by Jason E. Hodges
Bells chime softy overhead
I V’s drip silently across the room
Drip with drops of crystal like hope
Hope that you will live through the night
These drops move like swans
Like Plush-Feathered-Swans floating atop the glass like lake of better tomorrows
I’m sleepy now, but I can’t sleep at all
As the clock ticks off yet another hour
The mechanical lungs breath in perfect rhythm
Graceful they look pushing your chest up and down
Keeping you alive at least for the moment
They work all through the night never missing a beat
Breathing
In and out, in and out
Floating you through to the next day
Then back into the night
And the swans keep falling
Dripping like diamonds
Making their way into your veins
Thirty hours have passed
And there’s still no end in sight
And the bells keep chiming
Sounding off that all is okay
For now it is early morning
Or early night
It’s hard to tell at this point
For this room is covered in darkness
As dark as a Night Rose glowing dull in the moonlight
And the swans keep falling as I close my eyes for the night
While the Angel of Death sits doing his crossword
Patiently waiting for your name to be called
Showing posts with label Jason E. Hodges. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Jason E. Hodges. Show all posts
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
Sunday, December 18, 2011
Mermaids and Curses
by Jason E. Hodges
Walking where water once stood
Where waves once crashed with power on the shoreline
All, now sea land, as far as my eye can see
Littered with twisted bits of coral and shell
For the tides have pulled out to the dark depths of the ocean
The Shoals, spotted smears of soft salty sand cushion my feet
As I walk out on what was once called bottom
I see, sea creatures swirling and trapped in puddles
In this place that’s only here for an hour
Suddenly, I hear a faint cry in the distance
My steps move toward what’s now turned to hypnotic singing
Then I see her, in all of her beauty, trapped in a small pool of holding
Half woman, half fish
Her eyes blue as sky-crystal-cloud-burst
Her lips red and full with temptation
Golden hair draped softly over her breast
Her singing seemed to hold me in place
Her words begged me to stay
Then the tides water starts to flow in around me
Faster, and faster
I struggled to walk with all of its rising
I thought, I’m never going to leave here alive
Now I’m swimming in panic for the safety of the shoreline
Trying to break free of her incredible grasp
The undertone of her begging and pulling will surely drown me before this is over
The curse of the Mermaid has a hold of me now
Suddenly, I awake to the sun climbing midway in the sky
Sitting up I see a lifeguard frowning and writing a ticket
The next time you drink and pass out in the water, I might not be here to save you
Walking where water once stood
Where waves once crashed with power on the shoreline
All, now sea land, as far as my eye can see
Littered with twisted bits of coral and shell
For the tides have pulled out to the dark depths of the ocean
The Shoals, spotted smears of soft salty sand cushion my feet
As I walk out on what was once called bottom
I see, sea creatures swirling and trapped in puddles
In this place that’s only here for an hour
Suddenly, I hear a faint cry in the distance
My steps move toward what’s now turned to hypnotic singing
Then I see her, in all of her beauty, trapped in a small pool of holding
Half woman, half fish
Her eyes blue as sky-crystal-cloud-burst
Her lips red and full with temptation
Golden hair draped softly over her breast
Her singing seemed to hold me in place
Her words begged me to stay
Then the tides water starts to flow in around me
Faster, and faster
I struggled to walk with all of its rising
I thought, I’m never going to leave here alive
Now I’m swimming in panic for the safety of the shoreline
Trying to break free of her incredible grasp
The undertone of her begging and pulling will surely drown me before this is over
The curse of the Mermaid has a hold of me now
Suddenly, I awake to the sun climbing midway in the sky
Sitting up I see a lifeguard frowning and writing a ticket
The next time you drink and pass out in the water, I might not be here to save you
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Fleeing The Line
by Jason E. Hodges
Crossing state lines
First takes crossing the line drawn in your mind
For they are as real as lines drawn in the sand
Crossing over for what you knew was right
For it was time get away
Get away from the lies
Get away so you could have time to think
Get away from all the broken promises of change
From the begging and pleading that came so easily
When a comfortable home and wife was drifting from sight
From the tears that dried up so quickly once you said all was alright
You left all this deception behind
To sit on the blacktop hills covered in clover
To sit on the hills of your childhood home
For sometimes you have to take control of your life
Before losing control of it all
It takes courage to say you’ve had enough
It takes strength to do the unthinkable
To not only stand up for what you believe in
But to stand up and walk out the door
Out with your child in hand
Your little girl you had to protect
For a little girl being raised looks to her mother’s example
She’s learning how to become a woman
And a mother not walked over
Will raise a fine young lady
A lady that will look back on the memory
Of her mother finding enough courage to cross state lines
Crossing state lines
First takes crossing the line drawn in your mind
For they are as real as lines drawn in the sand
Crossing over for what you knew was right
For it was time get away
Get away from the lies
Get away so you could have time to think
Get away from all the broken promises of change
From the begging and pleading that came so easily
When a comfortable home and wife was drifting from sight
From the tears that dried up so quickly once you said all was alright
You left all this deception behind
To sit on the blacktop hills covered in clover
To sit on the hills of your childhood home
For sometimes you have to take control of your life
Before losing control of it all
It takes courage to say you’ve had enough
It takes strength to do the unthinkable
To not only stand up for what you believe in
But to stand up and walk out the door
Out with your child in hand
Your little girl you had to protect
For a little girl being raised looks to her mother’s example
She’s learning how to become a woman
And a mother not walked over
Will raise a fine young lady
A lady that will look back on the memory
Of her mother finding enough courage to cross state lines
Thursday, October 27, 2011
The Ring Cross Of Ireland
by Jason E. Hodges
The Irish Ring Cross
Stands
Stands in stone
For the mighty memories of old
The old ones that first roamed her countryside
Trough the rocky drop-fall terrain
Over this rolling green island of Ireland
This Cross of the ancients stands in pure sunlight
Shades the graves of Lads and Lassies long since laid to rest
These people of mystery
The forefathers to all of her children
And her children’s children who call her home
A people of strength who looked to the sky for hope of a better tomorrow
A better existence
In a time of harshness and death
Long ago when castles stood in the many
When hot steel was folded
Over and over
Hammered and sharpened into long swords of fight
Made to defend from Ireland’s invaders
These defenders of old lived off the land and what it provided
Are now legend and verses of folklorist songs
Of a time that once was
And the shrill sound of bagpipes now carry their spirits
In the wind that blows softly over these Ring Crosses
The ancient Stone Crosses Of Ireland still standing with pride
