My poem titled “Flintstones Vitamins” version 2

My poem titled “Weak Bodies”

My poem titled “Love Drugs”

My poem titled “You Are Better”

“Jack” – short story pt. 2

Dad moved us into a cramped studio apartment on the fifth floor of the Cedar Dove apartment complex when he accepted his newest job opportunity. We’d made the drive, only two states over, packing our measly belongings into three suitcases before hitting the road. But that’s how we lived, out of suitcases, never putting down roots. Dad’s a rep for a pharmaceutical company. He trains hospital staff about new drugs and once he’s done, he’s stationed at a new hospital. He loves it, he calls our life an adventure. People must be jealous of all the places we’ve been, all the things we’ve seen, he’d tell me.
He comes home to find me sprawled on the couch that came with the apartment, flipping through channels on the small t.v. I watch his hands, he holds a small array of post cards. He’s always done this, collecting a post card from each place we visit and tucking it neatly in a small scrapbook. It’s always seemed like some sort of bread crumb trail to me. If we ever go missing, people will know the last place we were. I turn my attention glumly back to the t.v.
I hear the sound papers make when they brush together and know he’s flipping through the cards, picking the right one worthy enough for the scrapbook.
“How’d school go today?” Dad asks.
I shrug, though the movement is hidden by my loose fitting hoodie. “Fine.”
“Your tone says otherwise.” He sets the cards on the table near the door and crosses the room, taking a seat next to me. “Are you having trouble again?”
I chuckle at his phrasing, trouble. “Nothing I haven’t dealt with before.”
Dad clasps his hands together in his lap. “I could make a call…”
I sit up quickly. “Don’t do that, please. I’m fine.” His expression is unappeased, so I continue. “We’ll be gone in a few weeks anyway.”
The concern flickering in his eyes fades before he nods his head. “Alright, then.”
“I’m gunna hit the hay, early day tomorrow,” I say, retreating hastily from the room.
He watches me go, closing my bedroom door and even then I still feel him staring. I pull a bottle off my dresser and shake a couple of pills into my palm before swallowing them down dry. The only good thing about my dad’s job is I get great drugs.
I’m out like a light in two minutes flat.
-Collins

My poem titled “Flightless Creatures”

My poem titled “Two People”

My poem titled “Rooted”

Just when I think I’ve heard the last of you

 

You come traipsing back into my life

 

Larger than life itself

 

And remind me everything

 

I tried so hard to forget

 

And the worst part is

 

It’s not even you

 

It’s the memory of you

 

I sleep and your face surfaces in the dream world

 

I try to sleep and can’t seem to think of anything else

 

I stare up at the ceiling and can’t shake you

 

You’re rooted in my subconscious

 

I wish I could undergo some surgical procedure

 

To extract you from my brain

 

But I guess I’m resigned to living a life

 

Without a say in who remains in it

 

 

 

-Collins