Death changes things


My grandpa died in September of 2009. That was hard of course. I missed a couple of days of school, I just couldn’t deal with it. The funeral came and went. I soldiered through without shedding a single tear. The whole process made life feel like a damp sponge. Cold, and watered down.
I thought that that process was the worst of it, the grieving and the loss. But I was wrong, and I found this out in a strange way.
It was the following month in October, on Thanksgiving day to be exact, that I really realized the impact that my grandpa’s death would have on our family. On every significant holiday, four times a year, my grandma would prepare a turkey dinner for everyone, and everyone would make the drive to her and grandpa’s house to have a family dinner.
But this time it was different. My grandma didn’t have the energy or the inclination to make a dinner. She was still grieving and she was hollow. She was tired. So we picked up grandma and headed over to Denny’s.
I’m not sure if you’ve been to a Denny’s on Thanksgiving, but basically they serve nothing but turkey dinner and the place is packed. So we waited for a table, sat down, ordered. I looked around at the other tables of families. There was this heavy atmosphere to the restaurant, a quietness. For a room so full of people, it was surprisingly quiet. I looked around our table as we ate, and our table was quiet too. Everybody ate somberly without much effort to speak. I watched my grandma’s face, fork in one hand, bun clutched in the other, as she normally did, and it broke my heart.
The intention was the same: have a nice turkey dinner with family. But the reality was so much different. I sat there utterly defeated as I realized what my grandpa’s death did to us. It robbed us of normality, of tradition, of joy. Because he wasn’t with us, it didn’t feel worth it to go to the effort.
This experience will stick with me for the rest of my life. Everything felt like it was taking place underwater, in slow motion. It just didn’t make sense.
The next holiday, Christmas, was only slightly better. My grandma made dinner and the family gathered at her house, but again, it was silent as everyone ate. There was no conversation, no small talk. It was as if the energy to be happy was zapped from everyone as they entered the house. Many family members took turns glancing to my grandpa’s vacant seat at the head of the table and the cloud of anguish was heavy over our table.
With each holiday, everyone got a little better, a little happier. It seems like death steals our ability to be happy. With time though, things have gotten more normal, because his absence has become normal. Now in 2016, seven years later, everyone enjoys themselves again.
It is not selfish to be happy or have a good time without that person there, but it takes time to realize that. I look around the table at these dinners now and I see what I used to see before my grandpa’s death, family.
The longing that we would feel when we looked at his chair has been replaced with memories that bring smiles to our lips instead of tears to our eyes. Death changes everything, but how you let it change things is up to you.

Jacob at work

short story, Uncategorized, writing

Newest addition in my Jacob works!


Unfortunately for me, my whole life wasn’t play. I had to work.
Today was one of those nights, my fingers ached from typing, my eyes were starting to get blurry as I stared at the bright computer screen in the pitch black of my office.
The numbers ran across the screen, changing, rearranging, trying to keep me out. Not that they could. I wasn’t the most sought after hacker for nothing. Math was my thing, or so they said in school. Numbers, formulas, algorithims, they just came to me. It was child’s play really. I was accepted and awarded scholarships to any school I had wanted to go to. I never went.
My angel had always wanted to go to college, she wanted to be a veternarian. But after that sadistic bastard stole her light…she never mentioned it again. I was sure to remind him of that the day I stuck my blades into him and ripped his nasty appendage straight off his body.
I shake my head to clear the thoughts of her that plauge me seemingly every minute of every day. It’s been too long since I’ve seen her, too holed up in my office trying to finish my latest assignments to check on her. But after tonight? I would be there.
I pull up the minimized screen on my computer, taking a much needed break from work.
There she is…sitting, reading her book in peace. A steaming cup of what I can only guess is lavender tea, her favorite. She smiles as she gets to a part she enjoys, her index finger flipping the page. She readjusts her large square framed glasses on her nose. I still remember the day she got those and she told me she felt like a dork. I told her no one would make fun of her and that I would make sure of it.
I kept my promise, I always kept my promises to her.
Pleased that she seems to be content I minimize the screen again.
Tomorrow. I glance at the clock. 11:08 PM, just a few more hours and I’ll be seeing her in person again.
My heart rate spikes and my palms sweat at the thought of it.
It can’t come soon enough

Jacob is on the move.

short story, Uncategorized, writing


Newest addition to Jacob and his journey to his angel.



Some people exercise in gyms, weights, running. Swimming pools. Useless DVD workouts. Me? I exercise in the forest, with my blades. I’ve been exercising a lot lately.
Ever since my angel sent me away.
I won’t be away for long, I just decided to give her some time. I know she loves me, oh how I know. I know what her sweet, pink lips taste like. What her silk hair feels like as it runs through my fingers. I’m not giving that up. She’s mine, she always will be. I will hide the monster, just for her. Only for her.
It’s these thoughts that race through my mind as I slaughter the man beneath me. His blood splattering against my boots.
“Please…” It’s gurgled as his mouth fills with bile and blood.
“Please, please…they all beg! Please, don’t kill me! I won’t do it again, I swear!” I mock and spit in his face, leaving my blade jammed into his prone body.
His eyes plead with me. They won’t find any sympathy from me. It’s people like him that made her the way she is now, that stole the light from her eyes. Now I’ll steal theirs and leave them in darkness.
When I’m done with the bastard pedophile, I dump his body into the swamp that lays within the woods. Leaving him to decompose with all the others.
I find my way back to my apartment, dark and cold. The way I like it. I toss my boots in the sink to clean later and strip my clothes off, pouring myself into a scalding hot shower. Letting it wash the darkness away, just for a few hours.
Once I’m done, I make it to her house. She’s in the living room, her blinds closed, but still allowing a little leeway. It’s like she wants me to watch.
I finally release the breath I’d been holding for the last few days.
There she is.





Get to know me

short story, writing

Here’s another snippet from our current project The Collected. Erika isn’t too impressed with the orderlies.


“Maybe she’s one cranky bitch by now, being stuck here for years,” Jake jokes. I don’t find his joke funny.
“Yeah,” Tulu says. “She’s got to be one crotchety—“
He doesn’t get to finish before my angry boils over. I focus on the pen and it wretches from Jake’s hand and goes skidding down the hall.
Jake’s eyes pop open in shock and Tulu chuckles awkwardly. I circle them, hands on my hips, as I size them up.
“That was weird,” Jake says.
“I think you made the ghost angry,” Tulu grins.
“Got that right,” I snap. “You two idiots are blaming the wrong person. I would never…” I trail off realizing it’s pointless and head down the stairs.
Jake goes to collect his pen and I send it rolling further down the hallway. Asshole.
The lobby is a large cheery looking room with yellow walls and blue furniture. Blue chairs and couches for patients families to wait. A large white receptionist’s desk is set in the middle of the room with Ingle Creek’s name splashed across the front. There are several generic pieces of artwork that hang all over the place, all in muted shades of purple and grey. Those haven’t changed since I got here.
I wait by the front doors, shuffling my feet as I practice my moonwalk. The receptionist stationed at the desk takes two boring calls before I see a delivery man mounting the front steps. Finally.
The man carries a brown package under his arm as he grunts, fumbling with the doors.
“Damn arthritis,” he mumbles as he gets the doors open and shoulders his way through.
I slip through the doorway as soon as he clears it, the old hinges on the door slowing its movement. Outside, the afternoon sun is dipping lower like a sunflower head that’s too heavy. I sit on the steps and pull my knees up to my chin.