Scrolled with the utmost perfection
Telling a tale from so long ago
Of a world far different than our own
The Irish Ring Cross
Stands
Stands in stone
For the mighty memories of old
The old ones that first roamed her countryside
Trough the rocky drop-fall terrain
Over this rolling green island of Ireland
This Cross of the ancients stands in pure sunlight
Shades the graves of Lads and Lassies long since laid to rest
These people of mystery
The forefathers to all of her children
And her children’s children who call her home
A people of strength who looked to the sky for hope of a better tomorrow
A better existence
In a time of harshness and death
Long ago when castles stood in the many
When hot steel was folded
Over and over
Hammered and sharpened into long swords of fight
Made to defend from Ireland’s invaders
These defenders of old lived off the land and what it provided
Are now legend and verses of folklorist songs
Of a time that once was
And the shrill sound of bagpipes now carry their spirits
In the wind that blows softly over these Ring Crosses
The ancient Stone Crosses Of Ireland still standing with pride
Scrolled with the utmost perfection
Telling a tale from so long ago
Of a world far different than our own
Sunday, October 16, 2011
Easels
by Jason E. Hodges
Easels in the meadow
Van Gogh on the hill
Memories of madness swirl in the blood red sky
Razor in one hand, ear in the other
For the whisperers spoke too loudly at times
Adjustments had to be made
Tone down
Tune out the racing of the mind
Sunflowers wilting, withering without water, while the artist transferred them to canvas
Locked them forever in layers of paint
Smearing them back to life with his bristled stick brush
Blurry bright colors bursting with energy
Creativity dripping from each drop of the painting
Raining with life
Flooding out of his mind
The creative floodgates did open
For the artist understands time is just what it is
Time
It’s quickly running out with each second wasted
But slowing to a craw with each second lived
Moving way before man started counting it
Moving, just moving
Is all it’s ever done
Whether we’re here or not
But the artist is a master at feeling the moment
Feeling all the intensity of the world that’s around him
A second lived was more than others live in a lifetime
Van Gogh the painter of the people
Lived one brushstroke at a time
Easels in the meadow
Van Gogh on the hill
Memories of madness swirl in the blood red sky
Razor in one hand, ear in the other
For the whisperers spoke too loudly at times
Adjustments had to be made
Tone down
Tune out the racing of the mind
Sunflowers wilting, withering without water, while the artist transferred them to canvas
Locked them forever in layers of paint
Smearing them back to life with his bristled stick brush
Blurry bright colors bursting with energy
Creativity dripping from each drop of the painting
Raining with life
Flooding out of his mind
The creative floodgates did open
For the artist understands time is just what it is
Time
It’s quickly running out with each second wasted
But slowing to a craw with each second lived
Moving way before man started counting it
Moving, just moving
Is all it’s ever done
Whether we’re here or not
But the artist is a master at feeling the moment
Feeling all the intensity of the world that’s around him
A second lived was more than others live in a lifetime
Van Gogh the painter of the people
Lived one brushstroke at a time
Sunday, October 9, 2011
Anais Nin
by Jason E. Hodges
Oh Anais
I still hear the sound of your voice calling through the backstreets of Paris
Your words of desire spelled out the complexity of being lost
Lost somewhere between Henry and June
Smeared lovingly there
Like perfume between two wrists of hands bent backwards
Intoxicating are your aroma of words
For your thoughts did wander
Along with your touch
The softest touch your hands did give
Like a violinist, a violinist of love
Dragging her bow over the heartstrings of need with the utmost perfection
Making the instrument moan in the wee hours of morning
Playing each note with the press of a finger
The sound of feelings flowed in the night
Through the dark shadowed streets of Paris
You embraced the inside of your soul as much as the outside of your body
For looks fade and tarnish while the soul grows wiser
Diaries of your soul awash with your craving to live life as you saw it
The wanting of Henry but the needing of June
Was your thirst, your appetite
Stripped down and bent backwards
Two legs wound into one another as much as two minds
Connected so strongly Anais and Henry, two writers pushing their pens late in the night
Like a river of words drenched in desire
Sensuality you embodied
A lost land few ever truly see in a lifetime of living
Beauty made up your very being
No concept of time, of money, greed, of belonging to the boring
Ms. Nin your work will transcend the standards of writing for centuries to come
Oh Anais
I still hear the sound of your voice calling through the backstreets of Paris
Your words of desire spelled out the complexity of being lost
Lost somewhere between Henry and June
Smeared lovingly there
Like perfume between two wrists of hands bent backwards
Intoxicating are your aroma of words
For your thoughts did wander
Along with your touch
The softest touch your hands did give
Like a violinist, a violinist of love
Dragging her bow over the heartstrings of need with the utmost perfection
Making the instrument moan in the wee hours of morning
Playing each note with the press of a finger
The sound of feelings flowed in the night
Through the dark shadowed streets of Paris
You embraced the inside of your soul as much as the outside of your body
For looks fade and tarnish while the soul grows wiser
Diaries of your soul awash with your craving to live life as you saw it
The wanting of Henry but the needing of June
Was your thirst, your appetite
Stripped down and bent backwards
Two legs wound into one another as much as two minds
Connected so strongly Anais and Henry, two writers pushing their pens late in the night
Like a river of words drenched in desire
Sensuality you embodied
A lost land few ever truly see in a lifetime of living
Beauty made up your very being
No concept of time, of money, greed, of belonging to the boring
Ms. Nin your work will transcend the standards of writing for centuries to come
Sunday, October 2, 2011
The Bar Of Words
by Jason E. Hodges
United at the speakeasy of words
Words spoke softly in the mind of the poet
On their way to work
Around the coffee table
Silently combed over and over
Rearranged and tossed about
Notes of thoughts that surround our everyday life
Are gathered up and pushed out of a pen
Scratched franticly out
For desperation to express for an artist should be the same as to breath to a drowning man
Punched keys convey these feelings onto the screen
Then sent with the click of a mouse
Zooming with speed through the wires of the web
Underground
Along street-ways, highways, and byways
Across oceans of deep water blue
Sent up to bounce off the floating metal dish in the stars
All words on their way to the emporium of thoughts
To the speakeasy of poets
Warm words of substance and meaning
Flow as smooth as brown liquor
The saloon of desert ships in the city of The South
The bartender of poets picking the words of the day for display
To be looked upon by the eyes of the world
To wonder what someone else has wondered
To take in
To undo the puzzle
To see how it is put together
Expressions from lives lived near and far
Far and near to the bar of words they go
United at the speakeasy of words
Words spoke softly in the mind of the poet
On their way to work
Around the coffee table
