If I could Paint the Sun

Dear You,

“She says she wants to shine a light into the darkness,” but thinks a blog will not accomplish the deed. Does she not realize that with every eye that looks upon her words, a heart might possibly be softened? A mind might be altered slightly? The power to share, to care, and to allow ourselves to affect others… “affect” because we are indeed changing them. It is a scary thought for some and this is not some super power we speak of. It is the power to care and that is a very human quality. That is a character trait that should never be overlooked and instead should be embraced.

A borderless world is social media. This land that we stand in now, these people of all colors and no color at all, their personalities created on fonts called Calibri and Times New Roman. And yet we know them as we do a character from a story we love to reread in the night. These connections are real, as much as some may scoff at silly chains of necessary friendship. These men adorn themselves with lofty titles of “Opinionated Man.” Ignore the wind, it is only the wind from America.

If you want to paint then paint. But if you want to change the world of others then paint the sun. Alter not only their perception, but their reality as well. Do this with pen, brush, keyboard, or word but do it because you do have the power. You have the power to care.

-Opinionated Man



We battle. Our forces lock on, as precise as any engineer, and our souls dance. Their tango is a deadly dance of shadow and light, as we move without motion. Darting, shifting, and turning we probe for weaknesses immediately. Are we such predators that weakness comforts us? Our mood eases, letting out tension as we sense someone that is not a threat. Far better than another predator, an intellectual equal, whose presence immediately sends our guard up. Stranger, know that I am watching you and if you dare to confront me your challenge shall be met.

We comfort each other, but we know our boundary. We groove in the same mood and commiserate in times of passion or pain. Emotional wall, you are my constant companion and never a burden. Were you to become a burden, I am no saint. I carry no one else’s boulder. Gladly will I share a meal or give a drink, but I do not carry the emotional weight of someone else’s consciousness. Friend, be a friend, and let us keep our dance in balance.


Beware, I can kill you and sleep soundly at night. I have no remorse, except in regards to myself or my own. You, I do not care for you. Walk swiftly across to the other side of the path, cross not my eyes, for to do so will place your own life in dire peril. I see the potential, this world is full of people auditioning for the role of adversary, and yet I care not about them unless they come into my world.


You and I dance to a song without words. Sometimes the dance is painful, love can hurt, but most of the time it is a dance we do without thought. It is under your caress and gentle touches that I know why I wake up in the morning. You move me to passion, without passion there is no love. Of course we most continue to stoke the fire, what love does not require the effort of rekindled interest, you are worth that effort. Others have slipped away, faded into the night their names are ink prints on my mind. And although those stains may stay for a time, their meaning and value diminish with each setting sun. There is only one lover here in my heart, it is you.

-Opinionated Man


A Silent Scream

In Afghanistan, a young soldier lies on the ground alone. His blood is seeping through his fingers as he tries to hold his life in for just a bit longer. His last thoughts are of his family, the love for his mother, and his loyalty to a country that has hated him since he got here. He gasps for air. And as death approaches he opens his mouth in defiance, but all that comes out is a silent never-ending scream.

A young prostitute in Thailand weeps in her room. It is nothing more than a shack. Her first customer has just left, her first time ever, and all she can do is hold herself. The feel of her own skin repulses her. The tears have all been shed; there don’t seem to be any left. All she can think of is the shame she has brought on herself and on her family. Her wails turn into a silent scream, a scream that only ends when the next customer arrives.

A young man runs with his friends in India. They are trying to escape the coming sirens that seem to have surrounded them. He had not wanted to come, but his brother had forced him. Now a young woman is dead and all he can think of is the horror he has just witnessed his friends and brother commit. “It cannot be real,” is what he keeps telling himself as he runs till his lungs feel like they will burst. As he rounds the corner a club hits him on the back of the head and he falls with a silent scream, a fall that will last the rest of his life.

In Chicago a young mother waits by the phone. Her son has been out all night and there have been news reports of violence in the surrounding neighborhoods. She is not overly worried, she has a good kid and he does not affiliate with any of those bad groups. The phone rings and startles her, taking a couple years off her life. The voice on the other end is saying something… she makes out two words. Her son’s name and the word “dead.” The phone drops from her hand as she begins to scream… a silent scream that only the angels can hear.

