Short: Love And Not Love, Part 2.

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“Why am I attracted to these people?” Drake asked Todd a few days later.

Todd Mayo was Drake’s counselor. A slender black man with a thin goatee and calming voice. Drake started counseling when he learned it was free to all students at the university. And he felt safe in Todd’s office regardless of his condition when he arrived.

Todd leaned forward from his seat across from Drake and his eyes grew larger. “Why do you think you’re attracted to them?”

“I don’t know. I think something’s wrong with me. Or broken.”

“Describe broken for me. What’s broken about you?”

The question stumped Drake for a minute. And though accustomed to Todd’s approach, he felt unprepared to answer. He stared at the beige, ordinary carpet for a few seconds, then closed his eyes before answering.

“Something isn’t working. Not all relationships are like this.” Todd nodded but remained silent. Slowly, Drake continued, “I’m the common factor in each of these relationships. I’m the one trying to save people. But somehow, I’m the one who feels exhausted and foolish when it’s over. And I can’t blame an addict for being an addict. You know? I’m the one who kept going back to Abbey, and stayed in touch with Clint.” Tears began to run down Drake’s face and hopelessness crept into his heart as he spoke. He wanted to say more but didn’t see the way out of the pattern.

“Drake, there’s nothing wrong with wanting to help people. Look at me. My desire to help people got me here, helping you,” offered Todd, with a bit of a smile. “Lots of people get stuck in cycles like this. You’re lucky you finally see it. Some go there whole lives in a constant struggle. Now you have an opportunity to make a change.”

“What about them? What about people like Abbey and Clint?” Drake shot back, feeling attacked.

Todd’s face sank and his eyes narrowed.

“They aren’t here Drake. But you are. When you first sat on that couch you said you wanted to learn to love people more. How’s that working out for you?”

Drake was stunned by the question. Todd hadn’t been so blunt or direct, his words thrown back in his face. Yet, deep inside him, he knew. Months of counseling had led him to this moment. He knew he needed to press onward, but could only see what lay behind. Drake was scared

“I tried Todd.”

“And what happened?

“They shit on me.”

“And how does that feel?”

“Like shit. I’m a piece of shit.”

“Why?”

“Why? Why, what? I just told you. I tried and failed.”

“Ok. Why does that make you feel like shit? What’s wrong with failure?”

Drake’s thoughts began to unravel and a hot anger began to simmer inside him. What’s wrong with failure, he gruffed. Fucking everything dude. It means I’m not good enough, he concluded. The thought hit him like a hammer. Todd observed a softening of Drake’s shoulders and eyes. And he waited for Drake to speak first.

“I’m not enough,” Drake stammered as he covered his face with both hands.

Todd let the notion hang in the air for a beat before he asked,”And why is that?”

“Because if I was enough, my friends wouldn’t be addicts. They wouldn’t steal and cheat and hurt me.”

“And do you believe that true? That if you were perfect and did everything right, they’d be drug free?”

Drake knew the answer. He knew Abbey and Clint were addicts long before he met them. He knew they treated all their friends and family as resources. They use people too, he thought.

“No. I don’t. They have to choose to walk away from their addictions.”

Todd took a deep breath and smiled and allowed Drake space to continue down the path.

“It’s not about me. I waged a losing battle with Abbey. We didn’t want the same things.”

“Correct. And no amount of love was going to change her. She didn’t want to be changed.”

Drake nodded and wiped his cheeks.

THE END

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Vol IV: #12 Hard To Write Stories

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Gary and Mary was fun to write (and I hope it’s fun to read.) I enjoyed creating the main characters, researching subway lines, and trying to recall the sights and sounds of New York in the spring. And the plot gave me room to explore new-to-me concepts. I couldn’t wait to write each day once I envisioned Mary the magic paint brush. And I experienced an ease to the process I didn’t expect.

My newest short is more complicated and personal than the first. For one, it’s almost entirely autobiographical. And two, the tale is unflattering, unfunny, and somewhat shameful to compose. Yes. I was buried deep inside a relationship with an abusive drug addict. Yes. I kept going back to her in an attempt to save her. How dumb? How stupid could I be? And the passage of time doesn’t make it easier to relate. However…it’s a story worth telling, worth writing and publishing. Maybe someone will read it and see themselves in Drake as he sits in the chair, suffering verbal abuse. And they’ll find the courage to run as fast and far as possible, away from their Abbey. Or, perhaps this is my opportunity to practice sharing my ugliest stories.

