Silent Dreams

One Morning

2012-01-24T21:15:00.003-05:00

One Morning
by, Melissa R. Mendelson

It was barely three a.m. when I saw the flashing lights. I stumbled in the dark, tripping over shoes. My hands grasped at the window, and for a moment, I only blinked. The lights grew brighter, threatening with danger, and all I wanted to know was this darkness. All I wanted to do was to fall back into a peaceful sleep, but there would be no peace tonight.

The attack had come. My next door neighbors fell victim. Senseless crime, vicious robbery, but no ambulance in the driveway. It was a bad scare, but the threat was real. Our neighborhood was no longer safe, and more attacks would come. Would I be next?

My mind quickly woke up and opened its checklist. Windows locked. Check. Front door bolted. Check. Garage doors closed. Check. Poodles at the ready. Double check. Was that enough, or would nothing be enough in these harsh and trying times, where the desperate live?

I couldn’t go to bed now. My hand remained holding the blinds back. Neighbors stood outside, looking up at me, and I looked at them. I could hear the crying, the screams of justice, and the dying whisper of hope. No, there would be no more sleep tonight but a call to arms. What did I have in this house to protect and to protect myself with?

I slowly pulled myself away from the window, away from the army of police cars, and away from the scene of the crime. A quiet neighborhood. A green, lush yard. Beautiful portrait houses now stained. Dolls left broken. Perfection gone.

I made myself a cup of coffee. I opened the drawer with the razor sharp kitchen knives. I took a seat beside the window and soon had a mug in hand, and I had a knife on the table. Did I feel safe? No, but I would not be the victim. This was my house, my home, and if anybody dared break in… Well, I have the right to defend myself and then call 911.

The end of night fell quietly. Dawn awoke, stirring this once peaceful neighborhood, but sleep was already gone. They were all lying in bed with one eye open, gripping their loved ones tight, and the morning commute scolded them to move, to hurry up. I heard its call, but I finished my coffee. The knife was gently placed back in its drawer, slowly being closed but not completely. Farewell, night. Hello, morning. May I come home, where everything would be alright, but I knew different. But I still left, living my life.

MAX (The Novel)

2012-01-24T17:49:00.000-05:00

Max was intended to be a novel but then later became a short story, but maybe it should be a novel.

Novel Excerpt:

It was after 11:00 p.m. when Rachel Winters crawled into bed in her grandparent's guestroom. She pulled the covers up to her neck and peered out into the hallway to see the flashing light from the television in the living room on the wall. She knew her grandparents were watching the news and would go to bed afterward, but she still felt the need to call for her grandmother.

"Grandma? Grandma? Tuck me in."

"After the news, Rachel," her grandmother called from the living room.

"Please… I'm tired. Please. Grandma? Grandma! Tuck me in!"

"The news is almost over, Rachel."

"Can't you come and tuck me in? It will only take a minute. Grandma! Please! Tuck me…"

"And that was when I first saw him. Like a negative in a picture, he stormed in and turned out the lights. He turned to leave when I said good-night to him, and he froze in his steps. It was as if he was surprised that I saw him and was still looking at him. I watched him turn toward me and heard him say good-night before leaving the room. What did I know then? I was only a child, and I was about to fall asleep when my grandmother entered the room."

"Who turned out the lights?"

"He did." Rachel giggled.

"Rachel, that's not funny. Did you turn out the lights?"

"No. He did."

"Rachel, who are you talking about?"

"The ghost, grandma."

"The ghost…" Her grandmother nervously glanced around the room. "Get some sleep." Her grandmother kissed her on her forehead and ran her soft hand over Rachel's curly, brown hair. "I'll see you in the morning." With one last nervous glance around the room, her grandmother left.

"Years later, I found myself at her funeral. My hair was pushed back by a gentle wind as I watched my family cry hysterically over her death, but yet, I felt nothing. It was not that I didn't love her. I did with all my heart, but I couldn't even feel tears in my brown eyes. Nothing. I was still broken.

"Shiva was held at my grandparents' house where I spent numerous nights so long ago, and as I watched the people come and go, paying their respects, I wondered what was wrong with me. Why didn't I cry for her? Why was I not sad? Was it what I went through?

"I felt my life was over, going nowhere but down. I had no clue to what was going to happen next, and that was when my aunt dropped the unexpected news on me."

The teakettle screamed as Aunt Lila, a distinguished woman with brown eyes and gray hair, took two coffee cups out of the cabinet by the sink. She turned the burner on the stove off as the teakettle whistled, and steam filled the air. The water inside the teakettle rumbled as Aunt Lila poured two cups of tea - one for her and one for me.

"What did grandma tell you the last time you spoke to her?" Aunt Lila handed Rachel her cup of tea before sitting across from her at the kitchen table.

"A bitter memory of my last conversation with grandma flashed through my mind. I lied to her about my parents' vacation. For whatever their reason, my parents did not want her to know that they went away for the week, and I told grandma that they were at the mall."

"She asked me to visit her and grandpa and to stay awhile."

"Only awhile?" Rachel nodded as Aunt Lila poured sweet and low into her tea. "Sugar?" Aunt Lila handed Rachel a packet of sweet and low and then sipped her tea. "Nothing else?"

"No. Why?"

Aunt Lila sipped her tea a few more times as Rachel stirred the sweet and low into her tea. "Once you got here, grandma had no intention of letting you leave."

Aunt Lila continued sipping her tea as Rachel stared at her. Her eyes looked into the brown water swirling in her mug as Rachel watched her. Setting down the coffee cup in front of her, Aunt Lila looked up at Rachel.

"Whatever you may think, you're wrong. She knew that something was going on with you. It didn't matter if you didn't speak to her or lied to her…" Rachel winced at those words. "She knew, and she wanted you here… To start over."

"What?" Aunt Lila looked over her shoulder to see her sister, Rachel's mother enter the kitchen.

Wiping her tears aside, Rachel's mother, a small, chubby woman with long brown hair and dark brown eyes, looked from Aunt Lila to Rachel. Slowly moving past Aunt Lila, she walked to the cabinet to get another coffee cup. She ignored her sister's stare as she poured herself a cup of tea. Then, she turned around and sat down in the seat at the table between Rachel and Aunt Lila.

