Poetry, Fiction, History, Reviews, and More!
Samples
Sinister
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Elsa steeled herself for what was to come. She took that one little pause like an actor or musician just before their cue. Today she would convince Bo, that she was right; that he should take her advice.
She saw him when she turned the corner and had the same thought she always did, he was sinister. There was only one building on his side of the street, stretching the whole block. Given what she knew of the area it had probably been some sort of wholesaler, when it was new. It was far from new. Layers of graffiti seemed to be all that held the bricks together. There was only window, long boarded up, Bo slouched against the graffiti, about five feet to the left of the window. Thousands of bits of trash stirred languidly in the empty lot to his left. He wore a battered black hoodie. Or rather, it engulfed him like a smoky mist. His eyes were hidden. Only his disfigured mouth scowled out from the hood, chin sunk into his chest. He appeared to have no neck. The hoodie was ripped and stained, she thought it had once said Fuck You. The “F” and the “u” were still readable. At least a dozen chains looped from one part of his metal-studded belt to another. Even from half a block away they rattled like Bob Marley’s ghost. Jeans, ripped and stained, with a bulge in the right pocket. Calf-high hobnailed boots, black and badly scuffed, completed the picture. Yes, she thought, he was the picture of sinister. Elsa hated this part, the approach. On the approach he was his most sinister. She looked both ways and crossed the street, nimbly stepping around the puddles that seemed to always be in this street. Her flats slipped on the gravel and asphalt bits that had been ejected from the potholes that now doubled as puddles. She had the impression he followed her every step even though his eyes were invisible and not a muscle moved. Then she was across and standing in front of him, so close on the narrow sidewalk that she could finally see his black eyes deep inside the hood, his broken nose, disfigured and unrepaired, and the jagged scar that stretched from his left eye to the point of his chin. The maximum sinister. |
Writing and Reality
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Ideal
Ideally, I would sit Fav pen magically at hand, and From my brain, through fingers, Pen to paper, the words Would cascade out Until 10,000 of them neatly Stared back at me, Laid out and so well set As to defy the editorial step. While sitting there creating If I should chance to want To slake a sudden thirst My favorite beverage Would, innocuously, Appear at my very elbow. Of course, if I should want My favorite snack or tunes These too would appear As if by bloomin’ magic. My focus would be steady, My hand would never cramp And the story would Present itself, fulsome, Deep and broad, Emotions perfuming each page, Characters to match. Alas, dear friends, ‘tis but a dream, A wisp of bloody smoke. |
Real
In reality I sit to write But my pen is inkless My pencil is pointless And the laptop powerless. So I dig for a pen, Sharpen the pencil Find the laptop cord Finally sit down… A truck endlessly backs up; The pad I’ve taken out Is only old grocery lists; My WIP is hiding. Then my phone buzzes - A new Twitter follower, A GIF, ten people… Refocus! My stomach Grumbles and I remember The coffee, cold, by the sink Until the day is over And every. Single. Word. Is still trapped Inside my head. |
Flash Fiction
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Sun beats down relentlessly now that high summer has come but the memory of winter lies under the rocks. A season ago the dark clouds blotted the thin light of the winter sun and dumped of water on the ridgeback.
Capriciously the rain drops coalesced into raging torrent, cutting their way deep into the hillside, tumbling with boundless energy for the valley floor far below. The torrent carried stone and sand, the odd branch or tree careening down the gulley. But even as it cut and slashed, some stayed, seeping into the ground, finding small crevices, rock-lined pools, and blocking roots, stuck stubbornly between boulders or tunneled down far beneath the fury. This water, squirreled away, soaked below, trapped between the surface and the solid stone that makes the spine of the mountain, now gives life. The roots quest for it and pull it back up to nourish leaf and trunk and branch, making the most of the warmth and the sun, positioning to trap more the next time the winter rains return. Unpublished, by Greg Schroeder |
Prompt: History of a Place
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