Little Girls and Old Women

told to honor and obey
little girls can’t find their way
lips zipped against food and speech 
gotta stay skinny, gotta stay meek

or true love won’t come their way
submerging self, the price they pay
striving to be who he wants her to be
she loses her and becomes his she

put Prince Charming on lofty pedestal 
feed the ego of immature male
make him feel like a mighty king
no matter the fact you’ll never be queen

for him, queens are the porn-star pack
perfect dolls all waxed, maxed, and stacked
always ready, willing, and able
not real women...just juvenile fables

poor little girls become old women
before realizing there is no winning
for the enlightened, this epiphany brings joy
no more worries about pleasing a boy

just march to the beat of your own ditzy drummer
pick white daisies in your own field of summer
dance in the rain while the devil beats his wife
and always carry a big suspicious knife

©️2023 jai

Image by Jill Wellington from Pixabay

March Chimes

March chimes tinkle in the wind

Telling me spring is on the way,

Chasing away dark winter days.

And I wonder where the wind has been.

Unlike winter, spring sports a grin,

All toothy gold, warm, and gay.

March chimes tinkle in the wind,

Telling me spring is on the way.

Sometimes brash, chimes dance, drunk on gin.

Or perhaps, weed entered the fray.

Drunk or high or merry, who’s to say?

They jump and jingle as they spin—

March chimes tinkle in the wind,

Telling me spring is on the way.

©️2023 jai


(Author’s note: written for my mother, whose favorite season was spring.)

Image via Morguefile

The Last Dance

I stood out on the deck, staring up at the night sky into the face of the end of the world.

Inside, my family and a large group of their friends drank and laughed and danced to old songs, some I remembered, some I didn’t. Upstairs, my two little brothers and the younger kids of the partiers’ slept—with a little help from Benadryl—blissfully unaware of the fact they would never wake.

In the valley below, the town sparkled like the Fourth of July, now a month past. The sultry breeze carried the faint sounds of music and laughter up the steep hillside to my family’s summer home.

Was the whole world celebrating?

The president had announced a few months ago that Delaroche was on a collision course with Earth, but for no one to panic because all the countries with nuclear capabilities would launch their missiles at the comet when it was close enough, and would either destroy or divert it from its course. That hadn’t happened. The firing of the entire world’s nuclear arsenal hadn’t altered its path.

There had been some minor rioting when the president had given his final speech informing the citizens of the United States of the failure to stop Delaroche, and advising us all to make our peace with God and spend the few remaining days with our loved ones. But no one had burned buildings, looted stores, or done all the other things people have under extreme circumstances. Almost everyone, like the president, left their job and went home to be with family and friends. Televisions were turned off, the internet wasn’t accessed, cell phones were tossed down and forgotten. Now that it was too late, people realized what was important.

Delaroche would strike the earth around sunrise. And that would be it. I knew I should be scared, but I wasn’t. I was a little sad, though. I was fourteen years old. I would never go to a prom, never have a boyfriend, never fall in love, never get married, never have children.

A few years ago, I had decided I wouldn’t even consider a serious relationship until I had finished college, gotten a degree in neurosurgery—specialists like my dad made tons of money—and set up a practice. Now…well, now none of that mattered.

Behind me, the party noises increased in volume, then I heard the door snick to. Footsteps across the porch. Two hands settled onto the railing beside mine, one holding a bottle of Screaming Eagle Cabernet Sauvignon, my father’s most expensive wine.

“Why’re you out here by yourself?”

I shrugged.

The bottle went up, and my eyes followed it to the face of my mother’s best friend’s son, Mathew. Though we were the same age and went to the same school, we had never exchanged a word. We moved in different social circles, he with the dorky geeks, me with the honors students and cheerleading squad. Why, I didn’t think I had ever really looked at him before, and if you got past the acne cooking on his cheeks and forehead, it was a nice face, friendly and open.

He lowered the bottle, saw me staring. “You wanna drink?”

“Sure.” I took the bottle from his hand and took a big swig—my first taste of alcohol. Wasn’t too bad. I tipped the bottle to my lips again, then passed it back.

“What’re you thinking about?” he asked.

Again, I shrugged. My eyes traveled back up to the sky. Delaroche had swallowed more stars, stolen more of the darkness. “I wonder if it’ll hurt…”

“It’s a fucking monster, and we’re at ground zero.” He took another drink, passed the bottle back to me. “It’ll be over like that.” He snapped his fingers. “No time to hurt.”

I downed what was left, then set the empty bottle on the railing. I turned toward him. “Will you kiss me?”

He looked surprised. Stunned actually. “Well…uh…Megan, I’ve never kissed a girl before.”

“And I’ve never kissed a boy before.” At that moment, I wanted nothing more on this earth than to be kissed. I turned to him, circled my arms around his neck.

Our eyes locked. I felt the click of a connection in my stomach. I closed my eyes…then…then felt his mouth, soft and warm upon mine. I tasted wine; I tasted him. It was the best kiss ever.

Slowly, our lips drew apart. I opened my eyes. He was smiling. I smiled back.

“Wanna dance?” he asked.

I nodded my head.

Inside the house, I heard the familiar beat of Bruce Springsteen’s “Dancing in the Dark”, my mom’s favorite song. Mathew crossed his arms over my back while mine stayed locked around his neck. We danced. And we danced. For a long time. Slow. Our bodies tight together.

And over his shoulder, I watched night turn into day. A bright, hot day that held no sun.

I closed my eyes, turned my face into the crook of his neck. And we danced.

©2023 jai

Image via iStock

(Author’s note: I wrote “The Last Dance” quite a few years ago and shared it on a previous blog. I’ve written many short stories—some have been published in magazines, some not—but this little melancholy tale that I never submitted for publication, continues to be one of my favorites.)


never able to love and obey

always going her own way

damn fiddler to pay

every day


wielding machete, she hacked her way

all would-be white knights, she slayed

damn fiddler to pay



now body worn out and hair of gray

feet planted in self-made clay

damn fiddler to pay

every day


©2023 jai


Image by James Deutschkron from Pixabay

Silly Girl

there was a silly girl

who didn't see
the mistake she made
by trusting me

she gave her heart
she gave her all
and I tripped her up
just to watch her fall

I felt big by
making her small
used sarcasm and anger
kept her back to the wall

I didn't listen
I didn't see
that she stopped loving
wanted only to be free

now I’m sorry
but it comes too late
for too long I sowed meanness
and now I reap her hate

©️2023 jai

Image by Brigitte Werner from Pixabay