(written in 2004, shortly after moving in with my then-girlfriend.  The “roommates” bear little to no resemblance to the actual kids. Hahaha)

I wasn’t looking for a new place to live.  I don’t even think that she mentioned that she was looking for a roommate, but somehow, I ended up living with Jennifer.  She was the first person that I met from the house and the reason that I moved into it.

We met outside of work, relegated to the proverbial doghouse because of our mutual nicotine addiction.  The occasional chance meeting over a cigarette became a two-cigarette break, then a three-cigarette break, then no longer chance.

It was easy conversation, and in discussing a variety of subjects, we found out that we both loved to cook, and eat, good food, watch old movies, and listen to female crooners.  She seemed like an ideal housemate and I assumed that she would surround herself with others like her, so I found myself very unprepared for the three demons that awaited me after the move.

Perhaps it was my fault for not getting to know them better before moving in, but by the time I realized my mistake…As I said before, there are three of them, and depending on the day, they take turns at being the most annoying.  So, in no particular order, here are brief descriptions of my three housemates.

The first one is usually the easiest to take as she generally shuns all human contact that is not the lead singer of the Cure, and hides in her room wearing black and contemplating the world, our purpose for being here, and how to afford that black trenchcoat she simply had to have.   The only time she does emerge from her Gothic cocoon, is when she finds someone approaching the figurative moat around her bedroom, and feels the need to repel the “attacker” by screaming “Get out here, whore!” at the top of her sob-strengthened lungs.

I think that at some point in her life, she must have misheard the saying, “The world is your oyster!” as either, “The world is your butler!” or possibly, “The world is your garbage pail!” for either of those would explain her general inability to transfer any of her trash to the trash can, or her laundry someplace other than wherever it landed on the floor.  I would mind less if the food left behind the computer and the towels left to get moldy on the floor weren’t mine.

The second one seemed so normal and nice at first, that I have decided that not only am I a lousy judge of character, I am dangerously unable to detect people who probably belong either in anger management therapy, or at a palace with a staff of 50 to tend to their every whim.

At least her food theft was generally limited to the good ice cream I used to buy for myself.  Luckily she didn’t drink, or the good booze would have met a similar untimely death as the Godiva Belgian Chocolate in the freezer.  Blessed as she was with the metabolism of a crack-addicted hummingbird, she was able to consume entire pints daily without ever gaining an ounce, which I believe was part of the reason she was frequently on the receiving end of the delightful screams of “WHORE!” from Roomie #1.

Her greater offense, and I am sure in her mind, her greatest asset, was her willingness to raise the dead with a stroke-inducing yodel, which she would deliver whenever she felt that she wasn’t the center of attention.  Attempts to silence her were met with rookie lawyer attempts at justifying her insensitivity to others’ need for sleep.

Luckily, the first two only put my sanity at risk, and not the security deposit.  The third one jeopardized my chances for having it returned.  Originally, I thought that it would the first roommate shaking the house off the water-damaged foundation with her surprisingly powerful door-slamming that would keep me and my deposit from ever being reunited.  As with so many other things about this house, I was wrong.

It turned out that the third one would be worse.  He was a skateboarder, with dreams of sponsorship, and no visible means of support, save some odd jobs he used to do, like washing cars for $10.   I wondered how many cars he would have to wash to save the money he would need to repair the holes he put around the house when his latest trick would send the skateboard through the plaster.  I think my favorite part would be when he would ask to be paid for cleaning the messes that he had created in rooms like the shared bathroom, or the living room.

I am not sure why I didn’t move out when I found his skidmarked tidy yellowies and brownies in my desk drawer, but I remember distinctly wanting to as I took them to the trash with a pair of tongs that followed them into the can.  As messy as the first roommate was, the third made her transgressions seem minor in comparison.  I honestly believe that he expended more effort in hiding his leftover food and dirty clothes than if he had done what he was supposed to with them.

While they were “charming” on their own, they were exponentially aggravating when fate would place them, and luckless me, at the same place at the same time.  Then they would argue either in pairs, or on special days as a threesome.  This tended to happen more late at night, but since I was the only one who had to wake up for work, it didn’t seem to bother them much.  Invariably it would end with a flurry of swearing, culminating in a thunderous door slam that almost drowned out the Goth chick’s, “WHORE!”

