Dixon Street.  She lived on Dixon Street.

Little white house with a chain link fence to keep the dog in.  Neighbors so close you could hear their television at night.  Forced hello’s in the morning and goodnight’s while you walk the dog.  Every perfect little life that most people hope they get.

She lived in that house because it was her parents house.  They passed it down to her when they bought a luxury RV and decided to travel the country on their retirement.  She lived there but it wasn’t her dream, just a stepping stone.

I saw her one day as she was mowing the front lawn.  She was wearing a pair of skimpy running shorts and a running bra.  Her hair was bundled up on top of her head in a perfectly messy bun that looked as if it was designed that way.  She looked amazing doing a mundane task.  I could have watched her mow that lawn for hours, but sitting at a stop sign for that long becomes suspicious.

I wish I could have asked her out right then and there.  I considered it.  Even later that evening I thought about walking up to her door and knocking on it and telling her how beautiful she is and asking if she would like to get something to eat.  But it all just sounded so fantastic and ridiculous that it would never amount to anything.

So I just let it be.  An observation as I drive by.  A treat.  An enjoyment.  Something that could possibly be but isn’t, however never fully denied to never be.  She’ll live as something special.  She’ll live on as something pure and never was but always could have possibly been.


All I do is repeat pretty words by people with minds much more beautiful than mine in ways that are far less articulate.  All I am good for is second rate bargain bins and what not to do’s.  All I can be is this person with their fingers on the keys typing out emotions that don’t quite click.

I wonder if the past dies as silently as the future.  The words are still there.  The smell fades pretty quickly.  The taste and look of you aren’t far behind.  Memories betray us like the sun will one day.  Burn me as I touch it’s face because I could not comprehend the heat that comes from something so far away.

Don’t ask me to explain myself, I’ll just let you down.
Everything in life is only seen through memories of people who tell stories better than me.  All I can do is repeat those pretty words.  All I am good for is swimming in the tears that pool along the bottom of your eyes.  This all makes sense.  Don’t worry, it will all make sense.


A woman’s hair used to be bright.  The colors were vibrant and glistened in the sun.  At certain angles the light would glint off the sheen and shoot a glare across the eyes of those nearby.  Skies were clear and sunshine birthed each strands lightened hue.  Life was full of cheer, skips and smiles.

But there was a girl who did not thrive under the sun as the others did.  The warm rays didn’t spread her smile.  The shining light only slowed her pace.  She wasn’t unhappy but the clear skies did nothing to improve her gaiety.

So she settled in the darkness.

While the others moved themselves to indoor tasks and rest, the un-sunshine girl found comfort in solitude.  The empty streets improved her grace.  The cool evening air roused her jubilation.  In the moonlight she found her smile.

She was drawn towards the sun’s antithesis.  Dark and cold became her comfort.  If the sun was bright she would look for shade.  She would carry an umbrella on her shoulder wherever she went and her eyes would be hidden by sunglasses.

The night held her heart and made her feel love.  With all her time spent in darkness’ arms she began to reflect it’s nature.  Her sun-kissed skin grew pale.  Her eyes lightened in color from brown to green.  Shadows weaved themselves in her hair and became a part of each strand.  No longer was it bright in color, but black as night.

She lived among the fair-headed women and her beauty spread.  The colors painted themselves in other’s manes.  Some were the sun.  Some were the trees.  Some were the flowers.  She was the shadows and she thrived.


The gods were petty when they made you.  They were filled with rage from jealousy, so you were hid just below the topsoil.  Now you bloom every spring and through the late summer, then die back as the cold resets dominion from petal to leaf.  Reds, oranges and yellows take from pink and white.  Fragrance is lost as crisp evening air blankets the sunsets.

Your heart beats a short bloom, barely able to take one breath among fifty-two.  Colors dying back to mush.
You come back though.  You need the cold to remind you how much you love the warmth, as if you could forget so easily.  The sun is your life and without it you would fall, or refuse to grow at all.
And although you display yourself in many colors of vibrant beauty, you do not long for attention.  Stealing away to anonymity.  You don’t mind being observed, as long as it’s without witness.

You are a bomb that was too much for jealous minds.  Healing gods with your beauty.  Now they’re all gone and you remain, year after year.  Beauty always wins in the end.  Beauty never dies.

Buy me a drink?

“So, what is it?  What’s got you staring at me across the room without a word to say until now?”

Oona took a sip from her drink as she waited for the man’s answer.