Sipping her tea and eyeing her sister, Aunt Lila cleared her throat before saying, "Mom wanted Rachel here."

"Why?" Rachel's mother looked at her.

Annoyed by the question, Aunt Lila returned her sister's stare. "Because she wasn't doing well where she was."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Eve! Look… We both know that you avoided mom or lied to her when you had to speak to her, and she saw through it. You have no idea how much you hurt her…"

"I didn't mean to!"

"You didn't mean to do a lot of things, right! What was your excuse for not calling her back! You were too busy!"

Warm tears glistened in Rachel's mother's eyes as she looked away from her sister. She glanced at Rachel as she brushed her tears aside. Her hands shook as she lifted the coffee cup to her lips and sipped her tea before turning to look at her sister.

"I'm sorry."

"It's too late, Eve. It is too late." Aunt Lila shifted in her chair. "But not for Rachel." Rachel looked at Aunt Lila. "The last thing that mom wanted was for her to come and live with her and dad, and she would still want that. Now, if you say 'yes,' Rachel, I still have to talk to grandpa first to make sure he is okay with the idea."

Turning toward her daughter, Eve asked, "What do you want to do?"

"I thought about the last two years of my life and remembered what I had gone through. It was not that my parents didn't love me, but they never knew. They were too absorbed in their own problems, and I just aggravated them more. They saw somebody I wasn't, and now I was being offered the chance to hopefully become the person I once was."

"I'll stay." Rachel saw the look of surprise on her mother's face. "I have nothing left back home."

Max (Short Story)

2012-01-19T17:50:00.001-05:00

Third Story on The Writing Show: http://www.writingshow.com/podcasts/Slush_pile_23.mp3

Max
by, Melissa R. Mendelson

I was sleeping over my grandparents’ house one summer in Seaford. They were watching the eleven o’clock news in the den, and I was in the guest room. I was in the bed, waiting for them to tuck me in. I called to them, and they told me to wait. I called to them again, and they said to wait. The news was almost over, but I was growing impatient. And I began yelling for them when he appeared beside my bed.

Max resembled a negative like in a photograph. He was a man, maybe mid to late thirties, and he was annoyed. He was annoyed at how I couldn’t wait for my grandparents to come into the room, tuck me in, and turn out the light. He didn’t tuck me in. He just turned out the light, and I watched him leave. And I said, “Good-night.” He froze mid-step, and after a long moment, he said, “Good-night.”

I didn’t see him again until 1997. My grandmother passed away that summer, may she rest in peace. She was making plans for me to come and live with her and my grandfather. She knew how bad my depression was and how oblivious my parents were. She wanted to give me a chance to start over, and that plan almost didn’t happen. Then, my aunt decided to change my life, sitting me down during Shiva and telling me of what my grandmother intended, giving me a choice. Go home, or stay here. I stayed in Seaford.

Max knew that I could see him. He tried to stay out of sight, but I still heard him. The steps creaked as if someone were walking down them. A closet door opened. The walls felt like they had a million eyes, but they were his. And he watched my every move, hesitant to appear.

I started to dream about him. We would talk, but I would never remember the conversations that we had. I didn’t understand until I saw The Sixth Sense, and then it all made sense. And he finally grew comfortable being close to me, but as day came, he would drift away.

“Did you die here,” I asked him one night. “Is that why you can’t leave?”

“Yes.” His voice was like a penny falling into a deep well. “I’ve been here for a very long time.” He sat close to me, wanting to touch my face, but he was afraid to do so. “Why are you here?”

“To start over.”

“Why are you really here?” Tears stung my eyes, and he looked away. “I’m sorry.”

“My life’s a train wreck.” His gaze met mine. “I made bad decisions, and I paid for them. There’s nothing for me back home.” I swallowed the tears. “My grandmother wanted this for me, and my aunt gave me the chance. I took it.”

“You were trapped.” I nodded. “Like me,” he said. “Two lost souls.”

“I don’t know what’s going to happen,” I whispered, and for a moment, I thought he was going to take my hand in his. “I don’t know what to do.”

Max didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. All we had were questions for one another but hardly any answers. Our company was enough, but as time went on, we began to drift apart.

“Max.” I don’t know why, but that was the name I had given him. “Why did you say hello to my mother?” My mother had stayed over the previous night but had trouble falling asleep. Max surprised her by coming right up to the bed and greeting her. “You scared her pretty good.”

“I didn’t mean to,” he said. “You were asleep. I didn’t want to disturb you.”

“Will you be okay when I leave?”

He was surprised by this question. “You just got here.”

“I know, but the community college is only two-years.”

“So, we have time.” He grew closer to me. “Why worry about that when it isn’t now?”

“Because I always worry.” I gnawed on my lip, a bad habit like twisting a strand of hair around my finger, which drove my grandmother crazy. “I just have a bad feeling,” I said.

It was 1999. My grandfather’s health grew worse, and there was talk of him living with my cousin. I was to transfer to a four-year college, but I was also repeating history, making the same mistakes. Max and I were not as close as before, and he grew angry with me, angry that I was being nothing more than a selfish, little girl.

Then, I had the dream. I stood with Max at the front door. My aunt stormed past me with my grandfather’s things packed into a small suitcase and with my grandfather at her side. I begged him not to go. I begged her to let him stay. I knew once he left, he would never come back, but the front door slammed shut behind them. And Max waited behind me.

He grabbed me by the neck, trying to strangle me. I thought he was going to kill me. Then, he released me, and I was blinded by a brilliant, white light. His time had come. There were no words left to say. This was good-bye, and he disappeared into the light. I knew everything was going to be different and that this house would never be the same again. The dream was over, and Max was gone. But to this day, I still remember you. I still remember Max.

To Believe The Dream

2012-01-18T18:04:00.000-05:00

To Believe The Dream
by, Melissa R. Mendelson

"The ultimate measure of a man is not where he stands in moments of comfort and convenience, but where he stands at times of challenge and controversy." - Martin Luther King, Jr.

