Fly Me To The Moon

Day 12 of Flash Fiction Month!

I only used one prompt today, which is:

“I was in love with a man the world did not want me to have.”

It’s a quick and silly one.

“I’m going to marry him some day.”


“The man on the moon.”

That was about how every conversation went when Millie Matherson was around.

Nobody knew when her obsession with ‘the man on the moon’ began but her parents would often joke that when she was born, she did not cry but she howled and that was on the night of the brightest full moon of that year.

From age three to twelve, she always set a place next to her on the table for tea with the man on the moon. From twelve to sixteen, the man on the moon was there to keep her company on the days she felt loneliest. Somewhere around seventeen, she started to notice the way that boys looked at her and her parents breathed a sigh of relief.

“Millie, remember the time you couldn’t stop talking about the man on the moon?” they’d laugh.

“Yeah, I remember,” she smiled.

And then life continued normally the way a normal woman’s life pans out.

That is, until Millie Matherson’s 100th birthday celebration. She was surrounded by friends and her growing family and so much love to celebrate a century of living. As they brought out the birthday cake and sang ‘Happy Birthday’, she smiled. She patiently blew all the hundred birthday candles that filled up the vanilla frosted cake one-by-one and when she blew the last one out, the room turned dark. After a few moments of fumbling about and hey-who-turned-the-lights-outs, a beam of bright yellow light shone on Millie and Millie alone. Sat in her wheelchair, her body slowly lifted up and out the front door. Some family were screaming, some friends were gasping but all Millie did was laugh.

She lifted off into the moonlit sky, bellowing from above: “See ya later, suckers!”


Flame In My Bloodstream

Day 11 of Flash Fiction Month.

Today’s challenge was “Hybrid Genres”. I had to choose two genres and write in a non-linear narrative style. I chose Western & Slice of Life.

The prompts I used: 

“He was a bastard and a drunk, but he was her only hope.”

S.O.B.” by Nathaniel Rateliff & The Night Sweats
Jolene” by Ray LaMontagne

This is my favorite one I’ve written so far. 

As fist connected to jaw with a crackle and a crunch, Ray was home at last.

Word got around that a bandit died with a smile on his face. Some say he was mad, others say he died doing what he loved. Most folk believed that his poor unfortunate soul had finally found the peace he’d been searching for his whole life; a real redemption story.

Do bandits go to heaven?

He was twenty-six when he first met Jolene. She was a real angel. She lit a fire in men who weren’t too deserving of her love and Ray was one of them.

He sits at the bar holding his whiskey drink and takes a sip. His throat burns the way his soul did when he’d first kissed Jolene. He chuckles when he thinks about the way she pushed him away. Was it the way the hair on his face prickled her delicate ivory skin? Or was it the stench of alcohol that stained his tongue ever since he was a boy of sixteen? It was hard to tell then and now it was just a memory.

His momma was a real angel too. She had fiery red hair that went along with her fiery spirit and when that fiery spirit got out, she’d earn herself another fiery brand on her skin. Ever the momma’s boy, he’d run to her side trying to cool her down and sometimes he’d get caught in the crossfire. “Boy, you got your momma’s spirit,” she’d say to him. “Ain’t nothing getting in the way of your fire.”

Maybe that was why Ray loved that fiery sensation burning in his throat and through his whole body every time he took a sip.

Jolene’s fire burned blue. She was the type that you love loving until she disappeared on you like a will-o’-the-wisp. He found her face down in a ditch near this very saloon two years back after a fight had broken loose.

It was too late for him to do anything so he poured himself another one.



Day 10 of Flash Fiction Month.

The prompts I used today are:

Dictionary Prompt: exigent (adj.) – requiring immediate action or aid; urgent; pressing.

Flashback Prompt: The universe ended ages ago, but everything in it keeps going. 

Standard Prompt
It’s time for the annual sacrifice to the garden gods, the petunias are looking peaky.

Audio Prompt
Breezeblocks by alt-J

Visual Prompt
Endless Sands

Maybe it was a long time ago. Maybe it came to be.

He was the last man. Agonized from the lonely path he walked, he wanted to perish, he wanted to be with his brothers and sisters. But she would not let it be.