Silently combed over and over
Rearranged and tossed about
Notes of thoughts that surround our everyday life
Are gathered up and pushed out of a pen
Scratched franticly out
For desperation to express for an artist should be the same as to breath to a drowning man
Punched keys convey these feelings onto the screen
Then sent with the click of a mouse
Zooming with speed through the wires of the web
Underground
Along street-ways, highways, and byways
Across oceans of deep water blue
Sent up to bounce off the floating metal dish in the stars
All words on their way to the emporium of thoughts
To the speakeasy of poets
Warm words of substance and meaning
Flow as smooth as brown liquor
The saloon of desert ships in the city of The South
The bartender of poets picking the words of the day for display
To be looked upon by the eyes of the world
To wonder what someone else has wondered
To take in
To undo the puzzle
To see how it is put together
Expressions from lives lived near and far
Far and near to the bar of words they go
Sunday, September 25, 2011
A Life America Once Lived
by Jason E. Hodges
The midday train calls in the distance
Echoing through this once bustling town
The perfect manicured laws of the suburbs have now fallen
Fallen back to the hands of the wild
Weeds now grow high around household furniture
Furniture left behind when there’s nowhere left to go
Hawks sit patently on the edge of a rain filled swimming pool
For the green water is coming to life
Life that calls out in the darkness
When the night comes and stars speckle the sky
Calls thrown from awakened green frogs singing their songs from the warm green water
In the pool that once entertained formal dinner parties
Behind the house that needed no down payment
The house that needed no credit
With a mortgage that made a salesman a bonus
A mortgage that was anything but right
And now the train calls out in the distance
Falling away, almost unable to hear
Like the cries from dreams lost in the city
Dreams barley held on by the desperately holding
Dreams very few would continue to see
But the banks keep on building
One seems to be on every corner and street
T-shirts and coffee mugs are out for the handing
Handed out to ones that open an account
But the ones that fly the flags of out tuned pockets
Should not even apply
For the days of getting the Unaffordable American Dream
Are gone like the people that once filled these homes
The midday train calls in the distance
Echoing through this once bustling town
The perfect manicured laws of the suburbs have now fallen
Fallen back to the hands of the wild
Weeds now grow high around household furniture
Furniture left behind when there’s nowhere left to go
Hawks sit patently on the edge of a rain filled swimming pool
For the green water is coming to life
Life that calls out in the darkness
When the night comes and stars speckle the sky
Calls thrown from awakened green frogs singing their songs from the warm green water
In the pool that once entertained formal dinner parties
Behind the house that needed no down payment
The house that needed no credit
With a mortgage that made a salesman a bonus
A mortgage that was anything but right
And now the train calls out in the distance
Falling away, almost unable to hear
Like the cries from dreams lost in the city
Dreams barley held on by the desperately holding
Dreams very few would continue to see
But the banks keep on building
One seems to be on every corner and street
T-shirts and coffee mugs are out for the handing
Handed out to ones that open an account
But the ones that fly the flags of out tuned pockets
Should not even apply
For the days of getting the Unaffordable American Dream
Are gone like the people that once filled these homes
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Sea Glass
by Jason E. Hodges
The sea glass I see sitting before me
Sparkles with scratches of beauty
Scratches of time
Its frosted exterior brushed on ever so softly
From the tides constant coming and going
Tumbled and tossed by the waves of time
Etching its outside with salt and sand
As I look upon this glass jewel of the sea
I wonder what piece of someone’s life it broke from
Could it be from a ship’s window shattering as it runs ashore
Beaten by waves in a hurricane’s wind
Or is it from the glass of a lantern
Held by a frantic fisherman’s wife
Searching the lonely shoreline after a storm for her only true love
Then dropped to a crash on the rocks of the morning low tide
As she runs to his side, alive, spared from the sea
Or maybe this glass is from a bottle tossed into the ocean from halfway around the world
Making its way to a new land where its message is not understood by the reader
Thrown back, discarded to the sea with an end over end spinning long toss
In pieces, it now will become
Broken by the black rock of the bottom
For, sometimes dreams are not easily read by others
For the ones who have no dreams see a different world than the dreamer
A set in stone no different world of their making
Sea glass, the mystical gems of the ocean
Or pieces of broken dreams turned into jewels of the sea
From broken thousand mile unreadable journeys
Or is it merely a symbol of hope that the one you truly love is still alive in the darkness
Alive and able to hold once more
Saved by the undertow of life’s constant pulling
The sea glass I see sitting before me
Sparkles with scratches of beauty
Scratches of time
Its frosted exterior brushed on ever so softly
From the tides constant coming and going
Tumbled and tossed by the waves of time
Etching its outside with salt and sand
As I look upon this glass jewel of the sea
I wonder what piece of someone’s life it broke from
Could it be from a ship’s window shattering as it runs ashore
Beaten by waves in a hurricane’s wind
Or is it from the glass of a lantern
Held by a frantic fisherman’s wife
Searching the lonely shoreline after a storm for her only true love
Then dropped to a crash on the rocks of the morning low tide
As she runs to his side, alive, spared from the sea
Or maybe this glass is from a bottle tossed into the ocean from halfway around the world
Making its way to a new land where its message is not understood by the reader
Thrown back, discarded to the sea with an end over end spinning long toss
In pieces, it now will become
Broken by the black rock of the bottom
For, sometimes dreams are not easily read by others
For the ones who have no dreams see a different world than the dreamer
A set in stone no different world of their making
Sea glass, the mystical gems of the ocean
Or pieces of broken dreams turned into jewels of the sea
From broken thousand mile unreadable journeys
Or is it merely a symbol of hope that the one you truly love is still alive in the darkness
Alive and able to hold once more
Saved by the undertow of life’s constant pulling
Thursday, August 11, 2011
Ants
by Jason E. Hodges
Ants running about always on the go
Their little bodies of red
Their red bodies so little
Defending their hill from footsteps of foe
Stepping not looking
Crushing their homes with shoe bottoms of force
So, make sure you don’t step on their mound
Because your foot will pay with a stinging encounter
But even after the encounter the ants will keep moving
Keep moving and wandering about
Always concerned with their neighbor’s concerns
Always in the business of their business
So the next time you’re out
Listen close to the ground
You can hear them crawling and searching
Moving through the green blades of grass
Tugging and pulling food home for their Queen
For she will always rule the mound
Energizing their works with sweet songs of singing
Making her little workers some of the strongest on earth
Lifting objects three times their size