We live in trying times. We look for the silver lining, something or someone to believe in, but some people still play the lying game. The news is entertainment, but read in-between the lines. Things are not getting better, and false promises from rising politicians cannot soothe wounds still burned. We're trying to survive. We're trying, so how do we still dream?

We dream because they dream. They live the dream, actors and actresses honored at awards shows like The People's Choice Awards and The Golden Globes. They all started somewhere, some facing hard times, and others rising from nothing. They still made it. They endured, they bled, and they believed. Now, they take flight, and we applaud, even if not all chosen nominees won. It didn't matter because they were our light in these dark and trying times. "Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that." Martin Luther King, Jr.

But how do we live, if we grow so cold? We forget. We lock ourselves tight, sealed in our glass slipper of life. We don't want to know that others suffer. We don't want to see it or feel it. We just want to survive. We want to dream without choking on the noose of taxes and trials, worried about having no home or not being able to feed ourselves and those in our heart. We want freedom, but freedom now comes with a price. So, we can't dream, watching this world slip from our hand. "Everything that we see is a shadow cast by that which we do not see." Martin Luther King, Jr.

This war has not been lost. The world is ours to change, but we have to be the ones to change it. We cannot drive on cruise control or allow others to take the reigns. This life, this place defines who we are and who we have to be in these dark and trying times, and we cannot simply lie aside. Or we can't complain as we slip over the edge because we didn't try. We just tried to survive, but if we hold tight to the dream of a better world, a rising star, then we can do anything we set our hearts and mind to. And then no longer would we need to survive but flourish and dream in light and better times.

"The ultimate measure of a man is not where he stands in moments of comfort and convenience, but where he stands at times of challenge and controversy." - Martin Luther King, Jr.

Across The Page

2012-01-13T18:14:00.000-05:00

An old song I wrote once upon a time:

Across The Page
By, Melissa R. Mendelson

Days slip away
like tears unshed,
and moments of my life
drift on by
like the dreams
that won't let go,
won't let go.

The weight of the world
still bears down on me.
The stress of reality
digs in deep.
Trying to make ends meet,
my dreams won't let go.
They won't let go.

Chorus:
The page is waiting to be written.
Life can't remain on hold.
Dreams beckon from the distance.
The page is there, waiting
for the pen to spill.

Whispers of my heart
pour through the ink.
Everything locked inside
becomes words on the page.

And they are pounding on the door.
The real world threatens to come on in.
The burden of responsibility awaits.
My dreams scream that they won't go.
They won't go.

Chorus:

Bridge:

How long will I walk this endless circle?
How long will my dreams burn?
I am holding the pen
over another blank page,
and I want to write my soul.
My dreams won't go.
I'll never let them go.

Chorus (Repeat Twice)

Never in Stone

2012-01-10T18:22:00.000-05:00

Never in Stone
by, Melissa R. Mendelson

The future is never written in stone. I tell myself that every day, but I still seem to find the feet of yesterday, wandering aimlessly. Nothing has changed, but the world is different. My life remains out of reach, and I am the ghost in the crowd. My voice is carried by the wind, and the pen is crying. The door is open, but I still remain half inside, thinking my life is set in stone. I will never live the dream, but to believe that is to surrender. And the future is never written in stone. I tell myself that every day, and I try to break free from yesterday. And I still try.

Words Unspoken

2012-01-09T17:38:00.000-05:00

Words Unspoken
by, Melissa R. Mendelson

Static. Black, White, Gray. Horizontal and vertical lines, but never read in-between them. Translation was lost over a thousand minds, and we had gone crazy long ago. Only a voice, a word held us together now, and tonight, he would speak, the man elected to rule the world. Static, but only for a few more moments.

The blinds were drawn. It was night outside, and nobody wanted to see the fires burn. Maybe with a soft-spoken call, nothing would ignite, or if harsh and curt, there would be no peace tonight. There would be no peace, and we would all be at the crossroads of civil war, opening the door for enemies to attack. No, the fires were there, shining as brilliant as stars, but it was better to dream of constellations, a perfect world.

But we are far beyond perfection. We want the leaders seen on television, actors made character. We want Blair Underwood of The Event or Dennis Haysbert of 24, or we would even take Bill Pullman of Independence Day. We needed someone. Like the great George Carlin said, garbage in, garbage out, and our stockpile of politicians was seriously depleted. Was this the best we had, or were there no more leaders among men?

I saw him now. The static was gone. He tapped the mike twice, and we were listening. He cleared his throat, prepared to speak, and then he grabbed a small, clear glass of water. He wetted his lips, and his hand trembled. And my stomach turned.

There have been so many great speeches over the centuries, great men that have spoken these words. We would never forget them, and we needed them now. War had ripped this world apart, and the heroes were supposed to rise. Poverty broke the backs of dozens, and no words could ignite the spark of inspiration, determination to take back what was lost. We were doomed, and lies ran over truth. The blame game reigned with pointed fingers, and it was the same old speel. Would he tell us different? It didn’t look promising.

“My people,” he began, but then he fell silent. He looked like an old man ready to fall over. His deep, blue eyes were of the sun sinking in the vast deep. His fingers tapped the mike again. Testing, testing, and we were still here. “My people,” he mumbled, lost for words, words he had not written or even known.

I prayed for the static to return. I could feel the heat from the fires. My back was broken, and my hands were bleeding. I was trying to hold on not jump over the edge, but the future now looked grim. He was our leader, and the world belonged to him. But how could he be in the driver’s seat, if not sure what to even say? And the spark lit, not of inspiration, but of fury. There were no great men left, no great speeches, and all the leaders we dream of are left to television. But I was here, holding on, still holding on to the words that he would never say.

Ambers

2011-12-28T17:50:00.000-05:00

Good Night and Good Luck,
he would say
to a world struggling,
a world close to today,
and today,
we struggle still,
trying to break ground
and be who we want.
But in this world today,
we hide,
buried under layers,
an avatar online.
We walk the crisscrossed lines
of the streets of life,
trying not to get snared
in crossfire,
but inside,
we scream,
hearing the voice
of who we really are.
But that reality remains a dream,
but as a year burns away,
another rises.
Seize the day.
Cut the strings
that bind you.
Fly free,
and dream.
Good night,
good luck.

