Earthbound Pages - Stories Rooted in the Real World
A place where I write through the ache and the beauty of being human--rooted in real moments, quiet truths, and the stories we carry.
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Life Without K Chapter 7
Becoming the manager of Pub 44 marked another turning point in my life. It wasn’t all about sex anymore. Sure, work and drugs were still part of the mix, but now it was about fun, real, wild, unapologetic fun. And I discovered I could have a blast with both sexes. Who knew?
As manager, I was at the bar more than ever. One quiet weeknight, it was just me, the bartender Kim, and the musician Bob. Kim was the kind of bartender who could run a whole room with a raised eyebrow—sharp, steady, unbothered by anything except an empty tip jar. Bob was her opposite: soft‑spoken, guitar‑callused hands, always looking like he’d just stepped out of a dimly lit dive where he’d been playing sad songs to strangers. The three of us stood around talking, the bar humming low, the kind of night where nothing big happens but everything feels a little more honest. One‑Eyed Jack pushed through the door like the bar owed him something. He was a badass biker in every sense — leather vest hanging open, boots heavy enough to announce him before he spoke, that single good eye sharp as a blade. The other was hidden behind a black patch he wore like a warning. Jack carried his reputation the way other men carried weapons: out in the open, daring anyone to test him. Conversations dipped when he walked in, not because he was loud, but because everyone knew exactly what he was capable of.
Back then, the bartender on duty also made sandwiches in the back kitchen, and Jack wanted one. Bob and I sat on one side of the bar, Jack on the other. Kim was in the back preparing his food.
Jack started getting impatient, really impatient. He spewed obscenities, threatening to shoot the place up if Kim didn’t hurry. I stood, ready to calm him down, but Bob gently placed his hand on my arm. “Don’t move,” he whispered.
Good thing he did, because right then, Jack pulled out a gun and fired into the wall — CRACK-THUNK — splinters jumping like they were trying to escape.
I’d never heard a gun go off inside the bar before. In such a small space, I thought I’d be terrified, panicked, frozen. But I wasn’t. I didn’t flinch. I didn’t scream. I didn’t even move. I was becoming hard inside, numb to the chaos. I felt more annoyed than scared, like he’d interrupted the night.
I looked at Bob with a silent thank-you just as Kim walked out of the kitchen, sandwich in hand. She strolled over and asked, “What was that noise?”
When we told her, Kim’s whole body jerked like someone had snapped a rubber band against her spine. Her eyes flew open, her mouth dropped, and for a second, she just stood there gripping the bar as if it might steady her.
Life Without K Chapter 41
February 2014 was a whirlwind, cold, busy, and unforgiving. I never fully recovered from the pneumonia. Looking back, I should have listened to my doctor.
Kayla and I couldn’t get together that month, but at the beginning of March, she came to my job, a couple of birthday presents in her arms.
It was so good to see her. She looked beautiful, her skin was pale, and her hair was falling loose around her shoulders. It felt like forever since I’d seen her, and God, I had missed her face.
She sat on my lap, heavy and warm, and I blew raspberries on her fat cheek. The sound of her laughter filled the room, bright and familiar, wrapping around me like a blanket. For a moment, time folded back on itself, and we were carried into the rhythm of old times, when joy was simple, and love was enough.
I loved that girl so much.
Little did I know… that would be the last time I’d ever see her alive.
Life Without K Chapter 54
The room was too quiet. Too heavy. I could hear the hum of the overhead lights, the soft creak of the floorboards under my shoes, the distant murmur of someone arranging flowers in the hallway. The air smelled faintly of lilies, sweet, cloying, suffocating.
I stood there, staring at the coffin, at Kayla, my Kayla, who looked nothing like herself. Too still. Too powdered. Too gone. Her skin was waxy; her lips pressed into a shape that wasn’t hers.
I kept waiting for the punchline. For her to sit up, roll her eyes, and say, Psyche! Gotcha! But she didn’t move. And I didn’t breathe.
I wasn’t ready for the people. For the hugs. For the whispered I’m so sorry that scraped against my skin like sandpaper. I wanted to bolt. To scream. To flip the whole damn room upside down and yell, Get the fuck out! This isn’t real! She’s NOT DEAD!
But I stayed. Because that’s what you do. You stay. You stand. You brace yourself for the moment the door opens and the world walks in, expecting you to be gracious, composed, polite, when all you want is for time to rewind.
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End of My Life
The ground beneath me shifted
as I felt what was my heart
pummeling through my body
stuck in a crater of bile
the bulge in my throat
surfaced out my mouth
from where I know not
in the form of a creature
screaming incoherently
my world as I knew it was over
as I stare skeptically
at her cold, stiff body
lying there alone
thinking, this cannot happen
she’s only twenty-seven
she must get married
have babies of her own
make me a grandma
she ain’t even grown!
How could God do this?
My life will never be the same
as my only child left
the world far too soon
after she came.
Death
Why does death hurt so much?
Do we love so deeply
or do we have regrets?
Is watching someone die as
difficult as if they die suddenly?
You think it's easier
you get to say goodbye
but watching a loved one die
feeling their pain
eats you from the
inside out, your heart
is breaking into a
million tiny pieces
trickling slowly
through your body
you want to yell
and scream at everyone
so many emotions
running rampant,
I feel it cuts so sharp
cuz we love with such depth
so, what do we do?
Stop loving?
I say no, we love deeper,
and greater, and bear the
pain with more passion
(Published in Figments of Fire, July 2025)
A New Year
Before the sun remembers us,
I sit wrapped in a blanket,
listening to the ocean
roll its secrets ashore.
My breath rises like smoke
offerings, a cigarette glowing in the
dark,
and the world is quiet enough
to hear my own soul shift.
A few stubborn lights buzz on –
streetlamps, gas station glare –
but even they can’t touch this moment.
This belongs to the dark,
to the water,
to the soft beginning of a new year.