Run, she told herself.
Slapping the dirt on the hard gravel ground, her feet felt bare and numb.
Don’t look back, she told herself. Be strong, she cried.
Bursting fire over the dark tree tops, as if someone had painted a beautiful painting upon the canvas sky, the sun set above her golden hair.
The rain stained the ground, leading a slippery path up the winding road,
winding up and up. She had miles to go. Read more »
The truck arrives late on Friday night, sneaking in front of our house like a fox sneaking towards it’s prey. The UPS man looks around, like a spy, and quietly crawls into the back of his truck. He hopes that no one will see him. He grabs the package with his wooden hands, cradling it as one might cradle a newborn child. Slowly lifting it by the strings, and into his open arms, he whispers softly as his eyes arrange a display of lights in front of him. Our home is only feet away from where his feet are now. He looks solemnly into the broken windows of our house, and tiptoes towards our door. What he does not see is that I am here, hidden behind the door, clandestinely. The man now looks around apprehensive to see our door ajar. He drops the package discreetly, and whispers away. Wind tapping on the trees, bare, filthy, and unknown. As the man drives out of view, I crawl out to the parcel displayed upon my doorstep. Grabbing it, I pull it towards me, welcoming it into my arms. No one has seen this cabalistic exchange. No one but the wicked wind, the old oak, and the dirty-dark demons. Read more »
“Moo,” makes the milking cow
“Bah,” begs the bickering sheep
“Quack-Quack,” quivers the quiet duckling
“Oink,” offers the orator of a pig.
“Neigh,” neglects the tall, tall horse.
On the farm I stand, listening to all the voices I hear.
They tell me stories of how they ended up here. Read more »
Hello Mr. Music Man,
please play your music if you can.
Play the guitar, saxophone and flute,
the trumpet, the harmonica, give them all a toot.
Play your magical instruments,
your lovely, frivolous mess.
Hide behind the tuba, the drum kit, do not stress.
Your hidden stress makes waving sounds deep within the trombone, Read more »
Elders on the Park Bench
The Men on The Bench Read more »
Observer Quick Write
The Sickness Read more »