Category Archives: Fiction

This is a fictional story of My Life. I live in Holland Michigan, and interact with some real people at mostly real places. I hope you enjoy my journey.

The Salutation

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Watching it all happen wasn’t a surprise, but it was painful, knowing what I knew.
She sat at her desk quietly working, he walked in and started toward her desk. She looked up slowly, caught his eye, and quickly said ‘hi’. He looked her way, responded in the same and continued on past her walking toward his desk.  The constant talking, friendship, texting words, hopes, dreams over the previous six months all hewn down into two small words.
It crushed her, and he was eternally angry, but none of that mattered anymore and they both continued on with their lives as if the other was never a part nor were they ever.
Morgan Werhen Copyright 2018
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Once and For All

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She smells like lilacs in the spring, where the fragrance over takes all the surrounding flowers and tickles the nose.
We were hugging now, the photo shoot almost over, but our lives together almost beginning.

He held on to me as I sank into his embrace.  Bending my arms and body into his chest allowing myself to lean into, almost feels like crawling inside him.  The warmth is intoxicating, his breath on my hair, my lips held off his chest but only to protect from the deep red glossing my lips.

Her earrings adorn her ears, and her hair is soft to my touch.  She nestles against me and lets me close my arms around her small waist. I can see her eyes smiling, she looks up at me and then softly closes her eyes as she relaxes against me.

“What am I going to do with him?” she thinks, this life of ours is about to begin, we were once just two people and now he and I together.

“How did I ever get her to say ‘Yes’” he wonders, though finding the beauty of her dress distracting as his eyes trace the buttons down her back, where the bustled skirt is straining against the captor holding it alight.

The photographer clicks a few more shots though without words as the two stand there together but one soul waiting to walk down the aisle and vow their forever love once and for all.

Image Credit: hellomuse.com

Keep Coming Back for More

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The heart wants what it wants, so it keeps crawling toward the very thing that destroys it.
The cliff is nearing, as the heart pulls closer to the abyss.
This story has been watched before, the mind screams “RUN!”
The body begs to be saved. The eyes wander. The hands feel.
The heart ignores all the obvious signs, emotions, sadness and whatever new horrors await.
The heart keeps on coming back for more.
Hopefully there will be a someone left after this turn on the road that has no end.

He Freed Me From the Constraints of my Heart

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He freed me from the constraints of my heart.
He took me from the isolation of my soul.
He removed me from the closet of my past.
He carried me from the danger of my youth.
He loved me with the fire of my emotions.
He needed me with the lust of my desire
He adored me with love of my mother.
He protected me with the strength of my father.
He left me with the hole from my adolescence.
He wounded me with weapon of loneliness.
He was taken from me with the speed of life.
I’m broken without him.
I’m desperate for him
I’m walking away from him.
“As the Lord Giveth, He also taketh away”
I left the cemetery with a heavy heart and a demolished soul.
Image Credit: theweddingscoop.com

The Road Less Taken?

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I didn’t ask for this.  This life.  I just thought I’d get up everyday and be normal, that I’d fit in.
I noticed a change in early middle school, not much, but mostly from the men, I’d get called on for questions, or I’d get noticed first when I lifted my hand to answer a question.
I never had trouble with grades, but I found that the grades started to find me quicker even though I wasn’t needing to work so hard for them.
I’ve never had the perfect responses to questions, I’ve never been on the ‘A’ list for whose the smartest in the class, but I’m certainly not dumb. I’m not someone to be trifled with in an argument. “Frankie will fight to the death” my best friend Sophie once said.
However, it seems over time that certain people started responded differently to some of my answers, but take other answers not as seriously.  “That theorem wasn’t your strongest Frankie”, or “historically speaking, I think Dan had a stronger argument about the chemicals involved.” “Yes, that paper showed how witty Mr. Darcy actually was!”
I liked it before honestly. I liked knowing that what I was or how I looked was never a part of the picture.
It’s not that way anymore. It may not be that way for a number of years or never?
I’m not complaining, I’m extremely happy with my life, but where I used to just prove myself, I now never will.  The assumption is now always the same.
I over heard a conversation I was never supposed to be privy too. I’m shocked by the statements, only for the fact that they were so bare, so truthful, and yet while I stood there, listening I realized my ’situation’ was much farther along than I had previously anticipated.  “She’s smart I think?” the teacher was saying. “Though, sometimes I have to first realize that she actually has the right answer before waving off what she is saying.” “It’s like my eyes can’t come to agreement with what my ears are hearing, and with no deal, my mind is left with confusion.”
I cried that day, and that night, not out of pity for me, but that my reality was altered as well.  I realized that evening that I was at a crossroads.
I had a decision to make, and although some would ‘say’ I was able to take both, it really only boils down to humanity and the decisions we decide to make while living amongst them.
Words are cheap, everyone, especially women in the educated sphere, will happily tell me not to fall in line with what my body is making an argument for.  You are a woman, hear yourself roar! Ignore the makeup, ignore the clothes, ignore the looks, and live your life.
I could have done that.
I went down the road of beauty, and love. Academics are still a part of my life sure, and I’ve done just fine in my High school and College years, but I certainly didn’t do them while trying to be a plain non feminine version of myself.
I happily embraced my womanhood and enjoyed my femininity!  I love my beauty, I have deep friendships with my girlfriends, and yes, I still was the Prom Queen.
Had I took the path of ‘smarts only’ I may have made something of myself, or possibly be the owner of a special skillset that no one cares to hear about.  However, I still have multiple special skillsets and love who I am, I know who I want to be and I happily acknowledge that neither of those decisions are in line with the popular culture’s desire to ‘fix’ my problem.
Last night, while prepping for my date, I caught myself in the mirror for a few seconds. It takes a while to ‘get ready’, but  I couldn’t be happier with that person in the mirror, I love her, and she is loved by many others.

