M. Michael TRARP
Bio
Citizen of the Universe, Rock & Roll Poet
Stories (16/0)
One Big Bowl of Vanilla Pudding
I moved to Iowa City in May of 1996. I had just finished a nominally productive school year in East Lansing and was determined to leave academia. A childhood friend, Dan Dubs, was similarly checking out of a dormitory in favor of less instructive pursuits. His post high school path had taken him a scant 15 miles from the neighborhood we grew up in to the home of the Cyclones in Ames.
By M. Michael TRARP12 months ago in Journal
Old Fashioned Land Lady
Samos woke midway through his life. He donned a robe and slippers, returned from the kitchen with a glass of juice, and sat at his desk. The sun shone through the window. He set his glass of juice on one corner of the desk. He took a pad of paper and a pencil from a drawer. He gazed wistfully out the window and nibbled thoughtfully on the pencil’s eraser. Samos took a deep breath, leaned over his pad of paper and began furiously writing.
By M. Michael TRARPabout a year ago in Fiction
Apple
The outside world was unknown to her, but she could see a glimpse of it through the window in his room. He was kind to her. Always. And fair. Maybe not always fair. But when he wasn’t, his bias leaned in toward her favor. He was generous, too. And patient, of course. And he gave her this space. All of this space, and only this space. Only the space illumined by the light filtering through that one window.
By M. Michael TRARPabout a year ago in Fiction
Dear Ol' Dar
{SNI(long inhale, through the nose)FF!} {HAA(slow, exhaled sigh through the mouth)AH!} That’s my dad. Long, measured inhalation of breath through the nose. Hold it. Slow, breathy sigh out the mouth. This was usually followed by him placing his hand over his mouth, thumb on one cheekbone, index finger on the other, then slowly moving his hand downward, stroking his salt and paprika beard.
By M. Michael TRARP2 years ago in Families
Homecoming Dance
There weren’t always dragons in the Valley. Leastwise, there certainly weren’t any of the fire breathing, fly around the sky on leathery wings, stealing sheep and treasure kind. The only dragons seen in Booneville were the crepe paper and chicken wire kind following the high school marching band down Story Street each year in the annual homecoming parade. Yes, somehow, in this small, Midwestern town, located in a swath of the state largely settled by Scandinavians in the 19th century, the school’s booster club opted not for the Vikings, but chose a mythological beast as the school mascot. The Reindeer would have been a more appropriate name considering the school colors are red and green. That, and the fact the football team had shown scant ferocity against their cow town rivals in recent years.
By M. Michael TRARP2 years ago in Fiction
The Game @
Black. The TV [clicks] on. A miasma of ashy light fills the room, casting a ghostly glow on Mikey’s face, making the freckles appear black on his cheeks. His hands, one holding an action figure, the other a Hotwheel, paused pre-collision, amid a pile of wooden blocks.
By M. Michael TRARP2 years ago in Fiction
The Dampening
It was always raining in Portland. At least it seemed like it. The rain didn’t appear like it did in the Midwest, where I grew up. Hot summer days, the unpleasantness of the heat exacerbated by oppressive humidity that built over the course of a few days or a week, capped off by a storm of torrential drops that fell so hard and fast, your windshield wipers couldn’t keep up. It was a common sight to see vehicles lined along the shoulders of two-lane, blacktop highways with their hazards on, patiently abiding the rain. From the seat of one of those cars, you could witness the entire sky lit by prolonged and consecutive blasts of lightning, pulsating flashes illumining the horizon for miles.
By M. Michael TRARP2 years ago in Fiction
The Pair Tree
We were driving the fruit loop, a side route of county roads you could take from the state highway that wound through the foothills of the mountains and a patchwork of family farms. Signs sprung from the shoulder where dirt roads intersected the main drag. All of them displayed something like “U-Pick” or “Pick Your Own” or named the owner of the business. Some proprietors painted their barns with large letters, makeshift billboards proclaiming what plants you would find if you turned left here; lavender, pear trees, peach groves, berry brambles. Some advertised hand pies and homemade jellies, pumpkin butter, pickles, or cookies. One place even offered milk shakes.
By M. Michael TRARP3 years ago in Fiction
Annabelle's Pond
They called it Yggdrasil. Alternatively, the Libertree. And it grew on an island in the center of a large body of water referred to(apparently it was too small to be called a lake) as Annabelle’s Pond. The story goes, a child, a couple of centuries ago, found an unusually large acorn along the banks of the pond. She took the seed, placed it into a used cardboard berry carton, and covered it with earth. She stuck a pencil in the center of the dirt, tied a makeshift paper sail to it, and placed the carton into the water. And from the shore, she watched as the little boat floated to the center of the water.
By M. Michael TRARP3 years ago in Fiction
When Sad Isn't Blue
Every night, I sleep under an aura of soft green light. It seeps in through the bedroom window of my basement apartment and casts everything in a verdant glow. I can never get the Venetian blinds to hang straight. Invariably, one end droops past the corner of the window, while the other end I can’t get to descend no matter how I pull on the collection of connective cords.
By M. Michael TRARP3 years ago in Fiction
Apex Herbivore
The admiral looked at the bank of monitors in front of him. He tapped out a specific rhythm with his hooves on the panel on the floor beneath the screens. Several icons appeared on the closest monitor. The admiral looked at the images with his large, brown, bovine eyes. He dipped his head toward the screen, tapping the icons in a specific order with his left horn. On one monitor, a picture of a green and blue planet appeared. The admiral looked at the image, then, exhaled a loud snort through his large nostrils.
By M. Michael TRARP3 years ago in Fiction
Academic Rigor
“Justin Fletcher?” “Here.” “Nicole Flynn?” “Everyone just calls me Nikki.” “All right, Nikki.” The teacher grinned, ear to ear, making creases on her forehead, at the corners of her eyes, at the corners of her mouth. She sat up straighter in her seat, situated behind a large solid desk, and made a note in her grade book. “Hmmm. Here’s a pretty name. Marigold?”
By M. Michael TRARP3 years ago in Fiction