If you were expecting a happy ending, where I find a rent-controlled apartment of my own, and regain access to my own food and clothing, I am sorry to disappoint you.  I am still living with three Mess-keteers.  I probably would have moved out, but I am dating Jennifer, and most days her three kids are really wonderful and really charming and really funny, to the point where I can almost overlook the underwear shoved inbetween the couch cushions, although I still struggle with the missing Godiva ice cream.




It’s just after five in the morning here. It’s cooled down enough where the windows of the car don’t need to be all the way down to provide sufficient fresh air.

It’s just after five in the morning, because that’s the earliest a coffee shop near where I am staying opens. The roads are largely empty, as I am away from the part of the city where delivery trucks criss cross tiny streets and wide avenues on their way to restocking the stores and restaurants.

It’s just after five in the morning, and I can’t sleep. Too many grains of sand have already passed through to the other side of the hourglass on the time left on this trip. Too many questions remain about what awaits me on the other side.

It’s just after five in the morning and I don’t know where I belong. Without a job, home, or person, anchoring me to any specific place, I can be anywhere. For the first time in 15 years, I can choose anywhere. Well, almost anywhere. The doors are closing, but I am not yet seeing the proverbial windows.

It’s just after five in the morning, and the sun is coming up. My troubles still can’t swim, so I stroll down to the water.

I Believe

Everything is closed here on Good Friday, and nothing on TV. With this Easter being the first one I will actually spend in Puerto Rico, I have started looking for a church to go celebrate. This is what a glass of Puerto RIcan rum and a bit of YouTube jukebox for the best live version of a single song and seeing a small Good Friday church procession brought out…
I believe…
Credos are problematic things. To enshrine in words everything that one believes seems limiting, unimaginative; created to be just long enough that their memorization proves a modicum of devotion the theology, the philosophy.
With that said, I believe…
I believe that spreading joy, love and happiness is our purpose on earth.
I believe in God, but even though I was raised in a church, but I don’t believe in them anymore. At least not for me. I see the benefit of the culture, of the sense of belonging, of the guided tour through life’s bigger questions. As a traveler, I never like the guided tours, preferring instead the possibility of getting lost to the limits of what someone else thinks I should see and do.
I believe he is loving, but in order to let him off the hook for the bad things in the world, I don’t describe him as all-powerful, or interventionist. Oops. I pray to him for thanks, but rarely to ask for things, even when it’s tempting to beg for the health or life of a child, for the easing of someone’s pain, even my own. Maybe because he has given me the strength to push on through, until, at worst, I learn to live with it, or, at best, well, live again.
I believe that we are given free will, and bring into our lives that which we need the most. Our pains and our sufferings are the tests we need to pass. We frequently fail, myself included, not because the divine hand didn’t intervene or guide us, but because we fell victim to our fears, our desires, our limitations.
I believe that the ultimate achievement of a human being is to be strong without being tough. To remain gentle while overcoming fear and pain, is to aspire to being divine. Think about all the saints, martyrs, prophets, and disciples in the all of the world’s religions and scriptures. Ultimately, their mission was love. To do all of this while remaining humble, well, one has to have goals, beyond the squad type.
I believe that I am able to feel this way because I was lucky enough to have a family that went to church, so that I, at least, have something to base my own deviant views. Had I to do parenthood over, I would have offered my children the same opportunity.
I believe in always trying to be a better person. That yesterday’s failure is today’s inspiration.
I believe that I have a lot left to learn about how to be a good person. Watching my elderly neighbor call out to the homeless to offer an unsolicited meal taught me to do the same. To this day, I will not ignore a panhandler, even if it is to apologize for not having a bit to share.
I believe in giving without concern about what people will do with my donation. So what if it’s drugs, or alcohol? Many of them are much more than a couple of dollars away from a “normal” life, so what if they choose to use mine for whatever form their palliative self-medication takes. I am too weak to take them in, to give them that real boost to health, out of the streets, so who am I to judge them?
I believe that I have a long way to go. Even if diminished, I have materialistic wants, corporal desires, unkind thoughts, and spiritual failings. The reason I have a Greek/Spanish version of >fear tattooed on my inner forearm is so that I can see it, daily, and remind myself. In the hope that, one day, I will actually live that way.
I believe in the saying that you judge a society by how it treats its youngest and its oldest. I would add animals to the list. I realize the hypocrisy of an omnivorous, leather-wearing non-vegan saying that, but I really want even the animals that end up as products to have a nice life until that point. I cry at the videos of animal rescues and rehabilitation. That damaged pit bull who desperately, fearfully inches towards the outstretched hand of his rescuer? Yeah, he’s a good boy, and I am a bloody mess watching it. Every time.
I believe that we see too much of the world’s pain via a screen. I used not know how many people died in other parts of the world due to war, famine, illness, disaster, traffic accidents. I am not advocating an “ignorance is bliss” policy, but fuck, sometimes, maybe just maybe, I am not strong enough to see a bloodied, shell-shocked child sitting in a chair, his eyes betraying the incomprehensible that he’s just lived through. Especially when my own children, those I raised, and those raised by others, have first world problems that are no less important to them, and I, sometimes a long flight, away cannot shield them, shelter them, comfort them.
I believe in celebrating the successes of the people we love, without envy, without comparison to temper the joy at their success in areas where we have failed.
I believe that I am lucky, because in pockets of the world, there are people who, although I would never ask, would do just about anything to comfort me, to make me feel loved.
I believe that it’s foolish to believe that love, courage or strength means having no fear.
I believe that love, in taking that leap of faith with one person, in letting your kids take that step over the line of safety towards independence, in wearing your heart on your sleeve, is about overcoming fear.
I believe in, some, people.
I believe because I have been rewarded with love, time and again. In the arms of my friends’ parents, in the bosom of my aunt at my father’s funeral, in my mother’s lap the first time heartbreak made its presence felt, at many dinner tables, in darkened bedrooms and well-lit offices, in the tears of separation, in the faces of strangers who really wanted to make sure I was OK, in the touch of a hand of someone who sublimated their own needs for my own.
I believe that living a good life trumps belief in any one ideology.
I believe my parents, and the proverbial villages of my childhood, and those now, have done a great job raising me, and any failing lays squarely on my tanned shoulders.
I believe that I’ll have another drink.
In the (paraphrased) words of Nick Cave:
“I don’t believe in an interventionist God,
but I know that you do,
But if did, I would kneel down and pray,
And ask Him to watch over you…”
The face of God? I can’t think of more definitive proof that we were made in his image, because I have seen all of the love, and strength in the world not via some biblical manifestation, but in the smiles of children, the cataract-filled eyes of the elderly, in being witness to acts of kindness, of love, of faith.
I believe that this works for me, and is in no way meant to be some kind of atheist justification, or a condemnation of whatever path you choose. I believe I could be wrong about all of this, and that what I think are the lessons I need from this lifetime are the wrong ones.
I believe that I’ll end here. As I sit here, as we Christians observe Good Friday, 2017, I think about a loved one’s suggestion that what God has planned for us may not be immediately understandable by us, even for his own son, that “take this cup from me” moment, rings true.
God have mercy on me, if I am wrong. I guess I’ll find out in a few decades.
I believe in love. Isn’t that the point?