Every fatal step he took, she was moss to pillow his feet. With every cut and bruise he endured, she was water to ease his pain. Whenever he hungered, she bore fruit. On every sleepless night, she was a light shower to sing him to sleep.

When he wanted to die, she breathed life into his lungs.

“Why do you keep me here?” he exclaims desperately to the great unknown.

She answers with a soft breeze that caresses his body and sends a light shiver down his spine.

“Please. Let me go.”

She answers with a single droplet that falls gently down his cheek.

He falls to his knees and takes a deep breath. With an exhale, he dies.

It is an exigent matter that she saves his dying breath.

She readies herself for a storm. It lasts for moments that cannot be defined. The winds rage and she expels all the dead things up from within her core. With a sudden gust, his body explodes, releasing new life. She begins to create.

Maybe it was a long time ago. Maybe it came to be.


The Viewfinder

He looked through the black viewfinder you would find at some scenic place. It was his idea that on his first date with the woman he met at the book store they’d visit the carnival passing through town. He saw this tent and excitedly dragged her along with him. She did not see the appeal of investigating a black tent with a lone black viewfinder in it.

He pulled back from the viewfinder. “You have got to try this!”

“What did you see?” she asked.

“I won’t tell you,” he said giddily like some school boy about to play the nastiest prank on someone. “You’ll have to find out for yourself.”

She shrugged and stepped in front of the black viewfinder that had “See your DEEPEST and DARKEST fears!” written with the type of squiggly lines you’d only ever find at a haunted mansion. She was nervous; she was easily spooked. For one last time, she looked at him still all smiles, and past him to the excitement of the bustling crowd outside the small tent they were standing in, reminding herself that she needed to loosen up and relax.

“Here goes nothing.”

She looked through the black viewfinder and found herself standing in the middle of an empty street. She could see her hands and her feet and found this a little odd. She didn’t make a big deal out of it but merely thought: technology these days.

The street was empty but the buildings surrounding it seemed emptier, if that were even possible. She walked straight ahead for there was nowhere else to turn which became boring soon enough that it was getting time to end this silly endeavor. She tried to pull herself away from the black viewfinder but hadn’t a clue how. Thinking that perhaps she had to walk back to her starting position, she turned back and started walking and walking until everything looked the same as it did in the other direction. She began to panic.

“Hello?” she cried out.

The doors on the buildings surrounding the street all opened at once and she gasped, holding her hands to her head instinctively. The doors compelled her to enter them. It didn’t matter to her which one she picked, she still felt ridiculous about the situation and increasingly alarmed. But perhaps this strange place was showing her the way out.

She entered the nearest door on her left. It was a room covered with mirrors and nothing more. Some were cracked and some were intact but they all seemed to be covered in a thin layer of dirt or steam or something because she couldn’t see herself clearly in any of them. She left the room and as she did, she pulled back and saw her date standing next to her.

“So did you see it? It’s funny, right?” he chuckled.

“What’s funny about mirrors?”

He was confused so he leaned in on the black viewfinder and laughed.

“You know, I don’t think you were looking properly,” he said. “Try again and this time, really look.”

She didn’t know if she wanted to go back to that creepy empty street but apparently there was supposed to be something very funny in there. Somewhere.

She looked through the black viewfinder again and entered another door. It appeared to be a bar and in the middle of the room there was a woman wearing clothes that looked very familiar. The woman stood with her arms crossed and a very stern look on her face. She noticed there were men sitting all around the bar, faceless. Still, she had a sense that they were all engrossed with the woman in the middle of the room. The woman walked towards the bar and ordered herself a drink, all the while the faceless men mirroring their heads to the way she moved. The woman didn’t seem to care or notice all the attention she was being given but simply flipped her hair carelessly when a man at the furthest corner of the room hissed at her. Then the man next to him did the same until like a chain it spread through the room. She was surprised at the calm that the woman was exuding as the hissing became louder and louder. Then all at once the faceless men faced her and hissed with even more acid than before. She turned and ran for the door.

“That was not fun,” she said as she found herself staring at the black viewfinder.

“What do you mean? It’s hilarious!”

