As a writer, I enjoy writing short stories, screenplays, and poems.
The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. A raven, roosting for the night in a fir tree just outside the window, watched the flame as it waited to get inside to feast on the rotting flesh somewhere inside. The raven watched the child go to the corner of the cabin and pick up a broom. The child walked across the floor, turned the broom to hold the bristles, and poked at something beyond the raven’s view.
- Runner-Up in Return of the Night Owl Challenge
The Book of MiceRunner-Up in Return of the Night Owl Challenge
In the Book of Mice, all days on the island farm were good days as recorded by Hector, except for three: the day his mama went into the hospital to never come back, the day Papa was crushed under a tractor, and the day Tom had to leave to go to live with his daughter in Denver.
A Personal Tidbit About Me for You to Chew On
Journal Entry: April 25, 1997 So, here’s about something about me dreaming something about you and something about the world that I was thinking about right before one of my panic attacks, all written down and kept track of—like you told me to do—in a journal. And maybe this makes your job harder, me mixing up dreams with someone else’s reality, but I think your archetype, Carl Jung would approve.
An Examined Life
The King of Dirt is rather small, not what you would think a king in size should be. The King’s body is an old pepper mill—a wooden one. The King of Dirt has wild hair of thick locks which spiral straight up in upside down tornados. His face is pinched clay and meme alien. His eyes black glass beads, and his arm and legs spindly, long, and made of clock wire. In one hand the King hold a pen quill, in the other a tea-strainer painted to look full of ink. From the place where pepper should pour hangs a chain so you know this is a king and not a queen, as the wings on his back may confuse you because of eons of gender fairy tale brainwashing.
Mr. Budgie's Dead
Lunch is never going to happen the way lunch is supposed to happen since My-Daddy came home in the minutes when lunch happens every single day. Which is A-okay with me, because My-Daddy is the king of this world, Momma’s the queen, and I’m My-Daddy's princess.
The blur of the three-and-half-hour drive had Carlo pleased to reach his destination at the Trails End Diner. He choose the parking spot in front of the entrance, so he could easily see into the small space of tables and counter seating. The diner looked empty, except for one old man wearing a ball cap, hunched over a cup of coffee at the counter. The old guy looked lost in thought with his stare in the direction of the vast emptiness of dry country that bleeds all the way into the Argus Range.