I’m going to be brutally honest in this post.  Because it’s one of those kinds of days.  Where I am asking myself the big question.

In the George Bailey sense, what difference does it make that I am here?

Yeah, it scares the hell out me, to go there.  When I can’t seem to come up with an answer. When I measure my contribution, my worth, solely in a monetary sense and fall short, especially when I see precious others working their asses off just to keep their heads above water. 

What difference do I make?  My daughter doesn’t need me so much any more, I am not an other halfNor am I, to be brutally honest again, indispensable in anyone’s life.  I know this as well.  You have to need yourself, and even more than that, love yourself.  If only I had a quarter for every time I heard that.  And I do, most of the time.  But today it isn’t enough. 

So I don’t know.  At least not yet.  But I believe with all of my heart that my life has a yet to be God revealed purpose.  I have to.  Or the world would not have missed George Bailey.



It was an image seen through a glass of water.

Magnified, not actual truth.

Happiness in shared space, rays of sun.

Filtered through a forged lens.

And the glaring distortion of it burned.


Scorched, in five sentences.


I look myself over.

Salt and grains of holding-out-for-hope thrown over my shoulder, trying to ward off the evil of you’ll never be.

I look over my shoulder, dare to see myself. 

Coming from behind. 

Dark Horse.


He had her defeated, he assumed.

Pinning down her wings, by their thinnest glassine-paper edges.

And all but tearing them off.

Yet her light burned on.

So not a win.


Five sentence fiction Flames