They must

Normally I avoid poetry, as we never got along. After this, I am still not convinced we do.

I know they see the white skin, brown hair, green eyes, scattered freckles, rosy cheeks, extra weight, bright red scars, thinning and receding hair, dark circles, body hair, dirty and bitten nails, stretch marks, crooked not-quite-white teeth, untrimmed brow and big ears.

They see all that, but can they see inside? My lack of confidence, my depression, my rage, my hatred, my loneliness, my oh-so-many tears, my failures, my fears, my unnatural and suicidal desires, my obsessions, my arches, my insecurity. They must see me. Hear me. Smell it on me like the wolves they are.

They were not there, but they must know. They must see me the once fat boy longing to play with the other children, not worried to run and lose one’s dignity with each bouncing stride. They must see the arguments with my family and my friends. The must see the teasing, the poking and beating. They must see the abuse in my dating, the times I cheated, was cheated on and used to cheat. They must see I hate myself.

They must see everything that I do.

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Dearest Daughter

Today I listened for two hours as two of my friends went on and on about their futures in their jobs. They are planning to be wealthy by their late twenties at the latest. If you listen to them, they are going to have it all.

Also today,  two of my friends’ from high school had an absolutely beautiful baby girl together. 

I have always wanted to be a dad.

To my dearest daughter,

Growing up I have had the pleasure of knowing truly ambitious and amazing people. These people are aspiring to do great things. They dreamt of travelling to strange countries, studying rare animals, building skyscrapers or even ruling a company from a top of them. You will grow up knowing doctors, lawyers and CEOs.

You will see family friends flying to foreign countries for erotic vacations yearly. They will have bigger houses, televisions and more cars. They will likely have nicer clothes, the newest technology and the better connections.

We will likely not vacation every year. Even less likely to a foreign place, unless you consider Disney’s Epcot. Our house will be modest, as will our television and car. You may have hand-me-downs, a phone a few generations behind and not get into the trendiest restaurants without reservations.

My ambitions were not to be a CEO, doctor or to study rare animals for big institutions. I do support the cure for cancer, but am not part of the advancements myself. I am a high school teacher with a modest pay.

What did I dream of then you may wonder, if not to be rich or famous. You are what I dreamed of. I dreamed of a beautiful baby girl. I dreamed of the day I would be called a dad. And I dreamed of our family. I may not have all the money in the world for you, but I will always have the time for you.

With all the love my heart possesses,




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Bitches, Sluts and Homophobes

I am aware I am not a woman. This is my attempt at writing from a very different perspective from my own. I hope having two sisters at least gave me some perspective.

The moment you were no longer a child. 

When did I feel like a grown up? Hm. I feel like most women would answer when they got their period. Perhaps not when a seven year old asks you however. I would hope not at least. I know my friend Tiffany pronounced she was a woman when she got hers. She began puberty at like eight and had her full boobs by grade seven. All the boys began lining up to do things for her just so she would hug them for doing so. The bitch knew she had boobs. Some of us had to wait until we were thirteen to begin puberty and nearly university before the boobs came to.

Tiffany is not nearly as bad as Brenda. Brenda may not of began puberty early, but she sure took advantage of the hundreds of hormonal boys at our high school. She slept with maybe five guys. The rumor was at least twenty-five. I heard it be as high as sixty-nine, but I think that was for the obvious pun intended. The slut used the rumours to her advantage. Not only did she stop me as a friend trying to correct those rumours,  she would go on and on about how she was more experienced than everyone. I nearly lost it when she told me “don’t worry, someone somewhere will make you a woman too” as if it was some secret club I couldn’t be in until a guy had been in me.

Tiffany was proud of her pubes and young. I forgive her. Brenda used to be a bit bigger in elementary school and liked the new found attention upon her weight loss. I get it. Hannah is the worst. This homophobe’s entrance to the world of womanhood, like Brenda, was sex. Like Brenda, she claims her first time was access. Unlike Brenda, it was with my boyfriend who I had not slept with yet at the time. I was a virgin. I was nervous.

Bad enough, right? Wrong. She did so after her and I kissed. After I confessed I thought I might be a lesbian. She apparently had to prove she was straight after. She had to do it with my boyfriend. She told everyone I forced myself upon her. None of my friends came near me after that again. They did not want me to force myself upon them.

So when my little cousin Tyler asks when did I feel like a grown up, I want to tell him when not when I got my period, boobs or had sex. I want to tell him when I found out my friends were bitches, sluts and homophobes… but I don’t.