They had been bantering for a short while.  She approached him and asked if he minded some company.  He didn’t object.  Men usually don’t when she approaches them, although it is a rare occurrence.

The conversation was odd to her.  There were no pleasantries or introductions.  No attempt was made inquiring on her availability or current activities, but at the same time he was pleasant and inviting.  He seemed to enjoy her company and was quick with a response to anything she said.

“I’d venture to guess you’re used to men staring at you,” he smiled and hovered his drink below his  lips.

“I am,” she smiled with her lips on her glass.

“And often, I’m sure, they’ve lost to ability to form words.”

Oona raised her glass and nodded slightly before resting it on the table.

“But I don’t care about them.  I want to know about you.  The man who has yet to introduce himself.  The man who doesn’t make eye contact the entire time, but not because he’s shy but because he’s somewhat over confident.  The man who has yet to offer me another drink, a night cap in his room or breakfast the next morning.  I want to know something about this man, in particular.”

He nodded and smiled as he rested his drink next to hers, “and if he answers that you’ll have to tell him what brought you over here to sit next to that man and carry on a conversation with him for this long.  He doesn’t think that happens often with you.”

“He’s right, it doesn’t.  And she might answer that, if his answer is intriguing enough.”

The man smiled and dipped his head slightly in a soft laugh to himself.  He shifted his weight and position so it was facing her in an engaging way.  His left knee bent and resting on the couch with his left arm leaning over the back of it.

“This man.  Me.  I’ve been here a few nights this week actually.  The first night was Tuesday.  On Tuesday I sat over there,” he pointed to a table in the corner of the lounge against the wall.

“And while I was sitting over there on Tuesday around 10, I noticed a beautiful woman come in and sit down at the bar.  She ordered a drink and had conversations with the men sitting next to her and the bartender.  She had a roaring laugh.  She was captivating and I tried my hardest to keep my eyes from burning a hole in her dress.”

He picked up his drink and threw back a quick gulp of whatever liquid remained in it and rested the glass on his knee.

“On Wednesday night I took up the same seat at the same table.  Partially out of my penchant for not wanting to be noticed, and partially out of superstition.”

“Superstition for what?”  Oona asked.

“Whether she would come back or not the next night.”

“Did she,” she smiled at him and leaned forward slightly as if he were telling her a secret.

“She did.  She absolutely did.  My budding obsession wasn’t helped any either.  That night she was wearing a red dress that was made from material which was close relatives of some of my favorite lingerie pieces.  She looked as if she had come back from a fancy art gala or awards ceremony.  Only there was a problem,” he lowered his head and leaned into her lean and played on her whisper receiving position.

“What was it?”  Her voice played along, almost by accident.

“She didn’t sit at the bar.  I couldn’t see her after she walked in.  Being a man who doesn’t like commotion and being noticed I thought that getting up to move to have better viewing of this goddess of a woman would be too much, so I accepted my fate and took the glance that I was given and turned in early that night.”

“Poor you.  That must have devastated you, not being able to ogle her all night again,” Oona’s voice was mockingly sympathetic.

“I was crushed,” he nodded back, “but I survived.  Although it took an extra day to feed the survival.  My Thursday did not lend itself to ogling and I was unable to look upon this beauty for the third day in the row.  I had to wait until Friday to see her again and she did not disappoint.”

“Was she dressed in a royal gown, tiara while brandishing a scepter this time?”  Oona tilted her head in a crook while staring into his eyes.

“No, no.  She in a skirt, a blouse and some elegant heels with her hair done in a tight and professional manner.  A business woman, a princess and bawdy laughter.  She was a dream.  I took this couch on Friday night, the one we’re sitting on right now.  It has a better view of the entire lounge and, if she were so concerned, it seems a bit more inviting than a table in the corner.”

“True.  Pretty girls aren’t drawn to dark tables in corners with men they’ve never met.”

“Her demeanor was more reserved last night, Friday night.  She seemed tired.  Perhaps from the day.  Maybe from the week.  Her smile was still bright but she was subdued.”

“Poor soul.”

“She seemed to fair well.”

“No, I meant you,” Oona placed her hand on his knee, “you waited an entire extra night to see her and she wasn’t putting on her show for you.  It must have been tragically disappointing.”

The man smiled at her and bit his lower lip.  He shook his head and then looked Oona in the eyes.

“I survived.”


He nodded, laughing softly to himself once more, “again.”

