Seizure by Jeff D. Richey

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I laid in bed, my face pointed against the dark corner of the wall. My hair was meshed into the pillow with the heat and sweat of slumber. It was 4 a.m. as it blinked on the alarm. The table on which the alarm sat felt so far from me; the illuminated numbers were the only light in the darkness. The blinking stopped and there was stillness, blackness. I moved my body so that I could feel my skin. I held my hands flat against the bed, and stared. Nothing.

Then there peaked a light from above. Among the shadowy swirls that had formed from the tricks of my eyes and imagination something beyond took notice of me, and it opened what can only be described as a door. Yes, through that door, there was a light and a being. I deeply inhaled; my voice would not release. I wondered if I simply rolled my body if I could fall to the floor, and I could reach the door, which would lead to the safety of the next room – to the safety of the blessed bedroom hall light!

Then, I screamed. No, there was a scream. Hands were shaking, yelling for me to awaken as my teeth ground into my gums. The hideous being was still above me, and it began falling from the luminescence; it grew larger above, arms and legs and eyes.

My body shook, convulsed, I didn’t want to look toward the light and the evil, but, if I turned, I felt pain, gnashing nails at the corners of my arms, at my belly.

It was falling faster and faster – faster and faster. The sweat and the pain and the voices. I wrenched. Faster and faster! No!

And then I awoke, abruptly. My body trembling. My eyes tired. And I heaved from the sensation of weight on my chest. I looked up above.

“You’re okay. We’re almost there. Stay with me.”

Sirens blared. My salvation was there, salvation from it. My escape…a brief, yet welcome, sanctuary from what came toward me in the night, what always comes toward in the dreadful darkness.

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Empty Cup by Jeff D. Richey

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A cup sits in the same place where I put it two days ago, yet I can’t move it. I had pulled it down for my coffee when I heard the noise outside. I live at a crossroads in my neighborhood that is close to the fire station. It didn’t occur to me the sirens were unusually close. I sat that cup down and peeked through the kitchen blinds, not expecting to see anything.

I had no idea how fast I could move.

There she was, having never left the drive. Slumped.

Will I ever be the same? How could this be? Empty…

Little Moments by Jeff D. Richey

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I sit still at times, and I think about life’s moments.

Hot flashes wash over my body some of those times.

And I will remember moments that built who I am now.

Sometimes I fill with gratefulness, others more with regret.

 

It’s then that I curl in and out to release the tensions of those moments.

And I cry out to release reverently all that is the awfulness of life.

I wake up and purposefully remember who got me through it all.

And I head-high walk forward humming a peaceful, lovely, loverly, simple tune.

A Moment After by Jeff D. Richey

What is in this moment?

Sound.

Ache.

What is beyond?

Want.

Need.

Regret.

Not long ago this moment was much the same. The wind rustled the leaves. My body grew sore. And my soul was uplifted.

Now. In this moment. On the surface –  similar.

I wonder why so, so different?

What is different, and will it change?

Regret lies to the heart.

But I will not listen.

 

Answer by Jeff D. Richey

Among all the philosophies, and there are great ones, resides an ongoing and resounding truth: love is the answer to all; and what we do in our lives to express love, or not, does define us, not just to others, but to ourselves. Our character, our honor, our future, love, everything relies on knowing this. To know this is everything. Knowing it too late means even more.

Advocacy by Jeff D. Richey

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The next time I see little things severing the corners of my world, selling pages of books, I know what I want to see: Advocacy.

Not Advocacy that cries a river and then screams of being bothered by the monsters who try to climb out of the stream.

I want to look past the Mohawks, and financed tattoos, and clipped wings and see people who are birds, but not scavenging birds.

I know I don’t want to see the same monsters inside me now living in the bright daylight. I want to see lovers whose hearts and bodies are in flight.

Advocacy. Real Advocacy.

I want to see it.

Death, Love, and Joe’s Pool Stick by Jeff D. Richey

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I stopped thinking a long time ago about dying. Death was a daydream of my youth. I used to ponder for hours at a time in my twenties about death, what it would be like. I imagined that I would be escorted into a bright light that somehow was also dim, a sort of luminescent twilight, then I would see souls moving around all over the place, floating in some kind of void. Endless space would envelope my body, and then I would notice that I too was floating in this blackness and bumping into other souls as confused as I was. I imagined the goal of death was to maybe go out in the abyss and search for my lost loved ones who had died, and touch them, and become a part of them. I always read books about ghosts, and how some houses were believed to house the souls of dead residents. I always believed that these souls were men and women too afraid to make that leap into the abyss, and their punishment was to always wander, and never love.

I think the day of my thirtieth birthday marked when my thoughts changed. I stopped thinking about death, and began thinking about living. How ironic that I thought my lamenting on death was so horrible. Thinking about living, really worrying about it, can really drive one crazy so much more quickly. I wondered about the mistakes of my youth, and searched for someone to love me. I thought perhaps that was why I hurt so often, because I wasn’t living in the now. I joined club after membership. I spent a year shooting pool with a team of rednecks at a dirty Texas bar. One day I stopped by for a beer in hopes of a new atmosphere, different people to read. The sign on the door said pool tournaments every Thursday night. I thought it would make a difference. I wanted something to fill at least one evening of my weekly routine. The TV started watching me; the beer stopped turning the talking heads and silly sitcoms into companions. Joe was the good pool player. He would lean over and the top half of his torso would become a shooting gun. His head would lean into his arm so close his left ear almost touched, and a little flick from the wrist of his right arm would send the cue ball sailing fast and precisely. He held his stick in a way that made me love it. I imagined old men setting on a  porch holding their guitars, maybe one called his guitar, Old Girl, and the other referred to his six-string as My Baby. In that way, Joe held his pool stick. He caressed it, and held it like Old Girl. I wanted something like that. Like Old Girl.

Shooting pool with Joe introduced me to life’s desire and then later my first chapter of regret. That’s where it began. I wonder what happened to old Joe. Corner pocket.

A Mother’s Mourning by Jeff D. Richey

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Sometimes I can stare at a clock until its face becomes a face. I think I’ll stare at this clock until I grow old. I want my son. He’s so young, and I’m so scared for him. I can’t talk to him about it, though – or to Charles.

Charles is a good man and good husband, and father. He has stood by me and the kids all these years like no man could, but I miss him from before he found out. Now there is a hollow in his eyes that just runs deeper and deeper no matter how much I love him and love on him. Oh, I do love him, and I know he loves Alex; he just won’t show it.

I want my son here, just like he does. We used to have great moments at Christmas when the boys and Jen lived here. Charles says those are only memories. That’s true, but right now they’re something to build on. I think today is going to be a good day. My son, Mike, is anxious to open presents. I think he wants to avoid his diseased brother just like his father.

“Mom! Come on in here. We’re going to go ahead and open one.”

“No you’re not, Mike! You’re not opening a gift until your brother walks through that door.”

“Now, honey. The children can open a gift if they want.”

“No, they can’t, and they better not!”

I know Mike and Jen have just cringed. I’m stubborn about my kids. So what?

“I’ll bet he’s cold out there right now, my son. It’s so cold inside here. I can feel my toes are as hard as they are brittle, even in my socks. I’ll bet he’s cold. My poor baby. This might be the last one and I’m so afraid he’ll miss it with me.”

“Norma, get in here, hon! It’s Christmas.”

Mike has taken two gifts from under the tree marked for Mike and Jen. They’ve unwrapped their gifts with me in the other room. They knew their gifts wouldn’t be as big or as nice as Alex’s gift, because he’s my favorite. Always has been. My baby. He got something much bigger a few years back.