A Bid Farewell

Four walls in every room, the silence is deafening.

Numb again, but I can feel everything.

Excruciating pain resembles nightmares once stored in a safe place.

My thoughts echo from the walls of the amphitheater in my head.

As my night turns to day I watch the light cut through the Newport Pleasure.

Teeth clenched so tight they couldn't unhinge, unable to utter a sound.

I try to speak but my thoughts are empty, words less than shallow.

My eyes tremble as I fight their honesty, their unwillingness to give up.

My heart's irrational cadence fueled by the devil's own.

It's only character meant to destroy those who succumb.

Leaving me ashamed, I can't bare to see my own reflection.

Looking into my own eyes they are black and hollowed.

My lips quiver in disgust.

I cry for a better life.

I am my only keeper.

So I bid you farewell.

Your grip has been unrelenting but I was born to fight.

I will not be imprisoned.

There you sit, taunting from the pit of my stomach.

Alone as I once was, my days are bright, the pain is gone.

I laugh.

I smile.

I love.

I live.

Fuck you!

Russell Reich

Russell survived the battle of the demons inflicted by the streets of Somerville, Massachusetts. 

He skipped town with his girlfriend, landed in the Midwest and became a father of two boys.

He has always had a knack for things that inspire. 

Mainly music, but anything that took him away from the bad memories or the hustle & bustle 

of work/home life could evoke him to create just about anything he had the time for.

Ladybug - Part III

Heroes and Heroin Do you ever look back during certain moments in your life where you know that moment changed your whole being - deep down to your core? Did you know it then? Did you know how much of an impact those moments would have on the rest of your life? I certainly didn't know at the time, when I was a homeless drug addict living on the streets in Charlestown, MA, that anything good could come from my experiences. How could I when I wasn't even sure I would survive. If you saw me today you wouldn't know that I hold this secret past life. I'm a wife. I'm a college graduate. I'm just like you, I bet. You wouldn't know that I wasted time in places that I wish I could forget. That every day as a heroin addict meant a day I spent doing things that I knew were wrong like lying, cheating, and stealing. Days of winter that seemed a little bit colder with no place to go at night. Days where my only mission was to get high enough to be able to close my eyes at night; numbed from the dope only to wake up and do it all over again to stop the withdrawal. Thankfully, I wasn't alone. There were others just like me who used needles and poison to make the pain go away. See, the reason addicts stick together is not for the hustle that most people think. Its not because it's easier to lie, cheat, and/or steal with a partner. It's because we can relate to the world that we thrust ourselves into. We can relate to being helpless against a drug that had complete control over our mind and our bodies. We can relate to each other's need to numb ourselves so much that whatever we are running away from is far behind us - at least for the moment. . Those I “ran with” (ie: did drugs and hustled with) took me in their group and showed me how to survive. They were my heroin heroes. They taught me that hallways in the Charlestown projects were warmer than a car with no heat and a busted window. They taught me to stash clean needles in a pencil case in random places so I would always have one near. Those people taught me the rules of the streets and how to make it through one day at a time. Because in the end that's all any of us wanted really; to survive.

Anonymous

Please visit Ladybugs - Part I & Ladybugs Part II

Walking Away

Looking back at old smiling pictures, I wonder: were you high then?

How about that one, and this snapshot, or in the album over there?

We sure seemed like a happy family.

And I know we had lots of good times.

So was I just not aware?

Was I oblivious to what was going on around me because I was only a child,

too small to understand?

At what point did I become conscious of what was happening;

that you were almost always high at every party,

for every holiday gathering, during every wedding and funeral.

Did I then simply start ignoring your behavior to protect myself,

to ease the weight on my psyche of never knowing what condition you’d be in,

of having to always be prepared for every possibility, every scenario.

At what point did I go from that happy (looking) little kid to who I am now –

cringing, dreading every time I’m slated to see you,

either individually, at a family party, or otherwise?

Because I never know how you’ll be, how you’ll act, what you’ll say.

Because I never know which you I’ll get,

or exactly how uncomfortable you might make us all feel.

You make me not want to be there, around lots of other people that I love and miss.

Because it’s easier to not have to deal with you there, too.

Because I feel like I am responsible for you in those group settings.

Does everyone else think I am your keeper?

Am I?

You obviously have some sort of anxiety that caused(es) you to drug-up for events,

and on plenty of regular days, too.

