Beloved followers, please heed the following:
Aspiring, published, it doesn’t matter.
After discussing the lack of prose writers or our ninja ability to hide behind poetry, with Letters for Burning, I’ve decided to launch this little thing hoping that it will help in…
My one fear is that what I write will go unread.
Charlie stepped outside as a ship’s captain meets a coming storm. He wrapped his knuckles around the metal pizza peel, and scanned the dark places of the parking lot. There were two lights in the parking lot. One was flickering, threatening to go out. It smelled wet outside; it had not yet begun to rain but it would. “Charlie? Is it safe to come out?” Called a meek voice from the pizzerias glass door.
Karen. “No, uh – I don’t think it’s safe, not yet. Shut the door and don’t answer it for anyone.” The little brass bell on the door jangled as she shut the door. “Wait – which car is yours?” Charlie asked, realizing she had given him her keys, but he had no idea which car was hers. Karen shook her head, confused, as if she couldn’t understand what he was saying. “Which car is yours?” He said again, a little louder. She said something but her voice was dull and unclear. “Open the door, Karen,” Charlie made to move back to the door. Karen seemed hesitant. “Goddamnit, Karen – I mean don’t open for anyone but me.” Charlie heard a sound – like leaves crunching, footsteps over asphalt – lots of feet. Opposite the pizzeria was a long boulevard which ran through town. Charlie paused, and Karen’s muffled talking was still; a man in a green shirt wearing boxers ran down the street screaming bloody murder. Even though he was at a dead sprint, it was if he was running in slow motion. He looked at Charlie, and let out a short and urgent scream. Charlie screamed back. Karen screamed. Charlie screamed. The running man screamed. “Karen, open the door.” Charlie turned, and she was gone – hidden or hiding somewhere inside of the pizzeria. ”Don’t be a bitch Karen! Open the door! There is some shit that’s going down and I’m pretty sure that guy was running from something.” No response. Nothing. Charlie turned around, toward the running man, only to see him just escaping his field of view. What the hell is going on? Charlie asked himself. As if being eclipsed by silence, four shadows emerged from the direction the man was running from. Three of them were running, or attempting to – it was more of a shuffling hop. They walked with their noses up in the air as if being led less by sight than by smell. The fourth figure was walking – trailing behind the others – Charlie didn’t like that. Charlie felt his stomach tighten and the hair on his arms began to stand on end. The other three figures he knew would keep after the running man, and he could hear intermittent fits of screaming from somewhere down the road; he wasn’t scared of them - they reminded him of Goombahs. The other one was different; it was taking its time. Charlie suddenly realized what was happening. This was a gang war, and Charlie was a witness. As if picking up on his thoughts, the lone figure turned toward Charlie – not the pizzeria, now dim, but to Charlie – standing in the shadow of the awning in front. It changed direction, now coming toward Charlie. “Hey, we’re closed… sorry, no more pizza tonight,” Charlie said, his voice breaking. The figure didn’t say anything but kept moving. “Hey dude, I’m a black belt and I don’t feel like busting any heads tonight. My dad’s a cop, and he’s picking me up here in like – well, he should have been here like 10 minutes ago, so you might just want to not come any closer.” Nothing. Nothing but terror ran through Charlie’s veins – this guy was going to shoot him, then rape him. “Listen bud! I will royally fuck you up.” Charlie’s voice was trembling. The figure crossed beneath one of the street lights. His skin was pale, almost blue. This guy didn’t just have bags under his eyes, it looked like his eyes had been engulfed in black coal. He was also wearing some kind of mouth guard – even from where Charlie was standing he could see how his lips were pursed - like his mouth was full of cotton balls. And then the smell hit him – like death and vinegar, yet somehow slightly sickly sweet. The calm returned to Charlie’s voice. “Are you okay, dude?” He asked, somehow unaffected now, realizing this wasn’t merely a bad situation, but that something was now terribly wrong. The figure smiled, revealing a giant maw of crooked needle like teeth. “Oh,” Charlie said softly. “That’s not fucked up at all.”
(Source: dawdler.org)
I sit beside the fire and think
of all that I have seen,
of meadow-flowers and butterflies
in summers that have been;
Of yellow leaves and gossamer
in autumns that there were,
with morning mist and silver sun
and wind upon my hair.
I sit beside the fire and think
of how the world will be
when winter comes without a spring
that I shall never see.
For still there are so many things
that I have never seen:
in every wood in every spring
there is a different green.
I sit beside the fire and think
of people long ago,
and people who will see a world
that I shall never know.
But all the while I sit and think
of times there were before,
I listen for returning feet
and voices at the door.
—J.R.R Tolkien
I feel accomplished today. I took pictures for a friend, and then drank his beer and ate his cheese.
Near a dark village surrounded by trees which held no leaves, barren from the cold autumn chill, two young men sputtered along, lost, in a Volkswagen beetle while driving through the countryside of New England.
Thanks! Glad you enjoyed it!
There are houses like it in most small towns. Some are set about a mile out of town, as if peering in coldly, its windows dim eyes and the air around it stale, while others are nestled tightly like teeth, its decay sorely sticking out. This is the house that people jokingly suggest as haunted as they pass by, or the house that a friend of a friend swears he heard something weird one night; both would be right, as both are true. The house is haunted, in a sense, like all houses are haunted. A place absorbs a memory – sometimes you can feel it on a hot day – like walking into a dream, or sometimes late at night when the midnight mist rolls in and the street lamps become glowing golden orbs, and the last days of summer feel like they will last forever. This was a brown house, and was likely made at some point in the sixties –a split level ranch, as was the neighbor to either side, and each neighbor aside those. Every third or fourth driveway along Fig street had a basketball hoop, and most of the lawns were well kept. Except this lawn, because it belonged to this house. The lawn was as dead as the house was cold. There were patches of weeds and crabgrass; clods of dirt and the husks of long dead plants littered the yard, and near the front door was a pile of old newspapers. But even as families on the street grew up or moved away and their houses were sold, this one seemed to never be occupied. Not in any of the resident’s life times – any who still lived in the neighborhood at least – could even recall the house ever being listed for sale. No one was too concerned with it – not the adults anyway – they supposed they knew what the problem was; it was like any other house, except this one had problems, and would need a good landscaper to boot. The kids however, they knewwhat the problem was; the house was cancer. Inside was something evil – something terrible. Inside the house there was something that – up until recently – only gobbled up kids in their nightmares. Up until recently, there were a dozen or more children playing on Fig Street at the corner of 5th. Now there were none; now, there were only three kids on their bicycles staring forlornly into the dead eyes of the house. Now, it was just them. Now, they were alone.
