prisoner degree

cold heart turned tragic writer

moon's edge melody 

 

Originally published 12/04/09 on this platform for mouldering writers. Turn off the lights and gather the kids around the pixel glow (JPH). The scariest part is that these events occurred a headstone's throw from Edgar Allan Poe Elementary School and every word of it is true.

 

And death shall h… Read full post »

       

I got rid of the wad of cash the next morning. A regular day: hit the PO Box, drop the mail, and go to the bank. Skipping the Gotham I drove into the Portola District.

I bought a warm pierogi and a cup to go at a corner grocery – one of/… Read full post »

                              

The main drag of Richmond stretched on in a masked haze. I zig-zagged the avenue. I had little chance of hailing a cab in this wasteland, but hoped by crossing back and… Read full post »

 

  
“Why do you a drive car like that here in this city? Must be a nightmare parking? And the hills.”

I didn’t want to explain the significance of the car. There were spiritual reasons that I just couldn’t go into with him. “Hadn’t thought abou…

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A comfortably situated bearded postal clerk looked up from his Herb Caen column over black plastic half-glasses. Generally, I don’t trust people who wear orange hats and those kinds of glasses. He l… Read full post »

                         

I stumbled from the Aspen. The laughing cops walked back to a white Jeep parked at the head of the lot. There were more cars. I’m sure they got the tap too.

There were restrooms at a trailhead… Read full post »

                               

The duds from the church were nice; soft and clean. And I appreciated the rev’s intention, but felt uncomfortable in charity clothes. I drove up Market Street through the a… Read full post »

I slipped off the lumpy mattress, no sheets. My feet slid into a pair of cloth slippers with cushioned bottoms.  I shuffled to a door at the end of the row of cots. Each man popped an eye  as I passed, the eyes followed me. The snores and rustling sheets seemed… Read full post »

Behind Miss Crimson a pattern of black marks formed on the walls. The marks became stickmen; stickmen on the walls in shifting formations. They were pointing at me and laughing. I settled back in a musty soft chair. I stretched my legs onto a woolly ottoman.

I shook my head to clear… Read full post »

I needed some jack and pronto. I had written a rubber check for the rent just to get the old geezer and his blind mutt out of my face. I went to the mini-fridge and cracked off a few pieces of the giant frost block that kept the door opened a/… Read full post »

Times are tough at the Walters Writers Agency; there is no business coming in. Our last contract was with a fortune cookie company. That lasted until I started paraphrasing movie quotes. I got bored with airy things like: the sun will shine on your many tomorrows. I thought something like: you're… Read full post »

 Years Never Leaving You, On Walters Lane   

Black-Eyed Susans sway gentle into rain

Silver maple turns to mirror glaze new

Honey suckle fences glisten their dew

Years never leaving you, on Walters Lane

 

Prayerful spire shadows collected… Read full post »

delicate flower

our child serpentine summer

doubtful seed knowing

 A gray radiator gurgled as it steamed heat into the dull green room of the veteran’s hospital. Through a window, above the radiator, soft flakes of an early December snow fell from the Maryland sky. Maurice Wise sat in a worn chair by the window smoking a hand-rolled cigarette. He held… Read full post »

Dear reader, what follows is a fictionalized account of a girl I met while working at the burger drive-in during high school. This is a continuation of the series of reminisces entitled, Foster Home Follies. In this vignette I’ve changed names and altered locations.

Have you met a person whom y… Read full post »