Topping off at The Dixie House Cafe

Recently my wife and I have been getting burned out on the usual places we eat around town. I happen to have a very forgiving palate but my wife can't stomach much. Over the years I have learned to accept her simple tastes in food so we've frequented some of the same places again and again. Sometimes we leave in disappointment, others we leave thinking "At least we ate today". I am a google contributor so I have an extensive list of places I want to visit so I decided we would try one out on a Saturday afternoon.

We were looking for someplace to eat that was different yet familiar. I looked into some of the southern country cooking places on my list and settled on the Dixie House Cafe. Crowded into a busy retail area near the Hules mall Dixie House Cafe is relatively easy to find South of 30 on Hulen next to the Half Price Books.

If you're looking for intimate or booth dining look elsewhere. From what I saw the place is all a jumble of tables. The wait staff all work together to make your dining experience pleasant and very efficient so the one who seats you might not be the one who takes your order or the one who brings your food or refills your drinks. I can say that this set-up did seem to make things move along rather quickly on a busy Saturday lunch rush.

The Staff was kind and unobtrusive and they take pride in their work. From what I saw of the cleanliness of the store and restrooms the folks at Dixie House Cafe keep their business up to par.

At first, the menu can seem confusing but there is a simple 4-5 special dishes for each day, smaller portions for kids meals, a list of sides, desserts and other options. I ordered the Pork Chops and Eggs, my Wife got Chicken Fried Steak and my kiddo ordered a Grilled Cheese Sandwich on Texas Toast with Mashed Potatoes. Even though my eggs were slightly overcooked from what I ordered the meal was very good and it hit the spot.

For 3 people $34 isn't bad especially since we were all happy and there were leftovers enough to quench our late-night munchies later. I give The Dixie House Cafe out of 5 stars. Check them out.

If you are looking for some old fashioned Southern cooking this is a place that will give you exactly what you desire. You can find the Dixie House Cafe on the Westside of Fort Worth in the Hulen area near the Mall.

Truth Bomb

Ok. There are these lists of questions going around the internet these days. I figured that I would finally fill one out. This one is in response to a sister I didn't know I had until about two years ago. That's another story. Not one I'm sure I want to share with y'all yet. So, for now, catch this Truth Bomb.

This version expands on the original.
* How old? 43. I think. Ask my wife.

*  Piercings? Not anymore. Back in the day though ... It was just ears. Well and that one time I got my tongue pierced. That was a mistake.

* Tattoos? Yes. They are all very personal and require explanation and a follow-up Q&A. I try to keep them covered.

* Ever hit a deer? Yes. I was in a fully loaded Semi-feed truck at the time. Luckily I was only going 55 and already downshifting.

* Ridden in an ambulance? Twice. The first time I think I was dying. It was a long time ago and I was sick as fuck so ... The second time I should have been dead but I escaped completely unscathed. Don't drive on Saint Patrick's day even if you wait until 3am for all of the assholes to die or get locked up.

* Sang karaoke? Hell yes. And I've done Rock Band karaoke too. I play 🎸.

* Ice skated? Not exactly. I put the skates on. Stepped on the ice and 🐱. Not my most gangster moment.

* Ridden a motorcycle? Yes. Well. I held on for dear life while some dude drove. I did this willingly, by the way. Not my most gangster moment.

* Stayed in the hospital? Way too much as a kid. Not so much post whiskey and weed.

* Skipped school? Lol. Yeah. A lot. Some of my favorite memories are of fucking up the block when I was supposed to be in school.

* Last text? I don't text. I Messenger.

* Watched someone die? Unfortunately yes. Too often.

* Pepsi or Coke? Yeah. No.

* Favorite pizza? There used to be this place called Romanos. Unfortunately, the Old times are over around here. Kids these days. Ya know?

*Favorite season? Summer. I'm a pure 🌞  sign.

* Broken any bones? Depends. Had a knee injury. Broke a lot of bones in my hands fighting. The first year I knew my wife I walked around with a broken finger. Nothing you can do. Keep living, punch shit if you have to. Hands heal. Shits get like concrete.

