Welcome to my writing blog

Writing short stories is my way of sharpening my craft. It’s an imperfect but deeply rewarding endeavor.

Day 09/28/2026 

Write the story told by a favorite song. (Could Heaven ever be like this - Idris Muhamed) 

Dear you, 

My heart bleeds for you; every touch leaves an electric burn that ignites my very existence, bringing me to life, and at times it is too much for me. The sweet sensations of your love enveloping me in a warm ray of light— I cannot bear it. Could heaven ever be like this? Could heaven reach the heights that you send me to with your very being? I can’t help but writhe in a passionate dance when our eyes meet; I pivot away to spare myself the bashful, hazy gaze I may return to you. Every moment we share washes the dark away in a river of color. You— a god-sent blessing, only for me to hold? How could I get over this feeling? 

This overwhelming feeling.

You leave me a bumbling fool when you pepper my face with your soft lips.

Our hearts beat in a melodious harmony.  

And I know I’ll never get over this feeling.

Love, me.

Day 09/29/2026

A package appears on your doorstep with no sender. 

“That’s weird.... I don’t remember ordering anything,” I mutter quietly to myself, picking up the cardboard box from the porch. I turn it over gently in my hands, looking for any indication of what it could be. It’s too early for Amazon or FedEx; in fact, it’s too early for anyone to be up at this time except maybe someone on an early shift. I liked getting up just early enough to watch the sunrise on my porch with some coffee. It was how I charged my battery for the day. But as I stared at the unmarked package, I felt a stirring curiosity brewing. 

So I brought the box inside and set it on my coffee table, along with my coffee. Sitting down on the couch across from it, I reached over to the cup of writing utensils from my side table and pulled out a box cutter. I pondered it for another moment: what if something foul was inside? The smart thing to do would be to throw it away or even open it outside. But I was still wiping the sleep from my eyes as I held the box cutter to the painter's tape on the top of the box. And as I dragged the tip of the blade across the center of the taped line, I felt the anticipation grow. 

The tape gave way; the only step was opening the box. I leaned back. My thumb and index finger pinched a corner of the lid; I pulled it open carefully. No telling smells, no immediate horror. I leaned closer and peeked into the square opening. 

Nothing. 

Day 09/30/2026

A clock tower stops for the first time in a hundred years. 

That old bastard must be laughing in his grave.

I had taken over his duties as clockkeeper when he kicked the bucket, but purely against his wishes. The mechanisms in the clock tower were built by his own hands; they were his pride and joy. He loved this machine much more than his son, and much, much more than me—his grandson. In his will, he left all of his money to the church that housed the most “important” piece of his life. He explicitly stated that no one but him could ever understand the intricacies of his work, and not to bother trying.

But as I sat in the belly of the gears, staring into his creation, all I could think was: that crazy bastard, what the fuck is this?

Every large gear was accompanied by a thousand smaller ones, all lined up in dizzying, fractal patterns. Every part of the machine was polished and oiled, even though it’d been twenty years since he was last able to work on this mess. It should have been in perfect working order. Every part was perfectly in sync, every weight calibrated, every surface clean. What was I doing wrong?

I had worked on this clock when I was a boy alongside my grandfather. He was always reverent toward the machine. He treated every moment in its presence with a quiet awe. It felt like driving a car you knew was on its last leg, praying it would just make it home. Or when a parent dies, and although you spent your entire life with them and were comfortable around them, you can't help but feel nervous when taking care of them in their last moments.

I was surrounded by replacement parts that I thought would work. But holding them up to the preexisting gears showed the originals were completely custom-made. I dropped my hands to my sides. This wasn’t going anywhere. This machine needed someone who knew it from the start, not someone like me who took it for granted.

I buried my sweaty face in my soiled hands and sighed. What am I gonna do without you? I can’t do this on my own. And if I can’t get it to work, they’ll tear it down and replace all of your work. Why couldn’t you leave behind anything to hint at what to do?

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what to do…” Through teary eyes, my gaze roamed up to the brass mural of the inner workings. I gently touched the largest gear, tracing my hand along the edge.

Tick.

I jolted. The mechanism moved forward one single notch.

