Saturday, October 12, 2019

I Love You, Just Kidding BUY IT!

I Love You, Just Kidding is available for purchase!


[ Barnes and Noble COMING SOON!!}


Friday, October 11, 2019

No Wrong Time

It's 5:15AM
I watched his headlights disappear
Staring through the window 
I never bothered to wipe my tears
Falling into bed just hours before 
With every word left unsaid 
In the sheets we were blind to the hours 
That became the way of us
He said “I could go all 100 yards with you,
With ease
Without a fuss
But the demons are taking over, 
It doesn’t matter my heart’s wonder
I’m drowning in a darkness, 
And I can’t let you slip under.”

Doesn’t he know
There’s no wrong time 
To meet the right one

He burned pages from our book 
Before the story could be done
Kisses lingered 
too long 
For two people not in love
Pauses at that door 
too frequent 
To be numbed
Running away from the fear may be easier 
Out of sight and out of his mind
I hope he gets that piece of land he wants
I hope he builds a beautiful home 
But remind him when he thinks of me,
There’s a chance I’m not alone

Doesn’t he know
There’s no wrong time 
To meet the right one

All of the ingredients to forever 
Were laid out neatly at our feet
He packed up all those feelings 
There was no other reason for us to meet
The pull is undeniable
There’s no option to resist
“I want every piece of you,” he says, 
“But I’m way too far adrift” 

I succumbed to his illusion
Believed every word he said
Fought for what I thought I saw
Even after the illusion fell dead
The pull is now deniable 
He took the map right from my hands
He followed every outline
He did what I feared he'd plan

Leaving doors wide open 
Leaving bruises with no aid
I told you what my heart felt like
But you cycled through the pattern

Those last few times I called you
They set the date for May 23rd
But you never picked up the phone
Even after you'd heard
A year condensed into a summer

Now it's 5:15AM again
The fall after the spring
I'm surprised it only took that long
To heal from everything 


Wednesday, July 31, 2019

Listen Here

Prologue: Dear Readers
Currently listening to: "Save Myself" by Ed Sheeran


Wednesday, May 29, 2019

Coming Soon

Our experiences are exactly that ... ours. They are mine. And they are yours. What happens to you. What you can and cannot control. What life throws at you. The trials and tribulations. The highs and the lows. Those really are your experiences to do whatever you want with. Some people ignore them. Some people hide from them. Some people talk to friends about them. I wrote about mine. And then I decided to share with them you. 

At first, the writing was just for me. Eventually, I decided to swallow my embarrassment over the words and the sadness, although I like to think I infused a good amount of good-natured humor into the mix as well. Then I hit the share button. 

Doing this put me in a position to let out my first finished project that was truly my own. It also helped connect me to so many amazing new friends and strong, insanely supportive women that I would have never met otherwise. 

But most importantly, it helped me cope. 

I'm sure everyone has a theory of what this book is really about. But if you ask me, it's about loss and overcoming the worst of feelings. It's about trudging through the darkness, the worst of your days, and coming out on the other side with a more positive perspective on people and relationships. I learned what's most important in this life, and it's always going to be the people. It's not the house or the car, it's not money, it's not prestige or climbing the ladder. It's the people. It will always come down to the people. 

This book marks the end of this part of my life. Writing to cope won't ever be something I quit. Writing to entertain won't ever be something I quit. But I really want readers to soak up ILYJK because I'm sewing up the intimate sharing of my life with this one. At least, I hope so. 


Monday, February 18, 2019

Big Brother

           I couldn’t open the door fast enough. I had one goal in mind and I needed, desperately, to rip off the sweater that had been choking me for the better half of the day. From my neck to my lower back, the hives were strong and I felt as though I was suffocating underneath its layers. Claire tore inside the house before I could retrieve the keys from the lock. She ran into Ben’s arms while I made a break for the bedroom. 
            No sooner than I heard, “Hey baby,” roll off his tongue from the living room I had fought the battle with the cream, wool abomination and won. I glanced at my bed, where my now most regrettable purchase lay, and noticed my phone was ringing. It was my Dad. I was hesitant to answer it. He had not called in months. I had not heard his voice since late October. It was now December 17th. That’s not because he was absent in my life but because he physically could not speak. Why was Dad calling? 
            “Hello,” I answered.
            All I heard was muffled cries echoing over and over again. My heart sped. Panic. It was Mom. 
             I screamed, “Dad!”
            “No Gracie, Nick. He’s gone. Get here,” she managed.
         I fell numb. The panic dissipated and before the anger began to make its appearance, I felt nothing.
            This is what I had been afraid of since I was 16-years old and had come to understand that my big brother was an alcoholic. There were many nights that I would stay up late listening to his impenetrable sadness. Sadness that had been sewn into him by mystery and terrible luck. 
          He was ten years older than me. He could recite every single line from the opening scene of Aladdin. He was goofy and kind. He had curiously-sorrowful green eyes and long, black eyelashes. He wore embarrassing t-shirts. Some were crisp and ironed before wear. Some were old and wrinkled with faded color. Some you had to squint to make out the letters that spelled, “Take Me Home Tonight?” He loved boxes of cherry cordials. He taught me how to tie my shoes. In the basement at the bottom of the stairs. His laugh could induce secondhand embarrassment but was also incredibly infectious. He was deeply scarred by a series of uncontrollable moments in his life making his only vice the one that took him away from us. Took him long before he took his last breath.
            Ben came running from the other room after he heard my screams.
            “What’s wrong baby,” he whispered as he approached.
            I didn’t recognize the voice that answered back, “He’s dead. Nick is dead.” 
          The drive to Nick’s apartment is a blur. I don’t remember which road we took or if anything was said out loud. Instead, the sight of ambulance lights flashing outside his window is burned inside the memory, and so is his face. Those dark eyelashes of his, I could see clear across the room. I was not brave enough to get close to him. We were allowed to touch the top of his head, give him a kiss if we’d like, but that was it. I saw enough though and wept into my sister’s shoulder, gripping the hardened raincoat she wore. 
            Where are his memories? 
            The question crept into my mind and never left. Were they in a box somewhere that we could never visit? Did they float away into oblivion? Did he take them with him on his way to … somewhere? Can he see me right now? Is he mad? Will he remember me? Will he remember Christmas dinners? Will he remember mispronouncing every word in Italian on our big, European family vacation? Will he remember how much he loved Garth Brooks? Will he remember being at his concert with us, the night before he left us forever? Will he remember how I was so mad at him that I didn’t even turn around to say hello? Or was it just lights out? 
            Where are his memories? I needed to know. 
           I felt as though I was suffocating again. After seeing Nick, his body covered with a white sheet and pajama pants peeking out of its side, I had to get out. The humidity inside of the space made even the furniture seem wilted. It contrasted with the chilling-slicing wind outside and the internal battle I was fighting. The light stench of stale alcohol permeated throughout its corners. The familiarity of that smell made me nauseous. It pulled me right back into those moments of infuriating discomfort – me, his baby sister, packing his boxers and night clothes for a stint in rehab. Bitterness enveloped me. 
         I sprinted out the apartment’s front door. Passed the firemen in the living room and foyer, passed the neighbors’ sparkling-blue wreath, and passed the onlookers from the balcony above. I ran through the parking lot clutching my stomach. I bent over in the grass. Dry heaves mixed with cracked wailing. Silence.
            Where are his memories? 
            Are they tucked away in a corner?
            Does he get to keep them?
            Will I remember?
            Or was it just lights out?

Grace Lynne Fleming
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