“When I could reach the top shelf.” I wink and sneak him an Oreo from the cabinet before dinner.

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Plenty of Fishing

What gave me the inspiration to write this fictitious exchange? My little sister admitted to the family that she had been fishing for a boyfriend on online. She proceded to say we should not judge her for using Plenty of Fish as a method. We had not said a word. She believes there is still a stigma, which there may be. Her own perception of shame led her to tell us that she believed our parents would not be around much longer, therefore she had to find someone quick to marry… Should there be a stigma?



9/2/2013 7:22:88 PM

Hey James,

The temperature change will definitely be an adjustment for you!! I am a northern Saskatchewan girl, so the move made no difference to me. All you southern Ontario folk are babies in the cold comparatively speaking.

Oh how I wish it were that easy to meet someone! The Laundromat even would be a more romantic place than an online site I think sometimes. Anything is nicer than an online profile. I suppose I am looking for someone to make this experience dreamy somehow?

I volunteer at the pet hospital here! I was planning on volunteer at the actual (human) hospital here, but I got offered this position from a friend, as she knew I enjoyed playing with the dogs. Especially the newborn puppies! I’m going to be assisting with a new program that the coordinator brought up to me as well!

What will you miss about southern Ontario most when you do move here? And don’t worry, if you’re lucky you’ll have a pretty girl to keep you warm in the cold winters up here…



9/2/2013 11:58:02 PM

Hey Tiger,

Well I have experienced some cold conditions before, but I think the Sault St. Marie winter may put me to the test. It may just be my male ego, but I am determined to prove us Southern Ontario folk are made of tough stuff and can pass that test.

I suffer from the dilemma as you. I grew up with two sisters, which one would hope would have given me some great insight into the female mind. It didn’t. What it did give me is an unfortunate amount of knowledge about romantic comedies – all of which have some big meet cute. I think problem is we both are looking for some big Sleepless in Seattle scene.

There is a solution to our problems however! If you do meet someone on here that you want to meet and things go well, I suggest you just make up how you met. The catch is never to use the same story twice. I know it sounds ridiculous, but there is method to my madness. It becomes a fun game for two to play when you are out and you get to relive your first fictitious moments flirting over and over again. The best part? The truth of how you met online becomes a secret between the two of you. Not shameful, but special – dare I say romantic even?

That may only seem appealing to me because I read a lot of fiction. So a plan B. You pretend you are Meg Ryan and the very lucky guy is Tom Hanks. The movie you two are starring in however is not Sleepless in Seattle, but You’ve Got Mail.

Amazing that you volunteer, Kat. I’ll use the excuse I have not found something I am as passionate about enough to volunteer. It is really inspiring to hear though, especially with such excitement. I couldn’t be more impressed.

And to answer your question, I think I’ll miss my family, friends and even my annoying cat (despite him not being a dog). Do not get me wrong, I’m excited to meet new people, but I do also have a good group of people in my life already too. I’ll miss them. How about you? What did you miss about Manitoba?

I rambled a bit. I am hoping for a Meg Ryan by the fire to keep me warm though… ;)

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Ramblings about Celina

The one thing you’re most ashamed of. (Non-stop fiction, free flow writing)

I wish their was a good enough reason. I wish I could say she was being a bitch behind everyone’s back. That every time they left the room, she would stop smiling and unleash cruel comments. Or that she tormented our cat for fun. I wish I could say she did it first. I wish I could say it didn’t happen.

I remember the first time it happened. Not the innocent flirting between friends. Not the inappropriate glances across rooms. I mean when it really happened. I’d left home for my Christmas break, and she had headed home for hers. She made it a real priority in conversation weeks prior to schedule times we could talk during the two week absence. Sometimes I think she knew what was coming.

At the same time I boarded the train home, an ol’friend boarded as well. She was at the university just down the road from mine. We talked and talked the whole ride home. I wish we didn’t. She told me of her program, her new friends and boyfriend and all the things she planned to do once we graduated. I listened eagerly like I did the day I met Celina. When my friend left the train, I had the option to just let her go. Longing for the intense emotions and passions of when I first met Celina, I didn’t. I called to my friend and got her number. I wish I didn’t.

We met again at a bar. Then a hotel. Then the train station back again. And then never again.

Celina and I did however reunite after Christmas break. She knew. She had to of known. She could always read me like a book and it was written there as clear as day. Guilty. She pretended not to, but that only lasts so long. Eventually she could not take it. She had found undeniable evidence of what had transpired between the friend and I. She could not deny as she had been the guilty looks any longer. It was over.