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Short: Love And Not Love, Part 1.

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“You’re not a man! You’re a fucking faggot!” she screamed as Drake sat in the over-stuffed chair beside the hotel room window. Abbey had come down from her high and frantically riffled through her suitcase for a little white bag of happiness. She’d spent the drive from Charlotte to Charleston entertaining her vices and wanted more. And Drake was sapped of hope.

As she ranted, he sank into his thoughts. Why was it so hard to leave her, he asked himself. In truth, he’d seen his relationship with Abbey as a mission or calling. He’d love her and heal her and they’d have a wonderful story to tell. But after ten months of trying, of threats and failure, Drake knew it was time. And he conceded defeat. “This is not my life. This is not my calling,” he whispered to himself. Then, he stood up, grabbed his bag, and marched toward the door.

“What are you doin’? Go ahead you bitch.” Abbey shrieked with sarcastic smile.

Drake understood her doubt. He’d left before and then begged her to take him back, like a cliche. What she couldn’t see was the birth of his resolve.

“You can stay for the night. The room is paid for.”

“How will you get back to Charlotte, dipshit? We took my car.”

Without looking back, Drake dryly responded,”I’ll figure it out.”

Down in the lobby, Drake tried to contact a few friends in the Charleston area. No one texted back or picked up the phone. I deserve this, he thought. He’d ignored his friends for almost a year. Now came the reaping.

Then Drake thought of his father and knew he could call him, knew his dad would be there for him, but it’s not a call he wanted to make. How would he explain it all? How he’d ended up submerged in a world of guns, drugs, and strippers?

“Hey, dad.”
”Hey Drake. How’s my son?” asked the cheery voice on the other end.

“Are you available? I need a ride from Charleston to Charlotte,” Drake asked quietly and without explanation.

After a pause, the joy of hearing his son’s voice gone, Drake’s father responded. “Send me the address. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

Over the next two hours, Drake began to reclaim his life. Since he worked with Abbey and knew she wouldn’t resign, he gave notice to the restaurant they both worked at. “Are you sure? I can make it work.” was the reply of his boss, desperately trying to keep her best employee. Then he blocked Abbey and her friends on social media. He couldn’t block her phone number, not yet, not as long as they worked together. Abbey had sent Drake a steady stream of abusive text messages as soon as he’d left the room- lies mostly- and he was ready for it to end. Finally, Drake set his phone on wooden table beside him and leaned back in high-backed chair. A warm peace spread covered him like a blanket and for a time pushed away the dread.

A while later, as the sun set behind the hotel, Mr. Honeywell drove into the round-a-bout at the front of the high rise building. Drake loaded his bag into the back of the old Jeep Cherokee and the pair motored back up I-26, away from Abbey and life meant to crush him. To Drake’s surprise, his father never asked why he needed to give his son a ride from Charleston to Charlotte, rather they chatted about the Pirates and the coming football season. He was glad to be in the old Jeep, reeking of rust and oil, and more glad to be with someone who truly loved him.

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Vol IV: #11 Growth Of My Desires

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When I was young, I wanted fame and money. That’s what being a football coach would give me. The prospect was enticing. And even when I set aside my dream of being a head coach, I kept the desire for fame and money- fame to affirm my manhood and money to buy peace and stability- though I wouldn’t admit it.

By my late 20’s, I was full of shame and tried to prove my goodness to everyone around me. Outwardly, I was generous and accommodating. For a time, I worked for a charity based in the coal fields of West Virginia. Like all humans, my motivations were a mix of need and want. And I admit now, one of my goals was to prove I my holiness.

In my early 30’s, I doubled down on self-hatred. And had you asked “Nik, what’s one thing you wish you could take back?” I’d answer, “I wish I could stop myself from using credit cards and watching porn.” Sounds good and noble. The desire to avoid pain and fix old sins is normal. But this is the response of a man focused on his sins, who viewed his life as series of failures. And now, I have no regrets, no sins I hold against myself. Why should I? If the Lord forgave me, who am I to overthrow Him?