* Gotten a ticket? Yes. Never paid one. NOT ONE! Fucking extort me? Fuck you.

* Favorite Color? Blue. WNRSGC fa life Cuzz.

* Sunset or Sunrise? Sunset. Yeah, I'm busy or asleep at sunrise.

There ya go.

Peace.

I Can Dig It. but, see here's the thing ...

This is going to be potentially very controversial. If you are easily offended by free thought bail the fuck out right now. Trust me, it's for the best.

Click Here to back away slowly

Still with us? Okay well then.

A few days ago I ran across one of those lazy memes that get passed around every few years or so. I've seen this one before, but this time something struck me about the message. I would like to share the meme as I found it.

See here's the thing. I want to congratulate you on your ability to feel some kind of way about whatever you want. That's human rights and shit. I can dig it. BUT. Hiding from those who are trying to reach out to you is the recipe for utter loneliness. Yes, your fear of approach and openness comes from a place of deep fear and loss. Yes, it hurts and it binds your heart. It doesn't have to.

Trust and Faith are not one-way streets. Trust is a breezy country road on a spring day if you let it be. Faith? Well, faith is an interstate. Faith is what we must have in ourselves and if the little girl is still hiding in the dark corners of her life, maybe it's her imagination and not dark forces come to snatch her from her hidey hole. Maybe it's the savior, the bright light you pray for in the dark of the night alone with your bottle.

She pushes the light away because she feels safe in the dark with her demons of deceit and lust and lies. Murders of lies like a cloud of flies, blinding the truth. The truth? Maybe you were lost and abandoned once upon a time. Many of us were. That's no excuse to refuse to grow. Work to be less shy and less fragile and maybe the people around you won't judge you like the ...

The "Strong Stoic Woman" is a mask she wears to feel important in a world where she feels weak and alone. In a world that marginalizes her. It's a mistake. Nothing wrong with strong. Nothing wrong with stoic. Combine those with the lost little girl in the closet and wear them as a mask, disaster awaits. Take it from a Black male in America. Shy and fragile and in the closet isn't the way to go. If you want to be heard you have to be seen. How do you want to be seen? That's the question you have to ask and if your equation doesn't include that little spark in your heart ... What's the point? So, you can be a sarcastic cunt whenever it suits you to do so and then have the nerve to tell people to deal with it or fuck off. Charming. I wonder what your little soul spark would think of that. The world may never know because you keep her locked away in the dark, afraid and alone. 

In the end, it's the fear that's killing you. It's not the nightmares or the people you judge so harshly from your strong and stoic high horse. It's the fear that drives you. You are afraid of everything so you misjudge everyone. The only people you can allow yourself to be real with are the others who share your guilt and shame. You are wallowing in it and asking for us to understand the little light of your soul. None of us have ever seen it. From over here it's a myth. All we get is

"Strong Stoic Woman"

Yes, I know you're a strong woman. But you must look beyond, woman. Learn to see that someONE may be reaching out to lend you a hand up out of that dark corner where the little girl still lies, afraid. All I'm saying is if you love your light so much let it truly fly free. Allow it out of the darkness of fear and maybe it will symbiotically bind itself with the Strong Stoic Woman and make her less of a fucking bitch.

I'm just saying.

Peace.

Bitch you don't muss me up no more
I don't share your business in the streets because I'm not an attention whore.

The Changing Face of American Beauty

The face of beauty standards in America is changing and I love it. Over the centuries, the ideal model of feminine beauty has changed numerous times. Our current model of ideal beauty has been slender to waifish. Women so small the look fragile and sick. I don't know where the idea that voluptuous feminine beauty was something to be considered undesirable, but I've never agreed with it. I find women beautiful for more than just their shape, but there is something about wide hips, thick thighs and big asses that turns my head every time. I love women and that's no secret. My desire for them has landed me in more trouble than I care to admit. But in my interactions with women from around the country and the world has led to my understanding that no matter where they are from, or what size they are, they are beautiful.

