He was there when she was born, and he would be there when she died. As 83-year-old Warren Johnson entwined his knotted fingers with those of his wife Alvine’s, all of the memories of their courtship in New Orleans during the 1930s and 1940s came flooding back to him. He sat in the antique rocking chair next to the mahogany four-posted bed where Alvine laid in the bedroom they had shared for 61 years. Warren gazed at the fragile woman before him. Despite her withering features, Alvine’s beauty still astounded him. Her skin was transparent and puffy, and her fine, silvery white hair was receding due to the radiation treatments. Her breathing was broken and ragged, but the sound of her sleeping still brought him comfort after all these years. Most people would look at Alvine and see a sad, dying figure, but Warren still saw the vivacious and spunky woman that he fell in love with and knew so well. She had bright, vivid brown eyes, long, flowing, loose black curls, and a grace that made her movements fluid and beautiful. Although she was unable to speak, he knew that she felt every small touch. He closed his eyes as he silently prayed for God to leave her with him just one more moment. He had never been without her, and the thought of having to live one day without the love of his life weighed heavily on his heart. He opened his eyes and saw the pictures of Jesus and the Virgin Mary that sat on top of the dresser directly across from him, and he lowered his head again to pray, this time for the Lord to take her pain away.

continue reading "Coffee in the Morning and Kisses in the Night"

This is a new spin on one of my old classics and is based on a true story! Let me know what you think.

Guilty by Association

Zoé Haydel was just waiting for the FBI to come knocking at her door to take her away. She was 16 years old, too young to rot for the rest of her life in prison. She sat on her living room floor, her eyes transfixed to the six o’clock news flashing across the black and white television screen. Zoé’s eyes darted over to her father, who sat a few feet away in his mahogany wood rocking chair, dozing off as he always did while watching the news. She let out a sigh of relief as she realized he was unaware of her blight. Her mother was hard at work in the kitchen preparing dinner – tossing salad, baking dinner rolls and a roast, and boiling corn – and Zoé knew that she would not be paying much attention to the newscast coming from the living room. The succulent smells of tender roast beef and sweet dinner rolls wafted from the kitchen, but Zoé was too mortified to even notice. Could it be? No, it couldn’t be them, could it? She studied the television screen with eyes of scrutiny.

continue reading "Guilty by Association"

Emma never thought she would end up as a book, she thought as she systematically stretched the perfect skin over the scrapbook cover. She made sure it was taut and then stapled the edges to the inside of the book. She was always reading, thinking she was so much smarter than everyone else. She took the Exacto knife and cut a square in the skin so that the picture of Emma and her art teacher on the front of the scrapbook was visible and began skinning her victim for the inside cover. Stupid bitch. Always had to be better than me. Always had to one-up me. Her masterpiece was almost complete, and this would be her most beautiful work of art yet. Emma’s skin was flawless – no blemishes, no redness, no swelling – even after the body had lapsed into rigor mortis. The inside pages of the scrapbook contained photos of her art teacher participating in various activities, including walking to work downtown, eating lunch, and watching his favorite television show, NCIS. She had also caught some tender moments between he and Emma on film, which were her most gorgeous, yet hurtful photos. She kept those hidden away on the very last pages along with strands of Emma’s silky charcoal hair and pieces of her bright red fingernails. As she added the final touches to her ultimate masterpiece, she looked at Emma’s mangled body and said, “I can’t wait to show this to him! He is going to be so surprised!” She collected her newly created work of art, said goodbye to Emma, and headed over to the art studio to submit her assignment.

continue reading "The Masterpiece"

I must be in Hell. My skin is bubbling and turning a faint pale pink as it burns from the inside out. The air is so thick that when I breathe, I fill my lungs with the water of humidity. I’m drowning. I have an Indiana Jones sized boulder on my chest. I stick my head out of the window, hoping to get some relief – some air – but instead, I get sucker punched in the gut by a flaming ball of fire. Yep, I’m definitely in Hell, or at least as close as you can get – New Orleans, LA in August.
continue reading "Deliver Us From Evil"