I was buried in a shallow grave.  A dog found me while its owner was taking him for a walk while simultaneously jogging. I could feel his wet nose press against my skin and hear his bark to his master signaling that he had found something peculiar. A quick gasp and a shout and I could tell the jogger had found me. I could hear him dialing on his cell phone telling 911 that he had found a dead body, on the jogging trail in Central Park. The sirens soon began to pierce my ears and as they got closer and closer I became anxious. I tried to speak to let them know I was in fact still alive, but no sound escaped me. I tried to move but there was nothing.

Panic set in, as I hear doors slamming and other voices I just know they would take me to the morgue thinking I am already dead. I felt a sudden heat over my face and quickly realized someone was breathing over me. I felt plastic fingers checking for a pulse and orders being shouted to get a gurney over here now. The technician’s voice soothed me as he let someone else know there was a pulse but it was thready. I could hear metal clicking together as the weight of the dirt was lifted off of me. Now exposed completely to the world I felt naked but knew help was here to help me. Pain seared my arms and legs as they very slowly lifted me out of the earth the twigs and leaves scraping my already damaged skin.

I was lifted up and then placed on something soft and comfortable. Then slammed into the back of the ambulance, my body jolted but being this close to death I no longer felt it. The siren started again as I was raced to the hospital all the while I could hear the EMT’s and what I am assuming a police officer conversing. I caught snippets of the conversation as I went in and out of consciousness. There was something about a serial killer, still on the loose, and I had been the seventh body to be found. According to the officer, I was the only one he had left alive, and judging by the way he had left me he thought I was dead.

What they do not know is that I can’t die. Something happened in the midst of my death. I stepped away from my body and as I watched the blood pour out of me and the killer smile his evil smile as he buried me in my shallow grave I was visited by an Angel. One that was there to take me away but my refusal to do so left him intrigued and so he gifted me with the ability to walk between the veil of life and death. To be able to snatch life away and bring death down upon the earth if I so chose to or vice versa. As the ambulance stopped I was rushed to the hospital soon there were needles being poked in my arm I.V. drips being added. I spent the next several weeks going in and out of consciousness waiting for the day I cold open my eyes and speak.

Today I was released, I gave my statement to the nice policeman and as I listen to them all say it was a miracle that I survived I know now why I had. I was meant for more than just being a victim. I was meant to right the wrongs, and punish those slip past the law. I was plastered all over the news so by now my, would be killer knows he fucked up. He should have really checked for a pulse before he left me there like a dog to die, and now I know his name as well. I now walk the night in the shadows of life and death, that is my purpose. I round the corner of the alley where he first grabbed, a wicked smile curves my mouth as the moonlight shines down on me. I am watching, waiting, for my murder and I whisper, in the dark “Come to me, my sweet death awaits you, and I am she!”





<a href=””>Shallow</a&gt;



I was driving back home from a doctor’s appointment this morning. I swung by McDonald’s for a cheap breakfast before heading home to shower and get ready for work. I was driving down a back road watching the light drizzle pitter patter on the windshield.  My windows rolled down,  as I have no air and even though it is raining it is still Summer. I felt a  moment of peace with the light breeze blowing through my hair, the overcast day making it just right to be outside, enjoying my drive when it hit me.

Suddenly a memory wafted through the car, just as the breeze had and a smile escaped me. I was once told that I would never be able to get behind the wheel of a car, due to my permanent disability. That was when I was 13 years old, a disability caused by repeated abuse from my mother. I was crushed heartbroken even, not to mention it is one of those things a 13-year-old isn’t even contemplating yet, and here I was being told to never even try to learn to drive. Yet, here I was this morning driving, one of my favorite things to do. Sometimes the weather is just right, the music lilting through the speaker is just right, and you just know this is as good as life can get.

This got me thinking of all the things I have been told I would never be able to do.  At one time in my life, I was pissed. Pissed that I had not even been able to make my mark on the world and here I was being told you can’t! For years this anger this, disability became my crutch. I found it was easier to give up than to try. However, this morning I was reminded that I have beat every odd set before me. Starting with my birth. I was reminded throughout all the things I was told I would never do by doctor’s, school counselors, my mother. That I have proven all of them wrong. Anything from being happily married, to holding a job, to something as simple as driving a car. I have beat all the odds stacked against me, and it makes me smile. No longer one of satisfaction in proving these people wrong, but a smile of gratification that I did not let them win.

