I Wish

I wish I could paint a picture.  On canvas with colorful brush strokes.  It would hang in a museum to share with the world, so bright and radiant.  To interpret as you wish.  For people to look at and wonder what was on my mind while I held that brush.  For it to have meaning to each visitor.  Whether it be happy or sad.  My own Van Gogh, painted with pain and anguish for the world.  For me.

I wish I could pick up a guitar then put a pencil to paper and write a song.  A song to share with the whole world.  A song to sing to people on the street as they toss their change into my guitar case or on a stage with the audience singing to me as if they wrote it.  I hear their happiness or is it sadness, so loud and clear.  A song that will last generations and is no longer mine but everyone’s.   Forever.

I wish I could write a story.  A story penned so eloquently with my pain and suffering.   A story I can share with the world.  So people could read and understand that they are not alone in their suffering.  Written for me but knowing there are others that can’t pen their feeling as I can.   With the hope that they may someday meet me and say thank you for writing what they feel.  They have healed.  My gift to them.

I can’t paint nor play a guitar.  I can’t pen my thoughts eloquently. 

But I can dream.

Till we meet again. Good Day.

Mind of Shoo 

The Whole Town Came

This story is fiction.  It was written for the Trifecta: Week Fifty-Eight writing challenge.

This week we want you to write on the third definition of:
survive

1: to remain alive after the death of
<he is survived by his wife>
2: to continue to exist or live after
<survived the earthquake>
3: to
continue to function or prosper despite : withstand <they survived many
hardships>

I sit in my car on a Friday night.  Through the tears and darkness I see 12:28 on my dashboard clock.  I am outside my high school football stadium where hours before I played my last game of high school.  I dropped the game winning pass with less than two minutes.   Everything afterwards is a blur.  All I remember is a constant stream of teammates and coaches approaching me saying its ok.  Not your fault.  It’s a team game.  All the clichés.

“They can all go to hell!  I lost the game. It was my fault!”

Suddenly I notice car lights driving up behind.  It’s the police chief, my dads best friend.  He exits his car and taps lightly on my window.

“Come out and talk to me,” he says.

“No, leave me alone Mr. Landry. I want to be alone.”

“I came cause your dad would have wanted me to” he replies.

“My dad died this morning.”

“I know its tough on you. Everything has been.  Tonight too.  I know you hurt.  You have the right to hurt”

I hear another car door close.  I look over and see my mom walking towards my car, tears in her eyes.

“Are you ok” she says to me.

“I’m not mama. I lost the game.”

“Its ok, I love you.  Very much.  I know you feel bad.  It’s ok to feel that way.  Everyone loves you.  This whole town.”

I hear another car door.  I look in my rear view mirror and I see a line of cars pulling into the stadium parking lot.

Now my coach is here.  My best friend.  My postman.  The owner of the grocery store where I work.  The priest of my church.  My english teacher.  My favorite aunt.  Plus many I barely know.

A little girl I don’t know, dressed in pajamas,  steps in front of my car with a sign saying: We support #88.  Everyone starts clapping.

Through the pain I understand it’s just a game. I will survive.

Comments and critique are welcome!