That undeniable evidence? My journal. I wrote about it. It ate at me and I needed it out, but selfishly I did not confess to Celina. The same Celina who would of forgave me if I had. The same Celina who did not bitch behind the backs of others or ever stop smiling in the company of others. The same Celina who I turned to the person who would do those things. Who would seek revenge. Who would cheat on me. Then leave me.

What happened in the end? She left. With the man she cheated on me with. I see them now and again. They look happy. In time, we forgave each other. Do I hate her? Not even a little, as it was well deserved and then some. What did she get out of this? Probably more self-conscious than she already was. What did I get out of this? A lifetime of saying “I wish I didn’t…”

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Mrs. Melatonin in My Apartment

I tried to write as the opposite sex without being too stereotypical coming from a male, however I think some areas were a failure on that objective. Also it is free flow writing so it is a bit jumpy unfortunately, but I am hoping to get time on writing something more structured, as I did mention I had a real short story idea in an earlier post.

Please comment below any tips you have for beginning a more structured story, in terms of the planning stage, or any other general tips.

Write about the people who will live in your house after you move out. 

There are many positives to graduating from university.  I’ll never have to write another test or essay. I can finally begin working at my new job. I hear men are more mature, better looking and even know how to cook. And maybe, just maybe my parents will stop treating me like a child. Maybe.

There is a downside however – packing up my apartment. Few bookcases in and I already want to call it quits. To be honest, if I have to move again I may just have to buy an e-book reader and become a used bookstores best friend with boxes of donations. And I don’t even want to begin thinking about my movie collection quite yet either.

It would be nice if my roommate helped out. He just sits there though. Watching me. Pretty sure he is judging me. Yawning as if my packing is not much entertainment. He was thrilled for about an hour with the boxes and bubble wrap, but now, nothing. Nothing, but licking his fur. Steven is lazy enough to convert me to be a dog person, not that they’d be much help packing either.

I wish I had more time in this place. My three senior years of university in this place. It was finally feeling like home. But Mrs. Melatonin wants to move in by the end of the week. Grey hair. Wrinkly. Gives me a dirty look all, I assume because of my piercings. You know, the typical elderly woman. I only met her once, but I am sure her pantsuit and goddy jewelry belong to a closet of many similar articles. She does not deserve this apartment. My apartment.

We talked for a bit when she first came to check out the place, so I understand the rigidness. Claimed to of nearly become a nun if she didn’t get a “tingle” for her husband Albert when she met him. I hope she did not mean that how it sounded though. Regardless, I could not contain the smirk that came with the thought… then the near vomit that came with the image. Apparently the husband passed away though. Big sob story. Some long disease to which she had to sit by his bedside and watch him die. She couldn’t of been more theatrical with the telling of it. She has the production well crafted. She must tell it every chance she gets, as she steered the conversation to her life story from asking how the water pressure was here. It’s low.

Steven is in the box again with my books. Joy.


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To The Point

Write a “Dear John” letter, breaking up with your high-school sweetheart who’s in the army.

Dear Michael,

To begin, I want you to know how wonderful and courageous you are in my eyes, despite my frustration. When the war in the Middle East began, I was proud to have my boyfriend and my brother fighting alongside each other – looking out for each other. It made me feel like Lois Lane, but instead of having one superhero in my life, I was blessed by God to have two.

Unfortunately, the realization that you two are not bulletproof like Superman hit hard. Noah’s death hit hard. Deep down I know it is not your fault. You were split up, I understand. The fact though you did agreed to do another tour of duty when your time is up is something I do not understand. I needed you home. I needed not to worry anymore whether or not the same fate waited for you. You did not need to be a hero anymore, to be brave anymore.

After Noah’s passing, my friend David from our high school started coming around. I know you never liked him. At first he was just checking up on me. He brought my family dinners, beers and even his puppy for my little sister to play with on occasion. Lately, it’s been more than that though. I tried to fight it, especially with everything you are doing, but he has just been so good to me, my family. I’m sorry you had to find out this way, but why did you have to stay?

I hope when you return safely we can be friends.



You’re the high school sweetheart from the above prompt. Write your reply to the breakup note.

Dear Grace,

No, we cannot be friends. Three years and you break up with me over a quick letter? Fuck you. Fuck David. He can deal with your Tom Welling and Smallville obsession now. The show sucks anyway.

Fuck you again,


P.S. I took that extra tour to kill the sons-of-bitches that killed Noah. Hope you’re happy.



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