A man walks out onto his porch. He stares into the night and closes his eyes. There are times when you can hear them, the silent screams, they fill the night and slay sleep.


Dying Light

Where does the light go when a candle stands without his flame. Helping others to matter when I don’t matter at all. A shadow on the wall and a whisper in the night is the life I lead… have led. What course could have been taken that was not taken by circumstance. I ponder the thought sometimes. Using flowery language to hide veiled meaning, I hide from myself behind my own words. There is no story of sacrificial lambs and people that die on crosses for the greater good found here, no that is one blog over. I live pages that surpass a genre that have by chance become a blog. I blog.



Erindale – Flash Fiction v1

If you walk from the beaches of Dreadbin and follow the river inland for a mile you will reach a giant forest. There are many names for the trees found here, but most people in this area call them Blackwater Forest. The Queen’s road runs throughout this land so travelers may be surprised to find that the path disappears after you exit the forest. The land ends at a cliff and in the distance a mountain range and a large lake can be seen. It is in those mountains that you will find Erindale, home to Queen Victoria and her people.

Erindale rests against the base of Redrock Mountain, named for its unusual stone color. The Palace of the Queen is built into the mountain itself and the palace blends in with the surroundings with its intricate stonework. Forming an expanding semi circle from the royal grounds is the sprawling town made up of fishing huts, homes, forges, taverns, and businesses of every venture. Erindale is a thriving mecca of trade between the inlands and the distant kingdoms across the Dreadbin. The sounds of life, prosperity, and the faint tunes of a lute can often be heard as you approach the main gates.

The city is protected by a forty foot wall made of a combination of red stone and strong timber found in the surrounding hills. The gates themselves though are the true first impression any visitor receives when they come to Erindale. Two enormous slabs of bright red stone stand as pillars of protection against any harm that may come to these people. They are called the Heart Stones and represent the unity of the town behind the Queen. No force has ever conquered the walls of Erindale and some say as long as the red mountain stands none ever shall.

The Priests of Alta meet with the Priestesses of Sinta every year to perform the lighting of the sand. No one really knows what this ritual is or what is done during the ceremony, but everyone grows up knowing of its existence. Erindale is blessed by the light of the sand and the heart of the stone mountain is what keeps that fire safe. It is a comforting thought for those people that live in the town and it provides a connection between the simple minds of the less educated and those with the will to rule.

The rhythmic stomps of the town guard can be heard in the distance as you walk away from the palace and past the business district. The air becomes moist from Crystal Lake which seems to flow under half the town. The sounds of the working sailors and the intriguing advances of the girls on the dock fill the air with excitement and opportunity. Barrels of exotics can be seen being rolled off one ship as raw materials are being hauled onto another. People can also be seen coming off boats and walking with eyes full of excitement at seeing the palace in the distance. Here in Erindale there is something for everyone.

-Opinionated Man



Inspiration found

Where is inspiration found. We think as we seek it in the night and day. Chasing periods for a hidden thought, finding a hidden thought where there is none. Drawing motivation from the unmotivated as they use their talent in a halfass way.

Do we seek inspiration or does inspiration find us. I ponder this even as I find my answer. She walks beside me and in front of her is a shopping cart with the Target logo on it. We don’t talk for several minutes, but at some point our pace becomes the same. Our walk of life is the same. Two different souls, probably with different stories… I don’t know. But what impresses me the most is that I feel a soul walking by me when in a normal day I pass a hundred shadows attached to bodies I easily forget. It is so rare to find something that touches me anymore in this layered world of artificial pleasures. Our bodies forget what true feeling really feels like.

Going anywhere special?” I ask her daring to break the silence that may have secured our companionship for the moment. Had I broken it? But I have to know. She has such a look of determination and hope on her face that it almost baffles me. Ok, it does baffle me. Weren’t the homeless supposed to be distraught and depressed? Was there an answer here that she held that I might need to find a different type of happiness in life?

“Forward. Always forward. Never back,” she responds as if she has said those words a million times. It tickles my mind. And with each step a new letter begins to make sense. By the second word I know she has given me a gift. When I turn to thank her she is gone. I look behind me quickly, to the right, and left. Hell I even look up… Nope. Nowhere. She has vanished, but the thought she has given me has not. The inspiration of a moment that was meant to bless a page. And so it has.

-Opinionated Man

Jason C. Cushman