Painful Memories


On a moonless night, the stars don’t shine. They hide ‘neath pillows of grey. The sky, as black as my heart, speaks not a word. The chilled breeze drifts past me, adding to the sense of my loneliness.

As the moon peeks from the clouds, I feel as if it’s mocking me. Taunting me. Glowing and sparkling around my jaded self like a shattered prism. Still the ebony sky speaks nothing. My soul is cold, weak.

Once more the haughty moon hides from mine eyes. I can feel the cold air wash past me, sending memories shivering down my spine. My heart aches and tears fall, but my cries go unheard.

Silence is my voice
Black is my soul

I feel as if I’m fading away.
Into a pool of the forgotten.
Drowning in memories that haunt.

My mind replays each painful thing like an unending movie. My life is subtitled with shame and guilt. There are no extras. No deleted scenes. No alternate ending.

But, my story is not finished. Much like the bright moons glare. I look to the heavens above for answers and all I receive are those horrid memories. All I can see are the scars left behind.

A road map to hell.

Can I survive this?
Am I strong enough?

Or, like angels before me, have I fallen for eternity?


(Copyright Ace of Spades 1995-2013
Nevermore Creations 2017)
Written August 19th 2013

“As a writer, I’ve found an outlet for the pains I’ve felt. A way to express things I cannot verbalize. Being a mom, writer, and survivor, I just take it a day at a time.” – Channing W. Milburn

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At What Cost?


Times come and go, seasons fade into centuries, our forebears have left the scene but not without writing on the black board of time. of course we can’t completely wipe out d board because in it we find wisdom. An old African adage says “what an elder sees sitting down a young man can’t see while on a tree”. The necessity of preserving old tradition can’t be completely eroded but at what expense.

Over century past, the need to preserve traditions have led to passing on of barbaric and dangerous traditions which are empirical to the girl. Our conservativeness hassle kept us in shakes that sink deep into our flesh and we are told to endure because our forebears did but what’s the essence of growth if there is no modifications to suit present circumstances?

The girl child has over the years being subjected to Female Genital Mutilation (FGM) where a part of her genitals are removed after birth or during adolescent under the false belief that it aids child birth whereas it actually reduces chances of giving birth as the lady is subject to painful menstruation and serious bleeding during birth which often times leads to death.

Statistics shows that 3 million girls are cut every year world wide but at what cost?

One can’t overlook another disturbing reason why some parents actually mutilate the genitals of their girl which is the pathetic reason that the lady would have less chances of getting pregnant at home and “embarrassing the family”, yes the honour based violence. Of course the lady can’t get pregnant because the sensitive skin in her vagina that warrants sexual pleasure has being chopped off which reduces libido and the lady left with a dysfunctional sexual life which includes no interest in sex, painful sex , little or no satisfaction. This menace seeps in even after the lady happens to grow up and marry leaving her with a marred sexual ability for life and the question one keeps asking is “is it worth the cost?”

Also the proposition that this practice is deeply rooted in sexism cannot be over emphasized. One would wander ” Why would the society be deeply engrossed in curtailing the sexual life of their girl child without a reciprocal gesture on the male?” of course it would be absurd to demand that the male genitalia be cut off but then why would such act be carried on the woman?

What is good for the ram is equally good for the ewe. The society from time immemorial has relegated the girl child to the belittling position of being just sexual objects. Virginity in lady is emphasized without a reciprocal emphasis on the make child. In fact the word “virginity” can be said to go hand in hand with the girl child. If at all anyone has a problem with ladies not being virgins on their wedding night but doesn’t have a problem with men not being virgins before their marriage then it would be OK to say that such individual ain’t having a problem with dis virginity but with the girl child.

We can’t protect traditions that are inimical to our well being, acute conservative ideology is harsh on the ever changing world. What is food for the 1700’s may be poison to the present world because of heightened knowledge. We must look at those traditions, carefully examine them, keep those which are humane and good, discard those that are barbaric. Of course the elders may see things a child can’t see but when the child grows up he should be allowed to see and evaluate things his/her way. This is true growth and development.

For Jason

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For Jason

I penned your obituary the other afternoon, while laying in the bed of my new lover. He must have known my thoughts had turned to you, yet again, and found a reason to excuse himself and leave me with my unrelenting demons. An act of kindness, really.

Such a strange thing to do, but then again perhaps not. You aren’t dead but I had to bury you. I have to bury you. I will bury you. Past. Present. Future. Around and round we go. It’s a long slow process, not at linear, this getting over you.


Jason James, age 43. Suicide.