Ambers
by, Melissa R. Mendelson

Diary

2011-12-13T18:10:00.002-05:00

My dearest black book,
how I dare not touch
your gentle, white pages
and paint them red
with vivid, painful memories
that tear my heart open.
Photographs of friends
say I was once happy,
but those memories
are far and few between,
falling ever so bravely
across your book’s edge.
A pen tells me,
begs me to write,
but to write
is to relive.
A year came and went,
and you lie still,
closed to the world,
shot down by me
until I save you again,
my dearest black book.

Diary
By, Melissa R. Mendelson

A Thin of Red

2011-12-04T19:01:00.000-05:00

A Thin of Red
by, Melissa R. Mendelson

Sunrise. Golden hues tinted red reached to chase away the darkness. Thorns of morning poked away, and the moon fell back into nothing. Time stirred, and slumber ended. No silver linings. Only a thin, dark red thread held the keys of freedom to the one now awoken.

Hoy was barely eleven-years-old. His small thin body shook as his arms reached over his head. He let a little yawn slip out but not too loudly to alert the others. He would be ready for them, for any torment that they had in store, and hope laid wrapped around his hand, a thin, dark red thread. Now, if only he could go home, he thought.

The other boys moved slowly from their small, dirty cots. They ranged from eight-years-old to twelve. Their clothes hung off of them, and their bare feet scratched against the cement floor. They yawned and stumbled, and Hoy took his place behind them. And they slowly entered the next room.

Taking a seat at a small, wooden table, Hoy gently placed the thin, dark red thread around a sewing wheel. He kicked at the pedals underneath him and started to weave the thread around and around, into a dark red shirt. His small eyes scaled the room around him, a room that barely had any windows. The air was sour, and the noise of the other machines filled his ears. Today would be another long day.

“If it isn’t your royal highness.” Gery was the oldest boy there, twelve, and he would be the first to leave. Well, he would’ve been the first to leave, if not for Hoy’s sudden talent. “I sure would like to know where you find that thread.” Hoy ignored him, sewing away. “Maybe you stole it. You stole it from me. I’m the one that’s getting out of here. Not you!” Hoy continued to sew his shirt. “You little snot,” Gery spat at him, advancing toward him with his fists pulled tight.

A large shadow fell over Gery. A big, burly man named Xel stood behind him. His large hands grabbed Gery by the shoulders, and he threw him backward, watching Gery land hard on the floor. “Return to work, Gery,” he said to him. “I expect double today.”

“But that’s not fair!”

“I. Don’t. Care.”

Gery slowly rose from the hard, cold floor. He dusted himself off, ignoring the eyes from the other boys. He just glared at Hoy, who avoided his gaze, but he didn’t care. Slowly, he then stormed away.

“Good work, Hoy,” Xel said. “Keep it up, and you’ll be released as early as next month from service.” He dropped a piece of dried bread next to Hoy.

Hoy’s mouth watered at the sight of the bread. Without hesitation, he shoved it into his mouth, fearing that Xel would take it back. It would be a mean trick, but Xel was a mean man. He only gave Hoy a break because of what he could sew, and the other boys were jealous. But Hoy didn’t care. He just wanted to go back home.

“Damn shame, Henur went missing.” Xel gazed down at Hoy with a mixture of respect and suspicion. “He would have been thrilled at your sudden skill, which started right after his disappearance.” He rubbed his chin, and Hoy stopped chewing. “Well, keep working.” He walked away.

Hoy finished the pieces of bread that were still in his mouth. His stomach rumbled gratitude, but it was still hours away from a small lunch. Then, it would be back to work until nightfall. Only then would he be allowed to rest or to roam free. As he kicked the pedals again, moving into high swing, he felt eyes on him, and he knew that it was Gery still glaring at him from a table not too far away.

Hours slowly pulled away. Hoy’s feet were begging for relief. His fingers itched and bled. Several dark red items were folded ever so neatly beside him, and his hard work would be the wealth of the man that still held his fate. But he would be going home soon, he thought. He would be going home, and Gery would remain behind. He didn’t care. He had to get out of here before this job consumed him like so many other boys before him, boys that left here as zombies, and that would not be his fate.

Night fell, and his long day ended. Hoy crawled into his cot, consoling all the aches and pains that racked his body. His feet, his hands twitched. His mouth was dry. He would wait, wait for the other boys to fall asleep, and then he would make his move. It was the only way to save his life.

A short time later, Hoy left his cot. He squeezed in-between the wall between this one and a storage closet. Once in the closet, he crawled through a broken window, dropping onto the ground outside. His body cursed him for such action, but he was used to it. And he made his way over to a large, oak tree, but what he failed to realize was that Gery was following him.

Hoy knelt beside the large, oak tree. He began to pull leaves away from a large stump. He was used to the dirt, and he smiled as if seeing an old friend. He started to say something, but then Gery grabbed him and threw him against the tree. Hoy struck his head against the hard wood, drawing blood.

“Aha,” Gery declared. “I caught you, you little snot!” He then looked down at the stump, and his mouth fell open.

The large stump was not part of the tree. It was the remains of Henur, a sixty-two-year-old tyrant that had captivated the boys in fear. He went missing only a few weeks ago. Nobody asked why because he was another very disliked man. Now, what was left of him was covered with little, red ants, who wove in-between his flesh, drawing out more red thread.

“Thank you.”

Gery was rooted where he stood. He shook slightly from fear. He licked his lips, trying to think of something to say. He knew his life was now in danger, but Hoy was no threat. He was a little snot, and seeing blood trickle down his small forehead made him smile. But Hoy smiled back.

“They’re about finished with him.”

“So?” Gery swallowed hard.

“So, they are helping me.” Hoy continued to sit against the tree. “Helping me to get out of here, and for them to help me, I need more thread.”

“More thread? Where are you going to get more thread?”

“From you.” He touched the cut on the side of his head and winced. “You should not have followed me. Henur made the same mistake.”

“You are not turning me into that!” Gery pointed at Henur, but he knew it was already too late.

“It’s too late.” Hoy confirmed his worst thoughts. “Look.” He pointed at Gery.

