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Fall Approaching
At 6:20 pm on October 25th, I can still sit comfortably in my front yard. The sky is a painting of gray splotches against white canvas. A few minutes ago there was a pink glow to my right. It’s now edged away. Since it left, the streetlight across the street flickered on. It got progressively
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Billy and Jimmy
Billy and Jimmy walked along the trail that afternoon in late August. “We should have brought our fishing stuff,” Jimmy said, as he walked next to the lake. “Yeah, but you would have to carry your stuff and my stuff,” Billy replied. Billy stopped and looked up, huffing and puffing slightly as he leaned next
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Obituary
This sounds morbid but I like to read the obituaries. In fact, it’s become a part of my daily routine. Most of them don’t say how the person died. Some do explicitly – cancer, Alzheimer’s, heart attack, car accident. Others imply: “He finally found peace after a long battle with depression.” Some people are old.
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Matthew’s Trip
Matthew didn’t know where he was going. He strolled down the busy road on a Friday morning. He was shirtless, his white skin looking like a ghost in the dark. It was the first time he’d been outside in a long time. He wasn’t even sure where he was. Sure, this busy road felt familiar.
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Tremosine Rain
The couple walked along the old cobblestone road of the small village in Tremosine, Italy. It had been a beautiful, sunny day, a stark contrast to the way Suzie Anne felt after her rough day at work. She’d gotten the official email notifying her that she had not been selected for the job she’d applied
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Traffic and Crow
Lilly drove down Rainwater Road. It was afternoon. The clouds were building in the sky. She was trying to get back to her dad’s house before the storm came. Traffic was heavy, cars going north and south, traveling at interstate speeds in the 35 mph zone. She approached the stoplight, foot on the gas. It
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Aspiring Writer
You’re all someone I aspire to be Pen in hand, paper at your fingertips Eyes and mind attuned Observing, thinking, connecting dots Spilling it out on the blank page Out of nothing come the plots You’re not daunted by barren land For your tool is the pen in your hand That white sheet, that blinking
writings on life
gremlin fodder 