Author | Poet | Dog Dad | Nerd
Find my published poetry, and short story books here!
https://amzn.to/3tVtqa6
https://amzn.to/49qItsD
It was impossible to see through the dense layers of blackness, but something continued to stir beyond the veil of my limited sight. Terrified of what was making the mysterious sounds, and having no way to defend myself, I did the only thing I could.
By Kale Rossabout a month ago in Fiction
Sicily | 1943 Standing on the parapet of the Lombardia Castle, Nadine and her newly cropped hair watched as the holy, historical landmark - Rocca di Cerere - crumbled into pieces down the side of a luscious emerald knoll.
A dog barks its need to play - A heated plea to please the day. An owner groans its need to sleep - Burrowing deep, beneath the sheets.
By Kale Rossabout a month ago in Poets
Sicily | 1943 The three hour bike ride from Caltanissetta passed faster than they expected. The road to Enna was quiet, save for two local farmers transporting wheat, an elderly man on rickety bicycle hauling olives, and Garret’s need to transform a tree into a urinal. Garret found it odd that they failed to encounter any military convoys - allied or enemy - but he chose to rejoice at the small win. Clearly the enemy was on a full retreat, and his fellow brothers and sisters in arms were the cause.
Sicily | 1943 Rosalie delicately opened the two halves of the puzzle box, which were fabricated together by a well-camouflaged hinge, and removed the chiseled, onyx relic resting within. Afraid of dropping it, she cradled the object in both of her palms, allowing the sunlight to illuminate every inch of its glinting darkness.
By Kale Ross2 months ago in Fiction
I've grappled with peas, nuts, cookies and others. I've even managed to hide wedges of cheese beneath my Jurassic Park pillow covers.
By Kale Ross2 months ago in Poets
Sicily | 1943 Rosalie swiped the box from The Monsignor’s fragile hands, then bolted towards Garret who was waiting for her just beyond the door of the sacristy. Two bullets nestled their way into the polychrome marble above her head, and the last thing she remembered before Garret slammed the door shut was the Monsignor - smiling back at her as pieces of the sacristy’s irreplaceable ceiling began crumbling around him.
Rumbling engines of bumbling workers with crumbling pensions, race to protest the fumbled intentions of the government’s grumbled dissension.
The dead greeted me in the early morning with their delicate songs of Valhalla, as the wind awoke me from my blinding dreams of paradise.
Sicily | 1943 “Who are you, really?” Rosalie asked, as she studied the priceless collection of religious relics in the Monsignor’s humble sacristy, “How did you know my father gave me this stone?”
Cornerstones were laid to prepare the foundations for surpassing unimaginable levels of extreme elevation. While dark skinned humans laid down their stolen bodies
Sicily | 1943 The two hour bicycle ride from Canicatti to The Church of Saint Agatha was far more difficult than Rosalie had originally projected. The four bicycles they were able salvage were old, rusted, and weathered from years of neglect, but they were the only four that had usable tires.