“No, I just want to go. This place is giving me the creeps.”

He rolled his eyes. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those people who are afraid of clowns? Come on, that is such a cliché!”


“Yeah, that dancing clown. He’s like this –” he wiggled his hips and waved his arms around his head. “Man, I love carnivals.”

She looked around making sure that they were still standing underneath the black tent. There was a breeze outside and it created waves on the fabric of the tent as if things were lurking outside of it. She shivered.

He noticed. “Look, why don’t I go get us something hot to eat. Maybe you’re hungry or something.”

“You’re just gonna leave me alone here? In this creepy tent?”

“You’re overreacting.” He turned to leave, “I’ll be back in a few. You better be laughing or smiling or something when I get back.”

She grimaced. She wanted to get out of this black tent and rejoin all the normal people outside but she knew from the look in his eyes that he wouldn’t let up until she came out just as self-content as he was.

She wandered back into the black viewfinder and heard a faint little song coming from a door to her right. She recognized that the room was her bedroom. As she stepped through, the door closed and disappeared. She cursed under her breath then swivelled and banged against the wall. The door did not reappear.

She felt a deep dark dread run down her spine as she turned to face a large pile of books in the middle of the room in a burning pyre. She recognized the titles as the texts slowly burned away. The room started to vibrate and move. The walls were pushing everything towards the middle, pushing her towards the funeral pyre. She clung to the wall behind her for dear life, kicked and beat at it for the door to appear again but it was just a wall now. And as the flames engulfed her body along with everything else in the room that she had ever owned, she slowly pulled herself away from the black viewfinder.

She looked back at her date now holding two steaming cups of something, spit a nasty word at him, and stomped off the tent.

He followed but not without looking around the tent one last time trying to decipher what exactly it was that made her uncomfortable. He shrugged and came to the conclusion that the only logical explanation was that she just hated clowns or color or joy itself because there was nothing creepy to him about a multicolored tent with a sign hanging outside that says, “World’s Smallest Dancing Clown!”



I have been picked up by the winds
And the raging motion of the tides
Burdened by the cargo I carry inside
This fortitude of guts and skin
Let’s retrace these routes
In retrospect but never gesticulate

Stand on the stern
Watch as the waters foam below you
Or abide by the bow
Feel the winds of change dry your vision
The resistance which pushes me forward

I will protect your weight
As it descends the spiral staircase
Into the heart of the hold
Wherein lies a mountain
Covered but alive
I ask that you rest your head
And your body against the dirt
For I will keep it warm for years
As it will keep me moving
On and onward

I may never see the end of the horizon
The straight lines turn to peaks and ridges
Before I am fully submerged by the weight
The weight of rainwater gathered on deck
The weight of your body
And the flag you planted on the summit
That piece of grounded earth
In this moving vessel

So let’s sail
You and I
Heart and head
Love and dread
Let the waters wear us down

I realize I have been absent for far too long on WordPress and I sincerely apologize for that. I’ve just been very much preoccupied with my art over on Deviant Art and my music on Soundcloud. Feel free to check those out if you want.

I’ll be posting an art dump soon and hopefully writing a letter to the Universe so stick around for that!

As always, have a wonderful day.

Echo out.



I didn’t love him. But what is love to a body untouched,
Unsoiled by men that only exist in dreams
Whose hands embrace a ghostly visage and an empty rib cage.
And that was the time. Wasted in dream existence.
I didn’t love him but I could have. And then
I couldn’t have.
It was the bitter-sweetness, that acidic battery of L-words
That burned the insides of our mouths.
That burned the insides of my ears with his voice.
I didn’t love him and yet there’s this fire
Glowing within the joints of my elbows and knees,
Flushing across my neck, my ears, my face,
Burning where my chin rests on my chest.
It’s a slow burning rage.
How dare you.
How dare you.
And the written pages exist still in some vortex that’s intangible;
Intangible like you and those toxic words and my sympathy.
I breathed you in like I breathe you out now:
In a moment.

In a moment I will forget the exact soliloquy,
That self-righteous, self-loathing mocktail you spat in my face.
Because it was water and I’m liquid smooth.
And I chose to sink in your ocean because I told you
Que sera, sera.
A ceramic mask was on my face and you chipped away a piece
Only to find that underneath I was too fluid for your solid nature.
So you left me one piece less.

