Into Dust

Into Dust
 The chords drift slowly across the room draping over the furniture.They dance between the dust particles streaked by the sunlight. They resurrect long dead thoughts.They find empty space that consumes my core. Me. The space that used to contain a heart and the empathy I should feel now.
  The guitarist pulls each string and as each return to its place, they pull up from a void, thoughts. Each is a stab, a pang, a sadness of warmth and a girl.
   Fire for hair, lips of a summer wind straightened over almost perfection for a smile, and a pair of emeralds glittered within, stairing out, always smiling, below the hairline.
   There was never a doubt. She was mine. I was hers. It was never spoken. We both knew.
   I loved her....and...She loved me.
  She was almost 18 at the time of the crash. I was going to give her a ring the next week. We hadn't told anyone. Not her parents. Not mine. Not our friends.
 Life is supposed to be happy and spent with the one you love. It sometimes doesn't happen this way.
 The music has expanded the room, the violin wafts agains the walls and ceiling as I sit in the dark and stare. I don't want to think of her anymore. Every day i See her. I will until I die.
It was a hot day in September. She and a friend drove from training horses to the house.
   There was no one to fault, no one to blame. Her friend overcorrected. She was killed instantly.
As the song plays I see her the way she was..Smiling and laughing. I kiss her and smell her hair again.
   As the song begins to fade I think of her again in that cold lonely plot on the side of the hill next to the brilliant mountains that reach against the blue.
   She is alone again. It is cold in the ground..in the dark. She has faded into almost dust.
   I think of the touch of her hand against mine. I morbidly think of the way her hand must look now, shriveled, dried, small...
 I think,
 "I would still hold her hand."
The song ends.....

Blah, Blah, Blah, Blog

    There are some extremely interesting things that occur in all of our lives from time to time, but not every single day. Writers who insist on sharing tidbits of their everyday life are going to find their audience shrinking until it consists only of their immediate family and the old creepy guy across the street who watches the neighborhood with binoculars..(me).
    We just go on assuming everyone else thinks our life is as interesting to them as it is to us, that we forge ahead writing on topics that really serve no purpose other than to feed our already over-nourished egos. We use lots of  important sounding words and string together a few words that rhyme at the end and, "tada!" we're not only an amazing writer, we're also an accomplished poet. (God help us all)
    One last piece of advice. More is not always better. In fact, it's usually the opposite. Short, direct, uncluttered sentences will accomplish more and cut to the heart of what you are writing about. Ernest Hemmingway discovered this early. (he also discovered wine and suicide during his career...but that's another topic)..So if you really must prattle on about your life and your amazing children and/or cat, have the decency to at least entertain brevity...
   Now, I'm late for a meeting with my agent...(where the hell is my gun?)
Caio
Luke

WTF!...is everyone a writer nowadays?

Go ahead...log on to Twitter or Facebook...I dare you. Everyone has a freaking blog and they are all on their way to writing, The Great American Novel....(BTW, What the Hell is .."The Great American Novel?") To most of them this means THEIR OWN life story.
     Fortunately and mercifully, most of them become discouraged after the preface, and for lack of interest, audience and time they quickly give up the quest, leaving us with only a few crumbs of their life and a poorly designed book cover-in-the making to guess at what makes their life unique enough to warrant a few chapters, let alone a whole novel. (major run-on sentence there..NO...I'm not changing it)
   I have written for two magazines and three newspapers, lived in several foreign countries and still think a book in fiction would be way more interesting than a full bio on the life of a 34-year old man from the Pacific Northwest.
   I'm sure there are people out there who deserve to have a novel based on their life.I'm probably not one of these...chances are, if you're reading this, it might not be you either..(you should be busy inventing time-travel or curing AIDS so we can finish that book on your amazing life)