At near 43, I want time and opportunity. I’m done with the dreams of a child, no longer hate myself, and learned to be grateful in every season. My life is good and I’m thankful for each second and every hour I have to sit and type and dive deeper into the Lord made me to be. It’s not something I’d trade to rich or publicly lauded.

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Short: Gary And Mary: The Artist and The Magic Paint Brush, Part 7.

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Gary immediately began to setup to paint. As he began to pull paints and thinner from his bag, Mary was struck by a new terror. How was this going to work, she wondered. And within seconds she felt herself go heavy under the wait of worry and fear. Her thoughts and fears drowned out whatever Gary thought and she barely noticed when he’d finished getting ready. She steadied herself in time to force a smile. “Ready?” she squeaked in the most pleasant tone she could produce.

“As I’ll ever be,” Gary mumbled.

Mary could see his thoughts again and prayed another prayer.

“What should we paint?” she asked.

“How about the scene this morning from the front window of the bodega, you seem to love it. Right?”

Mary felt the sarcasm yet ignored it. Best to plow ahead, she resolved.

“Yes. Let’s paint. I need you to think about what you saw and felt, again. So, I can see it.”

Without trying and in a flash, Gary envisioned the rush and life he observed every morning, the honk of yellow taxis, the ever present jack hammer, old ladies hauling metal carts to the grocery store, children zipping between zombie like commuters, marching toward the train station, and the occasional morning jogger. Mary saw it all and understood why it enthralled him so.

“Ok, let’s go to work.” she said with great confidence.

Awkwardly, Gary grasped Mary by the handle, then set her back down.

“Trust me, I’m the only brush you need.”

“Well see.”

Then Gary firmly grabbed Mary once more and dipped her into liquid white and began to cover the canvas.

***

Over the next two hours, Gary and Mary jostled and argued and cut-in lines, mixed hues, layered paints, reworked faces, and added highlights. And when they were finished Gary stood up silently and marched out of the room. For her part, Mary was exhausted but content. She took one last long glance at the painting and dozed off.

***

Gary froze as he entered the studio. The two from earlier over around the painting, heads askew and pointing to various splotches of paint. He took a breath and moved to join them. And as he approached the back corner, the two turned to him.

“You paint this?”asked the colorful Latina.

“Yes. Just now.”

“How did you do that, bro?” inquired the tiny black man, his hand held open, palm up.

“Do what?”

“That,” and this time he pointed to the cascading colors of the people as they moved across the canvas.

“Yeah. It’s as though the the people are under water, but not. They’re rippling across or something,” added the lady. “It’s fascinating. I can’t stop staring.”

Gary didn’t know how to answer and he looked down at Mary hoping for a sign she was listening. For indeed Mary was listening and happy. And when she saw Gary’s concern, she winked at him.

“This street corner is what I saw this morning on my way to class today. People talk about the energy of New York. I wanted to show it.”

After a few more questions, proper introductions and photos, Gary began to pack. The Maria took the hint and went back to work. Wallace continued to pester Gary with questions. He followed Gary to the drying rack and back, stooped when Gary bent over to pick up his bag, and straightened as Gary shoveled the last of his supplies into the backpack- lingering over the two inch brush still on the easel. Gary hoped Mary was till reading his mind, and thought he heard a low, faint laugh a few seconds later.

Finally, exhaustion got the better of the man from south Georgia and he interrupted Wallace mid question, “It was really nice to meet you Wallace but I gotta go. Do you work in here a lot?”

Wallace looked disappointed, but answered the question, “Yeah bro. Everyday.”

“Good. Then, I’ll see you tomorrow,” Gary responded, his hand out for a shake.

Wallace’s face lightened and he shook Gary’s hand. “Yeah bro. See you tomorrow.”

Gary grinned to himself and grabbed the paint brush, which he put into a side pocket of his bag, and started for the door. Wallace returned to his seat and found his headphones. And as Gary reached the thresh hold, Wallace called to him one more time.

“One thing bro, you can’t be talking on the phone in here. It’s distracting. Keep ya’ girl outside. Cool?”

A smirk filtered out of Gary.

“Cool. I can do that. My bad.”

“No worries bro. See ya’ tomorrow.”

