Barry Allen, Flash Point Paradox

I don’t listen to music anymore.

I don’t write.

It’s like I’m living in limbo,

Chasing nothing,

Moving backwards.

My hair is wild,

Different from my high school days;

I miss my long hair,

How the wind made it twirl,

How the hours passed as it dried.

I think I need a drastic change again to restart this heart of mine,

A defibrillating shock to my step, an electric spring if you will.

Give me a new hair cut.

Fire me from my job.

Break my spirit.

Punch me in the face again.

Let me fill a page with smoke and shrapnel. Snap my neck. Let the ink set in addiction I have long forgotten.

Take me home.


Do you see,

Is it me,

In the glint of your eye?

Oh, I’d swell,

And I’d rattle,

I’d tell

(Yes, I’d tattle),

That you are the light in my own;

‘Cause you see,

Oh, you should,

That you’d be

(Or you would)

The one, yes, the only

Love I have known.

Rose Tyler

Sometimes I feel like I’m on fire;

Sometimes I can’t breathe.

I look outside for that little blue box,

Listening for the whirr of its apparition;

I stare at nothing,

Hoping to catch the silhouette of his stature through the light of a window.

He had two beating hearts

And one belonged to me.

Only doctors can prescribe the medicated intoxication my body craves every day.

A rift in space,

A ripple in time,

And he was mine.

I need my Doctor.

Grandma Drives to Scotland (response to reddit /r/writingprompts)

Grandma Drives to Scotland (response to reddit /r/writingprompts)

My grandmother was great at a many of things — smelling hunger from a mile away, washing that perfect, ocean breeze scent into my laundry, and baking the softest of chocolate chip cookies — but she was not good at arriving on time.

Last Christmas, I invited grandma over to my new apartment to spend the holiday time with my girlfriend and me. She only lived ten minutes away, and insisted that she could get herself there. “Okay, okay, Grandma,” I said over the phone, “just be careful.”

I guess it was around noon when she hopped in her 1992 Honda Accord that my dad bought for her a while back, getting her out of an older clunker and into a somewhat reliable vehicle. It was reliable, yes, but versatile…I hadn’t expected.

Kayla was still wrapping presents, and I was trying my hardest to hang lights around the living room when Grandma called me about a quarter after six to ask if she was going the right way.

“Aren’t I supposed to turn right at the corner of 5th and Anchor,” she asked, confused.

“Grandma, no. You should’ve turned left. You know that road is a dead end, right? You’ll have to turn around before you get to the pier.”

“Jay, I think I’m going the wrong way. Can you GPS me?” My little innocent grandmother still hadn’t learned much about technology, and thought I could track her little flip phone with mine. “Grandma, just turn around at the pier and get back onto I-95. Then follow 95 back around to town.”


“Take I-95, Grandma!” I had to be a bit stern with her because she couldn’t seem to understand how ridiculous it is to mess up what originally was a ten-minute drive with a total of three turns.

“I don’t see I-95 anywhere. Can’t you GPS me, Jay?”

My grandmother must’ve been very lost at this point, and I was beginning to think she’d drive straight out of Maine and into Our Home, Our Native Land. “What do you see, grandma? Help me find where you are.” Any sort of landmark would help me find her, and then I’d drive out to have her follow me home.

“I’m on the Atlantic, Jay,” she said. I quickly looked for street names and backroads in my phone’s mapping app. “Grandma, there is no Atlantic highway or street name around here. What are you going on about?”

“Jay! I see a sign! Am I near your house?”

At this point, I began to feel a slight bit of relief, and hoped that maybe she somehow found her way to my apartment. “What does it say, grandma?”


The Man Between, chapter 1: “The Journal”

I found myself wandering through an old bookstore in a small town outside of Newmarket, New Hampshire, looking at books that possibly haven’t been touched in years. Dust fell from the shelves with each of my steps.

“How old is this place?” I called out to the old lady at the front of the store. She must have been in her 70s and these books were at least the same.

“This bookstore was opened by my grandmother almost a little over a hundred years ago, boy. Most of these books belonged to her husband — he even wrote a few himself,” she replied.

I looked through some of the rugged leather journals. Half interested, but still intrigued, I had to ask, “Did these journals belong to him? It seems he was—“

“A sailor, yes, boy. He kept a log of his ventures.”

That seemed pretty neat. I always loved personal stories of adventure, mostly because I didn’t have the balls to make any of my own.

“These journals are dated,” I said, “many months apart between each journal.”

Oh, this is odd, I thought.

“This one is empty,” I declared, “but it’s still dated on the pages as the most recent one of the many.”

She looked down for a long while and finally said, “He died on his last journey. His boat returned without him, and his journal sat open on his bunk desk. My grandmother simply placed it with the others. She opened the store soon after.”

“That’s tragic. But these pages are dated, as if the entries just melted away from the journal. . .” I said. “. . . I’d like to buy these, or at least the empty one to maybe write about my own travels.”

“Just take them, boy,” she said heartfelt and kindly to me, “No one has bought anything here for quite a while. I don’t need the money anyway, and I wouldn’t want my grandfather’s story to die with him.”

“Are you sure? I could give you something in return.”

“They’re yours now. Do as you wish,” she said.

“Thank you, ma’am. I really appreciate it.”

I looked around a while longer to make sure I grabbed all the journals, ten of them that I found. The last of which was the mysteriously empty one. I gathered all of them, thanked the sweet old lady once more, and headed out on my way.

There was about an hours drive through Newmarket to Stafford, NH, so I thought I’d plan what to do with the journals. I proposed to read them when I got the chance, and start my own little journal entry when I got home. Maybe I’d finally create my own little adventures starting with today’s random visit to that old store.

As the silence in the car became overwhelming, I decided to listen to the radio. Grouplove came on with one of my favorites, Ways to Go, then some of the overplayed songs came through and I began searching stations, one after the other in a strike of boredom.

Then a severe weather warning came through on all stations:

“—storm headed west from the coast tonight. It’s the fastest weather shift we’ve seen in a hundred years. Stay indoors and get your phones charged. You could see power outages over most of the east coast.”

Shit. I didn’t want to hear that.

The rain began a few minutes later, lightly at first, but soon growing into a raging black across the sky.

I made it home and unpacked my bag on my desk, then decided to make my first journal entry about my day. “April 4th, 2017,” I wrote beneath the old, worn out date on the first page, “Welcome to my life, little book.”

As I began to write about my day and the little bookstore, the power went out. I grabbed my phone and turned on the flash just in time to see my words seep into the page. I sat in awe for a moment, adjusting my eyes, before confused and absentmindedly writing, “what the fuck” in the middle of the page where my words used to be. I didn’t believe it, but soon enough, just as before, I watched those words slowly sink away as well.

Then, slightly, one by one, a few letters began to appear on the page. I adjusted my eyes once more, and almost fell out of my chair when I saw it.

H e l l o ?