In just over a month I will be 41, and while I started blogging just over 2 years ago, and a book on Amazon and Barnes and Noble, and another one just finished. I still have people in my life that don’t consider me a writer. Or think I do this for fun. Yes, it is true writing is fun for me but it is not a hobby. It is the thing that brings me peace. It is the thing that makes me smile in the wake of all the negativity because I know I have defeated all odds in the past and I will defeat the odds now. I spent years letting others were me down, I spent years thinking I am not good enough so why bother. I was reminded this morning that even with me letting all the naysayers win the battle, eventually I won the war with myself and proved them wrong. That is still true as I will win this war too and prove all of them wrong once again. Nothing can stop me now, but me!


According to the dictionary, TRADITION is – the handing down of statements, beliefs, legends, customs, information, etc.

It also says that TRADITIONAL is – existing in, or as part of a tradition, long-established.

Is it safe to say then that not all traditions are good? When you think of traditions being passed down from generation to generation. From family member to family member. For the most part, it is something good. It is something that builds a legacy. It is the way you were raised that you take with you and continue on. For example, the way we celebrate the holidays. How many of you out there celebrate the way you do because that is the way your parents taught you? How many of you out there say, “I do this because it is the way I was raised!” It becomes the “traditional” thing in your family and so you continue on, but like I said before not all traditions are good are they?

Like the way we see, the world, the way we speak to one another, the way we treat other people. It is all based on some sort of traditional value that you were raised with. It is up to you to break that cycle and change tradition. It is up to you to make new traditions, and it is a hard road, an uphill battle that you sometimes don’t think you can win, but it is worth it in the end.

We are always told from an early age that our parents want more for us than what they had. At least I was and yet, the bar was set pretty low. It was never about things for me. Hell, I could have lived in a shack with dirt floors for all I care. All I ever wanted was to be seen, as a person, not an obligation. A sense of self- loathing and never being loved. That is the traditional values I grew up with and carried with me into adulthood!

That is also the traditional values I have been trying to rectify ever since. You see I didn’ t grow up in a house full of warm and cozy traditions. However, I learned through all the pains of the traditions I did grow up with that it is not a tradition I wanted my kids to carry with them. What traditional values do you want to leave behind to be passed down from generation to generation?

<a href=””>Traditional</a&gt;



It was a brisk October day when he walked into my life, in Church no less. There was never any excitement in my little town. It was one of those towns where everyone knew everyone. How annoying is it that? Every little thing you do is known throughout the whole town. Cotton fields as far as the eye could see on either end, our little town was just a pit stop on the way to the big city. No one ever came here that was important, and I am sure nobody ever remembered the town name as they drove on through to their next destination.

I was Seventeen and due to having a psychotic mother, was required to bring home no less than a B in school, so of course, I was a nobody. I was a 17-year-old semi-straight A student with barely any friends, and poor to boot. I always thought if I stayed invisible no one can hurt me, no one would expect anything from me, that way no one would depend on me. I liked it that way, I learned very early on that the only person I could count on was me and me alone, that friend and friendship were just a word.

You had to earn the right to be called a friend! No one I knew fit the bill, save for one person. I was probably the only virgin in town at this rate. As true to small town’s reputation’s over half if not all the girls in my class were either pregnant or about to be.

That day everything changed, I still recall the way his bomber jacket smelled of leather and Cool Water. I loved the way it felt against my cheek when he kissed me. Every time I smell leather now I am transformed back to that day. The day he walked into my life.

It was an overcast October day, in the south, it was about as cold as it was going to get. With my light sweater and my long pink and gray dress, I looked the picture of innocence. The stupid dress even had a big pink rose right in the front. Since puberty was taking its sweet time, I still had no breasts to speak of, so the giant pink rose not only screamed “Virgin” but looked ridiculous on my chest.

I went to a Pentecostal Church so there was always a lot going on inside that place. It was the only active building in a section of buildings that once upon a time had been a small strip mall. I still to this day, do not know what those building used to be. It was set about a hundred feet from the railroad tracks. I used to think we only had Church so loud to drown out the train that passed almost every time Church was in session.

The Choir was in full swing and my best friend, my only friend (who was at least 15 years my Senior) was singing in the Choir. The small Church had a Podium, a couple of Instruments, and a tambourine, which rounded out everything on the tiny stage. The rest of the room was filled with glaring white pews about 12 in all, they smelled of old wood and fresh paint. There was a tiny Alter shoved between the first set of pews and the Podium.

It was weird because Annie and I had met in Church just in the last few months. Yes, there was an age difference and she even had a child already, but we just clicked. She had recently married the Preacher’s eldest son and even though he was a few years younger than her they fit together perfectly.

