Man and Boy; Tennessee, 1932

It’s better to be wise than rich

“Boy, what you straining with?”

“Don’t know, pa. It’s fighting me, though. It’s fighting me.”

“Look at that pole bend. Ease up a bit, boy. Give it some slack. See? Your pole’s not twitching. Whatever it is, it’s not fighting you, it’s dragging. Maybe something crawling on the bottom.”

“But it’s coming, pa.”

“Want me to take her for a spell?”

“I’d like that, pa.”

“Give it some slack before we switch poles. Something that heavy, you got to work slow, might have to get upstream of it to pull it in without snapping the line.”

“Look, pa. There it is. I see it.”

“Damn thing’s in the glare of the sun. What is it? Can you see? Feels like some bottom grass. Pity if we can’t loose the line.”

“It’s a man, pa. A black man.”


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Tag

A short story turns into a medieval mystery

The following started as a short story in 1994. It went through four major revisions as a short story and none of them satisfied me.

A few weeks back I decided to redo the story based on everything I’m learning. Behold, a similar while completely different story emerged.

Far from complete, it seems to be taking on novella if not novel proportions. This rewrite is pretty much a rough outline, a scene by scene rendition waiting for more scenes to take place. I’ll create the connecting sections, et cetera, as I progress. I would like to know what you think, though, so please do comment.


The witch’s hand climbed the black oak’s trunk like a strangely shaped, five-legged insect, the fingers finding purchase in the bark’s crevasses. Cartilage, sinews, and ligaments trailed from the wrist where Eric’s axe severed it from the witch herself, her hold on Julia weakened by the sudden rain.

Now the hand turned to stone where raindrops struck it, freezing it forever to the oak’s trunk, forever separate from the witch hiding in the oak’s bole.

Julia stood at the top of the rise slapping at her sleeves as if walking into a spider’s web, as if beating out still burning embers, her face white and her breathe panting, staring into the hollow, to the witch imprisoned in the oak, imprisoned by gently falling rain.

Eric spun her to face him, the witch’s blood already blackening on his axe, on his sleeves, his hands. “Julia! We have to go. Now! Julia!”

She spit at the witch. “What can she do now?” She outstretched her hands and glared at him. “The rain!”

“I have cursed us both, you fool. She’ll not rest until that hand has killed us both and it will take more than my axe to finish her. Get back to the village with me before the sun clears the skies. This is for Father Baillott and the men to deal with, not us.”

He grabbed her rain soaked arm and pulled her after him.

***

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Owen and Jessica

Enjoy your meal, my darling

Owen’s gaze went from the morning sun outside the kitchen window to his laptop screen. He closed the lid so Jessica couldn’t read what he’d written.

Besides, it was time to make breakfast.

He went to the drawer with all the butcher knives in it. There was one he never used. It was Jessica’s and she kept it sharp. God knows why, she rarely cooked. It was a game with her; she’d come home, pull out her knife and hold it up towards him. “You used my knife today, didn’t you? It’s not as shiny as it was this morning.”

He checked the whet of the knife, forgetting his father’s warning: “Scrape, don’t slice.” Blood gathered in the whorls of his thumb. He stared at it and chuckled before licking it clean.

He would kill Jessica today.

The sunlight came through the window exactly how Owen told God it had to come through if God wanted Owen to kill Jessica, and it came through exactly how Owen told God to make it come through so that was it, there was no argument about it, God approved and gave Owen the sign he’d asked for so it was okay to do it and today was the day he would kill Jessica because God sent the sunlight through the window just as they’d agreed.


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Poems From the Heart (Examples)

Responding to @RealisticPoetry

In response to a Twitter request:


I have held women for one night

I have held women for one night,
no longer,
never loved
and loved them forever.
Held them so tight,
so breathlessly tight,
for fear they would let me go.
Walked one million miles to touch the sun
all the while surrounded by shadows,
fearing to feel that fire on my face
And wept, Jonah in the belly of my own whale.


I went to places

I went to places after you passed.
Places we walked
Needing to find you there.
Footprints in the sand,
Footprints in the snow.

A whisper of your words to me
     explaining tides
Or a nod, another question
     as we told each other stories about the tracks small animals made.

{We came from different worlds
     and made them one.}


The Mouse

Tiny little paws
grasping at a seed
nibbling away
to fill her breasts
to feed her pups
to insure she is remembered
in mouse dreams
when the future becomes the past.

WALK, DRIVE, RIDE, FLY OR SWIM, JUST BE THERE!

A man, a horse and discoveries on every page

Real live actors will be reading Gable Smiled, a work in progress, on a real live stage!

I’ll have a Q&A with audience members after the reading.

(this is so exciting)

 

NH Writers Project Hatbox Readings

New Hampshire Writers’ Project Readings at the Hatbox Theatre is a semi-regular theatrical and literary event series where actors read entertaining selections from ‘works in progress’ by three NHWP authors, and the audience offers feedback, critique, and reactions.

This event will not only allow the author to “hear” some of their novel, story, or book, but also receive immediate feedback. The audience will experience new works from NH authors live and contribute directly to an author’s creative process.

General admission.
NHWP or Hatbox Members: FREE
Adults: $10; Students/Seniors: $7.

Hatbox Theater, Concord, NH