Category Archives: Short Story

Remarkable Inquiry | short story

The question proposed to me was like the diamond on my hand; taken with a blush and a gasp, extended towards me with vigorous love. I knew nothing else for a moment, but the sheer brilliance of glimmering promises.

To answer, I was mute; ideas flourished, abounded so greatly, no one particular statement offered assurance by voice; my heart enraptured, traded on a string, a chord binding our agreement; tied so tightly no unraveling could achieve our demise. We were blissfully bound, tangled together; achieving the subtle satisfaction capable of completing my response.

When silence gave way to sing-song reply, I knew- with certain caliber of comfort- my life would never be the same. The remarkable inquiry managed to shake me like an earthquake; my perspective as an environment shifting, the map rearranging, my path forward veering now toward profound destiny.

If I could carry such concern- amounting to greater value than gemstones or metal-our love would surely sustain: encountering adventure, our mutual respect maintained by valiant struggle: we could conquer the sequence of life, overcoming any obstacle endured.

“Will you marry me?” he asked.

An Open Postscript to Katie Cross and Clan

Yes, the Bipolar has been quite a conundrum in MI Life for about seven+ years now, but fortunately for me, I have at long last discovered who I am, and how I must live, in order to maintain a healthy balance. This is a blessing, and yet, a blessed curse, to bear the weight of my Savior’s cross via my own “thorn in the brain,” if we shall quote Paul in mine own way.

I appreciate your empathy, your sympathy, and in a noble way, your apathy: in that, you judge not, despise not, loathe not, and cannot hate me because of mine illness; the mental health can be so delicate, and must be reverenced beyond respect, and feared beyond fear; and with the gratitude gained only through wisdom attained via love unconditionally given by mercy; I appreciate what I can not have, and in that, am content with the plethora of prowess and fortitude in which I have been blessed by our Almighty to bestow upon my small, meek, and humble-hearted self- with noble grace and valiant mercy, I therefore do stand in the days of the evil one, one day at a time, moment by moment, in the smallest of stepping stones as humanely, spiritual, and monumentally possible.

Please share my utmost sincere regards to your {brethren}: the healing process of either manic episodes or depressive seasons can be a tremendous burden: on the self- [to forgive, to forget if so scathing the thoughts haunt; and to reclaim what has been given, let go of what must go, be gone, destroyed, and abated, and to understand the ramifications and consequences of the choices made during the past trial period, for that indeed- the suffering mentally through mania or depression- is most certainly of the highest: a trying of our faith, which yes, must! worketh patience, and patience, please GOD: hope, and hope, praise Him! makes us not ashamed (for all things DO work for the GLORY of GOD, the ALMIGHTY, Most High GOD) as I will vouch that in mania or depression, all actions, all choices (bad or good) and all motives of understanding SEEM pure, seem righteous, seem good and very good: and in that, we must proceed claiming Christ, claiming Jesus, claiming the Prince of Peace and the peace of our LORD of Lords and KING of Kings; always and in all ways, and forever. Amen.]; on the family [the redeemed of whom once was “the lost,” to forgive the loved, to honor the loving, and to know the LOVE source of all sources, which is the powerful One who made us to be in His image, and therefore, loved, in mercy, in grace, by faith and charity: loved, entirely and unconditionally]; and by the world we have chosen to roam free within by the sanctimony of the Word which was what formed the worlds, brought the light out of the darkness, and gave us this earth as our inheritance: [for in our tremendous periods of times, do we ill forget the power of the world; and claim for ourselves: immortality, by Christ’s bloodshed, we are yet so redeemed that we must know the caliber of our spirits].

As a woman, I understand the tragedy of love, and the nobility of loving, of losing, of reclaiming Jehovah Nissi as my war banner; I know the certainty of loss: the promised redemptions- for all things we trade for our crown of glory do we have more the more the more certainly, in power, and in truth by the valiancy of our merits gained by the talents bestowed upon us through Christ Jesus: the full armour of GOD enables my everyday actions: of no merit of myself shall I endure; by no understanding of my own am I considered wise; by nothing but the blood of the lamb which was slain before the foundations of the worlds shall I tribute mine life unto glory. For that, I say hallelujah, and praise be the ONE TRUE GOD, YHWH, Yaaaaaaaaahwaaaaaaaay. Amen.

beautiful people free-writing prose

There are some truly beautiful people in this world. I could, sit here, tagging all of you, but instead, allow me a moment lacking brevity: there are some, so rich in spirit, they confess their heart openly; they pour out rich timbers that heal the soul, and caress the mind with thoughts tender enough to remove scathing memories, like the scars of legions we call the past; there are some so good to one another, race, creed, or color are only significant in sociological understanding; there is no contempt, nor are they disquieted by our pain, for that is what it is: “our pain,” as when one friend endures the trials of their faith, another friend is there to comfort the pangs of enduring; while they may assess the situation, they judge not the caliber in which the struggle was ascertained; nay, they count their blessings, just the same as some count stars- in a glance, for a pondered moment, or within a lifetime spent, occasionally, turning eyes towards the Heavens and praising the source of existence for the miracle of light and life beyond understanding- and they move, night and day, onwards with hope attained. My joy today is a wish that you all count yourselves as beautiful, because in my eyes, you truly are such as that. Thank you.

Unpacking Adoration | Short Story

Unpacking Adoration
by Miranda Innaimo

It would seem by the contents of her luggage, the trip had been a success: there were trinkets obtained at memorial sites, receipts from extravagant restaurants, museum pamphlets, and a signed copy of a music album. Yet these things were tossed aside, and sorted garments of clothing brought swelling emotions to the woman’s heart.

A pale blue cardigan with a sleeve spotted by champagne: the woman could still recall the handsome man handing her the tall, slender flute, his eyes sparkling joy beyond the bubbly. They had sat near each other while upon the flight oversees, his elbow gently brushing against her own, her breath fluttering not only from the altitude. After sharing a bottle, it soon became obvious the woman would not use the services of a tour guide; the gentleman upon flight 403- with a relaxing personality, carefree poise, and with well-founded understanding of their destination- he suited her standards for exploration far better than whomever the travel agency had chosen as her guide.

A silk handkerchief, embroidered with his initials: attending an opera in a language neither could understand, quietly whispering their interpretations of the saga; the woman occasionally silently laughing to tears while the pageantry’s storyline unfurled in hushed giggles. He put his arm around her, the handkerchief slipped into her purse. Now, fingers tracing the embroidered letters upon the silk, and she bit her lip with the desire to be held like that again.

An evening gown, the shoulder strap broken at dawn after an evening of dancing: they had commemorated their final night overseas by swinging together upon a rooftop dance floor, the city lights shining upon them as they moved together. They were radiant, and the entire crowd melds together as a fading glow compared to their shimmering happiness. Held close, the woman felt his breath upon her hair while hearing him whisper sincerely, “I’ve never felt like this before.”


That morning at breakfast, the woman looked languidly across the kitchen table. “More coffee?” she asked. Her husband slid his mug towards her and continued scanning his business files.

After another moment of silence, she asked, “Would you like to go kayaking this weekend? We could go downstream, camp on the shore and see the stars come out.”

He lifted his chin from the manila folder, “We don’t own a kayak.”

“How about we attend a lesson Thursday evening? I’ve always wanted to learn swing dancing. There is a big band performing.”

Between sips of coffee, he casually reminded, “You know trumpets give me a headache.”

She continued, trying, “we could see the Hungarian movie playing at the theater tonight?” After he had consumed several bites of toast while putting a note in the margin of his paperwork, she nudged again, “the Hungarian movie, darling?”

He looked up, snapping close the file. “I’m working on a special account this evening, so I will be home later than I would like.” Her husband rose and left the table.

Bidding him farewell at the door, the woman placed the silk handkerchief in his breast pocket. “Thank you again for our lovely vacation,” she said, her fingers trailing the embroidery initials on the cloth.

“Hmm?” her husband gazed into the foyer mirror, adjusting his tie and straightening his collar. “Oh, yes, you’re welcome.” He smiled, “I’ve got to go.” With a hurried kiss, he was out the door for the remainder of the day.

The woman shuffled her feet into the laundry room: the clothes from their trip clean and dry without as much as a spot upon them; no lingering stain of adventure embracing the cotton, no scent of the exotic airs they gasped together in romance. It seemed that all residue of their experience was washed away, yet, she knew, the adoration unpacked would reside forever.

Flicking the light off, she carried the laundry away and went about her daily routine.

Silent Mission | short story

I pitied the public in my spare time. I felt sorrow for the oblivious when I remembered to do so. If I had a minute of downtime, I realized that our plan was happening plain in their faces while every day unfurled steady progress. The ordinary citizens were powerless, too busy technology-crunching or fast-food-munching to do more than pander their days away consuming. They didn’t have a clue what was happening, and it was my job to assure they never found out.

I considered myself special. I was on the inside. My people were quiet and our project was discrete. Coordinating the shuttle flights, I oversaw the team which worked the remote areas for departing and returning passenger crafts.

While I managed the flight logs, my buddy over in media saw to the meticulous care of blasting insignificant stories on repeat during news broadcasts; occasionally something (I considered transparent) would slip: a senator retiring without justifiable cause, a soap opera star leaving the set after years in the limelight, the highest ranking city officials not running for reelection.

Yet even these stories would never give us away.

Entire planes gone missing, the supposed assassination of key politicians, elite families abducted by recently-emerged terrorist groups: these things called more public attention and were assigned greater interest by news anchors; these stories trended seventy-two hours and then faded away in the blur of new stimuli dropped by the media.

Our planet was rapidly evacuating, and hardly anyone knew of it.

When the Vatican telescope confirmed the impending arrival of impacting asteroids- a confirmed thirty-thousand bits of galactic boulder heading our way- it was decided to keep the public unaware. No plan could be executed to save us all. The lists and diagrams were formed, week-long committees held, and at last, names were put on flight logs from our planet to Space Station.

While the public thought to mourn the loss of some over-dosed celebrity, I was shaking the starlet’s hand while they boarded the space craft. I saw all sorts of people come through: new money, old money, the famous, the brilliant, those afraid to leave, all afraid to stay.

Yet with every flight I saw depart, I should have demanded my way onboard. I suppose I always assumed one crew would be back in time to take me away.

You’d think that when I found myself unemployed, I would be full of the same pity I felt for the common citizens, myself now one of them; instead, I was lost in silent pandemonium, awaiting destruction: no true government in place, no entertainment stars coaxing us into a stupor. It seemed only a matter of time before civilization crumbled. You’d think I would have been beside myself with remorse.

Only, I was too busy laughing to feel sorry for myself. For weeks past, I saw the arrogant, the prideful, the money-hungry and the savage board their evacuation shuttles without even a glance back at the society they were leaving to die. I couldn’t help but laugh when the sky became dark, the light of the sun obscured by a field of asteroids; I laughed, and laughed, our planet unharmed, as the space station appeared as another shooting star, massive explosions, flying overhead.