Short Stories, Poetry and Prose
April is National Poetry Month!
To honor the event I’m posting a poem a week for the month of April.
Check out www.poets.org and have some fun.
Something was said.
Something funny.
I heard her laugh,
so clear the sound.
Mom? I turned to look,
that laugh—its ME.
That was funny.
I still recall
that laugh I heard.
A memory sweet
I turned to look, but
she’s been gone ten years.
She had stepped back into his life as quickly as she’d walked out. He knew he should be angry, but as he pushed her chair to the table, the scent of Chanel seemed like springtime flowering in his winter.
After introductions were shared, Walter ordered a round of martinis. George amended his, “I’ll have mine shaken, not stirred.”
Sylvia leaned forward. A hint of cleavage whispered from her tailored silk blouse. “Mr. Wang, I’m so impressed with Shanghai. It’s beautiful and so rich in culture,” her head dipped slightly, eyes wide, “yet, it has its mysterious side.”
Walter looked at George. “Yes, we are a very diverse country?”
Sylvia placed her hand on her husband’s. “And even more so now, with an American as Shanghai Oil’s chief of engineering.”
“We are excited to have such a renowned engineer as your husband on board.” Walter looked to the phone vibrating on his belt. “If you will excuse me,” he nodded with Asian propriety and stood. “Corporate is calling.”Continue Reading
Here’s a short fiction I hope you’ll enjoy. Chris
“You’re such a bore, George,” Sylvia said with a toss of her head.
And just like that, she was gone. Of course, the runner-up for Miss Texas 1978 didn’t leave with only the diamonds on her left hand. The next day while George was at work, Sylvia returned with a moving van, packed everything except his undershorts and the clothes that wouldn’t fit Teddy. Thank God she took Teddy.
That was two months ago.
A week after Sylvia’s departure, Shanghai Oil had called with an offer. It wasn’t hard to accept the job. There was nothing in Houston for him—literally. He didn’t care. It was just stuff. The condo was Sylvia’s idea. The white leather sofa and floating bed suspended from the ceiling were fun because Sylvia was there. George had been warned not to get sucked in, but a wife and family had seemed good after all these years. He had to admit though, when she left, it hurt.Continue Reading
This is a memoir that definitely falls under Piquant. The dollhouse in the photo came to live with us when my daughter was a child. My brother still has “the barn.” Thankfully, no one owns the Engine.
This story is of a little toy engine that made constant noise. Colorful gears spun inside the clear plastic shoebox-sized shell while bells and music swirled in the air. With the flip of a child friendly lever, multiple toots and whistles mixed with the cacophony. Left unattended by our children, the little engine chugged across the kitchen merrily, until in frustration and anger it got thrown against the wall, never to annoy me again. I can’t remember the circumstances that lead to my break with sanity, but I’m sure I was trying to get something done – there was always something that should be done. It’s taken me years to realize that “should” is an evil scourge. A shame word wielded with the occasional “need to” or “must” by clerics, mothers, and myself in an attempt to keep the world free from procrastination, at least in my lifetime.Continue Reading
This is totally a fiction. The diary’s changed to protect my innocence.
“Where did that pillow come from? I’ve never seen it before.”
Ellen sighed. “Mom, I told you. That’s mine. That’s where it belongs.”
“What’s that?” the old woman pointed to the scar on her left forearm.
“That’s where you got hit with a shovel when you were twelve. Remember?” Ellen pulled a photo from the packing box.
“Did you do that?” Indignation rose in the woman’s voice.
“No, Mom. I wasn’t even born, yet.” Ellen sat gently next to her mother. “Uncle Larry was digging a hole when you ran in front of his shovel. You always said he did it on purpose.” Ellen smiled at the family joke and patted her mother’s leg. The old woman stared at her arm.
“Are you hungry?” Ellen rose from the sofa and looked at her watch. “We’re having fried chicken for supper.”
“It smells good.” She looked around her daughter’s spacious living room.
Ellen shook her head, wading through crumpled newsprint and bubble wrap. “That’s promising, since I haven’t picked it up, yet.” She returned to the half emptied packing box.
