by Michael C. Keith And then we ease her out of the worn-out body with a kiss, and she’s gone like a whisper, the easiest breath. –– Mark Doty The two-room, third floor flat is ice cold. Its radiators no longer make their loud clanking noise…
Posts Tagged creative writing
Jumpers
By Emily Fox It was the summer of the jumpers. From every height they were falling: from rooftops, from bridges, from sharp cliffs onto vicious rock clusters that waited below with greedy crevices. Perhaps it was the heat that drove people to want to fly. The air was heavy with…
Cold Girl
by Michael C. Keith I’ve never been crazy. I’m a very good girl, to be honest. I don’t do anything to hurt anybody. – Leighton Meester So I’m heading home after running a few errands and I come to a red light. In front of me is this shiny…
Dear
by Stephanie Zingeler Caroline suckled a nicotine baby every hour or two, dressed in camel UGGS, seen on nipple-pinching cold days, eyes squinting to thin almonds as she inhaled mouth wrinkled around the cigarette’s lean physique, hip thrust out to support the weight of her logoed Louis Vuitton bag balanced…
Two Very Short Stories
by Michael C. Keith When Nature Changes, Make Lemonade Throughout the autumn everyone waited for the leaves to change color, but they didn’t. The businesses in New England that depended on the revenue from visiting leaf peepers were in a virtual frenzy. This had never happened before. Even in the…
Where Purple Martins Fly
by Judith Grissmer It is the last night before seasonal renters arrive. Sun casts crimson on windows settles behind black pine. As I sit on our beach-house steps, the small colony of feral cats that live here year-round lie on the driveway at my feet. They have kept me company…
Bloodline
by donnarkevic Each Holy Week, babas, place orders with Ted, the mailman, for ducks to make Czarnina, soup from the blood. Ted reconnoitered behind enemy lines, his knife slitting throats of Nazis, wounds squirting blood, death draggling a green uniform to the pallor of red clay. In Pittsburgh’s strip district,…
Blindside
by Linda Bragg LATE DECEMBER 1972 The sour smell of lung cancer clings to the humid air – heavy, unyielding. My family lives in Florida, and like most homes, ours has no air-conditioning. My father’s been sick for two years — now he’s coughing up blood and breathing has…
Daydream
by J.P. Colby on these bright days of milk and violet light causes life to flash through thoughts like chalk spread hard, sprawled on pavement. overhead a man hangs paintings in a house of white. daisies litter his mound of clay. He builds a house of clay. He perfumes his…
Inspiration
by Laura Senff Inspiration approaches in many forms A ray of sunshine or a sliver of moonlight Watching campfire flames ignite The wind blowing in the trees or waves hitting the shore Or even watching winged beasts soar Inspiration in sundry situations transforms Maybe it is a speech on television…