What's really great is that the way beauty is seen in our nation is changing as our generation and the generation following break free of the chains of multimedia influence. Ours is becoming a nation where we are exposed to a depth of diversity that is almost unheard of elsewhere in the world. Race, gender, sexual orientation, disability and yes, size are all differences that are these days less important than your attitude toward your fellow man. It's not okay to drag people down because they are different from you. It's better to lift them up.

And that's alright with me. I want to see your stunning beauty in whatever form it takes. We all have a little sexy in us and it should be okay for you to feel it in yourself. Stand tall and proud and know that you are stunning.

Madeline Stuart - is an 18-year-old model with Down Syndrome who has found her beautiful self.

Tess Holiday - is the largest plus size model to ever be signed to a major agency.

These are just two stories of the thousands I am sure are out there. Share your stories of the changing face of American beauty.

There is More to this Story

I understand why people feel the need to protest over what happened to Michael Brown. The people are angry. The people want to see justice done. We live in a society that says, "you, as citizens of this great country of ours, YOU, have the right to, peacefully protest against your government". However, as we've seen over and over again throughout our history, protests don't end well here. And in this, our ultra HIgh Definition instant served world, protesting is more dangerous than it's ever been because they know what we are capable of.

(AP Photo/Sid Hastings)

They know what can happen if a populous gets out of control. They have seen the fall of the great Empire again and again, and it starts with the people being fed-the-fuck-up. People are fed up but not necessarily over the death of another young man in the streets.

I will posit this, in the silent midst of this ongoing disaster, that the people and not simply angry over the death of one young man, instead, we are furious at the ongoing injustice and increasing police state we are ALL subject to. We are incensed by the continual political misdealing and lewd indiscretions. We are sick and goddamned fed up with continual corporate greed and their political niggling. We are tired of the Military interventions and utter lack of care for our Military men and women. We are angry because our leaders are not putting the best interest of this country at heart. Our entire country is arguing the merits of gun control and concussions in the NFL when there are bigger issues to deal with. like putting people back to work. Getting the homeless off the streets and back into society where they can contribute. Opening our world up to new ways of thinking about energy and food production. Granting people the right to expect security in what they have worked their entire lives for. Giving people alternate options for medical treatments beyond pharmaceuticals.

(WHITNEY CURTIS / NYT)

Stop criminalizing minor crap like parking tickets and possession of marijuana. Stop terrorizing us with the threat of jail for every little thing and turning our Peace Officers into an occupying force hell bent on cramming us into corporate owned prisons. I don't know a single person who would be completely relaxed during a traffic stop. Stop threatening our families, our freedoms our security. Societies are built on a unity that begins with security. And the plan for that unity is supposed to come from our government. Instead, all we see is constant insecurity and instability. We see a focus on the answers to Liberty and Peoples right to CHOOSE, when those shouldn't even be questions.

The people are tired, and they are afraid and they are unsure about who we are as a nation and where we are going as a Country. People are divided and our government is drawing out the sides, compiling a strategy, posturing and finger pointing and slandering and bickering and lying the whole time. And we peer out at each other through our smog smeared windshields and over our ergonomic cubicles and we question, and we judge and we wonder what side you're on. It's a fucking tragedy. It's the saddest thing. And people are fed up. So they protest, and some riot.

And it's not going to end well here either. It never does. I will suggest a few things for you who are going to continue to march up and down the streets in your fury.

• Protest on the sidewalks or in other designated areas.

This will prevent you from being maced by the police or run over by a car for blocking public streets.

• If you are going to block public streets have some semblance of a plan.

Block particular streets, or streets that make a political point, or streets near the offices of those you are trying to draw attention from. In this particular case you could block the streets surrounding the main police station in your area.

• Develop some sort of message.

This is usually accomplished through impromptu chants and spontaneous street speeches bellowed into megaphones.

• Talk to the media and do so with some sort of class.

