I write flash fiction, non-fiction, essays and novels. This month’s Tease is from an essay inspired by the lyrics from a seventies release.
The exit sign. Does it read the same from the other side? No, same door, different purpose.
Oh Bahamas.
For Terrel and Sisse’ and Ayesha and all the other friends we made in the islands last Spring. A reposting of this pictorial, a hope that you are all safe tonight.
I write flash fiction, non-fiction, essays and novels. This month’s Tease is from an essay in progress.
When does the party end? To paraphrase the lyrics of a familiar song, its when the lights get turned (out) off. But is that really true? Some parties are just getting started when the lights go down.
So then, what actually signifies the party’s end?
At a wedding, it might be when the newly married couple exits. At a graduation or birthday, it might be after the presents are opened. When its a wine party and the wine is all gone … well.
To me, what signifies the end of a gathering is when the tables get broken down. Let’s face it, if you stay longer than the furniture, chances are, you’re annoying someone. Perhaps the host, perhaps the people they are paying to break it all down and clean it all up. Either way, take your hint from the folding chairs.
I write flash fiction, non-fiction, essays and novels. This month’s Tease is from a novel in progress.
Jessie didn’t even remember when she and Mann came in themselves, but when she returned with their latest round of drinks (which had devolved to the level of vodka sodas) she realized they had been sitting on the sofa long enough for the darkness outside to have completely enveloped the grand, tall windows and their view of the valley. A seam of lightning cleaved the sky.
“Looks like that storm is getting heavier. The boys are in for a rough night. Gals too, hope they keep it wired tight.”
I write flash fiction, non-fiction, essays and novels. This month’s Tease is from a novel in progress.
He packed the old Ford with everything he thought he might need, save the items he would toss in right as they left. He planned on getting there early, at first light, if necessary. He already had the place in mind, if it came to it. Hopefully the dumb shit would take his threat as advice and just hit the road, disappear, never return. But before he could even finish the thought, it soured from clarity. “Got damn, Cleopatra, as sure as you’re a Saluki, that kid’s a dumb shit. A neophyte, liberal, socialist dumb ass.” He spit in the pine needles behind the Ford’s toothy rear tires. “And people think he’s some kind of truth teller, but just like the idiots that mistake you for a Doberman, they don’t even know what the truth is.” He spit again, this time brushing at the stubbly skin covering his taught jawbone. “He’s a coyote, a jackal, and you’ve seen how I dispose of them.” He reached behind the dog and rubbed the wooden stock of his thirty-thirty. “Afraid you won’t get to sniff this one’s bones, though. One shot and we’re out of there. Might not even go back to the homestead right away.” The dog whined through her long nose. “Well, I wouldn’t care for that either. I’d surely miss the place as much as you, but we might have to run for a while. Might be a kick in the ass, anyway.” He smiled at the thought of crossing the heartland during the night, listening to emboldened talk show hosts across the land, their voices turning to midnight anthems, crying out with pride about the mysterious patriot in Oregon, and how he acted so boldly, the way we wished our leaders would. A crack of lightning answered from the sky. “Well Miss Cleo, sounds like a storm picking up.”
For more pictures of the Mt. Spokane State Park experience, visit Mt. Kit Carson – Bear Grass Festival and Quartz Mountain – Aptly Named .
I write flash fiction, non-fiction, essays and novels. This month’s Tease is from a short piece in progress.
Terrell, Ayesha, Sisse´, Cisehal and Michael all sat at the bleached, teak bar. Behind them, the surf crashed softly southward into the faraway. They all sipped lightly from their glasses except Terrell. He was pouring from the Beefeater like a man lost at sea, just trying to get to the bottom so he could put his message in and cork it.
“Why the hurry, sir?” Michael asked.
“No hurry, M,” Terrell answered, between the gold and white teeth of his buccaneer smile. “It’s tasty … but no hurry. Not even with the storm coming.”
Stories and photos from Scotland
Blurring the lines between poetry and prose
"Everyone needs beauty as well as bread, places to play in and pray in, where nature may heal and give strength to the soul" -John Muir
Is it destiny, happenstance or stratagem?
Showcasing the beauty of Mother Nature
A dose of fetish. Good friends. An incomparable muse.
Where Fictional Characters Rule
Reading, Writing, and some Madness
The semi-private writings of a thirty-something fat girl
reflections on a passing life
Everyone has a story to tell. This is me, telling mine.
I had to find some way to entertain myself, so I made up stories in my mind. One night I started writing them down and never stopped.
I Read To Learn About Others - I Write To Learn About Myself
Oahu hikes
The Art and Craft of Blogging
Wandering, wondering and writing
Where no one is barred and everyone is grilled.
Death Before Sour Mix