Don Quixote PicassoA note about his one:

Thanks to Sr. Cervantes for the literary image, and to the artists everywhere for painting the visual ones. This one is my favorite. Although not the exact version.  That one was painted by someone else.  That I will probably never see again.

Sitting down to write the final Shades of Blue story. When I write a story, I start with all of my music on shuffle, until one song feels like it captures the mood, even if the lyrics don’t match or anything. Then I will listen to it until I am done writing. This evening’s song, which based on it’s length, I will hear over 50 times in a row (now you know part of why writing is a solitary pursuit for me) is Nic Cave’s “I Do Dear, I Do.”

Additionally, I have lived in Puerto Rico for 9 months now, and have seen it rain really hard, but nothing like tonight. If rain really is angels crying, they are particularly sad tonight. Maybe it was the song, maybe it is the story.  It definitely added to the mood.  Especially when the power went out and candlelight was the only light source besides the screen.


Dulcinea watched as he tried to reason, and to fight, and to wail against the windmills.  He really is mad, she thought.

He brayed, and prayed, and pled to her and to God to help him.  Alone in his fight against the dragons, he continued tirelessly trying to keep them at bay.  Talons, wings, jagged tails all coming at him, his shield and sword increasingly heavy in his arms as the fight went on for what seemed like months.  He didn’t care.  The damsel was his love, and as his duty as a knight, he had to free her from the dragons.

He was winning.  He was winning!  He had struck a blow into the heart of one of the beasts, and suddenly, in the spurts of blood released as he withdrew the sword, he saw the ending.  He knew he could defeat them.  And she was here!  After all this time, after marrying someone else, she was here, to see him in his great triumph.

