I always hated coming down stairs to the kitchen table. My dad would sit there across from the sink, reading the newspaper, taking a sip of his coffee, telling me that I would never amount to anything.

I went to see my grandfather’s cemetery plot today. He died in August of 2005, a man I respected immensely, but it had been nearly four years since I could go near his plot to see him.

My mind wanders past dreams of running through a wooded area. The trees swaying, their branches scrape the top of my head and make me run faster. A twig snaps beneath my feet, sounding reminiscent of a deadbolt.

(excerpt)

Thomas made his way along the cracked sidewalk. His left shoe sticking on remnants of old chewing gum that made his shoe sound like Velcro as he walked. Though it didn’t seem to split his mind from work, from everything that mattered.

The night was cold and ominous. The New Mexican desert surrounded the blue van. It sped along the highway with only its headlights and the full moon illuminating the land beyond.

Jake hobbled along the wet sidewalk, his right side dipping down with each step because it was a few inches shorter than his left. His muscles ached, hair graying just below his black fedora.

He eyed the empty classroom, looking towards the open windows and to the door. His eyes after several glances and stares around the room found their place as they fell upon his desk.

His eyes were locked on the painting; its colors captivated the man to the point where he could not pull away.