I was fifteen years old when I met you – you with your long hair, bass guitar, and eyes so sad they brought me to my knees. I think I loved you even then. It would be another twenty years or so before you finally invited me for a cocktail and then wasted no time in turning my world upside down.

From the instant you touched my hand at the table, we had a love. Big love. What I thought was real love. ‘I’d die for you’ love. It was ‘everything I imagined it was supposed to be’ love. Until it became dishes shattered, holes in the wall, blood on the floor, sirens wailing love.

How am I supposed to grieve you? My king, my almost husband, my villain, my captor, my everything. I left you five times in total, the last being the most painful. I thought my final departure was the most suffering I’d ever endure but you had to, of course, prove me wrong.

You suffered childhood wounds so great you thought nothing would heal them. Nothing but booze and denial and self hatred. You tried to drink yourself to death, nearly drowning everyone around you. You told the time of day by the amount of whiskey left in your 26 and I always talked to God when you neared the bottom. I wonder now if I tempted fate one too many times by praying you’d die before you hit me again.


I killed you off by suicide. I’m sorry if that’s cruel. It’s that there’s a part of me that wished, for just moment, that you’d conclude you couldn’t live with the knowledge of what you’d done to me.

Maybe somewhere in your mind, underneath the drunken blackouts, you would recall the nights we had. When you ripped out my hair in fistfuls and made me sleep on the floor while the dog was invited to rest on my pillow. When you called me a filthy whore and forced me to lay still while you angrily did as you pleased. When you told the police the tv was just too loud after putting a hole in the drywall with my head. I wished, for just a moment, the guilt would consume you the way your violence consumed me.


It’s difficult, this task of writing about you. I loved you. I hated you. Though whatever I felt, we were bound together by some invisible thread that would not break. Some past life pact, a soul connection. There was no denying it. You always said in the deep dark moments with your fist raised that we’d never be finished as long as we were both alive. And now you are gone.

I’m not exactly certain as what to do next. But I promise to visit your favourite places. I promise to give your guitar to that busker we once met. I promise to tell everyone that you are sorry because I know you would want me to. And I promise to fall in love with a man better than you, like you asked me the last time I saw you.


So, to me, you are dead now. It’s the only way I can continue. I hope you understand.


I loved you Jason. I hated you. Goodbye.


About Jennifer

Jennifer Lee is a writer, wanderer, and witchy woman, currently residing in the Canadian prairies. She has lived a hundred lives and survived to tell the tale. This is her first published piece


She Falls



His fist was strong, his punch fierce. As her flesh tore, her mortality was real. Broken hearted. Ashamed. Sad. Pitiful. She fell. At first, she denied the truth. Lied to herself. She tried to understand how she caused this. Had she tempted those above her? Had she committed a sin so great, that it merited this torture?

Broken bones came next. Stitched flesh. Actual scars. Mental and physical. She’d never forget. Her sobs at night would not let her. Her dreams replayed the days horrors. A movie in her mind. Angels wings ripped from their sockets. Halo crushed beneath the Demons foot. Heavenly release would never come. She was nothing.

Her only solace; The stars. Oh, how she wished she could return to them. Yet, knew she could never be able to do so. Her kingdom was lost. Blood flowed for what seemed an eternity. Body broke down. Spirit crushed. Her will to live was gone. She prayed each night for the Gods to take her, end her suffering. Yet, they did not.

Something was brewing beneath her calm, placid exterior. A tempestuous storm. Could she fight back? The chips were stacked against her, but the Goddess stood defiant. Dark gaze never left his icy stare as she stood toe to toe with a demon.

Words flew, they dueled into the night and the Goddess never faltered. He swung once and that was all it took. She broke. When she swung, her punch landed true. Struck his jaw with all her might. Finally! The Demon bled too!

His lip split and his blood was shed. Her pent up rage and anger began to swell. Finally, it broke the surface. She fought her hardest that night. She never knew she could battle that hard until that Demon pushed her to the limit.

Unknown strength was found and forced outward. Her deed was done. Her freedom was her gift from the Gods. Scarred and beaten. Broken and tainted. She was Free.

Glistening tears on a cherubs face remind me of those times. Having seen the Madonna cry in my dreams, brings memories to the surface. Blood trickling down my face shows, I am human. Time heals all wounds. I am the Goddess and I, alone, reclaimed my throne.

Copyright Nevermore Creations 1993-2017 

“As a writer, I’ve found an outlet for the pains I’ve felt. A way to express things I cannot verbalize. Being a mom, writer, and survivor, I just take it a day at a time.” – Channing W. Milburn

Follow Channing on Twitter and Facebook.