Inside
inside
two voices
one is Southern
the other is mine
Southern says speak, act as if, & play
mine feels radiowaves signal across a haywire field of fucker-uppers
but instead says okay
Southern presses record
mine suggests the gray slab of building has cupped thoughts in an alley
by the Metro where the maple leaves have scattered thunder
mine shows a poem in the backpocket, directs words for Southern
my arm’s a pillow & my foot’s a saint
Southern intimates a question with pursed lips
mine deliberates that the world has blown up and asks finally
about the tape recorder
mine jumps the void, clinging to the window frame
~ By Aldrin Valdez ~
AldrinValdez
Friday, March 27, 2009
Fiction: Serenity
Serenity
Richard cried in slumber. His wife, moving closer, pressed her body into his from behind. She woke him gently and said, “Richard, let’s recite the Serenity Prayer.” She clutched his hand. Richard groaned, turning. He didn’t want to recite. He wanted to go back, fear-wrought by dreams. “What are we going to do, Sal?” he said. He couldn’t tell through the dark if she was looking at him. He wanted her to pull his head to her breasts, to stroke his hair, to say, “We’re in this together. Everything’s going to be fine. If all else fails, we can pack up our things and move the kids to Arizona. I hear it’s cheaper out there.” That is all; he thought about paying a whore to say it, nothing seedy just his cheek held to that warm skin below her neck. Instead his wife said, “Richard, let’s talk about the Eighth Step.”
~ By Adrian Shirk ~
Richard cried in slumber. His wife, moving closer, pressed her body into his from behind. She woke him gently and said, “Richard, let’s recite the Serenity Prayer.” She clutched his hand. Richard groaned, turning. He didn’t want to recite. He wanted to go back, fear-wrought by dreams. “What are we going to do, Sal?” he said. He couldn’t tell through the dark if she was looking at him. He wanted her to pull his head to her breasts, to stroke his hair, to say, “We’re in this together. Everything’s going to be fine. If all else fails, we can pack up our things and move the kids to Arizona. I hear it’s cheaper out there.” That is all; he thought about paying a whore to say it, nothing seedy just his cheek held to that warm skin below her neck. Instead his wife said, “Richard, let’s talk about the Eighth Step.”
~ By Adrian Shirk ~
Fiction: Routine
Routine
Every morning, the old man’s routine was the same. Alone in his maintained but careworn house, he’d be awakened by the sun spilling over his windowsill; decades ago his wife had insisted on a bedroom facing east, and since her passing, also decades ago, he hadn’t had the heart to change rooms, or even to replace the threadbare curtains she’d picked out.
He would open his eyes slowly, blinking the sleep from them and the dreams from his mind, and pull himself upright in bed; slowly he would swing his two feet onto the hardwood floor, letting them fall there like weights coming to rest on the ocean floor. Here he would pause and run his hand up through his thin hair and then down over his face, over the tired eyes, with their full murder of crow’s feet, the bony nose, the drooping lips surrounded by five days’ unshaven beard.
Outside the window would be stillness. A few birds would call to each other, not especially pretty or ugly songs, but simply the noises one would expect to hear from dull, familiar sparrows. Sometimes a sleepy car would drive past, barely bothering to announce its presence, or the muffled footsteps of some neighbor walking a dog could be heard.
Neighbors, however, were infrequent; while the road was only twenty feet from the unsteady front porch, even closer with the broken sidewalk, the area contained only a handful of other houses. In the property to the south was a family of three that kept to themselves, and the lot to the north was empty, home only to some overgrown rubble and empty cans that boys used to shoot at with slingshots. Across the street was a collage of forgotten chain link and telephone poles and a few other tired houses.
After several moments, the old man would rise from bed and walk to the bathroom, where he would use the toilet, brush his teeth, and take the few pills he kept behind the mirror, with the automated motions of someone forgotten not only by the world, but by himself. Eventually, he would find his way downstairs.