And The Queen, The Queen, can even predict the weather
At least this is the tale the telling have told
But, I don’t know if this wise tale is true
For as the Sayers say on the farms of The South
If it’s going to rain and the mound has been broken
The ants will not be rebuilding their home
At least not until the very next day
This is what the old farmers would say in their folktales of telling
Ants, mysteries of small always moving about
Ants running about always on the go
Their little bodies of red
Their red bodies so little
Defending their hill from footsteps of foe
Stepping not looking
Crushing their homes with shoe bottoms of force
So, make sure you don’t step on their mound
Because your foot will pay with a stinging encounter
But even after the encounter the ants will keep moving
Keep moving and wandering about
Always concerned with their neighbor’s concerns
Always in the business of their business
So the next time you’re out
Listen close to the ground
You can hear them crawling and searching
Moving through the green blades of grass
Tugging and pulling food home for their Queen
For she will always rule the mound
Energizing their works with sweet songs of singing
Making her little workers some of the strongest on earth
Lifting objects three times their size
And The Queen, The Queen, can even predict the weather
At least this is the tale the telling have told
But, I don’t know if this wise tale is true
For as the Sayers say on the farms of The South
If it’s going to rain and the mound has been broken
The ants will not be rebuilding their home
At least not until the very next day
This is what the old farmers would say in their folktales of telling
Ants, mysteries of small always moving about
Thursday, July 7, 2011
June’s Late Night Desire
by Jason E. Hodges
June wakes in the in the darkness
Alone, alone for some time
She hears foot steps walking down the hallway
She knows he’s finally come
The one she’s waited for all of her life
As he opens the door her breath starts to get shorter
His hands now pull down the night cover as he leans in ever so closely
The silk that touches her skin is now drenched from the sweat of her body
The heat rolling off in waves make her heart beat faster and faster
As their lips touch for the first time
She now feels his hands searching her body
Then press gently on the small of her back
With a gasp she bites ever so softly down on his full bottom lip
Tasting all that is real of the moment
Pulling him in close to her body June knows now how badly she wants him
For she is burning like a thousand lit candles illuminating the pitch black of night
Her gasps become more frequent as their embrace locks into one another
She feels his hands now wrapping around her, squeezing her tightly
His fingers slide through the wet nap of her hair
Pulling it into a soft grab
Then suddenly he pulls her head back
His lips now caressing her neckline and under her ear
Back down to her soft waiting shoulders
June thinks, I can’t take much more
Wrapping her long legs tightly around him
She’s flooded with every emotion
June arches her back and grabs a fist full of bed sheets
Then comes the rush of endorphins
She then slips into his arms for the rest of her life
June wakes in the in the darkness
Alone, alone for some time
She hears foot steps walking down the hallway
She knows he’s finally come
The one she’s waited for all of her life
As he opens the door her breath starts to get shorter
His hands now pull down the night cover as he leans in ever so closely
The silk that touches her skin is now drenched from the sweat of her body
The heat rolling off in waves make her heart beat faster and faster
As their lips touch for the first time
She now feels his hands searching her body
Then press gently on the small of her back
With a gasp she bites ever so softly down on his full bottom lip
Tasting all that is real of the moment
Pulling him in close to her body June knows now how badly she wants him
For she is burning like a thousand lit candles illuminating the pitch black of night
Her gasps become more frequent as their embrace locks into one another
She feels his hands now wrapping around her, squeezing her tightly
His fingers slide through the wet nap of her hair
Pulling it into a soft grab
Then suddenly he pulls her head back
His lips now caressing her neckline and under her ear
Back down to her soft waiting shoulders
June thinks, I can’t take much more
Wrapping her long legs tightly around him
She’s flooded with every emotion
June arches her back and grabs a fist full of bed sheets
Then comes the rush of endorphins
She then slips into his arms for the rest of her life
Sunday, July 3, 2011
Helen Whispers In My Dreams
by Jason E. Hodges
As I drift to sleep I free fall into this strange new land
A land where you’ve been for what seems like a thousand centuries
A land where the air is clean and dry and Helen still whispers in the soft sea breeze
Where the moon bleeds orange and red with love over the city of Troy
Love of a woman that brought the mighty ships so long ago
Ships filled with men ready to fight
To bring her back
Now all is caught between legends and dreams
At least dreams for me, for somehow I’m here with you
Yes, I know I have to be dreaming for Helen seems to be with us now
Walking the shoreline
As graceful as swans gliding through mirrored lake tops of reflection
A shoreline that’s gently touched by what looks to be the bluest of waves
Making our way through the cobblestone streets and cracked marble of time
Then the dream shifts like a blink in the eye of time
Like a stage scene set perfectly with x-marks waiting to place
And now it’s just you and I
Talking in a café as a yacht drifts in the distance
For the ocean is so close we can taste its thick salt in the air
Suddenly we’re on the shoreline of the great Mediterranean
With its water crystal like clear
Polished rocks line the beach as far as the eye can see
So beautiful and smooth like jewels in our hands they sit
Like pieces of time they litter our walkway as Helen once more ushers us into her world
For we now are her chunks of marble sculpted in her on special way
A way of beauty far beyond most comprehension
So bright, she easily guides our way through the darkest obsidian night
Then finally I wake to the last thoughts I remember
You and the whispers of Helen
As I drift to sleep I free fall into this strange new land
A land where you’ve been for what seems like a thousand centuries
A land where the air is clean and dry and Helen still whispers in the soft sea breeze
Where the moon bleeds orange and red with love over the city of Troy
Love of a woman that brought the mighty ships so long ago
Ships filled with men ready to fight
To bring her back
Now all is caught between legends and dreams
At least dreams for me, for somehow I’m here with you
Yes, I know I have to be dreaming for Helen seems to be with us now
Walking the shoreline
As graceful as swans gliding through mirrored lake tops of reflection
A shoreline that’s gently touched by what looks to be the bluest of waves
Making our way through the cobblestone streets and cracked marble of time
Then the dream shifts like a blink in the eye of time
Like a stage scene set perfectly with x-marks waiting to place
And now it’s just you and I
Talking in a café as a yacht drifts in the distance
For the ocean is so close we can taste its thick salt in the air
Suddenly we’re on the shoreline of the great Mediterranean
With its water crystal like clear
Polished rocks line the beach as far as the eye can see
So beautiful and smooth like jewels in our hands they sit
Like pieces of time they litter our walkway as Helen once more ushers us into her world
