Skin color


Being a good person doesn’t depend on your religion or status in your life, your race or skin color, political views or culture. It depends on how good you treat others.”

I am tired of being defined by the superficial characteristics that provide others comfort because they know which box to put me in.

I was born a certain way—and I have always believed sometimes contrary to those around me that the variety of skin shades is beautiful and something to celebrate.

The truth is, the topic of race, still makes a lot of people feel uncomfortable—they don’t want to talk about it, fearing that they may be seen as prejudiced.

But more importantly, most people don’t want to truly acknowledge their own thoughts and feelings regarding their skin color or that of others.

It makes people feel edgy, as if talking about race is wrong to do, yet discussing racial differences is the only way that we can understand one another and squash any lingering prejudice or false beliefs, once and for all.

Honestly, I haven’t ever given a lot of thought to my skin color, because I don’t see it as something that I’m proud of, but it’s also not necessarily something that I feel condemned by either.

It just is.

It seems there is and will always be a standard by which we are judged.

Do I act white?

Am I feminine enough?

Am I motherly enough?

Am I adulting well?

who I am is not defined by the color of my skin.

If I can be described by any color it’s in the flush of rosiness of my cheeks when I am excited or blushing and in the deep blues of my eyes, as they swim with desire when I am looking into the eyes of my lover.

These colors say something about who I am and what kind of heart I have.

The reality is, the depths of my soul can’t be defined by the fact my great grandparents came from Finland, Sweden, and Germany.

My soul is a collection of my dreams and the thoughts held within the private sanctions of my mind.

It’s in my desire to make the world a better place and to help as many individuals as I can.

I am unique because, regardless of skin color, there is no one else quite like me in this world.

And that is what not only truly defines who I am, but who we all are.

  1. I am not a color, and I am not a place
  2. we should accept our ethnicity despite social views
  3. History should not identify me
  4. I should not be distinguished because of my physical appearance








I had that dream again

The one where I killed her

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I know it is just a dream

But, it does not feel like one

I feels like a memory

The rumors about her have died down

society is moving on to a new piece of drama to feed on

I hear their fake apologies

I remember her

I had that dream again

The one where I kill her


The dream is so vivid

I worry

Did I kill her?

I had that dream again.

The one where I kill her

Her family is grieving

I can not sleep

Is the Killer me?

Where was I?

Where is she?

When will this be over?

When will I be free?






Nature is beautiful

And I will never believe that

earth is a wasteland

It is clear

There are endangered

Animals on this earth

Why should I care

for hunters who kill for sport

I am expressing

STOP the massacre


let them die

Trees are cut down

Plants are uprooted

HELP them


watch birds scared away from

their homes

make a difference in this world

It would not be wise to

dispose of garbage in our



prevent innocent lives from

being captured by pollution

consider yourself weak if you

pollute the air that all the living breath

care about the earth because the earth cares about you

it is a lie that you should

fling garbage on every space you walk

you should

make the earth a better place

and never say

nature is disgusting






A beautiful tragedy


The shards of glass covered the cold, icy,  black asphalt.
looking like sparkling stars strewn across the black sky.

Their brilliance catching the corner of my eye,
making me slow down, just to look at them a little longer.

In my awe of the sheer beauty of broken glass.
I couldn’t help but think,

How could someone else’s tragedy be so beautiful to me.

How to save a life (TAKE 2)


Feeling the cold ground beneath his feet, the soft crunch of delicate herbs, Morrison began collecting the items to make the potion, in a desperate attempt, to revive his beautiful wife. She was now cold to the touch, from the unforgiving grave. He grabbed all the items he need and decided that it was time to start. He walked into the cabin, and down the stairs into his lab. All Morrison could think of was his wife.

She only used her lips for the truth, her voice for kindness, her ears for compassion, her hands for charity, and her heart for love. Her beauty wasn’t based on just her looks, but her character.  The smell of roses flooded his nostrils as he ran around the house, listing off the herbs he needed to come up with the perfect combination to bring back his frozen wife, from the darkness of death.

