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Still alive

Just letting you all know I am not dead. Expect some poems this next week, and a short short short fiction soon to follow. 

– Peace

Busy Week

I have a couple papers due, and a test, so I’m going to have to put on hold any new writing until next week.

Best wishes,

Lazarus’ Train

Two boys play by the ties that lie like coffins. They jump
over the tracks, with their bicycles, like grasshoppers in a field
daring the birds. The boys have done this before; one mother promised
her boy tragedy and he rejected her words.

The track’s ballast begins to rumble
like the approach of the Second Coming. Smoothly: the train rides on top of rail.
The boys dared each other to jump in front of the train. Forty miles an hour, yet the
train looked like it was in a glue-trap, unmoving in time.
The air brakes engage.

The older boy jumps and is struck. He flies above the track like a rigid plastic doll, and
crashes into the metal rail, traveling down the track as a broken handcar.
Medics and police come, they call the mother and she weeps.
Like a water-stained bag of stones the boy lays, his mother calls for him, but he
never sits up like Lazarus.

Fire Down the Hill

Clear skies illuminated with the stars that shine bright
throughout the heavens. Wind moves the trees ‒they fan
each another‒ as it passes between the trees.

Clear skies illuminated with the stars that shine bright
throughout the heavens. Wind moves the trees ‒they fan
each another‒ as it passes between the trees.

Bright lights and howling screams pass by and converge on
a flaming home that falls apart and collapses into the night.

The voices can be heard, but nothing can be made out.

Beneath the trees a man squats watching, fixated upon the
fire and its violent invasion of the homes around it.

Flame collapses from the ceiling—liquid descending
onto the white hard floor. The brightness spreads across
flowered wall-paper and burgundy paint‒sofa bordering
walls catching cotton ablaze. Frightened eyes watch locked
on to approaching death and beg against it. A man’s hand
ignites torn-cloth in a glass bottle. A woman pleads for
reason. “They can’t take this shit now!” Destroyed dreams
and alky blood fuel a deadly rage. A collapsing roof takes
life with it and leaves behind obsidian flaked wood. Insects
shrivel in pain—convulsing. A front door opens for escape
and backward knees break across crisp carpet and squeezes
through the shutting door. Outside the house: bright like a
jack-o-lantern on Halloween night. Ruined lives. “Carl you
didn’t have to.” A candle on a lawn. Neighbors watch as a
possessed man enters his car raving about the world and the
consuming evil. “They made me do this.” The man’s
speech is no longer audible. Fire like phosphorous. By
dawn the corpse is ashen with charcoal like wood. A
woman sits wailing into her arms, her eyes look to be as
two hollow holes.

Cassandra

Flat and inclined benches. I’m fingering this
poem, but I don’t know what to write about
and now the flat bench is being taken by some bald
guy with a turtle like scalp and I just have to sit
here and wait for him to get off or I could use the
incline bench so I run over and grab it
before someone else could take the bench and leave
the weights all un-racked which is against the
gym rules but no one wants to ever abide them unless
someone tells them I got my cat stuck in my head
crawling around and I can’t get her out of my head and I just
want to think of something else other than that she is dying
and there isn’t much I can do about it‒I have to pause and
take a break between sets or I’ll drop the bar on my chest which
will smart really bad‒ kidney disease diagnoses leaves about three
years before an inevitable death take her in and treat her like a
lab rat constantly being stuck by needles and all she wants to do
is eat her high fat food and be an elderly cat‒an additional ten
pounds might be a good idea just a little heavier pushing heavy weight into my
muscle and my chest’s bones and just hurting enough for me to know where I
am currently with my calico back in the vets office telling me the
starting costs for a treatment that isn’t a guarantee to help her
live beyond two years I sit back in the green covered stool and look
at the floor and I hate this man for not lying to me instead I don’t
know what to do and I’m lifting one-hundred and eighty pounds
in a gym thinking about my dying cat while wiping down the
pads of the bench and I leave the gym to go back into that doctor’s room.

Little-Boy Thane

Down into the dungeon the
Boy soldier goes. Tan wiry arms, gripping a wooden sword,
Charge into the mildew keep. Wolf
Spiders protect the
Treasure that waits in the furnace-room.

A brown door, with white
Flakes, locked with an in latch. Standing on his tippy-toes,
the boy-soldier reaches for it stretching out the wooden sword.

The darkening basement begins to make noises that get louder
as the color in the room begins to
shade away. The once heroic boy eyes the stairwell
As whispering comes from the back
Of the shadowy-room, where the circuit breaker sits above a dark and cracked wall.

The little boy closes the door while calling for his
mother. He explains everything that happened and she half-listens
to the little boy’s story about monsters or treasures.

First post

Hello and welcome to my WordPress,

I plan on sharing my short stories and poetry here. Everything I post I plan on trying to publish, either through a school magazine or local publishers. Hopefully people that read this find it enjoyable and share it with their friends, who I would hope share it with others, but I’d be just as happy if it was read at all.

Hopefully whatever you read you enjoy it.