But the rest of us do not deserve the price.

And we are not your solution.

Most of the time now, I avoid you,

because I can’t stand not knowing which you I’m going to get.

Would I have done that when I was a child if I could have?

I don’t know.

What was life like before my eyes were opened?

I can tell in an instant, now, as an adult -- one glance; one breath; one word.

That’s all I need.

But what the heck did I know back then?

By a certain age, I knew a damn ton more than a child should have.

Am I giving up all of those happy memories,

rejecting the good times that really did happen, denying their existence;

if, when, I walk away now?

I don’t want to.

Can I keep and cling to the old joy, all the while declaring,

accepting and knowing that there's no future?

Would that be legit?  Ethical?  Acceptable?

I hope so.

So many questions still unanswered.

Is there someone, anyone who can tell me it’s okay to walk away?

Because I’m doing it anyway.

Walking away.

I have to.

I have told you that if you want to do drugs, go ahead –

because you’re an adult that can make your own choices;

just keep it away from me and anyone else who doesn’t want to see it.

But you can’t.

You cannot control it.

You cannot control yourself.

I, however, can control me, and what I let into my life.

No more apologies.

No more gifts.

No more manipulation.

No more guilt.

No more anger.

No more surprises.

No more promises.

No more you.

When (if) I can ever be confident in your state of mind, your status,

how you will be on a given day – constantly, consistently –

when I can know without a doubt that you’ll be fine and good –

then, we can resume some kind of relationship.

On my terms.

Turning, walking away, MY healing begins.

This is about me now.

Turning over a whole tree full of proverbial new leaves.

Deleting the past pain, so that I can’t even revisit it if I wanted to.

1…

2…

3…

Now.

Risk.

Leap.

Robin Donoghue

The sly and trusty Robinator is a square peg – 

not fitting easily into any single category, living not just inside and outside of the box, 

but all mixed up in a pile of them. She’s a walking contradiction  (in the good way) – 

having a wide, diverse range of interests, not being defined by any one thing, 

and willing to try pretty much anything at least once. 

Born and raised in Somerville, this lifelong athlete, foodie who almost always ends up with 

pasta sauce on her (especially when it’s white) shirt, mother of two cats, free-spirited hippie at heart whose socks never match, is socially awkward, yet a flirt, too.  She enjoys photography, traveling, generally being creative, and practically requires having pockets.  When she grows up, she wants to get an RV and be a nomad with her dear husband, or live on a self-sustaining 

intentional community with all the best people she knows and loves.

Be Someone

My family doesn't act like a family. 

I hate my parents. They're weak. One is dead in the ground, the other is dead in spirit. 

My brother doesn't face life at all. He doesn't get life on himself. He's going to die full of regret. Because this life is messy, and I've made a lot messes. But at least I got dirty. At least I got in the trenches with the other filthy boys and said "fuck it, lets go over the top and see whats on the other side." 

My father never taught me anything. How to shave, throw a punch, how to be a man, how the fuck football works, how to handle money, how to treat women, nothing. Because he's a loser that never had a dream or a passion in this life. How ironic he had a son that has literally devoured this "mortal coil". 

I play a mean fuckin' guitar, I could write you a song that could make you want to overthrow governments or weep with sadness. I can hit them drums too, boy. From the first time I sat down, I could lay a beat like I was going to war. And singing? I'll sing you some shit any old time you're feeling like you need a song to lift you up, or make you feel like you're alive. And when we're done spitting that fire from our vocal chords I can wrap with you all night about the evolutionary process that leads us to be able to sing in the first place. And when the beer and drugs are gone, fuck it, I'll stay up and wax poetic about anything you got, Mac...politics, art, film, girls, technology. 

I shit code for breakfast. I can hack your computer faster than you can read this story. I can learn and adapt to new complex systems in no time. I'm learning to draw and I can speak some Japanese. 

My photography portfolio is full of some of the most beautiful women and life scenes you'd ever lay eyes on. I see art and math everywhere I look. I've gotten lost in the streets of Amsterdam, ran from Yakuza in Japan, met Mick Jones in a London McDonalds of all places, shared a mic with Joe Strummer, slept in the Commons in Boston, listened to Nebraska by Springsteen while riding through Nebraska at night and pissed in the Pacific Ocean. I've seen the bullet holes in Berlin, woken up in a gutter in the streets of Mexico, hopped trains, ran around this country with a pack of crazy strippers, been in a full blown riot in NYC, held someone as they died in my arms, saved someone's life, fought jocks behind The Ratskeller, eaten the finest food and tried every drug known to man. I've been stabbed, robbed, and seen every ghetto in this country. I owned an all-ages club, shared the stage with many of my heroes, and I'm still here standing. But I'm not saying all this to be a braggart. I'm saying it because you're not your father's son. 