Little did he know that everyone else had decided to leave him in his madness, and she had only come out of a debt of love that she had never repaid.  She was here to watch him die.  Just so he wouldn’t die alone.

Her presence encouraged him, and he fought with superhuman strength well beyond what his body, ravaged from the months of beatings and starvation, could have mustered without her nearby.

And then one struck him on the left side.  A sudden surge of pain traveled through his body, and he knew the blow was fatal.  He struck back, decapitating the monster, but feeling the energy leaving his limbs.

“I love you,” he said to her, wanting to feel the sweetness of the words pass through his lips at least once more.  

He did.  He had. She had been the one to awaken his heart after a long, divorced-induced slumber.  Sleepwalking through life, he had stumbled across her in a restaurant, eating alone, reading something on her phone that made her laugh.  That laugh, that he would cause, that he loved, was the first indication that something was wrong, by its absence and eventual loss.   He loved that she made him laugh, that she loved him, that she cared for him, even, or especially, when he no longer cared to take care of himself. Until she could no longer.

“I loved you once,” Dulcinea thought, watching him, silent in her embarrassment for him.

And she had. The charming man in the suit, eating alone, as she was, at the little Greek restaurant back when he was normal, and she was single. They had exchanged glances when she had laughed aloud, and three months later, they were living together. Those were the happiest days of her life, having come after her own walk through the desert of love.  For her, it had been passing youth, one too many failed relationships, and the seeds of doubt about her self-worth planted long ago having matured to a thorny rosebush, with her inside that had isolated her.

He had cut the roses around her heart carefully, with a sweetness he had forgotten he had, buried as it had been under layers of arguments and anger over a decade of the slow death of his marriage, and he had presented them back to her for the beautiful flowers that they were, and not the cellar bars they had been before.  The bush had died back.

But the roots remained.  She would water it with her tears, shed whenever he ignored her fears, her opinions, her needs, or even his own, in pursuit of his writing.  Until one day, she found herself again surrounded by prickly branches, bearing sweet roses.

He thought he saw her wave to him.  Unable to move on his own, he tried to stand up using his sword as crutch, only to have it slide into the ground, with him stumbling, face first into the dirt.  He lifted his head, to see one of the dragons snap at him, managing to just avoid the razor teeth.

Eventually, as his pursuit led him to madness, she had left, and ended up in the waiting arms of another man, who was none of the things she loved about her dying  knight, but none of the bad, either.

“I cannot fail now, not now that I am so close,” he urged himself.  He stood up, ignoring the pain, as he had ignored late notices, his job, reality, and most of all her.  Some last reservoir of strength propelled him to his feet, and stood once again to challenge the remaining dragons.  He swung and killed, and swung some more until the last of them lay slain.  He walked over towards her, stammering something she could not hear, having blocked her ears to protect them from the dying screams of the dragons.

He got closer.

“I did it Dulcinea!” he exclaimed, finally close enough that she could hear him. “I killed them!” He managed a smile.

He was now close enough that she could still see the eyes of a madman, intermittent while they were together, full-blown bonkers after she had left.  

He fell to his knees just feet away from her.

“They’re gone, Dulcinea.  They’re all gone. You’re free.”

She bent down to touch him, an old habit perhaps, to touch his face.  The few nicotine-stained teeth that had survived the beatings from groups he was certain had imprisoned her, like the high school boys whom he was certain were Barbarians, stood in stark contrast to the drying mud and blood that covered his once-handsome face. His upper lip swollen from some altercation.   Oh, how she had missed those lips and his kisses.

He looked up at her, out of breath, clearly in the clutches of death.

“There was nothing you could have done, Dulcinea” he said, with the remnants of the voice he had used to serenade in her native Spanish her when he had picked her up from the airport, after a business trip.

“The reason all of my female protagonists were always so beautiful, so amazing, so smart is because all of them were you.  Every one.  It doesn’t matter if she didn’t look like you, sound like you, inside my head, she was you.  You couldn’t have been more perfect,” he said with a bloody smile.

She looked at his eyes, and the madness was gone, replaced by that smiling look that he had had for her in their early years.  That sweet smile, so damaged now, but still so beautiful to her.

“I never wanted to stop writing, and I let myself go mad is because that was the one way I had left that I could continue to love you.  I knew my body had failed me, I knew I had failed you, and only by driving you away could I free you to be away from me” he started.

