I had seen her a few times. What she was doing in this hole wasn’t my business. But she didn’t fit in. Nice clothes; her face, an un-inked ivory oval framed by dark hair, caught the dim lights in the bar. Eye’s that if the light was better would have probably been a bright blue. And curves; the kind to make a train jump the tracks. Distracting, follow her every move just to see things shift under her clothes, kind of curves.
Below on the left is an image that caught my eye, and as happens often, it made me think of the story behind it. Was it an accident? A suicide? And then I realized—with her outstretched arms, hair whipping over her eyes—she looked like a lost and falling angel. What could cause her to fall? […]
Are you a lucky little lady in the City of Light? Or just another lost angel… City of Night…” —Jim Morrison She had misjudged when they would take her wings; punishment for her questions, her doubts. For her the fall was real. Pain. She knew that was what they—humans—called it. But had never felt […]
Hell—and Hurricanes—Hath No Fury Like a Woman… Overhead, the wild huntsman of the storm passed in one blare of mingled noises; screaming wind, straining timber, lashing rope’s end, pounding block and bursting sea contributed; and I could have thought there was another, a more piercing, a more human note, that dominated all, like the wailing […]
With thanks to Dan Caldwell; something we talked about inspired this story. He slowed the rocker when he heard the steps come out onto the wooden-floored porch. His eyesight was failing, but hearing was still sharp as ever. Those boards—how they sounded when trod on—told him it was his great-grandchildren. “Alice… and Jimmy, you came to […]
A little warm-up writing (draft) from this morning’s coffee… (spurred by this image and a ‘mock’ cover I created that could one day be a real story). Spring had died, drowned by the climbing mercury in the giant thermometer on the brick wall of Tilson’s bar she could see by day in rising and fading […]
Every picture tells a story… He was still young, almost 18, but many—no, most—would say too old to swing like a child. But the motion soothed him; a subconscious sense he could change his perceptions by mere movement. A shifting of view that revealed more of the world… and himself. To see what was before […]
So he worked, he lived and wondered where his life would lead if he only followed a half-way street that seemed to lead nowhere… to see if it didn’t.
As a writer you believe what you’re creating will touch someone in some way. But you send your creation out into an often silent world. Maybe it’s just not found so it can be read. After all, we live in a world where we’re inundated with information, social media shares, and posts. Pictures of cute […]
He looked at her across the fire, the flame’s dance of light and shadow on the stone wall, as she sat with her head down. He turned his back to the fire and looked out into the night. “The road seems so much longer when we have no dreams to believe. And we have no destination… life has no purpose.” He heard the steady sound of water running down the mountain and knew it would wear away more rock. “It stayed that way until I decided one day to start walking and not stop until I found what I sought.”