For we now are her chunks of marble sculpted in her on special way
A way of beauty far beyond most comprehension
So bright, she easily guides our way through the darkest obsidian night
Then finally I wake to the last thoughts I remember
You and the whispers of Helen
Sunday, May 29, 2011
The Fire Of Water
by Jason E. Hodges
Pushed in holes decorated fenders of grandpa’s old rusted out car
Pushed by bullets of hot lead ripping the air
Bullets from the lawmen’s gun in the chase of a lifetime
The holes had a strange feel to the hands of little ones
Small fingers of wide-eyed children gently felt grandpa’s outrun of the Law
Wondering daydreams of what could be so wrong with running shine to survive
The children had seen all the work it took to make
Stones hauled from plowed fields then mortared with Georgian Red Clay
Stacked around the shiny copper pot then fired with timber from the dark woods
Gently grandpa brushed the bottom of the still with a soft flame
Carefully, without bringing the soaked sugar, malt, and corn water to a boil
Oh so carefully so the alcohol would evaporate and float through the cap in a vapor
Then make its way to the thump keg
Then back out to the copper worm submerged in spring water
Where it cooled turning back to liquid
Filling jars with a flow as big as a pencil, too fast a flow meant the liquor was ruined
With a smile, grandpa shook the jars full of his fiery new brew
He was checking the bead
Checking the proof for the ones not in the know
The smaller the bubble the stronger the drink
After hours of working a still, there was no after hours
For the whiskey was clean and drank whenever they wanted
This was a time when self-made men thrived in the mountains of North Georgia
Before pharmaceuticals flooded the hills of the South
Resulting in families flooding emergency rooms
Praying their fathers, sons, or daughters would live through the night
Yes Grandpa and the good old days
When if you drank too much you woke up hung-over, instead of, not waking up at all
Grandpa was the last of his kind, But now he’s lying beside the Flint River
His days of running shine under the cast of moonlight have disappeared in the pages of time
Pushed in holes decorated fenders of grandpa’s old rusted out car
Pushed by bullets of hot lead ripping the air
Bullets from the lawmen’s gun in the chase of a lifetime
The holes had a strange feel to the hands of little ones
Small fingers of wide-eyed children gently felt grandpa’s outrun of the Law
Wondering daydreams of what could be so wrong with running shine to survive
The children had seen all the work it took to make
Stones hauled from plowed fields then mortared with Georgian Red Clay
Stacked around the shiny copper pot then fired with timber from the dark woods
Gently grandpa brushed the bottom of the still with a soft flame
Carefully, without bringing the soaked sugar, malt, and corn water to a boil
Oh so carefully so the alcohol would evaporate and float through the cap in a vapor
Then make its way to the thump keg
Then back out to the copper worm submerged in spring water
Where it cooled turning back to liquid
Filling jars with a flow as big as a pencil, too fast a flow meant the liquor was ruined
With a smile, grandpa shook the jars full of his fiery new brew
He was checking the bead
Checking the proof for the ones not in the know
The smaller the bubble the stronger the drink
After hours of working a still, there was no after hours
For the whiskey was clean and drank whenever they wanted
This was a time when self-made men thrived in the mountains of North Georgia
Before pharmaceuticals flooded the hills of the South
Resulting in families flooding emergency rooms
Praying their fathers, sons, or daughters would live through the night
Yes Grandpa and the good old days
When if you drank too much you woke up hung-over, instead of, not waking up at all
Grandpa was the last of his kind, But now he’s lying beside the Flint River
His days of running shine under the cast of moonlight have disappeared in the pages of time
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Getting Out Of The Booth
by Jason E. Hodges
Love in a booth is something Tommy had to get use to
But the same could be said for Gina
The two-way mirror she smiled and looked into was a reflection she had grown to hate
As her clothes loosened and fell to the floor, so fell her last glimpse of hope
Hope that one day her life would be normal
Hope that one day she could let go of her childhood flooded with darkness
But Tommy was different
The first time Gina heard his broken voice speak into the phone
Pleading, wait, you don’t understand
I’m looking for love, not looking for lust
For once someone is paying you to keep your clothes on
Your voice is all that I need to carry me through the drudgery of being trapped in this chair
Your voice will sooth the scars I wear on my body from that war in the desert
I use to be handsome before being burned and blown up
Now people cringe when their eyes fall upon me
Turn away with fear from my outward appearance
Stunned from his words and not able to see him, Gina sat down and picked up the phone
Tommy’s voice she heard asking and weeping for friendship
Changed all that was wrong in her life
Gina then spoke softly with words that were submerged in complete vulnerability
I’m here to listen, to talk, and I won’t turn away even if I could see you
For I am as scared on the inside as you on the outside, a mere shadow of what I once was
And so it began, a love affair through the glass with the strongest love of all
Love of the mind and the binding of souls
Her voice was so soothing to Tommy’s half broken body which held his complete broken sprit
With time, Gina stepped out of the booth, never to return to the night
Tommy and Gina would live a lifetime together in a world only understood by each other
A world of deep understanding and heartfelt compassion
Where the eyes of the present and haunts of the past no longer had a hold of their lives
Love in a booth is something Tommy had to get use to
But the same could be said for Gina
The two-way mirror she smiled and looked into was a reflection she had grown to hate
As her clothes loosened and fell to the floor, so fell her last glimpse of hope
Hope that one day her life would be normal
Hope that one day she could let go of her childhood flooded with darkness
But Tommy was different
The first time Gina heard his broken voice speak into the phone
Pleading, wait, you don’t understand
I’m looking for love, not looking for lust
For once someone is paying you to keep your clothes on
Your voice is all that I need to carry me through the drudgery of being trapped in this chair
Your voice will sooth the scars I wear on my body from that war in the desert
I use to be handsome before being burned and blown up
Now people cringe when their eyes fall upon me
Turn away with fear from my outward appearance
Stunned from his words and not able to see him, Gina sat down and picked up the phone
Tommy’s voice she heard asking and weeping for friendship
Changed all that was wrong in her life
Gina then spoke softly with words that were submerged in complete vulnerability
I’m here to listen, to talk, and I won’t turn away even if I could see you
For I am as scared on the inside as you on the outside, a mere shadow of what I once was
And so it began, a love affair through the glass with the strongest love of all
Love of the mind and the binding of souls
Her voice was so soothing to Tommy’s half broken body which held his complete broken sprit
With time, Gina stepped out of the booth, never to return to the night
Tommy and Gina would live a lifetime together in a world only understood by each other
