Most recently published stories in Humans.
As a middle-aged man sifted through a drawer of junk, he grazed something cool and smooth tucked along the bottom. With familiarity his hands withdrew a little black notebook worn from use. The pages were tattered some with coffee stains and others with salt from the ocean. There was a spark in his eye as he perused doodles, impressions, fears and woe. In that moment, he could feel just how taxing it was to save for the engagement ring and cash flow for the wedding. As he turned the page, he chuckled at the outlandish claim, “World’s Greatest Pilot!” Knowing full well, he had flown only a few hundred hours. A few pages further, there was a long-forgotten mistake that nearly cost him everything. Under his breath he muttered, “Why did you have to be so proud?”
With One Sentence
I opened my eyes when the bus came to a halt, a quick peek out the window told me we hadn't reached my stop yet. I sighed, when I get my own vehicle I'll laugh at the bus as I pass it by. No more praying I had made enough tips to cover my bus fare. No more waiting in the rain or in the snow, just getting to where I want to be when I want to get there. I looked at the group of girls getting on, they were the loud giggly type and I couldn't help but roll my eyes. No more gossip girls. I reached for my bag next to me and saw a little black book peaking out from underneath it. It wasn't mine. I looked around seeing if anyone was watching me, everyone was sitting forward. I guess someone left it before I sat down? I shook my head, that was impossible. I always check both seats before I sit down. I've sat myself or my bag in something nasty one too many times. This was definitely not here before. On closer inspection it wasn't anything special. I shook it upside down... nothing fell out, but the sentence on the first page caught my eye.
I'm Happy that Song Ended
Note to the reader: The following songs might not be the Anti-Valentine songs that you are expecting to hear. In my past relationships, I would always hear people ask me:
Little black book of good fortune
Each day at the same hour, Meems and Janice walked the stairwell for an hour briskly up a floor, then across the hallway, down another stairwell, and across to the other stairwell for about 100 times; chatting and amusing each other throughout. Conversations would range from the romance in their lives, the travel to a Mexican resort, to raising the kids and setting expectations. Meems was a mother of three, a 13, 11 and 10 year old - Anya, Blake, and Kari. Her husband had passed away two years prior and she was involved with a kind and loving man who was 16 years her senior.
I used to be a cop, but you wouldn’t guess that from looking at me now. It was 34 years ago. My dried, splitting skin and thin, oil-soaked hair makes it look much further in the past.
Writing Prompts for the Week
Every writer struggles with writer’s block. Sometimes they just don’t have a fresh idea in mind, other times, they’re in the middle of writing a story but don’t know where to take it. Other writers don’t run out of ideas, but love being challenged. And some writers simply like variety.
I hate that you’re occupying my brain. Consuming my thoughts. The good times haunt me as if they were real. My heart is begging me to stop the replay but my mind won’t quit. Your world was illuminated so much that you never noticed the shadows. You never saw me. You never saw the hurt you caused from your form of cruel love. What I wanted was pure. No amount of money could ever buy the things I wanted or needed from you. It seemed so easy to give, yet the struggle to make you understand was unbearable. Your words hurt more than the physical abuse, when I tried to walk away you tried to still take you thought was yours. I just wanted you to love me. I just wanted you to care about me. I didn’t want to just fade away but when it was happening you didn’t even notice. You weren’t there when I needed you, you were only there when it was convenient for you. I always thought that if and when I gave you what you wanted that you would appreciate me, respect me and yes finally, love me. I don’t know how I could be so wrong, I don’t know how I could have mistaken your grooming me for love. I should have saw it coming - I guess it’s true what they say, Love is blind.
Without Bad Luck, I Would Have NO LUCK AT ALL
When it comes to bad luck, I would have no luck at all. An analogy always associated with me...as well as "Always Angel" these type of quirky sayings have always made its way in my life. It makes me wonder if the universe truly has it out for me. I am at the budding age of 48, mother of three and yes, you would think I have myself together. Well, that is truly not the case. I make it in life out of hard work for others and no dedication to myself. I never understood what, in my way of thinking do I find this "hamster on a spinning wheel" process a good one. But, if it ain't broke, dammit don't fix it is my Golden Rule!
Rejection has been a challenging topic for me since November 2019. I‘ve dealt with a lot of rejection which I will eventually go into in this story, for someone who takes things very personally and gets emotional about things. I take rejection quite personally, too personally.
Little Black Book
Blake is having a bad day. He not only lost his job as a deli-worker an hour ago but when he went back to his apartment, he gets evicted due to black mould growing in the walls. He’s got no one to go to and no prospects. Now he is sitting in a used bookstore called “The Next Page” having a cup of coffee with the last $2.00 to his name. He shakes his head, puts his hand to his forehead and sighs. Desperate, alone, and depressed, he doesn’t know what he is going to do.
The Notebook of Hemingway Laurels-Bright
Ralph the Rascal had lived on the street for most of his life, and he was good at it. He was good at many things: he could read tarot cards, play the guitar and inspire hope in just about anybody. Ralph would say ‘the day you lose hope is the day you lose the war.’ He had been in the war and he knew a thing or two about that. He knew a thing or two about losing hope too. Hope is the human pilot light and it must keep burning against the dark.
“Say what, now?” I stared at the man. He was unremarkable. Brown hat, brown eyes, brown coat, brown shoes. In the dim light of the tube station, If he had walked past me, I would hardly have noticed him.