Do you recall the time when I was young?
Eating mom’s tomatoes, crisp as morning
Can you still hear the songs of black birds sung
Or the rumble of old grandpa snoring
In the meadow we fought with twisted sticks
Valiant knights baptized under the hot sun
How we built that mighty fort with old bricks
How we named it after the chosen one
“Fort James” after the brother that you lost
Wouldn’t he be honored? How could he not?
Fort James endures as dawn outlives the frost
A testament to life may never rot
Do you recall these things? You might, old man
Go rest with James, and I will hold your hand
About the Creator
Shlunka
Visual artist and writer working out of a small Virginia town in the Shenandoah Valley.
Passion
I make things. Weird, complicated, dumb things. I make them out of soda cans, and I cut them into hundreds or thousands of pieces before tying and gluing them together into mosaics or three -dimensional works. I make forests, mountains, any kind of landscapes that are altered by the weird symmetry of our encroaching on them. I don’t know why I do this, and I don’t care to know why, because I love it.
By Shlunka3 years ago in Motivation
Clinging to Childhood
The playground is empty, as it should be past sundown. There is a warm breeze, and I can see everything despite the late hour. What time is it, anyway? It could very well be past midnight. I can never keep track of time, especially in the summer. A prickly piece of popcorn hides like a stowaway in the left cup of my padded training bra. I stuffed the tissue in last minute— a decision I’m beginning to regret, based on the events that are unfolding rapidly before me. To my left, laying non-chalantly on his back, is my date for the evening. He is two years older, could probably grow facial hair if he wanted to, and drives a secondhand Honda. He may as well be a Man. I, on the other hand, feel like a fraud with my too-short short-shorts, sparkly lip gloss, and makeshift push-up bra. I keep my arms pinned to my sides as I feel the dreaded circles of sweat beginning to manifest on my brand new Abercrombie top. I cup my elbows with my hands and stare down at my hint of cleavage, praying that the tissue doesn’t pop out like a white flag surrendouring my lack of womanhood.
By Marti Maley6 days ago in Fiction
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