Gery looked down at himself. His body was covered with little, red ants. “No,” he screamed, and they quickly filled his mouth. He gagged, falling to the ground, and he began to writhe in pain. And his gaze met Hoy’s, who was sorry for his fate, but then he merely shrugged.

“Good-bye, Gery.” Hoy stood up from the tree and again touched his cut. “I shall miss you when nobody else will.” He watched the red ants weave in-between Gery’s flesh as Gery screamed in pain. “Keep working, my friends. We’re almost home free.”

As Hoy walked away, he knew Gery would soon be dead. His misery finally over, and Gery would not leave here as a zombie. He would be the one to save Hoy’s life when revenge nearly made him want to take it away, but the red thread of his life would be the keys to Hoy’s freedom. I can go home, he thought. I can go home and laugh and play like an ordinary child, and he imagined his parents wrapping their arms tight around his body, never to let go again. He was sorry that Gery had to be the one because he thought it would be Xel, another monster replaced by another monster to torment the boys, but fate was a funny thing. And his future was finally bright like sunrise over an ending darkness, his silver lining.

Think Away

2011-11-27T13:38:00.002-05:00

I don’t like thinking on the past,
but I find that it’s always there,
an old friend stopping by
and not wanting to leave.
It’s nice to remember the good times,
but the bad ones seem more vivid,
all those mistakes
and no good-byes.
I try not to remember,
but there are days,
where my old friend
keeps on knocking.
So, I open the door,
but after conversation,
pulling at old scars,
I close the door.
Better to think ahead,
I say to myself,
but I think away.

Think Away
by, Melissa R. Mendelson

Tracing an Echo

2011-11-23T22:56:00.001-05:00

Tracing an Echo
By, Melissa R. Mendelson

“I want to fight you,” she said.

It was early morning. I just had walked off the bus and into the school. For some reason, I was walking in line, heading to class, and behind a boy. He stopped, making me stop, and the girl stood to my left. “I want to fight you,” she said to me.

I was like a deer caught in headlights. The boy in front of me smiled with anticipation. The girl laughed, but she was serious. I remained still, hoping to pass them, but the hall was crowded. The boy blocked my way, and he wasn’t moving. And she edged closer.

It was my senior year of high school. Usually, the seniors were left alone, or we were doing the fighting. This girl, this boy was younger than me, and I had never seen them before until this day. Maybe they knew each other. Maybe they set this up, but why me? I was a senior. Who the hell were they?

Neither one budged. The boy looked on, hoping for a brawl. The girl edged closer, repeating her words. I had no words to give. I just stared at them, hoping for them to move out of my way. I had no time for this, for them. I was going to be late for class because these two jokers were trying to make a name for themselves, and if I was who I am today, I would’ve wiped the floor with both of them. In that moment of time though, I wasn’t.

Finally, the boy moved out of my way. He was disappointed. I made no remark. My hands remained at my side. Impatience shined in my eyes. The girl literally stood on top of me, but she made no forceful move. The kids in this hall were notorious for tripping me, elbowing my sides, pulling my hair, knocking the books out of my arms, an endless barrage of assaults, but she used her words as a weapon. And they failed to cut me open.

As I walked past them and down the hall, I knew they remained behind. I didn’t look over my shoulder to know that they were watching me. I knew they were satisfied. They thought they had won without fighting first. They thought they had scared me, but I felt no fear. They felt mighty, but who was the senior? Me or them? The kids in this hall always thought of me as a joke, but they were the joke instead. Going through life, tearing people down, making themselves feel better was a tactic used in the real world, on the roadways, and even in a mall or grocery store. Angry wagon barons that run your foot over or people looking to start a fight were on the menu almost every day, and this girl, that boy were no different. They just targeted me.

I thought about that moment in time. I thought about it today. I could have punched her in the face. I could have hit him, but what would’ve been the point? They still would’ve won. They wanted to feel mighty. They wanted to tear me down. They probably do those childish games today, filling a hole that would never be filled, but the joke is on them. I have no void but the demons that I carry, but I do not need to play their games. Not anymore because I know better.

Still, that image remained. A girl stood behind a boy. Another girl turned at the right moment. Everyone in the hall paused, waiting, anticipating. Class was ready to start, but so were they. “I want to fight you,” she said. “I want to fight you,” her words forever an echo across my life.

Heavenly Sky

2011-11-11T14:19:00.002-05:00

Heavenly Sky
by, Melissa R. Mendelson

I didn’t cry at her funeral. The ride to her grave was loud with heartbreak, but my heart wasn’t breaking. My heart was gone. She was gone. Nobody was going to save me now.

I could feel my cousin’s penetrating stare. I couldn’t blame her. I should be crying. I should be praying. I should be screaming, “Why!” I was silent, listening to the prayers being read. Her stare were daggers to my back, and I begged for them to cut me apart. Maybe then, I would feel something, anything. Nothing.

The service was short. My family parted like the Red Sea. She held us together. Now, only rare occasion would return us to one place. We did not forgive easily. We did not forget.

I waited for my mother. I sat on a cold, stone bench. I stared at the ground, trying to block out the view of that hole. Her coffin was partly buried by dirt, but I did not take the shovel. I would not throw dirt on her. I loved her, but did they even care?

I looked up toward the sky. It was brilliant blue like an ocean, and the sweet sound of its waves carried me away. I chased the ghost of my heart to sandy, white shores and found myself walking in water. Then, I heard her call my name.

My life was war, but here, I found serenity. My heart breathed again. I could feel. I felt her, and she hugged me one last time. A tear raced down my cheek, and I knew what she was asking. I had to let her go, and I did. I could feel the ocean, that deep, blue sky drift away, but I remained alive. She saved me one last time.

Past Mistake

2011-10-17T19:49:00.000-04:00

Past Mistake
by, Melissa R. Mendelson

“Only Time by Enya was the sweet voice begging the fear to fade away. There would be no more tomorrows. There are no yesterdays. There are only fragments, pieces of who I was, who I should’ve been, and the world was nothing now than a broken mirror with deep footholds. But home was nowhere. Family, friends… They were all gone. All that was left was me.”