Today was no exception. After a cold breakfast of oatmeal and milk, the man pushed back his chair, stood, and put his feet into the slippers he kept at the edge of the living room. He was about to perform the most sacred rite of the morning rituals: getting the newspaper. Reading it was one of the few things that produced a spark of life in him anymore; he held few opinions on current affairs, but relished the news itself, the knowledge that the world outside his Rust Belt suburb was still continuing on. He kept up to date on a few sports teams even though he had no television and hadn’t been to a game in years, and read the comics section despite most of his old favorites having been replaced. He was especially looking forward to today’s paper, hoping the hostage crisis in a Tennessee Wal-Mart had been resolved.
He shuffled towards the door, opened it after two feeble shoves, and stepped onto the porch; a creak sounded as the door swung shut, although it could just as easily have been his old bones. Across the street several boys were sprinting, and were almost instantly out of sight around the corner. The day was sunny, but a film seemed to hang over the entire place, giving the area a graininess that contributed no warmth to the already run-down scenery.
Seven paces away from the mailbox, the old man’s world exploded with light and sound. The roar of forgotten battleships colliding in foreign seas, the hammers and anvils of childhood thunderstorms, penetrated his head and embedded themselves in the space behind his eyes, reverberating; he felt the earth slip away underneath him.
Dimly he became aware of a tickling sensation on his skin, and knew he would die: it was radiation poisoning, or nerve gas. Several seconds passed, his breathing slowed, and he gradually realized the tiny pricks were caused by grass touching his bare arms and his neck, and that he was on the ground, with his eyes shut tighter than the vaults of a fallout shelter. The pain of the noise was replaced with a lesser throb above his right eye, which he opened slowly and reached his hand to; he’d gotten a small cut when he’d fallen. Around him lay scattered black shrapnel, twisted pieces of metal no bigger than playing cards, and a thousand bits of paper.
The mailbox had been blown to pieces by the neighborhood boys’ crude bomb, undoubtedly more powerful than they had intended; the wooden post atop which the mailbox had sat now ended in splinters and a few bent nails. The old man got shakily to his feet, coughed, and started towards the house. There would be no mail today. He crossed the porch, stepped inside, and shut the door quietly behind him.
~ By Mike Cook ~
mcook6@pratt.edu
Every morning, the old man’s routine was the same. Alone in his maintained but careworn house, he’d be awakened by the sun spilling over his windowsill; decades ago his wife had insisted on a bedroom facing east, and since her passing, also decades ago, he hadn’t had the heart to change rooms, or even to replace the threadbare curtains she’d picked out.
He would open his eyes slowly, blinking the sleep from them and the dreams from his mind, and pull himself upright in bed; slowly he would swing his two feet onto the hardwood floor, letting them fall there like weights coming to rest on the ocean floor. Here he would pause and run his hand up through his thin hair and then down over his face, over the tired eyes, with their full murder of crow’s feet, the bony nose, the drooping lips surrounded by five days’ unshaven beard.
Outside the window would be stillness. A few birds would call to each other, not especially pretty or ugly songs, but simply the noises one would expect to hear from dull, familiar sparrows. Sometimes a sleepy car would drive past, barely bothering to announce its presence, or the muffled footsteps of some neighbor walking a dog could be heard.
Neighbors, however, were infrequent; while the road was only twenty feet from the unsteady front porch, even closer with the broken sidewalk, the area contained only a handful of other houses. In the property to the south was a family of three that kept to themselves, and the lot to the north was empty, home only to some overgrown rubble and empty cans that boys used to shoot at with slingshots. Across the street was a collage of forgotten chain link and telephone poles and a few other tired houses.
After several moments, the old man would rise from bed and walk to the bathroom, where he would use the toilet, brush his teeth, and take the few pills he kept behind the mirror, with the automated motions of someone forgotten not only by the world, but by himself. Eventually, he would find his way downstairs.
Today was no exception. After a cold breakfast of oatmeal and milk, the man pushed back his chair, stood, and put his feet into the slippers he kept at the edge of the living room. He was about to perform the most sacred rite of the morning rituals: getting the newspaper. Reading it was one of the few things that produced a spark of life in him anymore; he held few opinions on current affairs, but relished the news itself, the knowledge that the world outside his Rust Belt suburb was still continuing on. He kept up to date on a few sports teams even though he had no television and hadn’t been to a game in years, and read the comics section despite most of his old favorites having been replaced. He was especially looking forward to today’s paper, hoping the hostage crisis in a Tennessee Wal-Mart had been resolved.