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Is He a Something Or Am I a Nothing

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I sat in bed eyes wide open. The fairy dust of sleep not penetrating my mind enough. At least not enough to turn itself off.
The idea that there is someone I can’t possibly have. He’s so fun. He gets me. He writes back.
The relationship isn’t,  but sometimes I wonder.
The humor is constant but is it simply that?
He loves my music. Nothing more, nothing less,  but he constantly asks.
He notices things, though he notices things for everyone,  though it seems. No,  but yet it seems he notices more things about me.
I messed up once. His response totally expected, but, and this is what keeps me up. His response wasn’t negative, but he said, that the idea didn’t make sense. The funny part,  I asked because I’d love our company to take us both on a trip, he would be the fun one to travel with. But, he didn’t dispute that he wouldn’t enjoy said trip with me, just that it doesn’t make sense for him to go. Is he worried about the company I provide? Does it matter that I’m the one who suggested it? Or is it simply a case of a company man doing his thing for the man.
It’s just.
I don’t know.
When he’s around I do everything I can to hang with him. He’s so much fun, but it seems sometimes he’s not sure if he’s allowing to much access? It’s those fun times where I feel him pull back, or suddenly worry what isn’t getting done and he ferries himself back off to his desk.
Is there something there?
Do I want there to be?
The constant thoughts and occasional teeny slips could mean yes. It could mean. Yes.
I may be falling for the man I can’t have.
I may be in love, or just lust? I may be in desire and wanting a man I cannot have. I may be.
I am.
If only. If only he wasn’t under the spell of someone else.
Image Credit: pinterest.com

Who Is This Person Staring Back at Me?

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My eyes opened suddenly, a rush of emotions and panic flooding my mind.  “Who am I” I thought.  “Where am I?” Laying on the bed I turned my head to attempt to look at my surroundings.  The room was dark, it smelled slightly musty but I smelled a floral scent mixed in with slightly damp, and cold feelings.  I moved my arms and legs, they felt different, like they haven’t been moved in while, but they all responded as if everything was fine.  I sat up, but felt a little stiff and slow.  There were a couple of windows in the room, they seemed large, but with hardly any light in the room I was struggling to see what or where I was.
Where was I? I felt calm, the panic was replaced by a feeling of excitement, but I didn’t know why?  I remembered going to bed at some point wearing my yellow sun dress, with a white hairpiece holding back my hair..  I remembered running in the grass with my friends as we would ride our bikes around a neighborhood?  The thoughts and memories started to flood in.  I was 12.  It was summer. The light wind would play with my brunette bob and blow it around my face, always forcing me to wrap the stray strands behind my right ear.  My mom always getting after me about picking up my dolls. My white strappy sandals left in the middle of room.
The light was starting to peak into the windows around the heavy blinds. I decided to try to stand up.  It went fine but I was surprised to feel hair falling at my back.  I habitually moved my hand to place it behind my ear. What? It cascades down my back? I grabbed hold of it. It was full of ‘body?’ why did I know that term? It smelled floral, like lilacs in the summer just before their peak. “Why is my hair so long?” I kept walking toward the window, slightly shocked that walking in a sundress would feel so constricting. Still reeling from these mixture of sensations that felt both new and familiar at the same time.
His name was Jordan. I remember a Jordan. That day, “why do I remember that day?” the sun was bright, shining through the small oak in our yard causing the shadows to dance on the house.  He lived across the street from us, though I remember it was a street where cars went back an forth. I remember standing at the curb and we were yelling back and forth about something. He was in a light blue t-shirt with muddy shorts.  His ‘race’ bike with the orange handle grips sitting next to him tossed on the ground, the kickstand shoving up a mound of grass and dirt next to it. “You have to come over today!” He was yelling.  “I can’t!” I yelled back.  The sun was hot, I could see he was sweating a little, his two front teeth gleaming as he moved his mouth.  “Why couldn’t I come over?” I asked my self?
Whoa!! I almost tripped on something on the floor. “What is that?” I felt something sliding next to me. The excitement also seemed to make me breathe harder.  Something is restricting my chest? “What??” I stop. “Just stand here, calm down” I think, that decision causes me to start relaxing a bit.  I was almost to the windows, for some reason it felt like opening the shade would allow me to understand why nothing makes sense.  I start to explore who or “what” I am. I immediately realize that I must be a woman, no longer 12, long long past. I feel below my waist and my breath heaves in a panic, but an excited twirl of happiness.  My pajamas seem to not be pajamas. I take both hands, and lean down at the waist. and it seems I have a dress on with a skirt full of luxuriant “where did that word come from” ruffles.  They cascade and follow my body well past my legs and around the floor.  This new body of mine is so confusing, but it feels like “me.”
Jordan kept yelling but the cars were too loud, the wind seemed to pick up and I remember the day feeling darker. I instinctively remember fixing my hair behind my ear, but there was a sound, a loud screeching sound.  Everything slows down in that moment, but I remember turning my head toward the noise.
I steadied myself in the room, the sun continued to push more of it’s yellow light through the windows. It was time to finish this slow walk and see where I was. Moving toward the windows again, taking daintier steps, I heard my dress swish and swirl as my legs bumped against the skirt. At the windows I could see two of them had blinds, the type I remember were in my room, wide wood slats that would pivot to hide the light, forcing streams to pour in at the edges. However, the middle window was different. It seemed to hold something smooth, or attached to the window. There was a little light, but it was forced only at the square edges of the window. The beams shot out like a line, almost a sign with no backlighting for the words that would be seen if the light could shine through.  I reached the wall, I felt what appeared to be cold brick, but the warmth from the other side was apparent. I moved my hand along the surface of the wall where the light could penetrate enough for my eyes to see my hand.  Whoa, again, my heart quickened! Fingers so long, rounded nails, perfectly manicured with a light pink detail. The sun danced off my nails as they shimmered. Then it caught my eye. I gasped! On my finger sat a ring with a diamond.
The sound was deafening! The wreck caused one vehicle start coming my way. I sat there frozen as a hunk of steel was rolling toward the curb, I could see the panic in the drivers eyes, mouth wide, words streaming out but I couldn’t hear. I did hear something, or wait, someone screaming. “Judith!!! Judith run! RUN!” It was Jordan.  He was screaming to run, but where? I turned away from the driver barreling toward me and tried to move my legs.  It was like they were filled with lead, like a dream where I was running out of a classroom realizing I forgot to put on pants, but I couldn’t move.  “I’m coming!” He yelled, I couldn’t see him, but his voice kept getting closer. I tried desperately to run but my legs were stuck, the car was still screeching towards me, and now I could smell burning rubber and smoke.
Something hit me. I remember that. But, it hit me from the side. Arms wrapped around me and I was “tackled?” I remember falling, fast, smacking my head, but there was a rush behind me, as dirt and grass and flying debris hit me and Jordan? “Jordan!” “Jordan tackled me and shoved me away!”
I sat there desperately trying to remember more.  I remember my room, noises, people surrounding me, I remember being carried, I remember hearing a siren.  I remember hearing words about Jordan, that he wasn’t answering, they were panicked. I remember closing my eyes. Nothing after that.
That foreign hand, with the large cut diamond moved over to pull up the blind. “It’s time to meet me” I think, “Judith is my name I believe, who is Judith and why does she have a ring on her hand?” I pulled up the blind and light streamed in, I quickly walked across the middle window and pulled up the other blind. The light instantly filled the room and my eyes blinked while attempting to adjust. There definitely was something on the center mirror, it appeared to be writing. I blinked again and gasped as I saw this room for the first time. Though, it felt familiar in a way, like I’ve been here before.
The bed I was in stood alone, but there was a framed photo of Jordan an I by the nightstand, I was in the yellow sundress, and he was just smiling at me. The sheets were white, but there were yellow notes posted everywhere. I couldn’t read them, but they had an order, and appeared slightly tattered, or well used. Turning toward the center window I saw what was pasted in the window. There attached somewhat permanently was a giant letter starting with the words  “Your name is Judith Winters, on July 24th 13 years ago you hit your head but you were saved from death my Jordan Reetherin. You need to read the letter by the mirror next to you to catch up on what has happened to you so you can move forward with your life from this morning on.
The feelings of panic started again, “I couldn’t remember anything since that accident! I’m standing here a woman and I have to re learn who I am.  I have a ring.” I turned toward the mirror and at that point is the first ( or thousandth ) time I met me.  I had long brunette hair, floating past my shoulders, I was wearing makeup, light pink lipstick and earrings adorned my ears. I was thin, but not gaunt, I had the body of a woman but only memories of a child. The person staring back at me was familiar with her body, but the mind was trying to wrap that fact with missing memories.  Who is this person staring back at me? The dress was gorgeous, my shoulder blades heaved in anticipation and fear as I removed the envelope from the far left of the mirror.  I opened the flap and removed the new letter, folded three times. It was long, very detailed, and hand written in a mans handwriting.
Dear Judith,
This is Jordan.  I love you, and today is our Wedding Day.
Image Credit: gabbytaangeles.tumblr.com

Water Under the Bridge

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It started with that faint wisp of moisture, usually so subtle as to be mistaken for a breath, possibly a light breeze against the cheek, but everyone feeling it knows, it’s the rain.
Standing on the bridge I watched the water run its course, swishing and angry moving from one side of the bridge toward the continual swirl on the other.
The wind picked up and I shivered, wrapping my arms around my chest to warm up against the coming storm. Grey colors swirled above as the water rushed below.  I stared off at the leaves and branches, they swayed in unison, mocking the weather, laughing at me.  Why was I here?
“We have to talk.” I told him on the phone earlier. He was bothered by something, it was almost as if he knew already. “Meet me at our bridge” I stated, though, my voice lacked the confidence of my tone. The single tear escaped me then, but I held true through the conversation.  “I’ll be a little late, I have to stop at work for a thing” he responds, his voice trails off earlier than it should have.  “I’ll be there” he says finally.
“I’m here” I think, as I feel another dusting of moisture. Looking at my feet ( why am I barefoot? ) I ask myself. I see some moisture beading on the deck.  Lacking the will to give up, I decide to stay.
He did have to stop by work that day, there was a meeting, though that wasn’t the reason he was there.  Too many missed deadlines, too many mistakes.  Today he was simply picking up his ‘stuff.’ Though, initially he had planned on continuing on. There wasn’t much reason to stay.
“Meet at the bridge” she said, why did she sound so sad?  The breakup had been mutual, both had felt the relationship wasn’t enough to keep them together.
The weather picked up around him as he left his office, rain began dancing and mincing across the road.
She stood while the water fell from the angry sky, it first flattened her hair, working it’s way through her dress and eventually into her skin, soaking her to the point she slid slowly down the railing and sat on the decking. Her foot barely able to hold her knees while looking for something to grip.
He didn’t realize how little traction he had after accelerating onto the highway.  Though, he should have.  No one would have believed the story that he lost control in the rain. Though, his mind was racing, faster then his response time to the weather surrounding his mind.
Three weeks ago, the week before they broke it off.  They fought about direction, was the relationship swirling out of control? Where were they going she asked?
That night.
His eyes widened when he realized both the reason for the meeting and that the rear wheels were not going to hold on to the corner, the river in the road took his life for a final ride.
Waiting for her man on the bridge, the rains poured.  The wind whipped around her, She cried realizing he wasn’t coming.
I’m pregnant she said to herself, and looked up toward the sky as the rain continued to pour.
~Morgan Werhen
Image Credit: chobirdokan.com