“Fuck,” I muttered, startled but suddenly excited. I did something right. I placed my hand there again, gently caressing the metal. “Please work… I can’t—I can’t lose you too.”

Tick. Tick.

My eyes widened, staring up at the beauty before me. Maybe I did understand what he meant.

I backed away from the clock and dropped to my knees. Placing my hands together, I began to pray—begging and asking the clock to forgive me. Forgive me for forgetting about it, forgive me for leaving it to rot, my own pride seeping into my responsibilities.

“I’m so sorry.”

A ringing sound filled my ears. I smiled, watching as all the gears around me began moving in perfect unison—the flawlessly running guts of the most beautiful thing on this earth.

“Thank you. Oh God, I’m so sorry.” 

The tears that threatened to burst finally let go, and I let out a choked sob.

Day 09/30/2026

A child hears thoughts only when it rains.

“STOP! GET AWAY FROM ME!” My youngest daughter yelled, thrashing wildly on the floor.

She always gets this way when it rains. I don’t understand it. We’ve been to dozens of specialists, done MRIs, bloodwork—everything leads to a dead end. But the moment the first drops hit the roof, she becomes unmanageable. Angry. Violent. I tried to corner her, reaching out to pin her arms, but she frantically kicked at my face until I was forced to back down.

“YOU HATE ME! I KNOW YOU DO!” she sobbed, scrambling backward until her spine hit the far wall.

And how could I not? When she acts like this—how is any mother supposed to handle it? The exhausting tantrums, the broken glass, the screaming. She pushes away the exact hand that has fed her since the day she was born. If I could get rid of her, I would.

My daughter’s eyes widened, and she began crying so hard she choked on her own breath. “Why—WHY WOULD YOU SAY THAT?!” A heavy hardcover was ripped off the living room bookshelf and hurled at my head.

I ducked, the pages whistling past my ear. “I DIDN’T SAY ANYTHING!” I screamed back, completely exasperated.

Every single time it rains, this is my life.

Day 10/01/2026

A bookstore holds a staircase that leads into another world. 

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The stale stench of old, abused pages permeated the air of my home, my shop. A bookstore, to be specific. The odd scratch– of one of the many avian pests that chose to house themselves on the roof of this building– was the only thing breaking the tainted silence.  

A nervous ringing played itself loudly in my ears, the ever-persistent ring having been with me longer than any one person ever had. It was almost comforting in a way– the ringing keeping me company, having its incomprehensible whispers in my head at all times, kept me from any true contemplation. 

I pulled the delivery bags from the floor, my sister leaving them at the precipice of the stairs for me to pick up. The bedraggled woman had only been here long enough to set the bags by the door before leaving down the entrance stairs. The smell of cigarette smoke residue still lingered behind where she had just been. I scrunched my nose up and held my breath as I quickly retrieved the bags from the noxious plume. 

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The floorboards of the second story creaked as I moved from one side of my shop to the other. The weekly rations were soon divided and conquered into their respective homes before the paper bags were neatly folded and placed by my register, each fold emitting a satisfying crinkle. 

The ring of the lower entrance door resonated with the ringing in my ear, buzzing my brain into attention. I slid behind the counter, trying to put on an air of nonchalance as the creaking of the steps grew ever closer. 

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The light steps reached the top of the steps, revealing an older woman, face stretched and creased into an ever-present smile. I wondered briefly if this woman was ever young, the wrinkles making it hard to conceptualize what she may have looked like in her prime. I nodded at her as she shakily pulled herself up the final step, shakily walking towards the section where the music and fine arts section sat silently beckoning her. 

I fought the urge to huff out loud at the sound of her pulling books off the shelf to look over them, a thoughtful hum displacing the shuffling now and again. For about thirty minutes it continued like this, my hands finding themselves in their own book to peruse as the old hag took her time. 

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“Did you see the parade?” 

The voice startled me out of my book reading. I awkwardly coughed. “Kh– Yeah, uh, the town really went all out this year.” 

“You think so?” Her wrinkles shifted to a lighter expression. “I thought they really dropped the ball this year.” She set the old book onto the counter; it was an in-depth guide on Ikebana floral arrangements. The cover sported an intricate display of winding vines and smooth petals. 