Morrison caressed the cold face of his love Theresa. She had her soul stolen by a silent killer. No amount of potions would heal her of her illness. They told Morrison to give up, they begged him to let her go. No, even after death, he could not give up on the love of his life.

He grabbed jar after jar, ignoring the clanking sounds they made. He dug his hands in to a jar of lilies and for the moment, enjoyed the feeling of the petals swimming all around his fingers. Sunflower seeds, dead bees, dill, parsley, yellow leaves, the names of ingredients were just buzzing through his head, giving him a nauseated feeling as he crammed them into his potion bottle. A raven’s feather, child’s fears, dog’s tear, bear claw, and a pig’s ear. He mixed and stirred the pungent concoction until it turned from grass green to florescent pink.

“This is it,” Morrison whispered. “It’s time to bring back my sweet Theresa.”  He walked over to his wife, the herbs overpowering the scent of decaying skin that used to smell of lavender. A single tear slid down from his blue eyes, followed by another one, and another one. Soon, a steady stream of salty tears slid down his pale face.

He caught a look of himself in the mirror, and stared into his own eyes, remember what Theresa thought of them. She would tell him that they weren’t an ordinary blue like the sky, or even like the little flowers that would pop up by their house. She would tell him that his eyes were like the sea, crystal clear blue- shimmering and crashing and churning. She would tell him that if you looked directly into his eyes you could hear they waves falling against the shore, you could see the foam flying into the air. Morrison craved the sound of her voice.

While Morrison was making the potion, he was releasing the sadness and sorrow that was held inside of him for all this time. He let out a heart wrenching wail. One would ask, is it better to rack your body with noisy sobs and let the world know of your pain, or to slowly release your emotion within yourself with silent tears? He knew that this was his last chance to bring Theresa back, he would never forgive himself if he couldn’t save her.

He failed to see the loose stone on his cobblestone floor and stumbled. The bottle started to fall, and time seem to slow down as he tried to catch the mistake he made. The glowing pink bottle landed with a crash on the hard floor, leaving shattered remains. The pink liquid that had such beauty now blended in with the dirty floor. It was now turning into a sickly green potion. Every muscle in his body knotted up as realization flooded in. The potion spread across the floor towards Morrison like a predator crawling in for its kill. The potion engulfed Morrison’s hand with a piercing pain. His pain was an icy wind choking the breath from his lungs, creating a noose around his neck. His heart constricted in its wake, not sure if it should go on beating.

Morrison’s body started to burn. His hair grew rapidly, turning grey with oncoming age. His bones now ached with every single step. Morrison limped across the room, grabbing at anything to give him support. He quickly began working on an antidote for his fast aging curse as his spine began to arch. His vision became a blurry, his nose blind to scent as his body prepared for rest. He began waddling back to his wife to lay his body down next to her. He chugged the antidote and felt his body rush back to his younger form. His senses came running back as he felt his health return.

Morrison jumped from the table. He ran to fix his potion as he feared to look at the clock, thinking it would move faster. It was a good thing he planned on having to make it twice. The ingredients started making him lightheaded. Lilies, sunflower seeds, dead bees, dill, parsley, yellow leaves. All these ingredients were whirling in his mind, it was all he was thinking about, it was all he could think about. A raven’s feather, child’s fears, dog’s tears, bear claw, and a pig’s ear. He vigorously mixed the concoction until it had its florescent pink color.

He turned to look at his wife and opened her mouth. The rotting smell in her mouth no longer repelled him. As he prayed for his miracle to come true, he dripped in the repaired pink potion. Theresa’s body began to violently shake. Pale skin, now tan. Her flat, dull colored hair, now curly and a glossy black. Theresa opened her milky white eyes as they shimmered back to green. She opened her full lips, leaned into Morrison and rasped, “I knew you wouldn’t give up on me.”


*Years Prior*

1901 was Morrison’s finest year of his life. He was finally getting to marry the love of his life Theresa. They were only together for six months before Morrison popped the question.   All of their friends and family made it known that they were nuttier than a fruit cake. But Morrison knew they were going to be with each other tell death do them part.

