Similarities
As she stares out the window, enraptured by chirping teases, Her tail swishing against the sill with absent brushing flicks, So I gaze at the yellowing images; Places I have been and Places I long to be, A dream deferred Too long.
Fiction: The Jacket
Winter seemed reluctant to release its hold on Southern California, mildly nipping them in the April night air. A group of ten stood in the parking lot of the Starbird diner after several hours of milkshakes, curly fries and tossing bent straws at each other across the booth. Most of them didn’t want to leave, because that meant either a.) going home to an empty apartment, or b.) going home to apartments teeming with roommates. So they stood in a loose cluster, discussing plans for the weekend and cracking jokes about Spencer’s need for a haircut. His corkscrews stood out from his head almost like a football helmet, but he wasn’t quirky…
Sherlock Mom
Only a white lie. Colored in, embellished. Harmless, really. She doesn’t need to know the extent of it. She asks questions with a poker face. She’s a pro. Her expressionless look signals I change my teenaged tactics, quickly. She always finds out.
Sitting on the Curb
The possibilities stretch out before me in infinite patterns I count and rearrange them, twiddling Until they vanish, one by one Some wink out instantly Some slowly fade As I sit on the curb And wonder which to put in my pocket. Photo Courtesy of Maria Carrasco Rodriguez
Fiction: Roses for Elise
As she glided through the coffee shop, not one person looked up to mark her passage. She sliced through the crowd like a knife through warm butter, the atmosphere around her yielding and pliable. Men and women sat across from each other engaged in animated conversations, eyes bright and coffee steaming in generous porcelain cups. Not one glanced at her movement. This was one of those artsy coffee shops, packed with threadbare armchairs and lumpy sofas, scarred tables worn by decades of abuse, vibrant paintings of bridges and traffic lights coating the walls like splashes of graffiti. Edith Piaf hummed softly over the speakers, and Elise noticed because it reminded her…
A Box of Photos
There was a loud crash in the hallway After pulling out the Parcheesi And other dusty boxes that House fragments of faded memories Falling to the floor The photos Spill from the carton Fluttering To rest on the floor – – – We come from the land of hibiscus And plastic happiness Like so many Verdant kisses, it whispers a Foggy dream of the eternal Whatever you fancy If only Dreams were guarantees you could Redeem like coupons Exchanging Them one by one like so many Printed promises Yet we wither Under a foreign sun Languishing Against a backdrop of broken Dreams – – – This one particular snags my…
The Green Fairy
“Damn it!” Lon slurred, tilting the bottle upside down. “We’re all out.” Some of the absinthe splashed from his glass to his neckcloth, leaving unseemly green splotches on the white linen. Ricard laughed, dealing another hand as he spoke. “I do think you’ve had quite enough anyway, old friend.” Lon ignored him, raising his glass to his lips and further sloshing out more green liquid. “Did anyone bring any more? Where are we going to find any in this hell hole? Merde, they probably make their own grog in bathtubs. Liquor from pommes de terre.” I picked up my fresh cards and replied, “It’s not so bad here, Lon. Have you seen the…
The Unidentified Story
I’m window shopping for my friend’s birthday, and the sign in Edwardian script catches my eye. Funny, I’ve walked by the Curiosity Shoppe maybe a dozen times, I guess. I must not have noticed it. It’s in one of the older buildings on the tiny street. Probably the perfect place to find something for Tom. There could be a random paperweight in the shape of a raven’s skull or something else weird that Tom would cackle over with glee. He’s a strange guy. Pulling at the heavy door, I let myself in to the tinkling of a bell. Inhaling deeply, I first notice the smell. Soft and acrid. The smell of decay,…
Nightmare
He only did one thing well, creeping in When the moon rose plump as a melon, ripe With terrors shrieking in riotous din, Visions provoking tears which none may wipe. Tinkering about while she dreams, he oh So slightly tweaks the tone of thoughtless sight `Til sharpened forms so menacingly grow Strangely ominous, threat’ns with silent might. After the horrid show plays through, and she Near’ wakens from screams, he tucks them away, Instruments which played th’ ghastly melody But must never be seen by light of day. Altering dreamscape proves perilous, yet Crossing to madness a riskier bet. – – –
Fiction: The Night Guard
It had rained all day, and in the late evening mist still rose from the pavement. This made Stan’s job harder. More room for error: distraction, misplaced evidence, footprints. So much more could go wrong when the world was sopping wet. Stan knew there was no room for error. He usually transported the bags himself, and saw no need to involve anyone else this time. Pulling up to the warehouse, he slammed the gear shift a little too jerkily, the restored Chevelle jolting forward. He yanked out the key and rose from the car. Stan tried to blend in with the wet night. Black leather jacket, dark jeans, black leather…