We are a species that have evolved the ability to both write poetry and build rocket ships. I may have gotten myself into some real trouble along the way with some things, but it's only because I want to try everything this life has to offer. 

The only thing my old man has done is wear a groove into a seat cushion. My mother put herself in the ground. My brother doesn't talk to me. That's not family. If your brother, your blood, was to accidentally kill someone, you help him move the body and ask questions later. 

You eat this life and this life eats you. Get a fucking motorcycle, see the world, fall in love, fall in bed, get in a fight, get some battle scars, learn you're not made of glass, read books, talk to bums and royalty alike, say yes 90% of the time, pawn your useless shit, be a man, be a woman, be a fucking god. Because God doesn't exist. It's just you. 

Create. Destroy. Shoot the moon. Invent something. Get into adventures. Get into scary situations that are hard to get out of. 

Be water. Be fire. Just be something. We've got enough accountants.

Paul Russo

1,114 Words

1,114 Words.

Before I seriously started working on my 10,000 hours, I hated when authors would compare writing a novel to childbirth. I was like, “Bitches were never in labor for 56 hours. Writing is easy.”

And sure, for a nerd like me with a communications degree, writing can come easily when it’s an essay, article or even a short fictional story. But when I think about the 80,000 words that need to be thought of and written down; when I think about creating an entirely creative world with interesting characters in a setting to match, I become overwhelmed.

The weight is now in my mind instead of my body. My head feels heavy with ideas, insecurities and a sense that I’m never contributing enough. I’m not staying up late enough. I’m not editing enough. I’m not working enough.

Then I remember

1. I’m a single mother with fibromyalgia
2. I’m human and need sleep
3. I have so many other things I need to incorporate to live a happy and fulfilling life

I think about how Stephen King would type out 190,000 word manuscripts in just two years, all the while he was using a typewriter and corrective tape. And I have the nerve to worry about 80,000 words with a program that fixes spelling errors on its own? Shit, two of the longest texts ever, “The Iliad” and “The Odyssey” (used spell check) were written in 8th century B.C. The 8TH CENTURY B.C. and I complain. Makes me feel stupid and ungrateful. Then I go back to the three positive and valid reasons I already mentioned.

But it was when I had to cut and paste 1,114 words out of a chapter because the content was no longer relevant, I almost cried. It took me 5 minutes, just sitting there looking at those words, while I grieved the loss of nearly three precious hours of work. Three hours of mind-numbing, exhausting work. Keep in mind, I’ve worked everywhere, from Taco Bell to 50 hours a week at a financially fantastic job. Nothing compares to the intensity of highlighting and cutting out 1,114 words.

Writing a novel is harder than being pregnant. I’m not kidding. If it were easier, we would have a lot more books and a lot less kids. At least the act of making a kid is fun. And even if your kid is ugly or colic or whatever, everyone is still going to love it. There is a major chance that the labor of love that is writing a book will not be loved by anyone. Plus, at least you know when it will be over. Writing this book feels like walking down a never-ending cave. It’s dark and scary and what if I can’t find my way out?

So I guess this post is a quick glance into the endlessly spinning brain of a novelist, if I can even call myself that yet. Am I a novelist, an author, a writer or all of the above? I don’t friggin’ know. What I do know is to be any of the above is to be crazy, brilliant and possessed.      

“Writing a book is a horrible, exhausting struggle, like a long bout of some painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing if one were not driven on by some demon 

whom one can neither resist nor understand.”

—George Orwell

Melissa Sue Vieira

Co-Founder of Storytellers:  The Collective

Melissa wears many hats.  
Some are super colorful and some are dark, just like her stories.  

She is a mother, friend, writer, survivor, warrior, yogi, listener, talker 
and a lover of all things art.

Message From The Universe

It calls to me again
it wakes me from my sleep.
The voice of Eternity
with words it doesn't speak.

Revealing all the truths
rolling out in rhymes,
I see the light from which it spews
as cryptic scriptures fill my mind.