Poets often describe love as an emotion that we can’t control, one that overwhelms logic and common sense. That’s what it was like for Morrison. He didn’t plan on falling in love with Theresa, and he doubt that she planned on falling in love with him. But once they met, it was clear that neither of them could control what was happening. They fell in love, despite their differences, and once they did, something rare and beautiful was created. For Morrison, love like that has happened only once, and that’s why every minute they spent together, has been seared in his memory. He will never forget a single moment.

From the first time he talked to Theresa, he knew there was something so “true” about the person sitting across from him. He didn’t have to act like a higher class version of himself, he knew he could be who he really was. Morrison knew that other people looked at their relationship and laughed at him for being so shallow. They thought that he was making the biggest mistake of his life. He only knew Theresa for six months and nobody could possible fall in love in that amount of time. Morrison would just tell himself over and over that they know nothing, they know nothing about love, and if they won’t support them, they won’t be welcome in there life.

One month after their wedding their life was flipped upside down. It would never be the same again. Theresa started getting sick. When she was under a light cotton sheet in their bed, she was radiating heat like a brick right out of the oven. She ate nothing but the most watery of soups, her appetite was diminished. Morrison could hear her coughing and wheezing from clear outside the house, it was a barking cough that carried well though walls and through the still late winter air. Morrison’s heart was breaking, she was so sick, and he could do anything. All she wanted to do was sleep with the curtains drawn all day.

The doctor came yesterday and said there was nothing to be done but let her ride it out. Her Mama keeps running to and from their room with cool cloths, she has a supply of them out on the washing line so they’re almost frozen when she brings them in. Everyone is praying that she gets better. One night, Morrison decided she was worse, she was screaming in her sleep. Morrison called on the doctor to come over right away.  The doctor told him things he didn’t understand, he was telling him that she only had a few months to live.

How? How, it was all he could think. Morrison couldn’t even begin to comprehend. There was no treatment, they were telling him that they couldn’t do anything but have hope that things would turn out for the best. Morrison was in shock, he felt like he was drowning with no hope of being saved. Memories started flooding his mind, clouding his thoughts, taking him back to places he would kill to be. Their first date, their first kiss, their wedding day. Theresa stared screaming violently and Morrison pressed his palms to his ears trying to block out the screams. It didn’t work, she just screamed louder and louder.

Just when Morrison thought all hope was lost, she called his name. Hearing his name called was like seeing a ray of light in the darkness his world just became. It guided him back to reality for them moment. In the back of his mind all he could think was, “When has hope saved anyone?” He went to her side, and she grabbed at his ruff, hardworking hands. Her screams died down for the moment as she tries to comfort him, telling him that everything will be all right, as tears were falling down her pale face. Morrison rested his head on her chest, not wanting to let go of her. Theresa is his anchor, she gives him hope when the darkness creeps in.

Morrison floated into a deep sleep, dreaming of a conversation they had before, about death. It was a topic Morrison hated, but Theresa was trying to teach him not to be scared of the inevitable. Theresa told him that death is a body, a shadow, it lurks in the dark. Death crawls under beds of all ages, sitting there, waiting. She would tell him that you would know when your time is near, because you would feel the chill of deaths icy breath as it would tickle the back of your neck. She would tell him that even though all of this was true, you still can’t stop living your life, you have to keep moving forward, you can’t sit and fear the end of life, because everyone will die. For some it is just early then we would hope for.

Morrison told himself over and over, that he didn’t care what the doctors told him, he would find a cure. Morrison was woken up by Theresa’s screams. He held her hand and tried to comfort her. She still had such a beauty that caught his breath that he thought “Someone so beautiful isn’t meant to die.” Morrison was trying so hard not to break, but Theresa just kept saying how cold she was, and he knew death was under her bed, and death was going to reach up and grab her. He closed his eyes as she whispered “Please, don’t leave me.” Everything ended that night.

Morrison cried until there was a raw emptiness that nibbled at his insides like a hungry rat. His irises were threaded scarlet and his eyeballs hung heavy in their sockets. His whole body hung limp like each limb weighed twice as much as it had before. Moving around, trying to live the day to day life, was a slow painful effort. The sun still shone in the sky, but not for him. The birds still sung in bursts of melody that he would normally enjoy. But, Morrison was now convinced that there was no beauty left in the world.