THE END

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Vol IV: #10 Beneath Or Best

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I love living in the 21st Century. I really do. I love toilets and the internet and airplanes and access to all types of people and cuisines. We’ve never- as humans- had more wealth and opportunity than we do today. And I love it. What I don’t love is the endless string of excuses we make for ourselves- to be bitter, to avoid living our best lives, and to generally f*ck around. And, I am guilty of all these things. 100%.

I’ve held the pain of break-ups and rejections, stored it in my chest. When the wrong opportunities came, I pursued them over what the Lord put in my heart. And naturally, the more common justification were in my quiver as well:

• My parents didn’t x, y, z.

• I was abused.

• My teachers didn’t like me.

• Every leader I had took advantage of me.

• Exposure to porn at a young age messed with my mind.

• No one taught how to properly use credit cards.

• My siblings don’t understand me the way I want to be understood.

• I’m too old.

• E T C…

Crazy truth is all the offenses and (in some cases) trauma is real. Yet none of them will empower me; rather, they are the shittiest type of baggage to cary from one day to the next. And the choice I see now is become more obvious by the day. We can either lean into our pain to justify living beneath our calling, or we can leave it behind and run after the Lord’s best for our lives. With the technology and access to super cheap or free resources, we have no excuses. I don’t have an excuse and I give myself none.

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Vol IV: #9 Straight Truth

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I’m forcing it today.

I feel like I need to write something good and readable, and I hear ten competing voices in my head. They are judging my words and telling me how my intentions are bad. And I admit, I sensor myself a bit, because I know who reads my blog. And sometimes I want to write about a moment or subject but I pull back. I edit my words to the point that what I’m saying is barely worthy of writing. I’m afraid I’ll offend or reveal too much.

And these are my problems, not my readers’. It’s up to me to be honest and vulnerable, to believe the best of anyone who stumbles by rather than the worst. And I’m thankful for this hurdle now at my feet. It is high and I don’t know how to jump over it, but I must.

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Short: Gary And Mary: The Artist and The Magic Paint Brush, Part 6.

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Gary hadn’t considered Mary’s perspective on all this, but thought proper to do so. Mary warmed as Gary worked his way through his new reality.

“You said you know your purpose, what is that?” Gary finally asked.

“My purpose?” she answered with a smile. “To create. I’m a brush and I need to get my bristles into some paint. Soon I hope.”

Gary loved the simplicity of the answer. How wonderful to be so sure and confident, he concluded.

Then Mary continued, “Gary, I believe I need you, that we are meant to work together. I need you and you need me.”

And suddenly, the mood collapsed. The words ‘you need me’ pricked Gary’s mind. He didn’t need anyone, he thought. The shift alarmed Mary as she saw the twist growing in his mind. And, she hurried to undo it.

“Your creative process brought me to life, this morning in Brooklyn. The wonder in your thoughts called to me, as you watched the hurry and madness of the train station and wanted to capture it. ”

Gary leaned back into his chair and stared at the floor. He never considered an artistic partner before and wasn’t sure he needed one, and his heart became cold toward Mary. She saw a sadness deep in him, and lonely thoughts rose from his depths. And now plans began to take shape, awful plans. Then he looked at her with a clenched jaw and stone cold eyes. Mary was frightened and silently began to ask for help.

“If you’re going to throw me away or toss me in the river,” she began. “Why not give us a chance? One painting, then you may do as you like.”

The question caught Gary pulled him from the slop. He’d spent the last minutes contemplating how to get rid of Mary, but a speck of curiosity changed everything.

“Ok, Mary. One painting.”

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Short: Gary And Mary: The Artist and The Magic Paint Brush, Part 5.

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He set Mary on the table in front of him and waited. If not for the giggles emanating from his hand, he’d assume it was an ordinary two inch oil brush- hog’s hair bristles, metal ferrule, and wooden handle.

“Oh thank you so very much,” she said in a soothing way that calmed the aspiring painter to his core.

“Will you set me up? I’d like to see your face.”

The request confused Gary as he saw no noticeable face, no eyes or mouth, or ears, but he acted without hestiation.

“That’s better. Thank you.”

And as Mary spoke, Gary noticed the tiniest moving lines across the face of the ferrule, and a pair of eyes where the ferrule was fastened to the handle.

"You’re welcome,” Gary managed to choke out as he stared at Mary’s metallic face.