I stayed at her place a lot on the weekends due to the crazy mom syndrome I was saddled with. Not only was she physically and emotionally abusive. She had everyone that met her thinking she was the sweetest, nicest, thing ever. Coming to a breaking point, I revealed some of the craziness that I went through at home to Annie. Not only did she give me a shoulder to cry on, but she believed me!  She saw through the mask my mother put on for everyone else. She was a friend when I needed one the most, and most deserving of the word, friend.

I was watching and listening to the song she was singing when suddenly I smelled the overpowering scent of leather. I turned in my seat and there, he, was! The man that would soon change me forever! The man that would awaken every desire and fantasy I have ever had since then. He sat in the back row on the other side of the room from me. Suddenly I had these odd sensations running through my body. Was this some kind of a joke, the hottest man I had ever seen (not counting on tv) was in my nothing town, in my nothing Church, sitting there for all the world like he belonged. You know that game they used to play on Sesame Street “One of these things doesn’t belong here”. Well, he definitely did not belong.

He was all leather and all male he was the perfect description of the proverbial bad boy. As I sat there concentrating only on my breathing I couldn’t help but sneak a peek at him behind my hand. With dark brown hair and even darker eyes, he was stunning! How could everyone here just keep on singing like there was nothing going on? As if a beautiful God hadn’t just come in and graced us with his presence. I felt flushed like I was on display like I was naked and exposed. I rubbed my now sweaty palms down my dress but that just smeared sweaty streaks down the front of it. This must be where the saying “hot and bothered” comes from because I was hot and defiantly bothered.

I couldn’t concentrate, I became light headed and more aware of my body than I think I had ever been in my entire life. I became paranoid as if his stare were boring into the back of my skull. I felt a twinge of guilt for having such dastardly emotions while sitting in the house of God. Yet,  the guilt quickly dissipated in the wake of such primal urges.  I couldn’t help it I was flushed and all I wanted to do was sink into the pew and disappear. I smiled at my friend as the song ended and clapped when everyone else clapped but my mind was now churning, lost to me, thinking only of the handsome stranger in the back row. I knew something was about to change for me. Hell, even my body could feel it.


This was it the moment that would change me forever, the moment of my sexual awakening and this was only the beginning…


Her eyes were the color of passion, Yet he didn’t seem to notice when the light dimmed and the passion faded.

He used to say her hair had captured the sunshine it would gleam from all of its perfection, Yet he never really seemed to notice the moment it began to gray.

Her smile used to enrapture him and capture the world, Yet he didn’t seem to notice when it slipped away, replaced with a permanent frown.

Once upon a time she dreamed and she dreamed big, Yet he didn’t seem to notice when her dreams became nightmares, always out of reach.

She never used to cry because she was filled with joy and love, Yet he didn’t seem to notice when her constant tears stained the marital bed.

She was happy and content the day they said I do, Yet he didn’t seem to notice the moment her heart was broken in two.

She was too busy doing her duty as a wife, a mother, a lover, to really see what she had lost, Yet he never seemed to notice she had become nothing more than a maid, a babysitter, his whore.

With all the things he had forgotten to see, is it really such a surprise, he never noticed when she was gone.








We all have fantasies right?

Some more than others, I heard once that, fantasy is nothing more than an awake dream. I have fantasies all the time, mostly filthy ones, and they are harmless. We can’t help when it, when we dream what we dream and I think the same goes for our fantasies. Is it our unconscious mind trying to bring forth a part of us that doesn’t exist, yet? Or is it just a silly wish that we know will never come true? For instance, in my dreams and fantasy I am kind of a slut but in real life, I am a loving devoted wife and have been for the past sixteen years. I would never do anything to ruin my relationship but sometimes I fantasize about another life another me. One that is not bogged down with the wifely, and motherly duties I have. Is it some deep-seated craving or is it just a fantasy.

I think as humans we all wonder “is the grass really greener on the other side?” For most of us we go through life content wondering here or there but never truly acting on it. While others jump from grass to grass searching, hoping for that sweet green field. That one that is going to change them forever. I know because I too was once, one of those people, and I know until you are content with yourself. You will never find those sweet grasses.

For me just like reading a book, or dreaming, or even writing a book, I am a very visual person so my fantasies, tend to take on a life of their own. I just did a short story on my blog about a serial killer and his first kill. I could actually see the feather falling down,  the blood on his clothes, and the corpse lying at his feet. I am told that is what makes me a good writer! To be able to visualize everything so clearly. Maybe that is true, I don’t know but when I am in a fantasy I am all in. I can feel the waves of the ocean lapping at my feet, I can smell the salty air, I can see the moon mirroring himself off the sea smiling down upon me, and it is amazing. Maybe my fantasies help me to write better or maybe it is vice versa, but all I know as long as I can fantasize about whatever I want, I will write about them as well. The possibilities are endless…


What is your fantasy?