Sam Grackle
Bio
Poet, essayist. Health enthusiast. I love all kinds of music, Japanese culture, and the Horror genre. Cat-Dad. Reading All The Light We Cannot See by Anthony Doerr.
Stories (54/0)
Peinture a l’Huile 500
I keep this journal because I don’t often get to write in English. The classes here demand that I speak in French and write, when necessary, in French. The culture of France is important for the study of art—so says everyone. Most of the time I stay quiet though.
By Sam Grackle17 days ago in Fiction
A Grumble Through the Speakers
Rock Dall, a lawyer at a prestigious firm, stepped inside the elevator at his place of employment. An old tune, classical, with violins and piano was playing, as he made his ascent to the sixteenth floor. He was alone. At first, he wasn’t thinking about anything, off-handedly listening to the music, when it just turned off for a second. As the elevator slid upward without evidence of moving at all, he wondered what happened. Then, right before the elevator came to a stop, a low humming--like muffled static--came over the speakers. It grew a little louder during the pause between stopping and the door opening. He figured it was a glitch, and so he passed through the elevator’s door frame thinking little of it.
By Sam Grackleabout a month ago in Horror
Heavy Mist
Black zippered chelseas stepping through a puddle. Dusk and stealing a moment outside the apartment. Grey sky like all day. A heavy mist is falling over this godforsaken place. Three rights, a left, and two more rights. Someone turned their empty pack of Green 100s into litter. Might have been called alchemy. Is it acceptable to walk into a house which has a wide-open front door? A dark (maybe midnight blue) sedan passes in a hurry. I walk under a tree and the wind shakes the branches. A drop of water falls on my left cheek and rolls down my neck. Not once has this happened before.
By Sam Grackle2 months ago in Poets
The Locket
On a day without color, mere white of snow and clouds, and stray black of dormant trees, Morgan sat perched in her bedroom nook reading. This was her parents’ house. She had yet to leave and go out on her own. Perhaps it was more comfortable here, though she knew discomfort well enough to stand just about anything. this was where she had grown up, the setting of her childhood memories. Lately though, a silence had fallen over the place. She agreed with the house’s disposition. What use was putting noise into the air? On almost every occasion, it changed nothing.
By Sam Grackle2 months ago in Fiction
Old Man Still Looking for a Good Time
He’s out there now, beer and burger in his stomach, listening to a band that plays other people’s music. When he was sixteen, he had a good time. Now, at fifty-seven, he fights the pain of arthritis to walk into the general admission area. He wants nothing else. His hometown friends may see him there, but what they don’t see is the other days, the days when nothing is happening. Nothing besides the collection of dust on his living room floor. Choosing to enjoy dinner was obvious since dinner happens every day. So, he mixes burger with beer and then sleeps away the evening. He sleeps the evening away, careless, because he can’t get what he wants. The weekends are his glory. He is a repressed epicurean. His pursuits of timeless happiness are marginal. No peace reaches him. He is ever-wanting to fill himself with joy, but the joy seeps out through holes so obvious. He is empty.
By Sam Grackle2 months ago in Poets
