This is a serial fiction piece I published in installments in 2017. It has been edited, reworked, restructured, and shared for a different purpose.
Iam bussed here from Tallahassee, Florida. I have my things. They are with me. My brother, Theo, carries a bag bigger than he is, wobbling and whining outside of the crowded bus station. It is hot. The sun is sitting on the top of a building pelting us with pain. I do not need its rays. Theo likes sunshine. He is six. I am twelve. There is no reason for the gap. It is just how…
I have become glutinous; sticking to my home — fearful of going too far away from it. I question every errand that needs attention. How important is it? How much longer can I go without it? Is the purchase cost-effective enough to simply have Instacart drop it off after I fill up my cart via my favorite stores instead? Do I really need to go to the store myself?! Do I?!
I am growing indecisive during this pandemic season and I know it has a lot to do with how scary this virus is and how massive it has become.
We are in Kingston, Jamaica. Our intent? To visit The Bob Marley Museum. It is the year 2023 and restrictions have just been lifted due to the dreaded Coronavirus, COVID-19. My nephew, Richie, planned this family getaway for us. He even manned the travel arrangements, devised a payment plan over a span of six months, and ensured follow-up on every form of business was conducted. We didn’t have to worry about a thing. Thankfully. The first thing we do is find our temporary housing which is through a luxurious family vacation and villas rental company.
I step out of the…
threading light into
the sun sets in
the depth of
who heals your
bones of love
mesh at the door
begging for entry
how could something
so wondrous in the
thickets of time
safety is best
shields of protection
lay at your feet
you are a super
your powers are
those of your
you have fire
for love and every
world knocking down
your door knows
you are a spark
©2021 Tremaine L. Loadholt
I wrote this for a friend of mine as my personal gift for Valentine’s Day. Several people received their own poem as my way of showing how much I love them — how much I care. I see them. They’re thought of daily. I want them to know that.
She laid his suit out on the bed. A freshly pressed blue shirt. His favorite speckled necktie. Blue and black cufflinks.
He would look great at his final foray into the crowd. She’ll remember him fondly. His crooked smile. His hopeful laugh. The nasty nights of arguing. So many nights of arguing.
He never saw the machete she wielded in her hand. His last words were, "I never meant to . . ."
She doesn’t miss him as much as she thought she would.
©2021 Tremaine L. Loadholt
I am aging in a way that brings
peace to my spirit.
It's something I've been struggling
to gain for over a decade
and now, I'm familiar with how
to attain it and even more importantly,
how to keep it.
It is the month of love and everyone is fumbling over their confessions, careful not to spill more than their fair share of beans and I find myself uninterested in their daily goings-on. I am moving through this life with my feet planted firmly on the ground and every move I design before me is planned and…
What do you think about when you reflect upon the message delivered in the famed “I Have a Dream” speech by Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.? Does it cross your mind that we would be fighting for the same wishes, wants, and necessities shared within its lines? Do you sit and wonder about “how far we have come” and “how far we still have to go”? Where do you go? Where does your mind take you when you hear the depth and breadth of his voice as those words were uttered on August 28, 1963?
I can tell you…
Sometimes, I miss it. Sometimes, I don’t. You know . . . Us. It doesn’t hit me as hard as it used to when I was crawling through my twenties or attempting to climb my way through my thirties. But on those dreary, cold days where the wind is blowing harder than the predicted chill, I find myself lost in thoughts of you . . . of Us. And I do drift to a place where it’s not so easy to leave — the comfort of it can be damaging.
And who would blame me at this point? Good memories…