What was left of this house after the nuclear war was my only shelter to bare. Food was scarce, and if I strayed too long from this foothold, I would surely disappear. There was no telling when I would go, but I would never come back. It was always night, never day, and I was freezing as if living in space. What fires I could make were pieces of this house, but I was trying to survive. I don’t know why. Everyone was gone. The world was gone.

We cheered the day we created the first robot, our slaves. We applauded the clones of man, those to provide us with a second chance, if we needed an organ or limb. We smiled when we made the first bit of dark matter to explore. We were a success finally when we broke the time barrier, and we broke the time barrier, splintering this world into a playground of era’s and erasing our own. We were gone in a blink of an eye because we had to play God, and we cheered, we applauded, and we smiled like idiots. And now, those brilliant minds are distant stars in a galaxy far, far away.

Nobody knew what happened. We were so bent on 2012, thinking the world was going to end. Mother Nature was truly kicking our ass, and we tried to battle her, never thinking that the true enemy lived deep within. Once that time came and went, we crawled back to our simple lives, thinking the end was now a new beginning, but we were wrong. And I awoke one morning to find the sun refusing to rise, my bed was empty, and my family was gone.

The worst thing in this world, in this life is to wake up somewhere you don’t belong. The street that I used to drive around, that would always take me home was now a large, gaping abyss. It was a nuclear war, some said, but then they too were gone, leaving me alone, leaving me to madness. I wandered still, finding pieces of a world shattered like a broken mirror, and then with horror, I watched the survivors stumble into the black holes, disappearing forever. When did they go, I’ll never know, but who knows if they survived or if they are now dead? And what about me?

I’m circling the drain as I write this letter to you. I don’t know when you will find it or if you will find it. I don’t know if it’s too late to erase what was done, but I want you to be prepared. This end might come, and you might awake in your darkest nightmare. This is what we get for taking the world in our hands and taking chances, chances better left alone. Maybe, in my final act, my life will matter. Something will change. That’s all we need for something to change, for you to find me.

A knock came on the door two weeks later. A police officer handed the teenager a crumbled, frayed letter. He merely cleared his throat as the boy took it and slowly opened it. He checked his watch to see that it was getting late, but something told him to stay, something told him that it would be important. So, he waited like he had all the time left in the world.

“Where did you get this,” he slowly asked.

“Off a dead body. What’s the letter say, boy?” Tears shined in his eyes. “Give it here, lad.” He slowly pulled the strange paper from his hands. “Your name and address was on this letter, and…” He started to read it, and as he did, his hands began to shake.

“It can’t be true.” The teenager watched the police officer fold the letter up and stick it in his shirt pocket. “What are you doing?”

“Nobody is to know about this.” He slowly backed away. “Nobody.”

“But what if it’s true!”

“Then, we know when, and that’s all that matters.” He scratched his chin. Fear touched his heart. Somewhere in the distance, he heard that song by Enya, Only Time, and he cringed. “We know, and that may change something. All we can hope, boy is to change something.” With that said, he walked away, leaving the teenager with only the ghost of himself.

No Stone To Throw

2011-10-05T20:29:00.000-04:00

The royals are counting gold,
gold no longer paved onto street,
and the paupers walk the stone,
unable to sway to their beat.
Mouths are hanging open.
Signs are in the air.
Hearts are being broken.
This world has lost war to the unfair,
and the past laughs cruel,
for we are the fool.
Old mistakes are our burden to wear,
but is we, who are ready to tear.
So, count your gold, you royals,
gold that belongs to the street
for we no longer walk on stone
but storm across our own beat.

No Stone To Throw
by, Melissa R. Mendelson

Writing Videos

2011-08-31T21:22:00.010-04:00

Disconnected

2011-08-18T20:27:00.000-04:00

Disconnected
by, Melissa R. Mendelson

I’m living as a ghost,
haunted by every waking moment,
every disturbing thought
that maybe I’ll never exist.
Dreams are the sweet embrace
of love,
a love I
may never find,
but all I find
are broken pieces
of past
that draw no more tears
but still cut razor sharp.
And life goes on,
another lost face
in the crowd,
and hollow footsteps
to follow.
I remain disconnected,
dreaming
of the day,
where I would
finally become
alive.

Keep The Candle Burning

2011-08-11T20:44:00.002-04:00

Keep The Candle Burning
by, Melissa R. Mendelson

Morning was golden,
and Day was dressed in beauty,
sky blue
with soft, velvet clouds.
Hope was a gentle breeze,
and love were the whispers in heart.
Nobody worried.
Nobody feared.
Then, tragedy struck,
tearing the towers down,
but in the midst of chaos,
heroes rose,
putting their lives on the line
to save the lives of those
that cried out to them.
The morning glory was theirs,
rushing into the face of danger,
but they would never come home.
The day was gone,
swallowed by tragedy,
and the rain fell hard,
tears for them.
Angels of white
now cling to families torn apart,
holding heart in hand,
and time promised to heal all wounds.
Their loved ones may never return,
but their bravery would never be forgotten,
heroes forever in time
that gave their life
to save life.
Love remains
a gentle breeze traveling the wind,
circling the candles that continue to burn
for them,
and slowly making their way home.

The Tin Man's Heart

2011-05-31T20:28:00.000-04:00

http://twitter.com/#!/fallenhazel

The Tin Man’s Heart
by, Melissa R. Mendelson

I remember finding his memoirs. His heart was broken like mine. All he wanted was to live, but for him to live, someone had to die. He wanted to pray for tragedy, and so do I. But how wrong are we to put our lives before those, who could change this world for the better? How wrong are we to want their happiness, their love, or their heart?

Long, black wires curled around a slender, thin frame. Hollow beeps were the dim lights shining, looking for sun. An IV dripped, tears no longer left unshed, and fingers reached for the blinds, letting the world spill in. Large, gray windows stretched across the small, four-walled room, and cold, white tile bit into flesh, sending chills up the spine. An empty chair was poised beside the hospital chair, but life would not hold this seat. Instead, death crossed her legs and painted her nails for all the time in the world was hers to give or to take away.