The booming hum
of the Eternal One
in B flat baritone
who divides himself
creating two
so love to us is known.

All that dies will live again
all that's mortal now stands to be.
Dare to face the Infinite
and see all that is
is me.

Mike O'Rourke

Born 1/3/78 in Boston, MA.  Originally from Charlestown, MA., 

Mike lived most of his life in the neighboring city of Somerville (affectionately referred to as "Slumerville").

Mike is an artist - illustrator, writer, musician, philosopher, free thinker.

"I feel that art is not a skill or sharpened technique as much as it is just a part of nature.  
Like gravity, electricity, light, wind, fire, water.  Art is a form of energy.  It's an element.  
It's an extension of the creative consciousness of the Universe that constantly expands and runs through all matter.  Some connect easily with the energy, others are not even aware of it.  Whether you are a chef, tradesman, hairdresser, stay at home parent, farmer, engineer, etc., the creative force is working through you on all levels. 
There is no separation of man and nature.  We think, we create."  — Mike O'Rourke

Domino Effect

I get it. 

It’s the first thing you notice about me. It’s easy to make fun of me for my weight.  It’s not like it’s my race or a handicap. 

I was tired of being the fat girl that no one bothered to get to know because I was just fat. Obviously, we fat people are all the same.  I had to find a way to fit in and look like others.

Guess what, I found it!  I became bulimic.

It started in junior high, continued through high school, was fine-tuned in college, mastered in graduate school, and pathetically accepted as my life now, 25 years later.

It’s my big secret that no one knows. No friends, no family. Just me and that demon in my head that easily gets switched on when you nonchalantly glance at my fat arms. Yes I notice!

Permanent damage has been done emotionally and physically.

On bad days, every thought is about my next binge and how I would get rid of the food.

You’d never know by seeing me walking down the street that anything was wrong, or if you've known me my whole life for that matter.  

You know why...because you are still making fun of me and commenting and criticizing my weight because I’m fat again.

The weight doesn't come off like it did. The bulimia didn't solve anything.  Instead, it just gave me a really shitty coping mechanism. 

I've thrown up in more public bathrooms and plastic bags than I can count.

So next time you think it’s just an innocent criticism or a little look-see to see just how big he or she is, think of me in your head saying:

"FUCK YOU ASSHOLE!"

The smallest comment starts a domino effect that can never be reversed. So please be more careful with your words and looks.

Anonymous

Too Much

“I just want to be able to talk to you, is that asking too much?”

Yes.

Right now, at this point, it is asking too much.

You emailed my brother and I –

stating that you’re scared and alone, and begging us to talk to you.

He who you know wants to hear nothing from you and hasn’t for well over a year now,

and me who you were told had blocked your emails.

So, what are you doing?  Why did you bother?

Your tactic this time wasn’t to lay on a guilt trip, but rather to try and make us feel bad for you.

Same old, same old.

Different but no different.

Do you know why you are alone and scared?

Because you drove everyone away and we’ve all decided to move on, each in our own manner,

without you…for now.

I took the brave, bold step and told you – flat out, point blank – that yes, it is asking too much;

that this was the current last straw in an ongoing series of them.

Will you honor my wishes, my needs, this time?

Just this once?

How long will it be before you contact me again without my consent?

It usually lasts only a couple of weeks.

Please.

Put your children before you.

Let them heal while you do what you need to do.

“Yes, for the time being, that is asking too much.

I am absolutely 100% done dealing with your drug use.

I love you, too – that's why I need to be left alone until *I* say so.

So take care of yourSELF, and don't email me again.”

Robin Donoghue

The sly and trusty Robinator is a square peg – 

not fitting easily into any single category, living not just inside and outside of the box, 

but all mixed up in a pile of them. She’s a walking contradiction  (in the good way) – 

having a wide, diverse range of interests, not being defined by any one thing, 

and willing to try pretty much anything at least once. 

Born and raised in Somerville, this lifelong athlete, foodie who almost always ends up with 

pasta sauce on her (especially when it’s white) shirt, mother of two cats, free-spirited hippie at heart whose socks never match, is socially awkward, yet a flirt, too.  She enjoys photography, traveling, generally being creative, and practically requires having pockets.  When she grows up, she wants to get an RV and be a nomad with her dear husband, or live on a self-sustaining 

intentional community with all the best people she knows and loves.