A world of deep understanding and heartfelt compassion
Where the eyes of the present and haunts of the past no longer had a hold of their lives
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Rolling In Magic
by Jason E. Hodges
Shivering and shaking, I cough up yesterday's fresh air
Fresh air I now see floating in the distance
The upside is, I always get to sit alone in the waiting room
No one's going to ask me for a stick of gum
Upon my arrival it suddenly becomes standing room only
Sanding as far away from me they try
But the real entertainment is the woman with the magic rolling bag
At least whatever’s inside has to be magic
For she parts the crowded waiting room like Moses parted the sea
Skipping right to the front of the line seems to be business as usual
I wonder, what could be in that bag
Candy perhaps
For this woman doesn’t look sick at all
Not a cough
Not a sniffle
She's not even depressed
To top it off she's wearing three hundred dollar stilettos
Flawless skin, fitted dress
Nothing off the rack for her
Now I’m convinced this bag must be magic
And the greeting is always the same
The clerk falls all over themselves, Hello, well you’re lookin’ good
Thanks… Is the doctor in
Why yes, just go on back
I’m sure they’ll be happy to see you
Now, I think to myself, I’ve got to get one of those bags
Then I could go to the front of the line without an appointment
Now that’s care I could use
Shivering and shaking, I cough up yesterday's fresh air
Fresh air I now see floating in the distance
The upside is, I always get to sit alone in the waiting room
No one's going to ask me for a stick of gum
Upon my arrival it suddenly becomes standing room only
Sanding as far away from me they try
But the real entertainment is the woman with the magic rolling bag
At least whatever’s inside has to be magic
For she parts the crowded waiting room like Moses parted the sea
Skipping right to the front of the line seems to be business as usual
I wonder, what could be in that bag
Candy perhaps
For this woman doesn’t look sick at all
Not a cough
Not a sniffle
She's not even depressed
To top it off she's wearing three hundred dollar stilettos
Flawless skin, fitted dress
Nothing off the rack for her
Now I’m convinced this bag must be magic
And the greeting is always the same
The clerk falls all over themselves, Hello, well you’re lookin’ good
Thanks… Is the doctor in
Why yes, just go on back
I’m sure they’ll be happy to see you
Now, I think to myself, I’ve got to get one of those bags
Then I could go to the front of the line without an appointment
Now that’s care I could use
Saturday, May 14, 2011
Night Time In The South
by Jason E. Hodges
Pennies to make dollars they’ll take
It's not a mistake, I work to pay you
We’ve all heard this before, haven’t we
At least anyone in the working class South
Land of blood sweat and holes your shoes
Holes from walking from one dead-end job to another
Somehow the bills have to be paid
Land of scratched off lottery tickets from the last dollar spent blowing in the wind
And the same fingers that would finish the day by punching a time clock
Would start a night of writing by punching the keys of a typewriter
Typing words out
Bringing characters to life in the thick humidity of Florida so many years ago
Gathering thoughts like a child gathers his toys
Yet constantly distracted by the chaos of living on the edge of what I called life
Sitting, remember how fast it has all gone by
Trains running in the distance with sounds that fall in the night
Into the darkness they fade away like I soon will do
Finally lying down to rest
Falling to sleep lost in the thoughts of what once was and most likely will come
Morning dew settles as I open my eyes
Time to get moving on the next thing to write
To put down what I see and feel of the world around me
For the world's been my teacher
She’s always on time
Her people my study in the Southern School Of Life
Pennies to make dollars they’ll take
It's not a mistake, I work to pay you
We’ve all heard this before, haven’t we
At least anyone in the working class South
Land of blood sweat and holes your shoes
Holes from walking from one dead-end job to another
Somehow the bills have to be paid
Land of scratched off lottery tickets from the last dollar spent blowing in the wind
And the same fingers that would finish the day by punching a time clock
Would start a night of writing by punching the keys of a typewriter
Typing words out
Bringing characters to life in the thick humidity of Florida so many years ago
Gathering thoughts like a child gathers his toys
Yet constantly distracted by the chaos of living on the edge of what I called life
Sitting, remember how fast it has all gone by
Trains running in the distance with sounds that fall in the night
Into the darkness they fade away like I soon will do
Finally lying down to rest
Falling to sleep lost in the thoughts of what once was and most likely will come
Morning dew settles as I open my eyes
Time to get moving on the next thing to write
To put down what I see and feel of the world around me
For the world's been my teacher
She’s always on time
Her people my study in the Southern School Of Life
Friday, May 6, 2011
Memories Of Dust
by Jason E. Hodges
Crossing this land of broken promises
With its dust storms and rusted out cars
Its caretakers withered from the sun
Withered down to a shell of almost invisible
Far from the eyes of the everyday hustle
I see you my friend from so long ago
In the shadows of memories that drift in the distance
In the sounds of an echo that rings out in the badlands
I remember your story of pockets turned out
Of skin stretched thin over rib bones from hunger
When you stood before me far from your reservation home
Your words still ring in my mind, starving is no way of living
You told me how your family picked up to make a new start
They had grown tired of nothing and hoping for something
Your father loaded you up and family alike
For the blacktop back roads that led to the freeway
That led to the cities so he could join up
Join the Armed forces so you could have more
Forty years has passed since your father lay dying in that war of the jungle
Breathing his last words of, tell my son it was worth it, bringing him a new life
More than I had living on government rations and crushed dreams of dust
Today looking back, it’s hard to forget the story you told me
As I scatter your ashes out on the sands of your homeland
Without a doubt your father made sure your family had better
Paying with the blood of his life
As tears fall to the ground I look to the sky
I know now you're together with him after a lifetime of separation
The spirits of a father and son now blow in the memories of dust
Finally reunited again
Crossing this land of broken promises
With its dust storms and rusted out cars
Its caretakers withered from the sun
Withered down to a shell of almost invisible
Far from the eyes of the everyday hustle
I see you my friend from so long ago
In the shadows of memories that drift in the distance
In the sounds of an echo that rings out in the badlands
I remember your story of pockets turned out
Of skin stretched thin over rib bones from hunger
When you stood before me far from your reservation home
Your words still ring in my mind, starving is no way of living
You told me how your family picked up to make a new start
They had grown tired of nothing and hoping for something
Your father loaded you up and family alike
For the blacktop back roads that led to the freeway
That led to the cities so he could join up
Join the Armed forces so you could have more
Forty years has passed since your father lay dying in that war of the jungle
Breathing his last words of, tell my son it was worth it, bringing him a new life