As much class as you can muster. If you are protesting for social change your message cannot be incoherent and full of hate speech and shit you read on Reddit. Know why you are there and be capable of giving an elevator speech about it should you be asked. If you are never asked, don't volunteer information. Volunteering information is always a bad idea.

• Do Not Under ANY Circumstances Break or Steal Anything

This is just a bad fucking move y'all.

• Do not frighten your fellow citizens

Some of us do not have the time. Some of us do not have the inclination. Others of us do not have the GAS MONEY to sit in the street while you march up and down screaming. If we choose not to participate we should be allowed that right and it should not be taken away from us by folks marching for rights. Please stand aside so we might freely pass without fear. Refer to points 1-5 for details.

.Photo: AFP

Please be angry. Please take a stand for social justice in this country because there is a problem. But don't narrow that problem to one incident and one solution. The problem is the continuing division within a unified nation. There is, now, a stretching at the seams that is beginning to rear. It has to be fixed. Try to be more focused in what you do and how you do it.

For Love and Writing

Love.

There is still a part of me that believes that love is a mental dysfunction. The term ‘mental dysfunction’ is used to describe conditions that cause people to have disturbed thinking, behavior and moods. Let me ask you, what sane person would go through the trials we go through for love? Only love can cause the mental break that would allow one to forget themselves in favor of living for another. And after love is lost … Do we find ourselves as we were? No. We find ourselves irreparably altered broken and distorted in the image we have for ourselves. But we love anyway. Rarely by choice do we find ourselves drawn and compelled to love. Love, some say, is like God; omnipotent, all encompassing and larger than our understanding.

Writing.

There is still a part of me that thinks the drive to write is a mental dysfunction. Let me ask you, what sane person would go through the trials we go through to produce a good piece of work? Let’s not even debate a GREAT piece of work. Writing causes a different type of mental break than love does. Hell a mental break is almost required of you in order to write and write well. We take ourselves outside of reality and into a world that exists only in our minds. Then we torture ourselves translating what we see in that world onto the page. Once is never enough. Once we’re done with one piece, like addicts, we begin another, sometimes more than one at a time. It’s a lonely suffering but we write anyway one keystroke at a time over and over. It’s the definition of insanity, but we write anyway. Rarely by choice we find ourselves drawn and compelled to write.

Love and Writing

Love and writing are like alcoholism, or drug addiction. They are mental dysfunctions that we find some sense of peace, some solace within. They make us feel both terrible and terrific at once. They fill us with dread and with desire. They are states of being that we both cheer and despair.

I write for love and I write of love. Love inspires my writing and writing leads me to understand love. In order to be a good writer you need two essential elements, love and truth. If your writing is done in anything but love the reader will know it. If you fudge the truth your readers will know it and all your efforts will be for naught. Writers suffer for the love of their work a dual mental condition. I think I’ll coin it … Lufian Writian. Add it to the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders.

Afraid of Ebola

“Aren’t you afraid of Ebola?” I’m asked.

“Sure,” I said but no more or less than I am afraid of anything else people carry. It’s why I don’t go out as much. It’s why I don’t date and mass with the collective and such. It’s why I Namaste instead of shake, why I nod but don’t touch. I have seen the way you live. I have witnessed you leave the bathroom stall, facilities un-flushed, and waltz on by the sink bank as if it were nothing but a wall. You don’t even bother to glance in the mirror long enough to see the wedge of toilet paper behind your ear, stuck there when you were wiping the meat sweats from your neck.  So, no, Ebola isn’t one of my biggest concerns. What I am concerned with are bigger things like …

Watching the world around me descend into madness. I feel as if I am witness to the collapse of a civilization and as Democracy burns on a sinking ship of endless greed and bottomless need all I can do is play … because I see no salvation.

I am afraid that the same people who fear Ebola more than the war machine that’s selling tanks to our police are going to be the ones that hand all of our rights over to Johnny Law. Because all I can see is you parasites sucking the tainted information that the media has running through the veins of our nation and you have grown bloated to bursting on the bile of lies. Truth is … The police are killing us out here, with impunity and with very little in the way of repercussion.

