Of Rain and Roofs

We talk together of things that matter but not to each other. On the roof, the rattling rain, envious of its kin falling directly into the harbour, descends to join up, guttering, incessant as conversation until it stops. Hearing what you say, I startle at my own silent response. I wonder how could anyone mean(…)

Monstrous Descent

‘What kind of wolf are you?’ .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .         ‘I wish a were.’ ‘Are you speaking grit,’ the gyring gorgon asked, ‘or subjugating us to the subjunctive?’ ‘A were-wolf!’ whined the wolf whelp warily watching the gyring gorgon’s garter-snake coiffure. ‘Why aren’t(…)

Formula Translation

Here’s one (poem? prose?) equation that Alan has been working on for donkey’s years. I have to say he is getting better (at making Microsoft Word do what he wants it to). Formula Translation <– click to see

Intellect Lite

Tim came from Flat Rock, the closest you could get to God’s country without being annihilated or saved. He grew there, and grew up one summer night over in Hendersonville in the back of the doctor’s debutante daughter’s Sedan de Ville. A year or two later he went downhill all the way to the coast.(…)

Flighty

The music for romance flies out the window pursuing chances for a warmer bed. They won’t know how the chances that they had, divided by the chances that they missed, will tally: long division, no results. Hard rock segues into blues — her morning mood — in their concrete penthouse perched on Mesa Rock. She(…)

C#rh€M

He finished a second cinnamon roll, patted his flat stomach. Looked at the demitasse of black coffee in his right hand. Still half full, not still hot. He stood up ignoring the hand holds and wrote ‘C#rh€M’ on the nearest flout board. He added five lines of exotic symbols. The flout board verbalised his scrawl.(…)

it would be novel to write a novel

Alan does not ‘do’ novels, but he sometimes thinks (wishes) to start one. Here are a few of his abandoned opening scenes. Jackdaw Jackdaw, Editor  He pulled himself up by his own bootstraps and that seemed to go well enough. He looked around and saw that he was still lying on his back on the beach.(…)

plinking

Grunts and Moses is the name of this new group playing down at the swamp bar. We sort of listened to them while we took turns firing Chad’s new .22 pistol out through the open window at critters in the water. ‘It’s a Smith & Wesson Model 22A with a five and a half-inch barrel,’(…)

dashing it all

We are chipmunks, or we would be were we wiser,dashing hither dither darting till we die.We race telling stories none of us rememberhow often they were told or when or why.The wind stirs leaves we fancy are emotions.A truth on Monday Tuesday is a lie.We learn sharp nostalgia when we leave the nestthen forget that(…)

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox

Join other followers: