such. I think it’s important to not get hung up on the details unless finding them fun to explore.  Enjoy the Rough Draft!

ditch  I found this picture in a box my mother packed between a toaster oven and white bed sheets. She gave me back a whirlwind of memories getting lost in the woods that stood on the outskirt of Lawnwood, Florida. Small kid faces the color of cream and peanut butter wrapped themselves around my heart. I suddenly longed for my old friends despite leaving them for newer ones. Harold, Chloe, Mark, and I all shared something inerasable despite wanting to live somewhere else: our childhood.

I would have lived anywhere else back then if given the chance. However, my parents moved to Lawnwood to get away from city life and thus ended up in a town of ten-thousand people. I met Harold and Mark Cliffhanger first when they moved in next door to me on Loving Street. Everyone at school made fun of us for living on “wussy” street, except Chloe Belle.

“I want something pretty like that one day,” Chloe said to us on the bus one day. Mark and Harold sat behind Chloe and me. We all ended up together because of our last names and the bus driver’s fondness for an alphabetical seating chart.

A Ditch <<< The Childhood Memories Happen Here

My childhood friends and I climbed into them, gathering black dirt underneath our fingernails, and pretending to live in the forest like elves. We conducted leaves into king sized piles that we slept on and cooked with. The forest became a home away from all the chaos that filled our houses back in Lawnwood. We built orange pine needle towers that warded us against evil witches that liked to hunt children at night. We helped one another learn to ride broomsticks, sometimes falling ten feet from a pine tree branch. Harold never got the hang of landing on one’s feet ever since his brother Mark pushed him, expectantly, off a three-foot ladder.

“We’ll try again tomorrow,” I always told Harold after picking him up off the ground. Harold, a short kid with plump cheeks, nodded and went to help Chloe cook dinner. Chloe, a brown girl with pink ribbons in her hair, waved a palm frond over a pile of brown leaves.

The forest held many secrets that no one knew about except for us, a band of eight-year-old-kids. During this time, I already knew that something felt different about me aside from my shy nature. Whenever other kids approached my friends they often accepted them whole-heartedly. If someone approached me though they often stayed standing a few feet away, as if I had some kind of disease.


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

Boy Girl Attraction


I am not old enough to cross the street by myself yet. My brother walks me to the community center along with three other boys. We carry bags of candy on this holiday when anyone can dress up like a girl and no one will think twice about the decision. No one will wonder if that person prefers girls or boys. Instead, everyone will just take a good look and laugh at the drag queen. Except me.

The boy in front of me looks like a real girl. Long greasy black locks of hair sweep past my face as he turns his head around. He talks to another boy. My brother arrives at a gate and opens it up for the rest of us. A crowd of teenagers surround the pool deck but I keep my eyes on the greasy black mop in front of me. I like the way they look. I like the way they seem so different from everyone else in their halloween costumes. I, myself, am dressed in nothing more than a black t-shirt and jeans.

Perhaps, we have something in common. I think as the other boys lay across an empty pair of lounge chairs. I take a seat next to the boy-that-looks-like-a-girl. His face glows white from all the makeup. Except, their lips that look as dark as the night air that surrounds us. My heart beats heavily against my chest.

I never knew what the word “attraction” meant up until this moment. Whenever my parents tease me about a “girlfriend” they entertain the idea of a girl falling in love with me. Or at least liking me. Whenever anyone else teases me about this they entertain the idea that girls like me at all. However, the girls in my class treat me like another girlfriend. During recess they permit me to talk about the boys on the playground. They allow me to give them advice about which boy would best suit them for a elementary school relationship; a kind of romance that two members of the opposite sex engage themselves in during  class projects, lunch table seating arrangements, and games at recess.

For example, when Travis and Samantha got together they chose each other for everything. During gym class he picked her first for his volleyball team before choosing me, his best friend. I wanted to hit him with a ball but he chose me next.

For example, Andres and Jennifer preferred to sit together at lunch. But the rules of the school were that only an even number of boys and girls could sit at the table. So if one of them came in late then another boy or girl would trade seats so that the two could sit together. I wanted to remain in my seat sometimes but removed myself out of civil manners.

For example, boys chased girls on the playground but I never wanted to chase girls so I found a hole to dig. I kept digging until the bell rang. I would much rather involve myself with dirt than hormones. Except for this Halloween, when I found myself asking this strange boy-that-looked-like-a-girl questions.

“Do you like to read?” I say to him. He turns his beautiful white face in my direction. He answers. I ask another question. He answers again. This exchange of words goes on and on until they leave. I cannot believe how lucky I am to feel normal for once. That I finally entered the game of sexuality.

“You know that’s a boy, right?” my brother asks. He is sitting with the other boys, laughing. I bite my lip. My hope is lost. My revelation is snuffed out with these words. I am still just alone.

“Yeah,” I say but my voice feels deflated. I no longer feel the longing to talk to the boy/girl or anyone else. I would much rather go dig a hole somewhere. I would much rather burry my loneliness than to sit around here looking foolish. Because everyone else saw it except for me.

Happy Halloween.


The Aftertaste of a Dream


Four years ago I got rejected from art school in New York City. The experience left me stranded in the middle of Florida with two best friends. We gathered our strength together in order to help one another. A flock of hands lifted one us out of a broken heart and into the art studio, where they learned to give into their emotions with by studying them. A flock of hands pulled one of us away from a small town, where everyone believed that a medical degree led to happiness, and into the vibrant city of Orlando. Each of them found a way to believe in themselves again while I wondered where to start.img-thing.jpeg

I switched majors, from art to writing, but still felt aimless. New York City no longer appealed to me since Orlando became my home. Its craft coffee shops, literary clubs, and hipster bars resonated with my need for culture. I no longer felt the craving to taste other cities, but I still craved a dream.

One of my friends went on to graduate and moved to a different state. The other one got married and continues to study art at the same university that I attend. We still help one another get through the hard times. Although, not all hard times call for the attendance of friends. For example, I felt the bitter taste of rejection the other night and thought of New York City. After several seconds it dissolved into something sweet. My teeth grinded against one another in anticipation for the next sample of rejection. I needed to taste something like it again. Maybe I’ll go to grad school. Maybe I’ll intern at a radio station. Either way I need a dream again.

A Completed Story


I started calling myself a writer this year. It happened after completing a short story. The two paragraphs explained how an alcoholic journalist could reconcile his addiction with art. Instead of drinking to forget about the past he painted it. This led him to a community where people use art to make political statements. In the end, he uses them to become mayor of a small town in Orlando.

This story made me feel good, like it healed a wound or cooled a burn inside. My fingers stopped twitching throughout the day. A story laid behind them now. They could carry on with their daily tasks while I thought up new ideas. A planet called California that harbored an evil stepmother. Mermaids that ate pizza. These things I looked forwards to the same way a runner looks forward to their next marathon. I am a writer.

The Pie Hole

IMG_2308I’m sitting in a Pie Shop with a cup of coffee, a time of the day when all my best ideas are sleeping. They curl against the corners of my mind like cats do in their favorite parts of the home. Some have chosen the bedroom where I store my most intimate memories.

One of them is of an ex-boyfriend that turned on the radio before taking a shower. He called me in, took my hand, and we danced. I remember my naked tummy wiggling against his before spinning around. It was one of the most joyful experiences I’ve ever had with a lover.

I’ve kept that moment underneath the bed in a shoebox. Next to it a sleeping cat lies. If I woke it then maybe a story about two boys that snuck around town in search of places to kiss would unravel. Some of the strands have sewn themselves into Closet Case posts. However, finding a new purpose for this memory will take work.

I’m a writer that’s in their infancy stage. Moments like this, coffee and pie, is the time that I like to reflect on my aspirations. They are lying all over the place but part of finding them is by looking back on old times. I think that what I have to gain this time from reflecting is that I love writing love stories.

Two people that are solely themselves when apart, but combine to make an ultimate personality. That’s what I like to read about.

Until next time,


2015 Bulletin Board



Thank you for coming back.

  • Since that time I’ve completed two college courses and am ready to start blogging again. I stopped writing it because I was concerned about its content. While my stories may have been entertaining they weren’t always truthful. Truthful to me means a direct play-by-play without any opinionated words to describe people. This is impossible for me to do so I must change the content of which I write.
  • Literary Theories, Paintings, Artists, and Music are just a few things that interest me. I love these things because of their impressions on culture. People can carry away many interpretations from just a single art piece. Yet, they aren’t always willing to share that influence with others. I’m one of those people because often times I feel overlooked. I am a seclusive person by nature but when I do speak to friends I don’t think they listen. In effort to overcome that insecurity I write.
  • I write because I want to reach people. I want to hear their opinions because that way mine can keep growing. Conversations, though, can only start after someone breaks the ice. Smash!  Maybe now we can talk about The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao or Glee. I know that they both opened up my perspective on music and internalized racism.


Morning Lion

In my bed I once awoke to find a lion sitting at the foot of it. My first instinct wasn’t to scream as perhaps someone, a less imaginative-someone, might have done. It’s golden mane was unlike any one I saw ever in my dreams. I didn’t want it to disappear so I forfeited sleep and comfort. I crawled slowly towards the beast. The bed seemed longer than I remembered it to be. Through tunnels and mountains my body tumbled. Even through an avalanche of pillows did I not take my eyes off the brilliant beast. It’s pearlescent teeth reminded me of a pirate treasure I buried beneath the ocean when still an adolescent. The closer we came together the more familiar our friendship seemed to be. I couldn’t remember the last time we met but that didn’t seem to be important. I knew that approaching it was not against the laws of nature. So I came as close to it as possible but still did not touch it, for there was still the fear of it being an illusion. I could smell oatmeal in it’s mane, the kind my father served me every morning before school. We talked for several minutes about Kindness before it reminded me that no one deserves solitude. I saw it’s paw shiver and that’s when I noticed the sun was beginning to leak through the blinds. I asked it not to go. It promised to come back. I hope so.