Posts Tagged ‘writing’

It’s A Living

Becoming a professional writer has been a dream of mine for a long time.

Thanks to the wonder of the internet, that dream has come true.  The Examiner is a news website that hires locals to report on particular subjects of varying topics.  And you get to choose your topic.  One person might be a film examiner.  Another can be a Playstation 2 examiner.  I’m a little confused as to the specificity of some of the examiners.  Does the world really need semi-daily updates on hack ‘romance novels’ for vampire emo fetishists? Probably not.  But more power to you, whoever you are.  I’m sure you serve a purpose.

Currently I am the New Orleans Comic Book Examiner.  I’m still trying to find my voice on it.   We’re supposed to present our articles as Journalists would, rather than bloggers.  Which is fine, though I don’t really think it counts. To me, a blog is about your feelings and the things going on in your life.  When you’re speaking on a subject, even editorialized, it’s an article.   Then again, I’m no expert.  I have noticed some of the other writers don’t seem to adhere to this very well though.   And to some degree or another my ‘voice’ will have to come into play.  Particularly with reviews; 75% of it is opinion.

I’m looking forward to making this work.   I think it will be a lot of fun.



The gun feels heavy and righteous in my hand as I stare down my enemy.  Blood flushes my system like a bullet train, punching a steady thump thump in my chest.

This is what it feels like to be alive for the first time in a long time.  This is what it feels like to find justice. No… to take justice.  The system has failed the good and decent folk of the world.  It has been twisted into a labyrinth that only serves to protect the bad people.  They kill and rape and destroy all that is good and precious in us.  And they get away with it.

Not this time.  Not this guy.  You’re not going to walk away from what you did, you son of a bitch.

I see the cold, paleness of her face everytime I close my eyes.  The scent of her perfume haunts the house.  And the child wakes up screaming for her absent Mother four times a night.  I rock her back to sleep through teary rebuttals, searching for explanations that do not come.

The sound of your muffled, gagged screams is like music in my black heart.   I am tempted to taste your salty tears, to drink your fear delicious fear. 

But I just pull back the hammer instead. The scent of gunpowder fills my nostrils, satisfying a voracious hunger.  I walk across the blood splattered floor and spit on your corpse. 

Rot in hell motherfucker.


I miss you sometimes.

Not often.  Mostly I don’t think about you, almost like I forgot.  But then I close my eyes and out of nowhere, there you are. Sometimes.  Or maybe I’ll think of a joke only you would get, and I’ll turn around to tell you… except you aren’t there.   And every girl I date.  Every woman I love.  Every lady I make love to… they all get compared to you.  And it’s the unkindest comparison.  Because as wrong as things were, they couldn’t have been much better.

I just don’t get it.  It’s not like I love you.  Not anymore.  Why is it the darkest addictions are the ones that we never really let go of?  You’re like fine cocaine, lingering in the back of my mind.

I try not to think about it.  About you.  But then I do.  And I wonder if you still think of me too?  And if you do, do you smile?  Do you reminisce?  Do you hunger?  Or do you roll your eyes and move on?

And I can’t seem to escape that.  That basic need to know.  To understand.   But I know it’s all a lie.  An excuse to pick up that phone after a few glasses of whiskey and dial that number.  The one I erased, but still lingers in the corners of my mind.  I want to make that connection.  To give it one last try, no matter how bad it ended, no matter how much I know it would just tear us apart again.

I know we shouldn’t be together, no matter how bad the addiction burns.  So I’m going to pour another glass out of this bottle. And another.  And another.  Gonna drink this whiskey like Daddy on Friday night.  And eventually, someday, maybe I’ll kill the part of me that holds on to you.


She can feel his labored breath on her skin.

It wakes her from dreams in a cold sweat.  The feeling of disgust fills her and the smell of vodka, cheap cologne and sex fills her nostrils.  With held breath, she snakes out from under Jamie’s arm until she is free of his terrible, comforting grip, held only by the familiar memory of her situation.  De ja vu is a bitch.

Erica sits upright, naked save for the dirty velvet sheets, listening to his snores.  How many times?  How many times has she been in this situation?  How many more times will she do this to herself?   ‘Never again’ she said, so many times before.   Each time with sincerity.

But then its another endless, pointless day at work.  Another phone call from home about her baby sister’s wonderful new husband.  Another bad date. Another unpaid bill. Another this, another that.  And it’s a few martini’s and a phone call. 

Jamie is familiar.  He’s good in bed and he’s there.  And for a moment… just for a moment… he’s what she needs.  She fucks him and it doesn’t feel so bad.  Even if this isn’t going anywhere, she’s greatful for the distraction.

She slips on her panties and pulls her dress over her arms and walks out the door.  Jamie never stirs. 

She’ll be back.