I nodded, pulling the book towards me to ring up the price. Slowly entering it into the register. 

“That’ll be four dollars.” I pulled out one of the paper bags, gently placing the book inside before exchanging it for the five she held out to me. The button on the drawer stuck, not fully pressing down. I tapped the side until the drawer dislodged, revealing the green bills inside. Trading the five for a one. 

“Here you go, have a nice day,” I said quickly. Sweat crept down the back of my neck. 

“You as well.” And she was off— like a turtle, but still off.

When the bell once again rang throughout my head, I couldn’t help but crumble with relief, sighing loudly. I wondered what the weather had been like this week; she was wearing a heavy jacket. Didn’t sound like very good parade weather. 

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Day 10/02/2026

You find a photo of yourself in a place you’ve never been

He was perfect: his curly hair, his colorful clothes, the way his cheeks dimpled when he smiled. All the cliché ways a man can make a woman happy, he went out of his way to not just do, but go beyond. Of course I accepted his invitation to follow him home one night; it’d been a long night: movies, dinner, all that corny stuff. 

He hadn’t given any reason to feel uncomfortable around him. In fact, I couldn’t think of a single time he’d been rude or annoyed, just simply content to be around me. I felt like I had won the lottery with him, a kind-hearted man who could hold a meaningful conversation with me.  

His place was spotless, but not bare. His house had semi-realistic paintings hung on the baby blue walls. Plants— real plants, watered, and flourishing. The air smelled like orange cinnamon rolls, and when I asked him about it, he said he’d boiled some homemade potpourri that morning—Homemade potpourri… 

When he had said to wait a moment while he tidied up his room, I hadn’t questioned it. Sitting on his quilted couch, admiring my surroundings. The house was older, and well lived in. The old wooden floorboards were slightly scuffed. In his bathroom, there had been old mint green striped wallpaper. Everything that surrounded me seemed like it had been picked to appeal to me specifically; the stained glass lamp that sat next to me was one I had bought for myself already–- it sat on my office desk back in my apartment. It was another mark on his charts; was he made specifically for me? Was it fate? 

He returned and beckoned me over to him. 

We wrapped our arms around eachother simply to get closer, and I laid my head on his shoulder.

That’s when I spotted it. 

A photo—of him and another woman. My eyebrows furrowed, but on closer inspection, I saw the familiar mole and glasses. Too familiar. My blood felt as if it had iced in my body; if it weren’t for the quickening beat of my heart, I’d have thought my blood was frozen in place. 

His arms tightened around me.

I remained still as I stared in horror at the frame; a picture of him and me at the altar stared back.

Day/03/2026

A letter arrives, postmarked 50 years ago.

I looked along the line of small metal lockers, scanning through the numbers until I found the one. This was my first time using it, having just moved into the area. 

46863 

There it is. I pulled the key from my lanyard and inserted it with a satisfying click. The key turned with zero resistance. The door swung open with a gentle creak. Revealing the colorful assortment of credit cards, adverts, and letters. 

They had already packed the damn thing full. 

I tucked the stack under my arm, closed the PO box, and retrieved my key. With my prizes in hand, I headed back to the elevator. Upon entry, I tried not to groan as the old man from my floor sauntered into the hanging metal box with me. He gave me his usual shit-eating grin and tipped the cap he used to hide his ever-balding head. 

“Hello, little lady, how are you on this wonderful day?” He pried; it was the same song and dance we did every time we’d meet eachother in the halls. 

“Just fine.” I deadpanned. The sleazy old man would always try his luck, seeing if I would follow him to his apartment. I wondered if he thought he could just wear me down over time, that getting into bed with him wasn’t the last thing  I’d do on this earth, like as if I had to choose between throwing myself off a building and bedding him; I wouldn’t choose death every single time. 

“Aw, c’mon hun, show us a smile.” He patted my shoulder, and I shuddered; the elevator seemed to agree as we both felt it jolt slightly. “Seems Ethel is having a rough day.” That’s what he called the elevator… Ethel. 

“Mmhm.” I was silently praying it didn’t break down, praying to god I didn’t get stuck with this guy. 