I fear what they are stripping away little by little because of your righteous belief in an invisible god. Today it’s the hard fought and hard won women’s right to choose what she does with her body. Once that cotter pin is pulled and he castle nut works its way loose of the bolt, what disaster awaits while Justice travels 70 down I35 at night in the rain? She is already blind.

Though, she is not as blind as you. That’s what I fear. Not a virus that an insect can give me just as easily as my neighbor on the public transit. I fear your blind staring eye that is only capable of absorbing the lies that they tell you to eat. I fear your panicked rush when those with power push your face from the teat. I fear that you do not know you are a slave so you do not see the cage and when the structure collapses you would rather eat me, than meat.

I fear your lack of education and I fear your passive procrastination. I fear your passing of ignorance to your kids and your utter lack of passion for their futures. I fear the signs of the times that tell me Orwell wasn’t just a writer but instead a prophet. The all seeing eye isn’t just a symbol its a message that the slope we’ve slipped on is already too far gone. And the pyramid upon which it rests isn’t a symbol of strength is a scheme that’s become a theme in all things profitable. I fear because these days the rich don’t just get richer they also get to paint the picture that history will record as truth while the rest of us simply fade on the page like poorly erased pencil marks.

“Aren’t you afraid of Ebola,” I’m asked?

“Sure,” I replied, “sure I am.”

Your Debts Young man, Your Debts and be FREE

"I'm sorry sir, but you can't say that."

Wait a minute. Part of the fucking program, as I understood it, when I agreed to show up to this bitch and pony show was that you were going to shut the fuck up and let me speak. What you said was:

Pay your debt young man, pay your debt and all will be forgiven. Forgiven?

Now you're telling me that none of it was true. Now you say that freedom is a fantasy and that none of us is ever truly forgiven for anything, ever. That someone always remembers. That someone always asks the question, someone always thinks there is one more remembrance necessary, one more debt to pay.

Pay your debts they said and you will again live free, but there are no such things as freedom or debts. Freedom costs everything. We describe ourselves as free. Freedom costs everything and everything costs something.

Mistakes cost you little bits of your life. One small lesion at a time we are scarred by the relentless burning sands of our days and our nights. We are carved and forged and moulded into the people that we are and the people that we love. We are the monuments of a humanity and human potential that future generations will remember or wish they could forget.

We are either the last free generation or we are the first. I was promised freedom. From my youngest days I was promised that what's right was right and that what was bullshit got shoveled.

Instead what I get is a fucking mule driven mile of Pure-D-Bullshit. The real bullshit, not that watered down manufactured bullshit.

It often these days starts with:

" Good afternoon, uh, sir, do you know why I pulled you over today?"

The answer in my head is always, "Cuz I'm young and I'm black and my hat's real low? Do I look like a mind reader sir? I don't know."

If I'm lucky you are just doing your civic duty and keeping our city streets safe. If I am unlucky, well -
The sky has just become the limit hasn't it?

"Did you know that the registration on your car was out?"

Yes and it's remained that way because, fuck you. If I can't settle that "responsibility" I'll just carry on without it and cause way less trouble than the average Joe Citizen. I get it though, it's a debt to be paid for the "privilege" of driving these weather ravaged streets. Streets you designed to be easily driven. I am not all that inclined to be tied to your city streets any more. Keep your registrations and your warnings and your fines and lies. And your excuses to police my actions and my goings and comings.

I go where I please and I come when she does.

" That's good sir, Do you have your ID?"

"Uh, well I bailed out of the house real quick on my way ... I had to (Beat the Beer Clock) swing by my sisters (the weed mans house) and pick something up. That's why I am in my paja-"

"Do you realize that your registration is out? Have you been drinking tonight?"

"Yes, I mean no. Yes I know that my, but I though, I thought -"

Yes, yes as a matter of course, I do keep my ID on me at all times because I know, I know that I can be mistaken in so many ways. I could be hauled downtown right now under suspicion of something involving a black male fitting my description. I keep the legal entity known as DAVIN KIMBLE in my pocket at all times when in public. If I for one moment realize that I can't identify myself immediately as the legal entity DAVIN KIMBLE, I panic just a little bit. Really. I always keep an ID and a mutha fuckin' alibi.