“Morning, Glory.” The doctor smiled at this joke. “How are we today?”

“Still beating.” Glory glanced at the heart monitor. “The blood pressure is down again.”

“I see that, but as you know, we can’t give you any more drugs.” He sat in the empty chair, feeling a slight chill. “You’re in your last hours.”

“Do or die, I guess.” She watched the doctor nod. “So, what’s the verdict? Did I pass?”

“You passed,” he said slowly. “It’s still experimental.”

“I don’t care.” Glory was almost on her knees, but she got tangled up in the long, black wires that stretched out of her chest. “I’m barely sixteen. I don’t want to die.”

“I know.” He took her hand in his. “Your parents are signing the paperwork now.” He rose from the chair. “I just wanted to check in on you.” He stepped toward the door. “It’ll be okay, Glory. It’ll be okay.” He quickly left the room.

Glory. Her parents called her a little miracle, their glory. Hence, the name, but she was far from victory. At a young age, she was diagnosed with Mitral Valve Prolapse, and around thirteen-years-old, her condition worsened. She was in gym class and suddenly went into cardiac arrest. If it wasn’t for her coach, she would have died right there on the floor, but he saved her life. He gave her another chance. Why? She was going to die anyway, and she nearly pulled a wire from her chest.

“Ow,” she moaned. “I’m a damn machine.” She moved over to the window to look out at the world. Nobody could see her, but she could see them. She could see them coming and going from the hospital, living their lives, and if she could, she would kill them. She would kill the one to give their heart to her, so that she could live. “It’s not fair,” she cried. “It’s not fair!” Her fist slammed against the window, sending vibrations through the glass. “It’s not fair,” she whispered.

The bathroom was in a separate room. She pulled the cylinder, gray machine toward it. Her black wires were like spider legs, and she was its queen. Her pale, slender fingers flicked on the light, brushing aside the remote for the nurse. She was in no need of using the toilet, but she wanted the mirror. She wanted to see the monstrosity that she had become, so she slowly opened her gown, revealing an ugly long scar that traveled between her breasts. The black wires stretched outward, kissing her skin, and for her to pull them out, one by one, she would certainly die. Instead, she closed her gown, hugging her arms around her body as best as she could, but she was ready to fall apart. She was ready to cry, scream, or just fall down and never rise again.

“Why me,” slipped from her lips. “Why me?”

Glory was in her last hours. The sun would be setting soon. The doctor would return to do one of two things. He would pull the plug, or he would give her the Tin Man’s heart. Normally, she would be on a transplant list, but as a cruel joke, she possessed a rare blood type. It didn’t matter, if she had the power to kill. Nobody could save her. No human could give her what she so desperately needed.

The hospital was against it at first. By law, the machines were there to obey, take care of the patients. They were not meant to surrender their parts, but the tin man fell for her. She broke his heart, and he tore his out to save her. But the hospital said no, and she watched him die instead. His heart, however continued to beat, beat strong.

On her behalf, the doctor spoke to the board and finally persuaded them to grant her the tin man’s dying wish. He ran blood test after blood test. He monitored her heart. She was on death’s bed, and they knew it. And the board finally gave in, granting her his heart, but would the procedure happen soon? Or would they both die in vain?

One concern that the hospital and her parents had was what would become of her. What would she be? Human? Machine? She didn’t care. She would be alive. She could live in the world again and not want to harm another soul. She would know love, his love, and she would never be alone. He would be a part of her, and her to him. No, he didn’t die. He was waiting for her to let him in, cut away these damn, black wires, and she would take his heart in hand. If only they hurry. If only they hurry because the sun is setting now.

“Where are they?” The machines grew silent. “Please. Please, hurry. Please.” The beeping slowed to a crawl. “I don’t want to die.”

Glory did not want to go back in the bed either. Getting back in the bed meant defeat. She would rather stand, no matter how drained she was. She would stand, and for a long time, she stared at the door. She awaited the stretcher, the nurse, and the doctor, but death merely laughed. She would take Glory instead, but Glory would not go silently. She would scream, fight, and maybe even survive, at least for another moment longer.

“Here we go.” The stretcher erupted into the room. “The operating room is all set.” Death cursed silently under her breath before leaving a cold chill in her wake. “Let me help you.” The nurse assisted Glory onto the stretcher. She attached the IV to one side of it and the cylinder, gray machine to the other. “Are you ready for this?”

“What choice do I have?” Glory lied on her back. “I haven’t seen the world yet. I haven’t tasted life.” The nurse hovered over her, covering her with a white blanket. “At least, one thing will be different.”

“What’s that, dear?”

“I will finally feel love.” Her parents loved her a great deal, but for most of her life, they treated her with a blend of fear and despair. She only caught a glimpse of their love, knowing that it was still there, but that would change now. Everything would change including her. “I will know his love.”

“The tin man.” The nurse watched Glory nod. “Come on, dear. They’re waiting for you, and your time is about up.” She quickly wheeled Glory out into the hallway, disappearing into a brilliant, white light.

The Bittersweet End of Dreams

2011-04-20T17:54:00.000-04:00

http://www.linkedin.com/in/melissamendelson

The Bittersweet End of Dreams
by, Melissa R. Mendelson

There are two sides to everything. A rose carries beauty, but its thorns bleed with revenge. A coin promises wealth, but with a toss in the air, the world comes crashing down. The road is our journey, but we burn rubber, speed demons gone wild. Our heart is the secret to our lair, but our minds are the darkness to our soul.

Dexter always talked about his “dark passenger.” Mine waited for me in sleep. Nightmares used to torment me, bring me to the edge of that darkness, and for awhile there, I was gone. My passenger held me down, suffocating me with despair, and sucking all the life that I struggled to have, and I lost days, months, years. I was a stranger painting the mirror, and the world fell back. That was a long time ago.

I’m not sure why, but my passenger returned. He left his bags still packed by the bedroom door. His felt hat was held gently in one hand. His black eyes were of midnight, and his porcelain skin was like a sliver of moonlight. His lips were pressed together, angry that I defeated him, but here he was. And he took his place right beside me.