“In each of my stories, there is always a kiss, maybe a first, maybe a last, but it was always based on our first kiss on your birthday. If I kept writing, I could still kiss you, I could still make love to you.  I could still be your knight.  I could still be the sweet man that you used to love.  So you see, there was nothing you could have done to save me.  I only wish that I had been better for you. To you.  I only wish that I could have loved you the way you wanted.  In real life, in our bed, in our home, not in some story.  But I knew that the dragons that imprisoned you were never going to let you go, so I wrote stories of noble knights and rescued princesses.  Of monsters being vanquished so that the beautiful girl could be freed.  I knew that with my faults, I could not free you.  And it drove me mad.  Because the one thing I wanted most, I could not do.  To free you.”

She found herself unable to speak, overcome by the emotions of the years of praying to hear just those words, to free her from the guilt she had made into her personal cross, the weight of it ruining her back to the point that she lived with pain every day.  She looked about her and saw a field of slain dragons and torn rosebushes.

“I am sorry I couldn’t have helped you.  I am sorry that I added to the dragons.  There was nothing you could have done.  It wasn’t your fault.  Go home, and be happy.  I love you,” he gasped before collapsing.

WIth his dying breath, he said the one thing she needed to her, years ago.  

What he had been fighting was not just his issues, but those inside of her, too.

And when he finally stopped, when he finally stopped tilting against them, his valiant and noble pursuit turned pyrrhic victory, a victim of a broken, no-longer-beating heart, only then did she realize that they were not windmills after all, but the dragons and rosebushes that enslaved and isolated her he had been battling.

“I love you, too.  Tal vez en otra vida!” she thought, repeating in Spanish the chorus he had sang for her so long ago.  Maybe in another life.  She took first step towards home, the pain in back suddenly absent, and a solitary tear wetting her cheek.

En Esta No

Song Inspiration:  En Ésta No, by Sin Bandera.


There was little of him left.  The weight loss, rather pronounced in the last few months was part of it, the missing perennial fingertip extensions that had previously been his cigarettes were another, but something else had changed.  

He had changed what his definition of recklessness was.  Now, extreme pursuits dominated his life, searching for exhaustion, pain, or the nothingness offered by his dalliances with painkillers to feel something or nothing, depending on what he needed most.  

It had been different.  He used to define his heart as reckless, to indicate how far beyond fearless he felt in the pursuit of love.  He no longer pursued it.  And it showed.  The former romantic in any group of friends, was now like a recently extinguished candle.  Still vaguely warm, but without fire, without light, as if the latest gust had managed to extinguish the flame of hope that had sustained him through bad relationships, breakups, years alone.

It used to be about being willing to get on a plane to talk to someone, maybe for the last time, or packing up his life to be with the one he had been certain was The One.  Now it was surfing bigger waves, pushing his body to the limits of its endurance, with little regard for safety, in a blind pursuit of feeling something that didn’t have to do with her.

“Maybe in another life…” she had trailed off as she had walked out of his apartment.  It wasn’t the first time that she had said it to him.  They had dreamt of meeting younger, before the others in their lives had occupied their younger years.  They had said it as part of a daydream of marriage and parenthood together, of having shared the good days that preceded their meeting, of having avoided the bad ones.

Weeks went by with him not telling anyone, not his family, not his closest friends.  He knew that as soon as the words had crossed his lips that it would become real, irreversible.  He had hoped that by keeping it in, she might change her mind, that she would come to her senses, and see that together they were better.  As individuals, as a couple, as workers, as parents, as family.  

She never did.  

In time, he made the phone calls he had long dreaded, spilling his awful secret into a headset, or on luckier days, ruining the mood at family dinners she would no longer attend.

“What are you going to do?” or some version thereof was always the response.  Having proven himself to be the hopeless romantic, they all expected him to make the grand gesture, even if doomed to failure, to get her back.

“I don’t know,” he would sheepishly admit, for the first time in his life fear getting the upper hand in the battle with love. 

She had chosen fear over love, a choice he had always avoided, even despised.  But now, the comfort of his loneliness presented a  welcome alternative to the uncertainty that lay ahead of him, were he to fulfill the actions of the person that he was typecast as, by those who knew him best.  It was just easier to just hunker down and just miss her, than to be faced with another rejection, another wave of crushing heartache, for which he felt insufficiently prepared.   He gasped the first time he thought that he had already seen her last smile, felt their last kiss, touched her for the last time.  That they would not walk through the world, and life, together.  

“Maybe in another life…In this one, no” he thought, wistfully, one last time.