"Do you wanna step out of the vehicle sir?"

No. I always feel like I'm giving up something of an advantage when I step beyond the safety of my vehicle. As long as I am in my vehicle and my hands firmly grip the wheel I can't be beaten and shot to death.

But I got my ID10T's a long time ago. I sat courtside at a prison execution that I had signed off on. Dude was an ass. He was making business hard. No, things aren't always black and white but thats why you have to have rules. He broke them. We never gave a fuck that he didn't bother to learn them first.

So, yeah. I got your Ideal. We'll trade the debtors prison for perpetual debt from the moment you can physically tap into a completely manufactured system. We are just fucking debt gerbils running on the money generating machine. But still broke for all your efforts.

There is a great fucking siphon down the line eating your soul. It's waiting for you with cyber links and hashtags. It's demanding you activate, vote, crunch, dance, decide, deliver, change, breathe, pay attention, sing, point, laugh at kittens and above all else, hate Mondays, revere Hump Day and Friday, bemoan the end of Sunday and generally find a reason to humbly complain about the fact that you have every day. Do it with a positive attitude, seek your higher potential, breathe, meditate, sing a song, dance like no one is watching and remember that as long as you still draw a breath there is always a chance.

Hey!

I said, "shut the fuck up and answer my questions."

"Ask them properly."

Why then is there always?

There is always some undereducated punk ass copper. Pushing his badge and gun around. Fuck his weight. With a gat that size he doesn't have to run. It's we who have to be deft of foot. Jumping from juniper bush to juniper bush, hopping fence to fence, through yards, and alley's. Isn't it us who run?

I say fuck that copper. With his badge and gun. Waking us from our sleep with his demands for obedience and recompence.

I say fuck that copper with his deviance and his disregard for those he's sworn to serve and protect. Murder and neglect.

Plying us with his compliance weapons. Trying to make us afraid. Trying to stir our spirits with his fear tactics and jack boot thuggery. Fuck the copper I say and piss on his suppression, shit right down the barrel of his fear stick. We are supposed to sit idle and afraid while they murder our children in the streets. Fuck those coppers I say. Fuck 'em good.

American Gestapo!
American Gestapo!
That's all they are.
American Gestapo!
American Gestapo!

Police Force.
Police State!

We know that we must protect ourselves and so we demand and fight for our right to PACK A PIECE! Even those of us who are all about peace feel the need to pack a piece and be sure everyone in the house learns it's proper operating procedure. Our neighborhoods are becoming armed camps. Not against the threat of roving gangs of young derelict rapists bent on anarchy but instead, from the very government sworn in to represent our best interests. They think that their higher interest is in our best interest. So we pack a piece because we have to fear the Pirates and the Po-Po's. What kinda freedom is that? What kind of justice locks up a gardener because he chooses to grow an herb?

What kind of Justice locks up a man defending his garden? What kind of society forces a man to defend a garden in the first fucking place?

Because the only guns in my house, devil, are Airsoft and BB. Because as much as you might like it you will never again see me within your institutional walls. I like pussy walls better. You will never see me in your dining halls, I like dance halls better. You will never again see my bitter face, my Refuse to bow, bend or break face.

You will never find me again haunting your cold halls and back alley's waiting for my next moment to take your advantage away. Because you have make it so that I will never again find myself willing to dip so low as to draw your hated attention.

That means, "FUCK YOU".

Do what's right by us dear country.
Do what's right by us dear Lord that this country prey's to, and on.
Do what's right by us you Rulers of This OUR HOMELAND!

And I swear by all that is in me I will let you pass.

But if you continue to fuck us ...

$#$$%%@^&@&*@*#(&#%!!!!!!!!!!@**%$%$%$*($U)!!!!!!^^%&$*$*$*

I will goddamned ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn
Your ass.

Bruddah Preach.