“So,” he began. “How are things? How’s life?” I slowly sat up in bed, drawing the covers to my chin. “Don’t worry.” He patted my leg, sending a chill right up my spine. “No nightmares tonight.”

“What do you want?” My voice was a whisper, barely audible, but he heard it loud and clear.

“I just wanted to say hi.” He laughed loudly like he had heard the best joke in the world. “I missed you.” His smile vanished in a blink. “Did you miss me?”

“What do you think?” I don’t know why I was afraid, but I was. I was waiting for the walls to come crumbling down. “No. I did not miss you.”

“You hurt my feelings.” He was quiet for a moment. “All those times together, we rode side by side, and I took care of you.”

“Like hell you did.” My back was pressed to the wall. “You tore me down, ripped me apart, and left me for dead.”

“I made you stronger.” He drew in a short breath. “You just fell weak.” He let these words hang in the air. “The world is now tearing you down, ripping you apart, and leaving you for dead.” His gaze held mine. “You need me.”

“Why? So, I could see the true ugliness of the outside?”

“No, so you could escape.”

“Into dreams that don’t make sense and where you are in the driver-seat.”

“What’s wrong with that?” He leaned forward. “Why fight to be in control when the world is chaos?”

“Because there is still order.” He laughed again like that was a great joke. “I’m in control.”

“No, you’re not.” His words were a dagger to my heart. “Stress is eating you up, leaving your stomach in knots, and you cringe at the next day and the day after that. You dream in oblivion, whereas I am the way to a better world, one that will make you forget this one.”

“What if I don’t want to forget?”

“Is it better to remember this life?” He waited for my answer, but I had none. “Is it better to struggle to exist against powers that you cannot control?”

“You’re telling me to give up.”

“You already gave up, or I would not be here, sitting next to you.”

He was right. Whether I meant to or not, I called him back. He returned without hesitation, and now I could not send him away. It was tempting to forget, forget who I was and what I was living for, and then there would be no worries. There would be only darkness.

“Well,” he said like a man waiting for another appointment. “I don’t have all the time in the world, and you need to sleep.”

“I will sleep.” He smiled at this. “I will sleep, but not with you by my side.” I lied down on my back, ready to close my eyes, but in the back of my mind, I glimpsed that darkness. “Forget. That would be nice, but I can’t walk this world asleep.” I could feel the darkness turning, warming my heart, and it would be like a fine glass of wine to push me under. And I wanted to say yes. “I will sleep, and when I wake, you will be gone.”

“You keep your secrets buried within your heart.” He laid his hand across my chest, ice cold. “I stay within the back of your mind.” He rose from his seat and popped his hat upon his head. “Until you call me again.” He grabbed his bags and headed for the door. “And you will call me again.” His gaze held mine. “Trust me on that.” Then, he was gone.

I lied there, listening to the soft ticking of time counting my life away. Darkness settled upon me, warm and inviting. Sleep took my hand and carried me away from the turmoil of today, and I began to dream. But as the landscapes of vision changed, I realized that I was not in the driver-seat. I was riding shotgun while he took the wheel, and we were driving straight over the edge.

Publications and Credits (2005 - Present)

2011-03-21T18:58:00.003-04:00

Quarter-Finalist, 12th Annual Writer’s Network Screenplay & Fiction Competition, 2005

Honorary Mention, 13th Annual Writer's Network Screenplay & Fiction Competition, 2006

Semi-Finalist and Finalist, Gotham Screen's Screenplay Competition, 2007

Second Prize Winner, WRHammons Fiction Contest, 2007

Short Story, Daily Commute, The Subway Chronicles, 2007

Poetry, Names in a Jar: A Collection by 100 Contemporary American Poets, 2007 (Amazon)

Appearance on Homework, an ABC News Program, 2007

Appearance on Cinematherapy, 2008

Quarter-Finalist, 15th Annual Writer’s Network Screenplay & Fiction Competition, 2008

Short Story, Doll House, Bartleby Snopes Literary Magazine, 2008

Appearance on The Writing Show, 2009

Short Stories, Session I and II, Glass Cases, 2009

Short Story, Trials of Youth, Memoirs of Meanness, 2010

Short Story, Essence, Bartleby Snopes Literary Magazine, 2010

Short Story, Wish to Change, Noble Row Magazine, 2010

Short Story, Second Chance, Glass Cases, 2010

Short Screenplay, Lizardian, Top 5 Screenplays/NYC Midnight, 2010

Short Story, Along The Black Sea, (Short) Fiction Collection, 2010

Short Story, Time's Karma, Hampton Literary Journal, 2010

Poem, Heart of Wax, Philly Grown Magazine, 2010

Short Story, Summer Over The Death of My Youth, Glass Cases, 2010

Poem, Dark Blue Heroes of Honor, Poets for Living Waters, 2010

Short Story, Discussion, Fiction 365, 2011

Short Story, Waiting, Mouse Tales Press, 2011

Poem, Winter Green, By The Millpond Newsletter, 2011

Short Story and Video, Blonde Android Shutdown, Squawk Back, 2011

Short Story, When The Dust Settles, Bartleby Snopes Literary Magazine, 2011

Short Stories, Passenger and No Leaders Among Men, Gadfly Online, 2011

Short Story, Under My Skin, Otherwise Caffeinated, 2011

Quarter-Finalist, Waken Dream, NEXTV's Writing Pitch Competition, 2011

Short Story, A Letter to No One, While The Dervish Dances, 2011

Article, Our Lives, Our City, Our Dreams, Yahoo! News, 2011

Short Story, Heist, Writers' Stories, 2011

Short Story, Storm Coming, Glass Cases, 2011

Prose Poetry Collection, Silent Dreams, Xlibris, 2006

Reviews:
http://www.literarymastersinc.com/Silent.html

ABC News/Homework:
http://abcnews.go.com/Video/playerIndex?id=3600484
(Go to ABC News and Search Self-Publishing)

Times Herald Record Newspaper:
http://www.recordonline.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20070408/LIFE/704080306/-1/LIFE04

Prose Poetry Collection, Tears of Sand, LuLu.com:
http://www.lulu.com/product/paperback/tears-of-sand/1726826?productTrackingContext=search_results/search_shelf/center/1