“Y’know, I was just putting together some lunch; would you care to join me?” There it is. He was fishing—again. 

“Mmm, sorry—I have something in the oven already, thanks for the invite though.” I didn’t even have to think about it; I’d planned a hundred excuses for these moments. 

“Aw, that’s too bad, maybe next time?” He prodded.

“Maybe.” Maybe never in a billion years. 

His mouth opened, but as he began to say something, the elevator dinged, signalling my freedom and the end of this conversation. “I’ll see you.” I didn’t wait for a response, already halfway down the hall to my apartment; his was down the opposite direction from mine, thankfully.

My door clicked open, and with a soft thud I shut it behind me, safe from the unsolicited flirting. A trembling shake forces its way up and down my body, shaking the gross feeling that man leaves me with, pushing it out of my system so I can relax. 

“Ehk,” I cleared my throat in disgust. My shoes were quickly kicked off by the door, and the stack of mail was thrown on the kitchen counter, splaying out. One letter in particular shot from the pile onto the floor. “Damn it.” I sighed, bending down to pick it up, but as my hands grasped it, my eyes locked on it as well. 

The paper envelope was discolored, and as I lifted it up to get a closer look, I noted the heft of the letter itself. This letter looked old, really old. The return address was written in a stylized cursive, difficult to make out, but the stamp on the letter, however, was not. 

=03/19/1976=

Huh… That’s really odd. The address on the letter was correct, but there was no name, only resident of—my address. 

I lifted myself from the floor and sat down at one of the kitchen island chairs. I looked at the letter for only a moment before pushing my thumb under the lip of the envelope, the brittle old glue barely holding on, and I gently tugged it open. 

I reached my hand in, pulling out the stack of—Photos? And a letter too. I set them separately, noting the old polaroids; they were small. 

I was more interested in figuring out the why than what, so I began reading the letter first. 

Dear whoever lives here now, 

Hello! I used to live in the place you're in now. I’m having to move, so I decided it’d be fun to put together some photos and let you know that you aren’t alone and that I was here. Me and my fiance are finally getting our own place together, and I feel like the luckiest man alive. She’s a real peach. 

From Larry Quinton, 

Greetings! I lived here as well; we finally saved up enough to buy our home. Not that this place isn’t good; so many incredible memories. I hope whoever lives here now is as happy as I am. May you find your own peace and beautiful energy wherever you go.

,Harriette soon-to-be Quinton.

I turned my eyes back to the polaroids, picking up the stack; the one on top was a picture of what I assumed to be my apartment. The walls that were currently coated in multiple layers of off- white paint used to be covered in a floral wallpaper. Posters of old bands and movies lined the walls, and there were decorative mirrors in the very same corner where I kept my own paintings. In the center of the room sat a round wooden table with a beautiful woman sitting in one of the two chairs, smiling up at the camera with a green mug in her hand. Although the color in the photo was faded, it was still much brighter than the space is now. 

The woman had a shoulder-length perm and an orange bandana in her hair, with a soft face but eyes as stark and alive as one could be. She wore a stylish tan short-sleeve jumpsuit, with another matching orange bandana wrapped around her wrist. 

I flipped to the next photo. It was a man in a very groovy suit; he was clearly a little older than the woman, but still youthfully handsome. He had sideburns and a clean haircut that was swept over and styled to the side. He was grinning, holding up a curly-haired dog that did not look happy to be there; its teeth were bared, and its eyes looked back towards the man that was holding them. 

I let out an airy chuckle at the sight. Flipping to the next photo, my face immediately turned red: Harriette lying in a bathtub, barely covered by foaming soap, looking past the camera with lidded eyes; she was posed with one of her legs sticking up from the water. 

I quickly shuffled the photo to the bottom of the stack. 

The next photo was a group of people all posing and staring at the camera; some were waving, others making obscene gestures, all looking like they were having a good time, the coffee table in the center of the picture littered with various bottles and other substances. Seems these people liked to party. 

I flipped through a few more: photos of birds that sat on the windowsill, lots of the dog, and a few more intimate moments shared between the two. 

Then there was the last photo, the man from before standing in the elevator, holding a marker, with the name Ethel drawn onto the wall of the elevator in big bold letters.