Outside – Chris

The Werhen house had been very quiet these last few months.  Vehicles would come and go, but the largest change was the empty driveway when they left. I hadn’t spent time to meet the new neighbors as work kept me busy, and frankly living this close to downtown and an amazing lake largely kept me away from the house in the summer.
Something had happened though.  I remember the police cars this early spring. I don’t know why, but I heard a scream that night, chilling, hopeless.  Then only quiet.
Today though, there is activity. An older gentleman is talking to a younger man with a tablet, he’s tapping away furiously while the older man gesticulates somewhat hastily in what seems to be some frustration.
A moving truck is rumbling down the road, and looks to be stopping at 168 W 12th street. The house with the red door. I kept staring at the door, just now noticing the windows above frame it like sorrowful eyes. The door finishes the face though, not in a smile. It seems the house is crying today.
The door slowly opens, I can see a bit of light brown hair, emerging, though the rest of her is silhouetted  by the presence of trucks, and the two men discussing something of importance.
The older gentlemen sees her, and suddenly stops talking.  He rushes over and gives her a fatherly embrace, I can see her hair bobbing in the motions of heaviness, though she only comes up to below his eyes.  She pulls away, says a statement to the man with the tablet, and while turning toward the house, waves at it, and him, to almost say good bye, or at least take it all.
 I see her sad face now, she looks back at the man who must be her dad, and begins what may be a smile, or a slight brightening of her face. As she starts to walk on, he follows her for a few steps, but she returns to him, and stands on her toes to give him a peck on the cheek.  His hand gives her back a small squeeze as she turns back toward the road.
She was beautiful.
Her hair was pulled up partially, leaving the rest cascading down her back.  As she took each step down the sidewalk, it bounced confidently with her body, in a paradox to the sad face I noticed before she started in front of me.  Her ensemble of clothing hugged her body, but the skirt slightly billowed at her waist.  I tried to ignore it, but her ass was perfect.
“Butt” I kept saying to myself, “Butt! No need to call her body parts derogatory names in your head.”
There was something about her, I must meet her.
I’ve now realized that I was staring.  The hose in my hand that was supposed to be washing my motorcycle, was now squirting helplessly in front of me. I quickly turned to look busy as her dad looked my way with an odd look on his face.
Trying to clear my head, I realized that my eyes had betrayed my thoughts.  This poor women was obviously grieving about something or someone.  There was no way she would be interested in meeting me.  It seems she is leaving anyway.  Typical, work, fun and circumstances would again not let me follow up on meeting someone.
I quick snuck another look her way, her back was to me, but her face was looking directly toward me.  “No, she must be looking toward her dad.” I thought. I checked, and he was busy talking to the truck driver.
“Who is she?” I thought?  “What happened?” “Would she ever be interested in the likes of me?”
Tear Drop

Down the Hall, Starting Over

Stepping into the hallway toward the stairs

I hear the muted click of my rubber edged heels against the gleaming oak floor. This house though now too much for me has so many memories. The scuff over by the base trim we made while I helped him bring the dresser upstairs.

“I got it, I got it!” I kept saying.

The wall ended up getting it as my fingers finally let go.

He would have been frustrated, but since we were making a bend, my scuff ended up distracting him as momentum carried his edge into the wall directly across from me. I take my hand and follow the gouge, still unpainted.

Sliding my fingers along the punctured wallboard, from afar it has looked like a painting error, or a heavy brush stroke resulting in a dimpled line along the wall. Staring at it now I could see the chips of paper hanging tenuously on the chalky plaster beneath. Each one perilously close to falling free from their ‘home’.

There is nothing that doesn’t remind me of his words.

“I love you.”

“I can’t wait to come home to see you.”

His smile, some would call it lazy, like his mouth wasn’t sure it should entirely comply with the request.

I loved it.

I loved how his eyes would brighten just before his lips would start to change shape.

I always knew that our fight was over, or he gave in when those eyes brightened. The smile was always the chocolate syrup on my own personal sundae. He would let me hug him for indeterminate amounts of time. Some of our friends would make comments, like “get a room” or “really? Again?”

I just liked the feel of him holding me.

Fighting back my tears, though not being very successful, I continued on down the stairs.

Tear Drop

 

These steps shouldn’t be a big deal, I have run, jumped and nearly slid down them so many times in the last year. It feels like I’m slipping now. That the steps themselves have morphed into a slide that will take me away, away from safety, away from our home. The end of the slide is unknown, it’s black, thick, and hard to breathe.

Each step echoes lightly, the oak treads recently refinished by his very hands. It’s as though I’m ripping each tread off the stairs, almost taking his work away from him.

Why does each step feel so final?

My left hand goes to my ear, and habitually wraps stray hair around it.

The knoll post is approaching, I hesitantly approach it. I reach out to touch it one more time. My hand graces the beauty and smoothness. The post that anchors the stairs.

His post.

It’s round, natural grain seems to stream into my eyes, as the sun hits the blond clear coat. I move my hand and the change in position splays shadows over my body.

The final step, the door stands in front of me, imposing, judging me.

I reach out, and grasp hold of the knob, the last barrier to my exit. The old knob normally would creak in resistance to the twisting motion, today greets me in silence. I pull slightly, and the sun streams into its new opening. Stepping onto my porch, I continue. Standing straight, looking good for the part I have to take.

Outside, starting over again.

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