Uncle Charlie's Got the Rots AgainUncle Charlies got the rots again, down with the disease again. They may have to take the other leg this time, at least the foot. He just lays there in bed most of the time, staring out at something only he sees. Grandma Carol tries not to cry when she goes in to tend to him, but he must hear her all the way from the kitchen as she sits there crying over the potatoes. Slice, slice, slice; a little more gone each time. I sit on the porch and think how we all die like that; piece by piece as the good things turn rancid and are cut away. I wonder if Uncle Charlie sees Aunt Martha, seven years gone now. I kind of bet he does.Uncle Charlie's Got the Rots Again by Bark
ScrawlingsA ninety foot tall cross bordered in stable white neon; above it another sign, running red and white lights. It reads “Hope” for a few seconds, switches to “Dope” then back again. Caution: causes seizures in those prone to epilepsy. At the bottom, men with nicotine-stained fingers stir great pots of jambalaya. Occasional cigarette ash drops into the pots for seasoning. Look up; yellow-tooth smile.Scrawlings by Bark
Up on a lonely hill a woman plays violin. A classical tune that I don’t know, something about the wind in the trees. There are no trees here, though, only rocks and ocean. She hears bells in the distance, calling her home, but she hasn’t finished her song. The last note has to be played before she can go. Her mother weeps.
I heard a woman read her poetry today… such a clear and beautiful voice. My own has grown ragged and rough with too many years of smoke and drink. We should read something together, I think; her one stanza and I the next. Some
Where it StandsLuminous beneath the half-wit moon, it standsWhere it Stands by Bark
With all the sundry junk about it, rusted, broken
Singing through the wires, delivered anxiety
Cable-wrapped, copper inside sleek black coaxial
A phone booth, black dial-up for calling God
Lazarus waits like a popped balloon for resurrection
Oil slick beneath his feet, worms abound
Singing hymns to the moon, delicately frostbitten
It stands in this place, haunted by ragged dreams
Old dreams, new dreams of Norco and morphine
Yellowed newspapers in bundles, stained canvas bags
Tall beneath cold stars and moon, never moving
A broken theater sign, the letters spell gibberish
Hundreds of old autos decaying, rubber tires slick
Stacked into columns to rot, leaving rusty wheels
This is where it stands, will stand for a hundred years
The Stars of Three AMI retire early each night, weary of the day, but the stars of three AM sing with promise. Not Van Gogh’s swirling stars, but quiet and staid; their song of hope beautiful, intoxicating; giving reason to hold out a bit longer before I sing with them in the sky.The Stars of Three AM by Bark
Yet to hear the day’s bad news, honest in their innocence, filled with the joy of being; twinkling blue against black velvet, laughing. A song now about freedom, and how beautiful it is to roam the early-morning skies. Little seeds of hope scattered across the night.
The Book of Samuel Chapter TwoArthur put down the book. “Trite crap. I guess they’ll be fighting off marauding soldiers and bandits, maybe even an ogre, on their journey to find the man who cast the spell. So damned predictable.” He was rather disgusted with himself for reading so far, but the Samuel character reminded him a lot of himself. “Ah, well” he thought, “time to get out into the sun and tend the rose garden. Maybe that’ll brighten my mood.”The Book of Samuel Chapter Two by Bark
It didn’t. As he carefully snipped here and there, the sun was pushed out of the sky by heavy iron-colored clouds. The warm air chilled, and the first drops of rain began to spatter. Mumbling, he walked back up the steps into the little house he and his wife shared.
The sea green and orange windowed kitchen was almost entirely homage to his Martha’s will and ways. Walls where bunches of herbs were tied at stalk, many of which he had no name for, and yet had tasted a thousand times in her cooking. The ceiling w
The Book of Samuel Chapter OneGusts of dust gather across a distant shore.The Book of Samuel Chapter One by Bark
A man’s footsteps make apertures through the salt touched airstreams. Many miles of marks upon the beach at his back prove his journey has purpose. He has traveled far this overcast day. Inclement weather stains his musings and relays mood by uninviting expression. How much time has passed with face uncolored by joy he knows not. He voyages relentlessly towards uncertain fate without faltering, for his cause is definite.
Samuel is his name, and no more than that. He hails last from the Coastal Northlands where black volcanic mountains still slowly spew new land into the ocean as steaming liquefied slag. Moving south again he seeks knowledge of a woman lost to him. This search has been his life for years he no longer wishes to count.
Tall of stature and long of limb his dawn strides carried him lightly. Now weariness weighs them as stone. Dusk comes without a dare. Dropping temperatures and cooling air pressure press him to
Childhood Fears Contest!:iconMadHattersSociety:
The new contest is as much of a challenge as it is a contest. The theme is "Childhood Fears." Was it the sound of a train in the night, before you knew what trains were? A shadow on the wall at a certain time of day? Something from a movie that you were too young to see? Maybe even a children's story that spooked you; the Brothers Grimm were pretty grim.
The idea is to represent that fear in your chosen field of art/literature. The more edgy, off-balance, and surreal it is, the better the chance of winning. The contest will run through January first, 2015, so you'll have plenty of time. Don't procrastinate, though, get to creating!
So far the prizes are 400 points for first pace, 300 for second, and 175 for third in each category. There will be two categories, one for visual art and one for literature. (more points will be added as donations come in)
:iconprettyflour: will donate a feature f
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A review by QuiEstInLiteris