Overtime

It looks like we are going into overtime, folks.

During regulation, the game was played without fear or
hesitation. Both teams fought, blocked, ran, stole, and shot
lights out. Fans almost had to get their lighters out.
Empty the gas tank and tie those shoes tight. One ship
will sink. One team will win, right? One team will take
flight straight to Disneyland, and the other will go home
with a fine-tooth comb: looking for what went wrong.
After all four quarters, overtime is a tall order. After long,
the game was stopped after one coach threw a chair.
The other coach pulled the ref’s hair. 50-50 with 50 seconds
left in overtime lit on the sign. The game was delayed,
and no fans stayed. Anyway, both teams left the building
before overtime was finished. No one won, but it is fine;
only some of us are lucky enough to live and see overtime.


Drop the Ball

Man, I didn’t just drop the ball,
I spiked that baby. I threw it
down like Shaq. Did I mean to?
No. The ball didn’t seem to fit
the mitt. The ball was heavy;
I was thought to be strong,
but that thought was wrong.
I didn’t really want the ball.
I just happen to stumble upon
it. I did pick it up after all.
At the end of the day, I picked
up the same ball I dropped.
There is no reason to rant;
I’ll dribble the ball till’ I can’t.


Growing Up

Find out what happens to Jaxson. Does he ever get found? What will happen to Lawrence’s basketball career? Find out in the short story, Growing Up. This story is a continuation of a story called The Backstreet. It is necessary to read The Backstreet before you read Growing up, so you can understand important contextual details.
Enjoy and thanks for reading!

A Series of Short Stories

I took a very small break from poetry to finish up some old short stories. I went back and revised the previous drafts. Without further ado, I present you five stories:

1. The Backstreet
2. Growing Up
3. Monsters
4. My Light
5. Gone

A Series of Short Stories

BALL

The discolored worn leather makes

for a better story. Cutting my hands

and diving for you on the hot asphalt made

my therapy at first appear dangerous,

but nothing else matters when it is

me and you. Timeouts rarely helped,

because time in this game counts

and sometimes runs out when

when the ball drops. The clock is watched

and clicks slower when I have

you in-between my dedicated hands.

Escaping to the hardwood with you

to the dust-filled court made my

problems seem miniscule. The pressurized

leather circle of hope eliminates stress

and shoots any doubt down through

a safety net weaved together by

individual strands working as a team.

Across the floor I cannot see anyone

and the path is clear, can I trust

my team mate to perform under stress?

The question is important because

someone can take you to the top

and others will make you quit

and miss. You give and receive attention,

but it betters me in the end. You provide

answers to questions that confuse me.

On Sundays, or on vacation miles away,

I find your home, bring your circular body

and forget the reasons that brought me there.

I pull the trigger and burn the nylon,

glow in the dark or chained, You have the

scent of waxed wood and years of history

that was built by people in situations

only you’re familiar with. The scar on

my left eyebrow is proof of how much

of an impact you left on me.

Dreaming I was on the team that treated

you the best. You wanted me when others didn’t

and that is why I continue to use you.

You have brought many friendships

and a valid reason to ditch

a Math or Science class early. Legends

once used you as a tool to make it out,

make it in, or be someone in the world.

And when I think about our relationship,

all I can do is smile because of the long walks,

brisk jogs, and exhausting sprints we did.

I place you in my hands and close my eyes,

say a few words before I throw you towards

the back of the iron, putting it all at the line.

And when I hold my hand high and

my breath long, I know I won because I

as I took a shot, I let go.