“Yes. This is my face. I suppose it’s odd to you.”

“This whole situation is not normal, Mary.”

And as the words left his tongue, Gary remembered where he was. And he quickly glanced over to where the other artists were seated. The black man was gone, but the hefty lady was still face deep in a drawing. What ever was happening, was only happening between Gary and Mary. Again, he collected himself.

“Where are your ears?” he whispered.

“I don’t quite know, but I can obviously hear you. I think. Or maybe I can only perceive your thoughts.”

“Oh no. That’s not good.”

“How come?'“

“I think a lot of things and some of them are not meant for anyone but me.”

“May I assume all people are like this?”

“Yes, Mary. All humans like me think thoughts they don’t want anyone to know or perceive.”

“Well, then. That’s something to consider.”

The reality of Mary as Mindreader weighed on Gary. And Mary knew it. As a few moments of silence filled the room, she decided it best to continue to answer his questions. “What else would you like to know?” she prodded.

The mere question caused Gary to burst into laughter. Did a paint brush really just say that? And he laughed again. Mary did not to answer Gary’s thoughts, though she wanted to. Gary needed his mind to be a safe place, and so she decided let him be.

After a pause to collect himself, Gary asked, “How…I mean, what are you? Are you alive? Am I going insane? Why?”

Mary could see how her presence caused Gary great confusion, yet she also sensed his curiosity, a more noble human trait than fear.

“Gary, all I know is I heard your thoughts earlier today on the train. It was like I was awakened from a deep sleep. And I knew what I was, who I was, and what my purpose is. And I couldn’t wait to meet you. So, I decided to talk to you if I could. I believe you thought I was prank or mental trick.”

“Indeed, I thought someone was messing with me,” Gary offered.

Again, Mary waited for Gary to speak rather than answer his thoughts which were complex and weighed with emotion. And, she decided on a different tact.

“You know Gary, I’m new here too.”

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Vol IV: #8 Motivation Rather Than Offense

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Motivation is a tricky muse. Similar to Inspiration, it is fleeting. The artist is happy to have them over, even begs them to stay. But when they’ve left the building, he must get back to work.

This week, I was given a slice of unexpected motivation. What was communicated does not matter, but I will admit I was disheartened at first. Someone challenged me and I immediately felt defensive. And, I don’t like feeling defensive. It’s a waste, and the behavior of slaves trying to appease a master. The challenge thrown at my feet was a truth I needed to hear. (Sorry for being vague, but I prefer to protect the innocent.) And as I thought about what I’m doing and where I want to be, I knew I could use the challenge to propel me forward like a ship sailing with the wind.

And this is new for me. Previously, I was defeated by a few well placed words or opinions. Whoever expressed them was clueless to the turmoil they set in motion, and they are not to blame for my self-sabotage. Any time I am defeated by a few words it is because of the unaddressed fear in my heart. The trick I used this week was to use words said in love, yet received as a challenge, as motivation to level-up my work and my approach to it. Maybe you’ve noticed an uptick in the number of posts this week? I’m on track to post 10-12 posts this week, and even more next week. (I’m hoping to finish my current short story by the end of next week too.)

I’m on a path to well over 500 posts over the coming year. That’s an insane but necessary amount of writing. To get to where I want to be- a working author, living off my work- I need to write and work and publish my stories. For now, it’s this blog. And soon, I’ll start submitting my work to writing competitions and (hopefully) editors for feedback. The next step is to produce a short story a week instead of over three weeks. Nothing wrong with my previous approach, but I’m moving up a level. I’m treating my work as a job, with hours, tasks, and deadlines.

And, I can thank a friend for a swift kick to rear for the motivation to go harder than ever before.

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Vol IV: #7 Get That Sleep

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I looked at my watch as I laid on the couch and it showed 10 PM. In the moment, I knew it was bed time for Nik but I made a poor decision and pressed “Play Next Episode” for one more round of Alone. An our later, I lugged upstairs and fell asleep. Just before nodding off I told myself to sleep in, to get my rest. Yet, when 5 AM came, I rolled out of bed and began my day. And I have fought my thoughts and attitude all day as a result of my poor choice.