More than I had living on government rations and crushed dreams of dust
Today looking back, it’s hard to forget the story you told me
As I scatter your ashes out on the sands of your homeland
Without a doubt your father made sure your family had better
Paying with the blood of his life
As tears fall to the ground I look to the sky
I know now you're together with him after a lifetime of separation
The spirits of a father and son now blow in the memories of dust
Finally reunited again
Sunday, April 10, 2011
The Woman
Jason E. Hodges
The woman I see day after day
In the city we both call home
With its twisting freeways and buildings scraping the sky
She walks with elegance
With grace
With legs of a runway model
With calves that dance upwards with each passing step of her heel
She drifts like a leaf in a gentle spring breeze
To me, she seems, almost a dream
Perfectly defined in every way
With her beautiful smile and flowing blond hair
That sways gently side to side
Her green eyes, so mysterious when caught in her gaze
A gaze that peers into my soul as she passes me by
I wonder, will she ever speak
Or will I be the one to say the first word
But wait
Today could be the day that the silence between us is broken
She’s looking right at me, like never before
Butterflies danced in my stomach as she reached for my hand
Letting go of my cardboard sign I took what she was giving
A smile and a dollar
A smile that filled me with hope
If only for a brief moment
A moment I’ll cling too like the life I once had
A moment that faded with her as she stepped out of sight
The woman I see day after day
In the city we both call home
With its twisting freeways and buildings scraping the sky
She walks with elegance
With grace
With legs of a runway model
With calves that dance upwards with each passing step of her heel
She drifts like a leaf in a gentle spring breeze
To me, she seems, almost a dream
Perfectly defined in every way
With her beautiful smile and flowing blond hair
That sways gently side to side
Her green eyes, so mysterious when caught in her gaze
A gaze that peers into my soul as she passes me by
I wonder, will she ever speak
Or will I be the one to say the first word
But wait
Today could be the day that the silence between us is broken
She’s looking right at me, like never before
Butterflies danced in my stomach as she reached for my hand
Letting go of my cardboard sign I took what she was giving
A smile and a dollar
A smile that filled me with hope
If only for a brief moment
A moment I’ll cling too like the life I once had
A moment that faded with her as she stepped out of sight
Sunday, March 20, 2011
The Drifter Of Rails
by Jason E. Hodges
Hopping freights is a way of life few will ever know
Endless skies and endless rides all for the tramp to see
Lost in every emotion of the moment
Lost in a landscape canvas painted by drops from the sky
By rays from the sun
By wind from a blackened rain storm
Traveling through the back country
Traveling on twisting rail lines of steel
Alongside straw colored wheat fields
Waving slowly in the plains’ gentle breeze
Through tunnels carved out of mountain sides
By sweat, steel, and callused hands
Echoes call out softly
Echoes from workers of a time gone by
Making his way up the Pacific coast
A wide-eyed tramp looks into the darkest of nights
An eclipse of the moon drifts slowly in the starless sky
A red dusty glow surrounds its edge
Like an ember
Its dark center shadow is surrounded by a fiery red glow
Falling asleep to the gentle rock of the train
Watching the shadowed red dusty moon disappear from sight
Waking to see a sea of green blowing in the Oregon wind
A forest of ferns and towering trees
A back drop of natures design
The crisp morning air, damp and cool blows against his face
The train lets out a mighty roar
Then lumbers into the yard
Time to find a new train to ride
The Tramp, the Hobo, The Drifter Of Rails
Hopping freights is a way of life few will ever know
Endless skies and endless rides all for the tramp to see
Lost in every emotion of the moment
Lost in a landscape canvas painted by drops from the sky
By rays from the sun
By wind from a blackened rain storm
Traveling through the back country
Traveling on twisting rail lines of steel
Alongside straw colored wheat fields
Waving slowly in the plains’ gentle breeze
Through tunnels carved out of mountain sides
By sweat, steel, and callused hands
Echoes call out softly
Echoes from workers of a time gone by
Making his way up the Pacific coast
A wide-eyed tramp looks into the darkest of nights
An eclipse of the moon drifts slowly in the starless sky
A red dusty glow surrounds its edge
Like an ember
Its dark center shadow is surrounded by a fiery red glow
Falling asleep to the gentle rock of the train
Watching the shadowed red dusty moon disappear from sight
Waking to see a sea of green blowing in the Oregon wind
A forest of ferns and towering trees
A back drop of natures design
The crisp morning air, damp and cool blows against his face
The train lets out a mighty roar
Then lumbers into the yard
Time to find a new train to ride
The Tramp, the Hobo, The Drifter Of Rails
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Change In My Pocket
by Jason E. Hodges
Like soap in a dish cold and clammy, her pale skin glistened in the morning light. The moon had completely fallen from the sky, and the sun now crested in the eastern part of the city. Its rays peeked through buildings to sparkle on hanging ice from rooftop gutters. While long dark shadows stretched across the ground from the barren trees lining each side of the parking lot.
As the woman stepped in a little closer and the abscess on the lower part of her neck became more visible, I recalled who she was. Last time I saw her was a few weeks ago sleeping on a park bench near 42nd and Wilson. She’s a regular here at the plasma bank.
Doctor Benny, my boss, is always complaining about “her kind,” as he puts it. “These people come in here with their over punctured arms expecting me to work a miracle, so they can get money for their next fix.”
Then without fail, he would wave his magic syringe and draw blood without collapsing the vein. I saw his point in a way, but I also saw him continue to take their drug rich blood, to make his money.
I did have to wonder, though, how this woman made it to this point in her life. Was it a failed marriage? A lost child? Or was it the excuses that you never hear come out of a junky’s mouth. “I like the way it makes me feel.”
Yep, I’m sure I haven’t heard that one at the center before. Honest answers are hard enough to come by in this so called Honest World. But hell, who am I to judge? I’m just the clerk behind the counter waiting for the place to open so I can do my eight hours; make my minimum wage paycheck; then go back to my minimum wage apartment, to live my minimum wage life.
The woman finally spoke, “Hey man, you got a smoke?”
I nodded with a half smile, then fished around in my coat pocket. I handed her a cigarette, then flamed its end. She drew hard on its filter making the little cherry glow bright on that cold morning.
“You know the plasma bank doesn’t open for another fifteen minutes,” I said trying my best to break the eerie silence that hung between us.
She took another hard drag, then folded her arms. “I know,” she said sharply. “I’ve been up all night waiting for it to open.” Her face now was pulled tight with stress. “Look man, I didn’t mean to snap at you. I just need to get this over with.”
“Yeah, I wish it was open, too. I’m tired of standing out here. So, you got a name?”
“Yeah, Janet. What’s yours?”
“Allen,” I said, glancing behind her, hoping Benny would hurry up and come to work.