She stared at him, waiting for the story to finish.

“So, she never joined me.  I don’t believe we exchanged a glance at all really.  She left early that night and I did shortly after her.  Which brings us to tonight.”

“Which brings us to tonight,” she repeated.

“What time is it?”

Oona pulled her phone from her purse to check, “nearly midnight.”

The man pointed at the bar, “do you see the woman with the blonde hair in the black dress?”

Oona turned to look at the bar and noticed a beautiful woman sitting at the bar carrying on a conversation with two men, one on either side of her.

“She came in at nearly the same time you did.  I watched you both sit down and order drinks.  I watched you both get comfortable and carry on with whatever purposes you have being here.  I watched you both, carefully, for about fifteen minutes when my initial intention was to stare at this blonde woman at the bar for the entirety of my night.  As time went on my attention turned more and more to you.  Your dark hair and your green dress.  Your blue eyes and your red lips.”

He paused and stared at her for a moment.  He was waiting for a reaction.  She didn’t want to give him one because if she spoke she might have cracked.

“Mmhmm?”  This was all she could muster, with a slight head nod.

“I’m not comparing you two woman.  You’re both beautiful.  Stunning in your own way.  I don’t find her any less enthralling tonight then I did the previous nights.  But you, you make me want to let you notice me.”

Oona cleared her throat, “and then what?”

“I’d ask you to be my muse.”

“What does that mean?”  She shook her head gently.

“To let me stare at you and your beauty.  To let me use the inspiration you stir in me to create my own beauty with words.  To embody every passionate, lust-filled, craving of your sexuality in each drop of ink I spill.  To immortalize you as desire.”

Oona didn’t know what to say.  She wasn’t sure how to respond to something so intense and personal.  All she could do was stare at him with her hand still on his knee and try to keep her lip from quivering.

“I’m sorry if that answer was a little forward.   I hope it was intriguing enough though,” he smiled again.

“Intriguing enough for what?”

“For you to tell me what brought you over here.”

“Oh,” she laughed a little to herself, “I was just hoping you would buy me a drink and I’d see where it went from there.”

“How’s it going then?”

“A little awkward now,” she gave a tight lipped grin while holding her empty glass.

“Is it?  Is that a no to my question then?”

“What question was that?”

“Would you be my muse?”

“What is it I have to do?”

“Absolutely nothing,” he took her hand in his and stared in her eyes, “just be yourself and let me witness it.”



I said your eyes were blue, but they’re green.  It’s hard to tell from pictures, but I guess that damn Elton John stuff matters sometimes.  No excuses though.

Your eye lashes looked amazing though, until you laughed and said that was a filter.  A filter?  Fuck.  At least I didn’t compliment the dog ears or the way your eyes sprayed sparkles whenever you blinked.

I wished we could have been one of those couples that saves each other’s picture as the home or lock screen on their phone.  I think it’s sweet.  I would have defended it to every neanderthal-bro that made whipping sounds.  My girl’s my girl and I don’t care what other people think.

The next time you take a selfie don’t use any filters.  I like the way your face looks naturally.  A normal picture with a smile, and those blue or green eyes.

24 hours

Every sunset is beautiful.

Across the deserts and the plains,
along the treetops and sinking to the ocean.

From one end of the world to the other,
I can sit here and know someone else sees it too.

The shadow’s cast is a blanket until the streetlights hum to life,
and the grapefruit skies fade to birth twinkling stars.

Blue is a heavy color when it carries heaven’s weight.

I’ll see you tomorrow.

I’ll kiss you goodnight.

The sun will always set,
and it will always be beautiful.


I only caught you at a glance

while driving to my slow death,

so I tilted my neck

to get as long a view as I could.

You were beautiful and I’ll never see you again.

You had a youthful face and shadowy hair

with a snap of sun on your skin.

Eyelashes, I love a girl with full eyelashes,

I could swing from your eyelashes

down to your pink, ruffled lips.

As we moved in opposite directions

(3 seconds never seemed so short a time as in that moment.)

I groaned at fate and its constant tease

of showing me something beautiful

as she’s on her way to leave.

55 Fiction: Beautiful Girl

You’re the kind of beautiful that needs an amount of recovery to get over when gone.  Black dress against peach skin.  Dark hair held up by magic, lips shining red.  I caught a glimpse of you but my eyes were captured.  Held hostage.

Beautiful girl, keep looking as you do.  You can make someone’s day.