If someone where to ask “What are the most three important needs in life?” I’d have a quick answer: love(God), water, and sleep. That’s my experience, anyway. And the difference I feel when I am rested instead of groggy is stark. Like right now, I want to fight everyone- which I’ve already done in my head. My roommate and ex-girlfriend didn’t stand a chance. Poor bastards.

The encouraging bit is I still hit most of my goals for the day. Most. And that’s ok. In the past, I would’ve done some truly self-destructive stuff when I’m this miserable. And I know what you’re thinking, Wait till you’re married and have kids, you’ll never sleep again. Yeah, I get it. Truly. That thought and reality is part of why I feel like such an angry twat. I know I’m single. I know it everyday. And as we all know, single people just need to shut the f*ck up and be thankful their lives are so simple, right? Again, I am aware.

Now, all I want to do is go to sleep, take a 16 hour nap. Instead, I’m happy to be typing rather whine or play games or do anything to satisfy my spoiled flesh. What is good and holy is always good and holy regardless of how I feel about it being good and holy. And today is a day where I see the dividends of pushing through bad feelings and thoughts…to do what is good and holy in my life.

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Short: Gary And Mary: The Artist and The Magic Paint Brush, Part 4.

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Gary was not himself the rest of the morning. He entered the wrong classroom for figure drawing and promptly hurried out when the instructor said,”welcome to advanced watercolor, bodies of water and skyscapes.” Then Gary’s embarrassment doubled when the figure drawing instructor- a well groomed and slender white man in black jeans, a navy blue pullover, and penny loafers- eyed him for being late. And unlike oil painting, this class got down to business within minutes. Unprepared, Gary scrambled to find his sketch pad and pencils as a large, balding still very hairy, middle-aged man disrobed in the middle of the room.

After lunch, Gary spent his free period in a studio meant for students working on projects. As it was the first day of class, only two industrious students were at work when he slipped into the room, one small black man about Gary’s age and a large latino lady sporting orange and green running shoes and hot pink leggings. Headphoned and focused, both artists focused on their work. The quiet suited Gary and he slumped into a red chair in the far corner of the room.

And then, for the third time that day, Gary heard the mumbles. And they clearly came from his backpack.

Ok, let’s do this, he thought. At first he didn’t know what to do. Then Gary unzipped the smallest pocket first. He reached in and pulled out a few scraps of newsprint- used for drawing practice- and his pencil sharpener. Next, he rummaged through the next pocket, larger than the first and mostly empty. Gary sat back in his chair for a moment before he heard it again.

“Muh, meh, meah,” responded the mumbler.

Instantly, Gary felt his heart in the throat and was more aware of his chest, rising and falling with each shallow breath. He hesitated before opening the last and largest compartment of his backpack. Part of Gary wanted the mumbler to speak again and part of him wanted the prank to resolve itself. After a beat, he turned his ahead as though what lay inside might attack him and slowly pulled the zipper up one side of the pack across the top and down the other side. He did not reach inside but sat afraid of what was to come.

“I won’t bite, Gary. I’m in here.” said a distinctly female voice.

This is crazy, Gary admitted. My backpack is talking to me.

“Not your backpack. I’m a paint brush. My name’s Mary,” the voice responded.

Gary didn’t know if he should cry or run, but he remained frozen to his seat.

“You’re not crazy Gary,” the voice continued from inside the backpack. “I assume you don’t know many talking paint brushes, do you?”

“N-no,” He finally stuttered.

“Ah. Well that makes sense. May I make a request?”

Gary slowly began to find humor in the moment, relieved the by the gentle voice. This will make one hell of a story for a therapist, he mused.

“A therapist? Why a therapist?” she responded as though reading his thoughts.

Giving into the situation, Gary finally found his courage and answered,”First, what’s your request? And two, either I’m losing my shit, or…I’m losing my shit.”

“I can assure you Gary, I’m real. And you are not losing your wits or sanity.”

“Solid,” Gary quipped sarcastically. “Good to know.”

“As for my request, can you take me out of your backpack? It’s dark in here and I much prefer the light like I experienced earlier today.”

“Right, that was you who said ‘thank you’ earlier today.”

“Yes. I am quite polite.”

Then Gary reached into the darkness and fumbled around until he heard laughter and giggling.

“That’s me Gary. You have me.”

And with that, Gary Mellmack met his paint brush, face to face.

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