AJ Writer

When your abstinence meets a fine memory with Wi-Fi She should’ve known it was him before the “Wishing you well....” Men like him don’t die; they resurface like glitter you thought you swept up two heartbreaks ago. He messaged her out of nowhere, after years of silence, wrapped in the scent of someone else’s perfume. Claimed he’d forgotten some things due to hospital-related memory loss. Selective amnesia or emotional landscaping, she wasn’t sure. But either way, a photo album of his face and his hands on her body rotated in her mind. Turned 30? Like that mattered. She was vintage, he joked. Almost ancient. With wisdom teeth and wounds that remembered him even if he didn’t remember the way she used to pop up unannounced. My God, the pop-ups! She never meant to be that girl. The dramatic one who showed up, mascara threatening mutiny, catching him in a lie she already knew was true. But she liked him. Even worse, he liked her too. Just not enough to pick her. Or maybe just not enough to ...

  BACKSTORY:   This piece was a bit difficult to write. Care for a backstory? My two younger brothers and I were taken from our mom due to her addiction and were placed in foster care with a white family until we were ALL later adopted. Beautiful, right? They took all 3 of us in. Anywho, the foster home was cool. I had my own room, and they had an infinite number of toys in the basement toy room. Crazy how I honestly can’t remember everything I did last night (thanks, slow ass thyroid), but I remember this particular night like it happened 5 minutes ago. I had on a pink long-sleeve night gown. It was chilly outside. I believe it was the end of summer or the beginning of fall. We were all in the living room watching TV. Foster dad had fallen asleep, and their son’s friend held my hand and led me to the bathroom. The rest is…well, just read the story. Because even the moon knew better than to participate.  She was a measly 6. Snaggle-toothed and still losing teeth. Still be...

Whew!! Depression had hit me hard this day. I wasn’t doing great in my classes and I was just…tired. I had a weak moment where I hated my life because I was where I never wanted to be, and suddenly all of my trauma did a drive-by gang-bang on me. I was at a university I hadn’t heard of until my big bro and sis-in-law had me apply at the last minute. I felt caged, like a firefly in a sweaty palm, and I had no way of escape. I didn’t have my flute, and I couldn’t play away my pain. My Bro and sis-in-law showed up for me and took me to the ER after this incident and were there until I was taken to the loony bin. I loved them for that… BACKSTORY:   I grew up VERY sheltered, and my only outlet, besides writing…until it wasn’t, was band. My HS was predominantly black, and our band had a southern flair. We were the best around! Band was my life. I wasn’t popular. I was a quiet girl whose dad folks were afraid of. I played softball and a little basketball (wasn’t great), but band? Band was...

I think I went too far this time. He’s pissed. Beyond pissed.  Normally he doesn’t mind my casual flirting. But tonight? Tonight goes way past the level of me not giving a fuck. If looks could kill, I'd be casket sharp right now with my friends and family mourning the loss of their beloved. But fuck all that. He had it coming. He’s angrily pumping the gas. If he does it any rougher he’ll break the nozzle off in the tank of his pretty red Camaro.  I had no words for him. Silence would be his fate from now until I felt like he deserved to hear me speak. I’m used to seeing him act a little jealous when we’re out, but the way he snatched me up out the club’s emergency exit doors after my stunt gave jealous a new meaning.

This city, while full of the impoverished and sprinkled with some middle-class families and abandoned buildings has some of the most beautiful scenery I’ve ever seen. There’s literally nothing to do besides enjoy the beaches and parks, parking-lot-pimp, and walk or ride your bike to hang at your people’s crib. Unfortunately, I didn’t get to do much of either while growing up, and the sheltered life caused deep-rooted issues that I could never get a handle on. My dad was a single parent. His wife, our mom, died from breast cancer a few short years after they adopted us. The area we grew up in was a little rough, but I didn't understand why we couldn't hang with friends or do normal kid stuff. We found random things to do at home, like create court cases. I'd always be the lawyer, and we'd dress Trav up to be the defendant. I remember our favorite character to dress him as was a robust old man who was always caught harassing the neighborhood kids and screaming ...

I opened my eyes and watched the shadows from the leaves on the tree outside the window dance swiftly across the ceiling. The pain in my stomach wasn’t as bad, but my mouth still tasted of bitter grapes mixed with the salty flavor of my tears. My tears began to fill my eyes and soak my satin butterfly-covered pillow, but I didn’t even bother to flip it to the other side as I wept in anguish and frustration. I sat up in bed with an anxious feeling in the bottom of my gut. My crying eventually slowed to a sullen whimper as I looked over to watch my two younger brothers sleep, trying not to wake them.

I was almost sleeping when he began blowing up my phone. He called twelve times. Eleven times I hit the red button on my phone. The twelfth time I picked up and screamed at the remorseful voice on the other end.  “Can we please talk?” “Stop fucking calling me! I hate you! Leave me the fuck alone!” ***

The reason why my Ma came home that day with swollen lips and singed eyebrows is because a fight broke out in the kitchen of the group home where she works and she got caught in the crossfire. Well, that's what she told my brother Charles. She said it with a look of aggravation, and it was as if her eyes were telling him to shut up and not ask another question. Everyone always says that I am my mother's twin. I'd happily accept that compliment if I knew for sure that I wouldn't grow up to be the type of woman that she is. Don't get me wrong. I love my Ma. Love her dearly, but she comes home bruised most mornings, 

Damn phone. The melodic sound of the repeating gospel ringtone was more like the plague at this point. I couldn't help but chuck it at the wall and watch small pieces of the screen fall to the ground. My brother Rick called me 20 times after I told him what happened. I plopped on the couch and grabbed the unopened bottle of Hennessy that sat next to the lumps on the floor. I chugged about half of the bottle and passed out shortly after the high kicked in. Damn kids. I was awakened by their obnoxious laughs as they played outside in the courtyard of my apartment building.