“Where did this pillow come from?”Continue Reading
Here’s the conclusion to the short fiction I began last week. I hope you’ll enjoy.
Laundered Money (part 2)
He watched her face. So, she didn’t recognize me.
“My God, what have you been doing? With yourself, I mean.” Her face turned red. “You still live around here? Well, I guess you do, here you are.”
“Guess I’m just living the glory life, and you’re still watching me work.” Her face paled. She’d watched him plenty back-in-the-day. Got a beating from her staring. Dad said I’d screw us getting paid. It was always Brant’s fault when the old man had been drinking.
“I heard you got out of Dodge.” He leaned against the washer and crossed his arms, exaggerating his pecks. “But you just couldn’t stay away.”
“Not exactly my idea.” She turned toward the house. “Well, I’ll let you get to work.”Continue Reading
This week I’m sharing the first half of a short story. Stay in touch for next week’s conclusion.
Laundered Money
Linda didn’t have to worry about picnic ants or drippy ice cream cones. It was the Fourth of July, ninety-eight degrees, and she was sitting cool inside reading last year’s May issue of Cosmo. She found the dog-eared prize abandoned on a folding table. The name on the cover indicated it was borrowed from the doctor’s office next to the laundromat. The optometrist was most likely boating or barbequing, whatever docs do on their days off, so she didn’t feel guilty not returning it.
She stood and checked the perma-press in the dryer. Who’d have figured this many people washed clothes on a holiday? Probably, like her, this was just another day. She had hoped to speed the process with unlimited machines at her disposal, but some woman toting six baskets and two toddlers must have beat her in the door by fifteen minutes. They sprawled across the right side of the washateria.Continue Reading
This is a poem written when Leo Luke Marcello first introduced me to ekphrastic poetry. (A dramatic description of a work of art.)
This is for you, Dr. Marcello.
One hundred years
much has changed, but little
daughter’s foot, mother’s hand
washing the hard-spent play.
Towel-draped cherub
rests, nestled in her lap.
Pearl skin and raven hair,
reflections of genes well spent.
Delicate flowers
the pattern recurs,
wallpaper, pitcher, and carpet
blooms of life and growth.
Satin striped robe
same violet echoes
rim around the washbowl.
Repeats the circle.
Love without end,
grace freely given,
whispers the lullaby
washes eternal.
A response to last week’s flash—Uncommon Bond, I enjoyed writing this piece from the “kid’s” point of view. Give me your thoughts. Chris
The driver’s side door extended like a wing, enticing James like a mocking bird draws a cat away from her nest. As the valet next in line to park, he couldn’t believe his luck. Back in Indiana, he drove dirt tracks and raced modified stock cars. To drive a Jaguar had always been a dream.
The concept car spewed the aging executive out, like a wrinkled bug. “Good morning, sir.”
The old bug didn’t respond, but stamped the winter sludge from his snake skin boots with a curse. James was used to the piss-ant attitude. Moneyed boomers who frequented the Palmer Hotel usually expected their backside cleaned. Minimum wage alone wasn’t getting him through design school. James knew how to kiss ass, but today this was his tip.Continue Reading
This flash was inspired from a magazine photo. Next week I’ll share the valet’s point of view. Hope you enjoy.
Uncommon Bond
The silver CX75 concept car sliced to the curb of Chicago’s Palmer Hotel. The Jag’s door swung up like a wing. Bill cursed. His nine hundred dollar boot drowned in a puddle of gray slush left by the last vehicle. He stood with a grunt. His disheveled black trench coat clung to the seat unwilling to leave the warm leather.
“Good morning, sir.” The valet smiled, drool practically running down his chin.
Bill squinted through his round Lennon glasses. A steely blue gaze, known to wilt boardrooms, was wasted behind fogged lenses. He pulled his Cubs cap from his pocket and mashed it down over his large forehead that reached back to a nest of white hair.
The kid stared at the car. At least he looked like a kid to Bill, but he towered over the CEO’s five foot nine frame. His red short waste jacket accentuated his height and the gold trim reminded Bill of an organ grinder’s monkey.Continue Reading