Looking Back

One thing I loved about Photography and Photoshop as a hobby was that I got an opportunity to show things as I saw them. The whole idea for The KimbleViewPoint came from my experiences learning how to shoot and manipulate photographs.

And I shot everything from hoppers:

To Nuns:

In looking forward I thought I'd take a moment to look back. In this blog I wanted to share the art and images that moved me then. These things that I created as a personal remembrance of what is possible.

So, enjoy. Tell me what you think.

Welcome to Toy Land

This is one of my favorites. There were always so many little toys and stuff scattered all over the house. They made perfect subjects.

Hero

Satan was a recurring subject. At the time understanding the adversary was an important part of my life. He's featured often and I as him.

The Devourer

You know, eating souls and what not.

Angel of Mercy

And then there was the other side of the coin. I find all religious imagery fascinating and I created a series of "Lesser Gods" to go with this one.

The Piper

I also really enjoyed shooting people. Like the Nuns I prefered the subjects never know I was there.

Native Man

The Unmasking

And then there were the self portraits. I took a lot of these and often turned them inside out.

Sides

See more Here.

Michelle M. Shows No Fear

Description:

Haunted by memories of her murdered twin, Keely Morrison is convinced suicide is her only ticket to eternal peace. But in death, she discovers the afterlife is nothing like she expected. Instead of peaceful oblivion or a joyful reunion with her sister, Keely is trapped in a netherworld on Earth with only a bounty-hunting reaper and a sarcastic demon to show her the ropes.

When the demon offers Keely her ultimate temptation--revenge on her sister's killer--she must determine who she can trust. Because, as Keely soon learns, the reaper and demon have been keeping secrets and she fears the worst is true--that her every decision changes how, and with whom, she spends eternity.

Chapter One:

Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil, for they are with me.

I repeated my version of the psalm as I watched the ribbon of blood drift from my wrist. I’d hoped it would be a distraction—something to stop me from wondering what my sister’s dying thoughts had been. Exhaling slowly, I let the emptiness consume me.

Jordan had kept my secrets and I had kept hers. In the end, it came down to just one secret between us that took her life. Now, it would take mine. I should have said something, but nothing I said or did now could bring her back or make anyone understand what she meant to me.

Are you here, Jordan? Are you with me? Tell me about heaven...

I told myself Jordan was gone, never coming back, but her memories continued to haunt me. I had no idea if there even was an afterlife. If God existed, I was convinced he had given up on me. Not once did I sense he’d heard a single one of my prayers. I wasn’t asking for the world—I only wanted to know if my sister was safe and at peace. What was so hard about that?

She should still be here. It wasn’t fair.

I’d been the difficult one—much more than Jordan. For a while, I’d even gotten into drugs. Mom and Dad had worried I’d get Jordan into drugs, too. But I wouldn’t. Not ever. Besides, that part of my life had been over long before Jordan’s death. A small gargoyle tattoo on my left shoulder was all that remained of my previous lifestyle.

Mom and Dad started treating me differently after Jordan’s funeral two months ago. She and I were twins, so I understood how hard it was for them to look at me and not see her. Sometimes, they wouldn’t look at me at all. Mom went to the psychiatrist, but no one asked if I needed to talk to someone about what happened. No one asked if I needed sleeping pills or antidepressants. Yeah, sure. Don’t give the former addict pills of any sort.

Not one person saw the all-consuming suffering that gnawed at my soul. Why couldn’t anyone see? Jordan had been more than my sister—she’d been my Samson, my strength. I would have done anything for her, and yet, I’d failed her. I wasn’t the one who’d killed her, but I might as well have been. How could I ever live with that? My heart had a stillness to it since her death.

I shall fear no evil.

I couldn’t very well recite the first part of Psalm 23 because it said I shall not want, and I did want. I wanted to go back in time. I wanted my sister back. Clearly, goodness and mercy were never going to be part of my life ever again. In my mind, I saw myself walking through the iron gates of hell with demons cackling gleefully all around.