From a Killers Perspective


I hope nobody will be offended by this post. This is my very first “dark” post/story. Remember it is fiction!


Detective: Explain what happened on the night of October 17, 2014.

It’s been one long hard year. One year ago, I found my wife and children laying in pools of blood, dead on our living room floor. One year ago from this night, I was at work, doing my job to support my family. One year ago from this night, I tried with all of my might to save their lives, even though I knew there was no life let to be saved in them. One year ago today, I started the hunt to find the heartless person who killed my wife and kids. My name is Gavin Reese, and I am, for the first time in my life, about to commit a murder.

A cool breeze is weaving through the trees as I stand on the edge of a forest, looking at a two story house. The house looks old, uncared for. There is garbage in the giant yard with weeds overgrown, some of the windows are boarded up, and the paint is falling off. I could tell at one point this must have been a beautiful home, now it is the most unsightly home for miles around.

Dim light was peering out from some of the broken windows that weren’t boarded up yet. This light was casting an illumination out onto the surrounding lawn. I was now watching from behind a thick layer of brush from the start of the driveway. A dark shadow from inside the house was looking out onto their lawn. When a nearby church town chimed twelve, the shadow disappeared into the light, and I knew that it was now my time.

I started toward the house, pay attention the few broken, dimly lit windows I could see into. I made sure to walk along the edge of the forest in an attempt to keep myself hidden from any onlookers. When the forest ended, I was forced into talking through long, thick, dead weeds. I could feel the blade of my knife rubbing against my leg with every movement. The gun attached to my hip, was making me feel alive. Before I knew, I was at the large, brown painted, front door.

I stood tall, out of my crouching position, and I pressed my ear to the door. I was trying to get a feel of where the killer was. It sounded like the killer wasn’t alone, but the voices sounded distant, like they were upstairs. Pricking the lock was harder than when I was practicing. I had this down, and it took me three tries to get it. My nerves were really starting to kick in.

I was trying as hard as I could to keep my hand steady as I was turning the brass door knob. I pushed the door open, and I entered the muggy, small, dimly lit, living room. I knew I was in the right house immediately. It had the same smell that was lingering on my dead wife’s and kids bodies; mold with some type of an air freshener.

I kept walking inside which lead to a dark hallway, with stairs at the end. As I start ascending the stairs I hear movement, so I know I’m headed in the right direction, but I still can’t tell where they are.  I check every single door as I was walking down the hallway on the second floor. They were all locked, it was like they were expecting me.

Once I reach the window at the end of the hallway, I realize something is wrong. I can only hear my own heartbeat, I feel like I am being watched. Then it hits me, I am no longer the hunter. I am being hunted. I turn around, and I have no time to react. I man in a black hooded sweatshirt comes charging at me. He crashes into me and I feel glass breaking against my back. Then all I feel is me failing with someone on top of me.

When I have a child, my favorite hobby was climbing trees. Sometime I would fall out of them and land on my back. The wind would be knocked out of my lungs, and I would struggle to get a grasp of air in. Then pain I felt then, was nothing like the pain I was experiencing now. It was if my throat had sealed on the impact of my landing and it refused to reopen.

As I was struggling to breath, I could feel blood leaking from my back from where the glass had cut me. When I gained enough energy, I climbed up onto all fours and I saw the hooded man walking toward me like a spider coming back to its home. When he stopped in front of me, he had a knife in his hands.

Without any hesitation I pulled my knife out and stabbed the hooded man in his thigh. As he was collapsing, he swung his knife, and it made a gash on my face.  I struck him again in his arm, and his screams echoed through the hills around us. I saw my chance and I jumped on top of him.

As I had him pinned down I realized I needed to know something before I did anything else. I asked him “Why! Why did you do it?” And, you know what his answer was? “Because, they were home.” He told me my children have my eyes. I smiled at him, and I thrust my knife into his chest.