Stéphane Dreyfus
Bio
Melanchoholic.
It’s just me. Growing old and wrong. A time lapse bonsai soul, clipped and curtailed in all the worst ways.
Achievements (1)
Stories (72/0)
Chai and Sacrifice
She leans in close to whisper. Her dark hair, large curls arranged neatly atop her head, engender a commanding air. An organic crown, imposing, sensuous royalty, softened by the few loops that fall to frame her ears. Lidded eyes lost in some deepening dream vision, full lips a deep burgundy in the low light, I can almost hear her words before she speaks them. Were I a younger man, were I not under the effects of the same chai, were I not a specter from the realm of the waking, I might be lost in a foggy estuary of eros.
By Stéphane Dreyfusabout a month ago in Fiction
The Great Serrated Batholith
Tumanguya I bow to you. Let me tell you of the awareness your scoured landscapes lay bare for me. The world is not as stable as it once was. The foundations have been shown to be worse than crumbling. They are porous with an ancient rot; the fact that they never existed. The space, the thing, we inhabit is a solitary maze of mirrors, and there have never been any walls. As we stare, mute, into the widening, rocky expanse, we see further into our own souls.
By Stéphane Dreyfus2 months ago in Poets
Unavoidable Trouble
Brutal. Several other skiers have used this term, unprompted, to describe the weather on the front side of the mountain today. During the long ride up the lift, when I pass over a great void, suspended high between two distant lift towers, the snow comes in at a hard angle. Despite the silence there is a force to it. A howl hides at the edge of those fast moving flakes. A shout hidden in the moments before it is voiced. There is an unrelenting unfairness to it. I, a drop of warmth, barely shielded, high above a frozen Earth, pulled at a constant pace towards the end. I am heading away from the calm. The snowfall increases. I am only aware of my skis due to their weight. What is that inner voice that says jump. Lift the bar and fall into the white. Let us compare, on the rocks below, our fragile wetness to that of a snowflake. Who’s voice is this? There is no sadness to it. Only curiosity. Should we not add red to the white? A shudder. The destination approaches. I feel it before I can see anything. I must disembark into the blinding storm. Brutal.
By Stéphane Dreyfus2 months ago in Poets
And In the Stormy Sky I See
I struggle through an inner molasses. My desire to write is quashed by my desire to be a good writer. I know I need to be writing in order to improve, but without any reliable feedback I do not see improvement, and, worse, I can see the incredible skill of many out in the world already, and I deflate. A pathetic, lifeless, child’s water balloon, completely deflated, trampled into a mud patch somewhere. Look here at the angular and forced quality of these awkward expressions. I want to pass on to you some interesting image of my inner world, but instead of poetry I show you, as if made of collapsed neutrons, the clunkiest metaphors and analogies. I serve visuals blunt to the point of somnolescence. Dry as only, cold, burnt toast can be.
By Stéphane Dreyfus3 months ago in Poets
- Top Story - February 2024
Second ChancesTop Story - February 2024
Hear me, Lord of Death. Another approaches. I've read the texts. I can see you. That's right. That is your body. The damage is not that bad. Dead? Not quite. Not just yet. But tell me, what were you trying to do? Leave? Yes, I know. Everything IS hard. But stay for just a moment with me, weightless in this sunless space. Who am I? An echo of regret. Oh, you don't like that? Ok, look, just imagine I have a hand, and you have a hand. And here, I gently take yours in mine. I'm a friend. I have a lot to share with you.
By Stéphane Dreyfus4 months ago in Fiction
- Top Story - November 2023
Impossible In Between
I can't recall my first breath. I've not yet experienced my last breath. As long as I write, I must be somewhere in between. Is there a time between the moment the switch is flipped and light surges across space? How long is that moment, where the electrical current can begin its race, to start an even swifter messenger, as the bulb emits countless bright emissaries?
By Stéphane Dreyfus6 months ago in Fiction
Inifnite Jest
The joy of this book: picking apart, to weave together, the maddening threads, had to end. I think this pushed the author into despair. To be the fatal film, words would have to transcend the real, and tickle endlessly the nucleus accumbens. It could not salve the scars of life.
By Stéphane Dreyfus8 months ago in Critique
2001: A Space Odyssey
It is easier to find comfort in the bones of this cold, vast tale of trepidatious exploration. We are like the proto-humans: afraid to touch the monolith. A masterpiece of imagery and technical prowess. We must evolve beyond the struggles of humans and machines to be comfortable in the void.
By Stéphane Dreyfus8 months ago in Critique
Actions on the Border of Decency
I arrived home very late last night after a great deal of travel. My life is increasingly shifting into the stage where it is us, the children, taking care of the parents. Both places to which I traveled involved such activities. Everyone is getting older. Infirmity is endemic, though it expresses itself to different degrees in the varied constitutions of the collected grandparents. Still, being of service to them, making efforts to be kind and supportive, seems to have helped my disposition towards practice.
By Stéphane Dreyfus9 months ago in Journal