He shuffled towards the door, opened it after two feeble shoves, and stepped onto the porch; a creak sounded as the door swung shut, although it could just as easily have been his old bones. Across the street several boys were sprinting, and were almost instantly out of sight around the corner. The day was sunny, but a film seemed to hang over the entire place, giving the area a graininess that contributed no warmth to the already run-down scenery.
Seven paces away from the mailbox, the old man’s world exploded with light and sound. The roar of forgotten battleships colliding in foreign seas, the hammers and anvils of childhood thunderstorms, penetrated his head and embedded themselves in the space behind his eyes, reverberating; he felt the earth slip away underneath him.
Dimly he became aware of a tickling sensation on his skin, and knew he would die: it was radiation poisoning, or nerve gas. Several seconds passed, his breathing slowed, and he gradually realized the tiny pricks were caused by grass touching his bare arms and his neck, and that he was on the ground, with his eyes shut tighter than the vaults of a fallout shelter. The pain of the noise was replaced with a lesser throb above his right eye, which he opened slowly and reached his hand to; he’d gotten a small cut when he’d fallen. Around him lay scattered black shrapnel, twisted pieces of metal no bigger than playing cards, and a thousand bits of paper.
The mailbox had been blown to pieces by the neighborhood boys’ crude bomb, undoubtedly more powerful than they had intended; the wooden post atop which the mailbox had sat now ended in splinters and a few bent nails. The old man got shakily to his feet, coughed, and started towards the house. There would be no mail today. He crossed the porch, stepped inside, and shut the door quietly behind him.
~ By Mike Cook ~
mcook6@pratt.edu
Theme Submission: Fingers
Theme #1: The Body
Fingers
Lead chopsticks open their maws
Polygraph scratch
Across naked flesh of cotton canvas
Fingertips letter pressing keyboard keys
A blur of motion, and a speed so rapid
The rapping reminiscent
To the subdued salvo of a machine gun
Wrists becoming the faucet
Rusted pipes directly pouring
The gum in my head
The bread stuffed between my ears
The meat behind my pupils
The potion in my beaker
Type
Rhyme
Type
Rhyme
My words knitting stockinet
And my fingers commit the crime
~By Rachel Vasquez~
Rubixchick.com
Fingers
Lead chopsticks open their maws
Polygraph scratch
Across naked flesh of cotton canvas
Fingertips letter pressing keyboard keys
A blur of motion, and a speed so rapid
The rapping reminiscent
To the subdued salvo of a machine gun
Wrists becoming the faucet
Rusted pipes directly pouring
The gum in my head
The bread stuffed between my ears
The meat behind my pupils
The potion in my beaker
Type
Rhyme
Type
Rhyme
My words knitting stockinet
And my fingers commit the crime
~By Rachel Vasquez~
Rubixchick.com
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Inspiration: Gurney Journey
A new link has been added to the links list on the right. I'd recommend all artists take a look at his posts.
Description:"This daily weblog by James Gurney is for illustrators, comic artists, plein-air painters, sketchers, animators, art students, and writers. You'll find practical studio tips, insights into the making of the Dinotopia books, and first-hand reports from art schools and museums. Plus, for you lateral thinkers and pop-culture trekkers, a few bizarre rabbit trails."
Description:"This daily weblog by James Gurney is for illustrators, comic artists, plein-air painters, sketchers, animators, art students, and writers. You'll find practical studio tips, insights into the making of the Dinotopia books, and first-hand reports from art schools and museums. Plus, for you lateral thinkers and pop-culture trekkers, a few bizarre rabbit trails."
Theme #2: Spring/Rebirth
This month's theme is Spring/Rebirth. We will be accepting submissions for the blog all month long. Remember to title the subject of your submissions specifically as "Blog Submissions" when you send us emails. This makes for easier organizing and quicker posts.
Posts on last month's theme, "The Body" will be posted soon. Stay tuned.
Posts on last month's theme, "The Body" will be posted soon. Stay tuned.
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