I didn’t want to die. Not really. I was just tired and didn’t know of another way to stop the pain. Doctors removed a bad appendix. Dentists pulled rotten teeth. What was I supposed to do when my very essence hurt, when the cancer I’d come to call depression made every decent memory agonizingly unbearable?

Before I’d gotten down to cutting my wrist (I managed to only cut one), I’d taken a few swigs of Dad’s tequila—the good kind he kept in the basement freezer. I’d used another swig or two to chase down the remainder of Mom’s sleeping pills in the event I failed to hit an artery or vein. Then I’d set the bottle on the ledge of the tub in case I needed further liquid encouragement. Instead of using a knife or a razor, I attached a cutting blade to my Dad’s Dremel. The Dremel was faster, I reasoned. More efficient.

It would have been easier to OD, I suppose. But I felt closer to my sister this way, to suffer as she’d suffered.

I recited the line from Psalms 23 again. It had become my personal mantra.

The words resonated in my parents’ oversized bathroom. I’d chosen theirs because the Jacuzzi tub was larger than the tub in the hall bathroom. Jordan and I used to take bubble baths together in this same tub when we were little.

Innocence felt like a lifetime ago. I searched the bathroom for bubble bath but came up short. Soap might have made the laceration hurt more so it was probably just as well. Besides, the crimson streaming from my wrist like watercolor on silk was oddly mesmerizing.

The loneliness inside proved unrelenting, and the line from the psalms made me feel better. I prayed for the agony inside me to stop. I argued with God. Pleaded. But after all was said and done, I just wanted the darkness to call me home.

I tried not to think of who would find my body or who’d read the note I’d left. I blamed myself not only for failing Jordan, but for failing my parents, too.

My lifeline to this existence continued to bleed out into the warm water. Killing myself had been harder than I’d imagined. I hadn’t anticipated the searing fire racing through my veins. I reached for the tequila with my good arm but couldn’t quite manage. Tears welled in my eyes.

Part of me foolishly felt Jordan was here. The other part feared she wasn’t.

Give me a sign, Sis. Just one.

I imagined seeing my parents at my funeral—their gaunt faces, red-eyed and sleepless. How could I do this to them? Wasn’t the devastation of losing one child enough?

No. Stop. A voice in my head screamed. Don’t do this. Don’t. Please...

I shifted my body, attempted to get my uncooperative legs under me. I could see the phone on my parents’ nightstand. I could make it that far. Had to. The voice was right. I didn’t want to do this. I felt disorientated, dizzy. Darkness crept along the edges of my vision. Focusing became difficult. A sweeping shadow of black caught my attention. Someone stood in the bathroom—not my sister. A man. Had I managed to call 911? I couldn’t remember getting out of the tub. And why’d I get back in? Did I use a towel?

Mom is going to be pissed when she sees the blood I’ve tracked all over the bedroom carpet.

“I’m sorry,” I told the man in black.

“It’s okay, Keely. Don’t be afraid.” Not my father’s voice. It was softer, with a hint of sorrow. Distant. Fleeting. Later, I’d feel embarrassed about this, but for now I was safe from the nothing I’d almost become. My teeth clattered from the chill. My eyelids fluttered in time with my breaths. The tub water had turned the color of port wine. The ribbons, the pretty, red watercolor ribbons were gone.

Dull gray clouded my sight.

A voice whispered to me, and my consciousness floated to the surface again.

“—okay, Keely.”

Cold. So cold.

“I’m right here.”

There was no fear in me as the man bent forward, his face inches from mine. He was my father’s age, and yet strangely older. His eyes were so...blue, almost iridescent. The irises were rimmed in a fine line of black, and the creases etched at the corners reminded me of sunbeams as he gave me a weak smile. The oddly. Dressed. Paramedic. A warm hand reached into the water and cradled mine. My fingers clutched his. I sighed, feeling myself floating, drifting. Light—high and intense exploded before me. No! Too much. Too much! I shuddered and labored to catch my breath, but it wouldn’t come.

Finally, the comfort of darkness rose to greet me.

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