“Allen, I always liked that name.” She pulled her coat in a little tighter. “You don’t have any change, do you?” Janet attempted a smile, but it was obvious she was self-conscious about her rotten teeth.
I knew this was probably a bad idea but I thought, maybe she could use a cup of coffee or something.
“How much you need?” I said, pushing my hand down in my pocket.
“Ten will do,” she said, still trying to smile.
“Ten what, dollars?” The words jumped quickly from my lips.
Her stranded smile fell as fast as it appeared.
“Yes, ten dollars! What the hell can I possibly get with ten cents?” She said, almost shouting.
“Sorry, I’m broke. Remember, I work here and they pay almost nothing.”
About the time I finished my sentence, I saw Doctor Benny’s silver SUV pull into the parking lot. I turned and took a few steps toward it.
“Well, the Doc’s here. Now you’ll be able to get some cash,” I said, with a little relief to my voice. I turned back around to find Janet standing now face to face with me. She plunged a knife into my side. Instantly it was hard to breathe, and I had a strange salty taste filling my mouth. I realized this taste was blood. She plunged the knife again, this time in my stomach. Then she leaned in so close, I could feel the warmth of her retched breath. She reached inside my pocket and grabbed my wallet.
“You should’ve given up the money, man.”
She ran down the sidewalk as Doctor Benny made his way to me. He called for help on his phone and then tried to stop the bleeding. It was no use. I was as cold as the snow that surrounded me. I suddenly found myself outside of my body. I was amazed at the strange shade of pink my blood had turned the snow. I was equally amazed I was on the other side. Then I saw my sister, who had been dead for years. She was standing with a smile.
“Allen, go back, it’s not time for you. Step back in your body,” she said in a whisper.
The paramedics pumped away at my chest. Lying back down in my body, I suddenly felt all of the pain at once. I knew then if I felt this much agony, I had to be alive.
“So, that was the day I died and came back to life,” I told my therapist.
“Quite a story there, Allen. Do, you mind pulling up your shirt.”
“Not at all.”
I stood and lifted it up. I couldn’t believe it. The scars were gone. A look crossed my therapist’s face I had never seen before.
“Allen, I’m going to write you a prescription. It will take a few weeks to kick in, but I promise you, you’ll start feeling better in no time.”
Like soap in a dish cold and clammy, her pale skin glistened in the morning light. The moon had completely fallen from the sky, and the sun now crested in the eastern part of the city. Its rays peeked through buildings to sparkle on hanging ice from rooftop gutters. While long dark shadows stretched across the ground from the barren trees lining each side of the parking lot.
As the woman stepped in a little closer and the abscess on the lower part of her neck became more visible, I recalled who she was. Last time I saw her was a few weeks ago sleeping on a park bench near 42nd and Wilson. She’s a regular here at the plasma bank.
Doctor Benny, my boss, is always complaining about “her kind,” as he puts it. “These people come in here with their over punctured arms expecting me to work a miracle, so they can get money for their next fix.”
Then without fail, he would wave his magic syringe and draw blood without collapsing the vein. I saw his point in a way, but I also saw him continue to take their drug rich blood, to make his money.
I did have to wonder, though, how this woman made it to this point in her life. Was it a failed marriage? A lost child? Or was it the excuses that you never hear come out of a junky’s mouth. “I like the way it makes me feel.”
Yep, I’m sure I haven’t heard that one at the center before. Honest answers are hard enough to come by in this so called Honest World. But hell, who am I to judge? I’m just the clerk behind the counter waiting for the place to open so I can do my eight hours; make my minimum wage paycheck; then go back to my minimum wage apartment, to live my minimum wage life.
The woman finally spoke, “Hey man, you got a smoke?”
I nodded with a half smile, then fished around in my coat pocket. I handed her a cigarette, then flamed its end. She drew hard on its filter making the little cherry glow bright on that cold morning.
“You know the plasma bank doesn’t open for another fifteen minutes,” I said trying my best to break the eerie silence that hung between us.
She took another hard drag, then folded her arms. “I know,” she said sharply. “I’ve been up all night waiting for it to open.” Her face now was pulled tight with stress. “Look man, I didn’t mean to snap at you. I just need to get this over with.”
“Yeah, I wish it was open, too. I’m tired of standing out here. So, you got a name?”
“Yeah, Janet. What’s yours?”
“Allen,” I said, glancing behind her, hoping Benny would hurry up and come to work.
“Allen, I always liked that name.” She pulled her coat in a little tighter. “You don’t have any change, do you?” Janet attempted a smile, but it was obvious she was self-conscious about her rotten teeth.
I knew this was probably a bad idea but I thought, maybe she could use a cup of coffee or something.
“How much you need?” I said, pushing my hand down in my pocket.
“Ten will do,” she said, still trying to smile.
“Ten what, dollars?” The words jumped quickly from my lips.
Her stranded smile fell as fast as it appeared.
“Yes, ten dollars! What the hell can I possibly get with ten cents?” She said, almost shouting.
“Sorry, I’m broke. Remember, I work here and they pay almost nothing.”
About the time I finished my sentence, I saw Doctor Benny’s silver SUV pull into the parking lot. I turned and took a few steps toward it.
“Well, the Doc’s here. Now you’ll be able to get some cash,” I said, with a little relief to my voice. I turned back around to find Janet standing now face to face with me. She plunged a knife into my side. Instantly it was hard to breathe, and I had a strange salty taste filling my mouth. I realized this taste was blood. She plunged the knife again, this time in my stomach. Then she leaned in so close, I could feel the warmth of her retched breath. She reached inside my pocket and grabbed my wallet.
“You should’ve given up the money, man.”
She ran down the sidewalk as Doctor Benny made his way to me. He called for help on his phone and then tried to stop the bleeding. It was no use. I was as cold as the snow that surrounded me. I suddenly found myself outside of my body. I was amazed at the strange shade of pink my blood had turned the snow. I was equally amazed I was on the other side. Then I saw my sister, who had been dead for years. She was standing with a smile.
“Allen, go back, it’s not time for you. Step back in your body,” she said in a whisper.
The paramedics pumped away at my chest. Lying back down in my body, I suddenly felt all of the pain at once. I knew then if I felt this much agony, I had to be alive.
“So, that was the day I died and came back to life,” I told my therapist.
“Quite a story there, Allen. Do, you mind pulling up your shirt.”
“Not at all.”
I stood and lifted it up. I couldn’t believe it. The scars were gone. A look crossed my therapist’s face I had never seen before.
“Allen, I’m going to write you a prescription. It will take a few weeks to kick in, but I promise you, you’ll start feeling better in no time.”
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