C. Rommial Butler
Bio
C. Rommial Butler is a writer, musician and philosopher from Indianapolis, IN. His works can be found online through multiple streaming services and booksellers.
Stories (125/0)
Percy Shelley and Bad Jubies
Percy Shelley took it upon himself to defend poetry. Yet it was not poetry in the most literal sense that he was defending, but language, and by extension, art in all its various forms. A Defense of Poetry comes across at first as mystical gobbledygook. It is just the sort of thing one might expect from a romantic poet; but when we discard the flowery, transcendental attempt at describing the euphoric episodes of the poet and we dig into the substance of Shelley's argument, we will find that the distinction he is attempting to make is not between poetry and other forms of art, but rather between art and entertainment; substance and appearance; revelation and mere distraction.
By C. Rommial Butler3 years ago in Poets
Whispers
There is a still hour when no one speaks but whispers are nevertheless heard, like flags fluttering in the wind or dogs barking far off in the distance, a call of distress poisoning the thickness in the air. This is when Michael hears her voice, whispers in a still hour. All through the night he keeps himself moving just to feel sane, but eventually he must stop, consign himself to the softness of a bed in which sleep will barely come, and think of the love he lost to the bitter irony of circumstance.
By C. Rommial Butler3 years ago in Horror
The Garden
Pam and Tony were looking at houses. They'd been looking for two weeks. Three houses a day. This was how they chose to spend their vacation. Three houses a day and not a single one was worth making an offer. At least Pam didn't think so. Tony could have lived in almost any of them; but Pam was picky. The house had to be perfect.
By C. Rommial Butler3 years ago in Horror
Prisoner of War
I know I am lost. I am a prisoner of war. My captors daily torture me, but leave in my cell a little pill, a cyanide solution. I have been tempted, sometimes holding the pill in my hand, looking it over, opening my mouth and drawing it near. Once, the decision rested on the mere flip of a coin. The coin was a gift from my mother, a commemorative piece which has no real value, so my captors let me keep it. It came up heads that day. Otherwise I would not be here.
By C. Rommial Butler3 years ago in Fiction
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