Sahara

Calloused feet
leave five-toe prints
in still, soft sands,
still hot, still waiting
for night's cool reprieve;.
A long, thin shadow
trudges across an ethereal expanse,
a fragile frame fading
into a blood red sun
as it slips silently
over the darkening dunes.
And the desert– the desert
breathes out a tired sigh,
and footprints melt into the winds,
swirling off into the twilight sky.

A Stranger in the Corner

It’s like when you've been sitting near a campfire and then you turn away into the black night and your face still tingles with the heat; your skin feels tight and dry, and the fiery figures still dance before your eyes and then are lost in the endless night. And you glance back for a moment, and you’re flashing in and out of the flames, and then the images fade, and the fire dies, and the quiet night sets in.

I step down from the airplane onto the jetway, and the dry, summer air blasts my face. After more than twenty hours of crowded terminals and cramped, economy-class middle seats, I hobble along the walkway on wooden legs, lugging an old American Traveler bag stuffed with as many heavy items as the frayed, black canvas cloth or the dull-toothed zipper can possibly hold. My coat pockets bulge with the journals that I kept while in Ukraine and with whatever else I managed to cram in at the last moment. Up ahead of me is the portal, and there’ll be a lady there who gets paid to look nice and smile and say, “Welcome to Fabulous Las Vegas,” over and over and over. I can already hear the familiar clink of quarters from the slot machines in the terminal, and cigarette smoke is just beginning to tickle my nose with the smell of home. I feel as though with each step, the airy mists of some perfect dream unravel behind me and trickle off into nothing. Twenty four months wash by me in an instant, and for a moment I wonder if it has all been just a dream.

A Poem of Love...

Gertrude

I love the way you pick your nose,

The chipped nail polish on your toes,

Your crooked grin, your frizzy hair,

Your absent look, devoid of care.

I love your cakey, make-upped face,

Your manly gait, devoid of grace,

Your rumpled blouse, your sauce-stained skirt,

Your cheeks begrimed with soot and dirt.

Your hoggish snort and loud guffaw

Reduce me to dumbfounded awe,

And when I see your monstrous feet,

My flutt’ring heart nigh skips a beat.

In beauty naught surpasses now

Your bristle-brushy unibrow.

And I’ll not fear the touch of death,

When thinking of your rancid breath.

Your stubbled chin oft to behold

Is better boon than purest gold,

And if true love be hard to find

Then glad I am that you are mine.

Scraps of Memory

These are just a couple of thoughts from a personal narrative that I'm working on. Still figuring out what I want to say and piecing together the emotions and the words, but I figured I'd share a little bit.

You never take enough pictures of people when they’re there, and then they’re gone and you search everywhere to find something to substantiate their existence, to make them seem real again. And you think that maybe it was all a dream but you can remember all the things you did together and you mouth to yourself their favorite phrases or close your eyes and picture their faces just to remember. And then you think that maybe it's just a really bad joke, but then you go to his house and his mom cries and Melanie won’t look you in the eye.
...
I’ve always wondered what it’s like to really cry at a funeral, and I still don’t know. When grandpa died, I cried, but that was because mom was crying– I didn’t really understand what it all meant. Death is, at first, a stranger in the corner, and you don’t really get it at all. You just start to not remember anymore, and that’s what death is for you. It’s not the bullets or the bombs or the cancer that they show in all the movies: it’s just a not-there-anymore, an absence.

Lords of Earth and Sky

A short story/creation myth about the rise and fall of dragons. Let me know what you think, because I would love feedback on the good the bad and the ugly. Confusing parts? Leave a comment! Thanks!

Lords of Earth and Sky

My people were once a noble race, a kindly sort, but were brought to anger and destruction by the acts of man or fate. That is not to say, of course, that there were never so-called bad eggs among our lot– that I shall yet demonstrate–, but it would be folly to suggest that any significant portion of the world’s evil was, at least at first, bottled up within our ‘draconian’ hearts. We dragons were a proud race, and though, as time passed, my brothers grew more and more prone to fits of jealousy and rage, we were, at least to begin with, a peaceful sort. Indeed, perhaps more so than any other creatures to roam this earth, we were a happy people, content with our simple pleasures. I was young and strong, back before the wars. Oh, how my scales gleamed, sapphires against the emerald seas, and my wings beat in powerful strokes that carried me high above the clouds to airy roosts. Indeed, our early days were ones of magic and wonder and peace, but then something changed inside of us. Then the world changed around us. And then we lost the magic.

I, Marak, am the last of my kind, and I alone remain to tell our tale, of dragons, the Lords of Fire and Earth and Sky.

Redemption

Another short short that I've been working on. I'd like to flush it out to about 1200 words, where it's at only 750 now, so let me know what kinds of things/events you think could emphasize the ideas better. I have some ideas, but I'd love to hear your suggestions, comments, etc.

Redemption

          She says to me, “Why don’t you come in for a little bit?” and I say okay because I think she’s just being nice and all. And then she keeps looking at me all sexy-like, and she scooches on over real close to me, and I’m thinking that she’s not really interested in buying a Bible anymore. I mean, she’s pretty and all-- prettier than just about anyone I’ve ever seen. An’ I woulda liked to give her a kiss or something, but I haven’t sold anything today and I need the money, so I tell’er I ought’a go, and manalive she wants me to stay, but I leave anyway.
          Then I get thinkin’ about how Mom used to send Beth off to bed when the sexy parts would come on in movies, and I always thought it was kinda funny how that stuff was bad for Beth but not for Mom or for Gary or me.
          The next door’s tall and red, and when I knock, a raspy, lady’s voice says come in. The house smells like sweat and Mom’s lavender Febreeze, and I kinda tiptoe past piles of junky ol’ antiques til I see this big ol’ lady sitting in a big ol’ scarlet throne or something. She’s got these enormous bosoms that just kinda loll around on her big ol’ gut, like Bacchus in our textbooks at the community college, and she’s got these porkchop legs that kinda dribble out from under this dress of hers. Big ol’ kielbasa fingers tap-tap-tappin’ on her chair, and little chocolate chip eyes look me up and down all hungry-like from behind her marshmallow cheeks. “What’ve you got for me, boy?”

Red Berries

This is a short short that I wrote recently. I'd love to hear your comments, impressions, suggestions!

Red Berries

We’re reading stories, and Philip is growling under the table like a tiger, and Lily is giggling, and I am sitting in my green, dinosaur chair, and Teacher’s face is all red and scrunched up like a balloon with a hole in it, and it’s because Philip won’t sit down and Jacob is talking and Teacher has been baking, because I can smell the cookies. Soon, we’ll go outside and take off our light-up shoes and wiggle our toes in the soft grass, and you can still smell it, because Mr. Teacher cut it while we were doing sharing time, you could hear it. Lily’s hands will be dandelion yellow and sticky from dandelion milk, and Teacher will go out front and then come back and smell like smoke. I will feel the sharp sand on my hands, and Philip will eat it even though we can smell cookies, but it’s because he’s poor and doesn’t have a mommy, that’s what my mommy says. Teacher’s face will still be red because of Philip and because she smells like smoke, and Jacob and me will find swords under the bushes or pull them off of trees, and then I’ll be a knight and Jacob will be a pirate, and I’ll kill him or he’ll kill me and then Teacher will call and we’ll be friends again. And then Philip’s hands will be red, and his lips will be red, and his tongue will be red, and Teacher will scream and Mr. Teacher will have to stay home from work to cut down the berry bush, and Philip had to go to another school.