He willed himself to suppress the love for her, the love she had grown and earned by being more than he had ever dared to dream of finding in a single person.  He was going to choose the safety offered by fear, just as she had.  And he was not going to think about it.

Surfing was something that he had tried on a business trip to Hawaii, having been enchanted by a gorgeous woman surfing at the break of dawn.  Trying it, he had found it to be just as magical as she had described it, and although living a short distance from the beach kept it from becoming a daily activity, he now raced to the waves every chance he got.  

The winter storms brought surf warnings that he promptly ignored.  His improving form and newly found physical recklessness propelled him beyond the breakwaters, and into the higher waves.  Multiple attempts at riding one of the twenty-footers that were hitting the shore ended in awkward faceplants into the water, dangerously close to the rocks that lined the left side of the beach.

With each attempt, his desperation grew, as this was no longer the spiritual oneness with the sea that the beautiful Hawaiian had talked about.  No, this was about killing demons, or himself; something had to be slain that morning.

As the sun fully rose from behind the mountain to the east, he finally found himself atop a wave, riding it as if his upbringing in Kansas has done nothing but prepare him for this moment, as if he were born atop a surfboard.  He rode the wave closer to shore, thrilled at the awesome power of nature, and then….

Crack!  The board splitting into pieces as the wave bounced him on the rocks was the last thing he heard before blacking out.

And now she was next to him.  She was kissing him, filling his mouth with her tongue, and his soul with her love.  It was like a vignette of their happiest days, and their dreams.  A curly-haired little girl, walking between them, holding their hands as they lifted her forward, a gleeful squeal accompanying each of her parentally-propelled leaps through space.  The Northern Lights overhead, waves of iridescence washing over them as if the heavens has opened a portal, filling the sky with color just for them.  Holding hands at the right moment, of the right song, at a concert.  The sunlight streaking across her face on a Saturday morning, a smile on her lips as she felt him climax inside of her.  The smile in her eyed as his hand caressed her cheek at bedtime.

He awoke to a dark room, and quickly deciphered he was in the hospital.  He felt excruciating pain on his left leg, and pressed the nurse call button in hope of relief.

“You should not be feeling any pain!” the nurse explained, looking at the massive doses of morphine noted on his chart.  

“I was on painkillers before this.  Would that make a  difference?” he sheepishly asked.

“I’ll have to get the doctor, because you are near the limit as it is,” was the nurse’s  atonal response.

He returned with a syringe, injected it into the left IV bag, and looked at Tom, saying, “OK, you should go to sleep…” before Tom had a chance to ask what had happened.

The morphine brought him back to his sweet dream.  Once again, in this life, or the one he was dreaming of, she was there holding his hand, laughing with him as they people watched in a seaside cafe in Italy..  She was even more beautiful than he remembered, and he remembered her as being pretty beautiful.

PAIN! THat’s what brought him out of it.  He tried to open his eyes only to be blinded by a bright light shining directly into them.  He could not breath, and curiosity forced him to slowly squint into the light.  The pain was slowly abating, and he felt himself getting lighter in the bed.

He could not, however, move his body, as if the thoughts in his head were no longer connected to his physical being.  He opened his eyes slightly more, and could see two silhouettes, both female.  One might have even been hers.  The light grew dimmer, and that silhouette got closer, until her face was over his.  That same smile, those gorgeous brown almond-shaped eyes.  Was this that other life?  As he was losing consciousness he was not sure if he was still daydreaming, dead, or had managed to hop to a parallel universe where their love story had not only started, but continued.  He didn’t care.  His reckless heart beat once more, in this life.

Stairway introduction

Did you ever have a fantasy about how you would get back together with the one that got away? Did you keep playing in your head a set of conversations that ended with a kiss that wiped away all doubt and question? Then these stories will be for you.

After having spent a year writing about love lost, I realized that I needed to do a little more celebrating. The next year will be spent writing a set of stories that celebrate love being found. Whether it’s for the first time ever, or first timewith that person, or whether it is after many failed attempts, with someone new, or someone old.

The first one, $6 mugs, is almost a continuation of one of the ones from the previous set. I hope, that you enjoy these. It is called Stairway, after the introduction by Robert Plant of Led Zeppelin’s Stairway to Heaven, on the live version of the song (the one on The Song Remains the Same), where he says, “this is a song of hope.” For those of you in need of a good bathroom read, or just a bit of knowing that you are not alone in believing in the magic of love, I wish these stories give you that hope.

Thank you for reading, and for believing in magic.