And in its place sprung a fatuous F-word.
Neverwas and nevermore.

This moment I will remember:
For once the clouds around your red eyes couldn’t see
And I saw right through your essence of supreme clarity.

I couldn’t love you.
Because I sold you and you sold me
Under the starless tree.

And that’s the end of that.


Dear Universe #6

Dear Universe,

It’s been a while since I last wrote you. Everything’s been a bit hazy since then. I’ve produced painting after painting, the final exam results came out and they were kickass, I made a few videos that I will cringe at for eternity, I’m socializing in the real world step by tiny step, and today you really had my back. I believe in you, dear Universe. I love you to bits.

Dear June 3rd,

You were the day I started talking to someone so wonderful and smart. Something finally stirred inside this rickety chest of mine and it gave me beautiful hope for the future.

Dear June 7th,

You were the day I realized someone was too far away. You were also the day I was wide awake in church because my thoughts were so preoccupied. On a day kept aside for faith, I also doubted heavily and I should have known right then and there.

Dear last week of June and first week of July,

Thank you for completely stripping the nerves off my body. I had the revelation that friend-zones aren’t always the worst. And despite the feelings that died away, which my white blood cells fought to extinction, I continued talking to someone because someone was fascinating and funny. But the dick jokes and sexual overtones were sickening me. And when someone’s smoke high got the best of him, tried to push me away, I should have sped off. Godspeed, my child.

Dear July 16th,

You were a weird morning. I could feel that someone was nitpicking for an out and someone got it; over a ridiculous assumption a week after someone said, “you don’t know me.” Well, YOU don’t know me.

I never said anything, never wanted to assume anything of you but since you’ve started it, here goes:

Maybe grow up and stop smoking so much. Maybe cut the crap yourself about art and its pretentions. Maybe if you really were indifferent and you didn’t care, you’d shut up about it. The iteration and reiteration of not caring is caring. Maybe stop talking about dicks and vaginas. Maybe spend less time on a site full of teens and preteens without actively contributing yourself because you sounded exactly like a twelve-year-old at the end there. Maybe shove your conspiracies up your ass once in a while.

But I kept my mouth shut and let someone finish a – most likely – smoke high rant. Essence of supreme clarity, I call it.

And I was so fucking happy it was over. There was my one and a half month of something new and exciting in a single click of the “Remove” button. So long sucker. Now I can finally sleep without the anxiety of waking up to someone who makes me doubtful of myself.

I never said anything with a double-meaning. And I told someone I would never do that. But still, that someone assumed too much.

And then you, July 16th, you beautiful heart you, you (I know that’s a lot of you’s) had my back. In the midst of the confusion and utter disbelief on my part, you surprised me with a lot of love on something I put my heart into. And my hope grew stronger.

Sincerely, Grateful for the experience and the memories

Dear She,

You were a short story I’ve spent the most time working on. You took me a while to finish but the payoff was and is amazing. You are a short story about my parents’ love and about the things I want to look for and avoid in love. And it hurt my heart and soul to write you. But today, you were featured on an art website (you can probably guess which site since I mention it in my Art section A LOT), and now more and more people are reading about my love. And I am so thankful that during a time of uncertainty and just bizarreness, you were there to hold my head in place.

Sincerely, Grateful to the end

Dear Art and Music,

Thanks for sticking by my side day and night. Maybe our search for something deeper in you is futile because it all comes down to a deep and never-ending black pit called Death but I refuse to believe in a life wasted just because there’s something ugly waiting at the end of the tunnel. And perhaps no one will ever see your art or listen to your music; that is no reason not to create. We leave a part of our souls in everything we do, even in the boring things like mathematics and your grandpa’s old war stories, and we connect. Nothing shows hope and connection better than Woolf’s Mrs. Dalloway. Those are the values I live by. Superficial or not, I am stuck with you.

Sincerely, Grateful to humanity

Today’s letter has been a bit hard and a lot easy to write. I’m glad we could talk about, Universe. Until next time.

Yours Truly, Echo