I need two days, please.

If we were to have coffee, at least for today, I might tell you of my struggle to be meaningful. I would ask if you ever had days where you felt meaningless? Where you felt as if there wasn’t much to be proud of, that you hadn’t done much worth meaning.

I would spew my jumbled and erratic thoughts your way, hoping some of it rang true for you as well, so maybe you could offer advice, or you could relate; because relating with another human being, makes things seem less raw.  You’d be a layer of skin to help me move forward

If we were to have coffee tomorrow, at least,  I would l tell you what I did to be meaningful the day before. I would ask if you ever had days where you felt meaningful? Where you felt as if you had done so much to be proud of, you stumbled but you rose and created something meaningful?

So thank you for meeting with me twice, and being my anchor to reality, for seeing me through my days.


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I recently stumbled on this wonderful idea by a woman named Rochelle and decided to enter her photo prompt club type thing that she has on her blog. The challenge is to write a story about a photo that is given out weekly as a prompt. The flash fiction should be under 100 words and I’ve managed to do that! If anyone else is interested in participating Rochelle’s blog link will be below the photo.

weekly prompt


Carnage 92 words

Whenever disasters such as these sweep the land, it strips away all that was pure and only leaves the carnage. It shows us our mistakes, our trash.  As a survivor, I feel ashamed of what I see; deep beneath the plastics and metals is death.  I feel ashamed at what our kind has done so I walk amongst the wreckage.  I embrace it and shout out my rage so that perhaps someone will hear it. So that perhaps something can change.  So that perhaps, the next disaster will only leave the pure.

The Day the Pineapple Fell

“When life gives you pineapples, take them because, hey, free pineapples”


Featured image

* I want to start of this story by telling you that this pineapple was fully skinned so there is nothing gross about my story you germaphobes.

It’s a rainy, dismal day and I need to take my beautiful white, all too stain-able, puppy out for a walk. I curse at the litter lying around the doorway of my apartment building; cigarettes, Tim Horton’s cup( It’s Canada’s favourite coffee shop for those of you who are unfamiliar) a McDonald’s bag and other odds and ends. Either someone decided to have a disgusting meal in the rain or there were multiple vandals.

Since I am not a janitor, I walked Thief and my cute butt right by it, trotting on our merry way. Short story even shorter, he did his business, sniffed some things, tripped me as usual, and we made our way back.

Now, I don’t know if it was the lighting or my general interest to find more discarded litter, but I took a closer look and found a treasure. A marvelously, fully intact, golden, pineapple – in December no less.

I shiftily looked around to make sure no one would see my crime; I swiped the pineapple, booking it back into my apartment, laughing hysterically the entire way, which pretty much blew my cover of secrecy anyway. I took it inside and devoured it instantly.

And you know what, it was the best damn pineapple I’ve ever had.

The Day the Music Stopped

How am I ever supposed to get to school with no music? The reporter keeps going on and on about some field and a plane. Tragic, I’m sure, but why interrupt my music?! Why is there terror in their voices? No one died. Plane crashes happen, so do deaths in the shower, what’s the big deal; Tragic, I know, but why interrupt my music? The answer came later, at school. The hallways rumbled with identical, unsynchronized reporters on all of the T.V.s. walking by I only got fragments of sentences, “Trade Centre”, “crash”, “plane.” It seemed those careening planes were sick with the feverish aim of national symbols. I stopped in front of my own class, scared and confused. I saw an image of a man in a light tan trench coat with the look of practised grief. I saw my field and the mangled carcass of a plane. I saw the horror in those voices I heard earlier. No one interrupted and I no longer cared about my music.