Viewing entries in
"prose"

Announcing Word Wednesday

Starting this week, I'll be adding a weekly themed post, Word Wednesday, to Kim's Korner.

The post will focus on a fun word (perhaps commonly known, but seldom used), the definition and some playful writing based on the understanding or misunderstanding of that word!

I hope you will join us for Word Wednesday - starting this week!

The Road - An Incomplete Tale


Introduction

I stood in the gallery, surprised. The new “Rural Life” photo contest had caused me to leave my normally secluded life and travel to Charlotte, NC to view the collection of photography from across the state. I had been enjoying the various landscapes, pictures of freckled faced, overall clad youths and studies on an assortment of farm-life objects: plows, daisies growing in tin pots, wagon wheel sentinels on dirt drives. Then there it was - a black and white photograph of a too familiar road, that road. That road, eternally dark and damp, always leading out of town to the same house, the same now seldom remembered history. The story is all but gone as are those who where there, but I am thrown back tonight, to a time before, a time before I knew of malformed creatures and a darkness so completely void of light that it could seized your spirit in terror, a time when I was waiting beside that road...

Hear It Read - Audio Post

I wanted to try posting some audio to accompany the written word. I've reposted a short creative piece I wrote a few weeks back and added an audio message. Please let me know what you think.

Thanks to AudioBoo for the technology.

Listen!


Before she quickly brushed it aside, her single tear drop traced a trail - like a silver scalpel slicing so quickly through flesh that the very bone is revealed before blood begins to rush through the wound - such was this tear - a momentary revealing that she cared too much, that her need was too great and that her hope for recognition, salvation actually, would not come. Not tonight.

The Reverberations of Poet's Pen



while reading a poem over at Nevine's, i was reminded of how deep poetry, and creative prose for that mater, reaches into my being. it is a living witness to the full gamut of my life, even though i am most driven to write when my spirit is in pain.

yes. for the scars that remain after the battered soul heals, for the ongoing hemorrhage of internal hope, for the fears arising from tortures too ghastly to be mentioned, for the pit of despair where rests stagnant laughter, mired in decay... for these pieces of the poet's being... there must be poetry. for in the words of the verse, hammered out on life's iron fist, i often find relief and sometimes, in moments of purest grace, wonderful questions.

The Transformation of Reading - Rock, Scissors, Kindle?

I recently purchased a Kindle. I'm enjoying the portability and ease of the device. I chose that reader because it is most ‘book like,’ lacking all the digital temptations of the tablets and color readers. I’ve switched off as many of the features I as can to cut down on any distractions while reading. Still, there is nothing like the feel of paper, the smell of an aged hard cover, the traces of previous readers…. Yes, we will adjust, but the loss is real for those of us who will always remember when a coffee shop was most likely attached to a room of used books.

Many of us are morning the passing of paper. Two bloggers that have said it well are:

Kent Anderson, over at “the scholarly kitchen” writes Mourning the Printed Book — The Aesthetic and Sensory Deprivation of E-books and Kristen J. Tseti of “From a little office in a little house" posts on

The looming extinction of everyday art and history.

I invite you to visit their posts and ponder this shift in the state of reading medium we are witnessing. A wake may be in order.

What Should I Read?

I recently purchased a Kindle and have seen my reading volume take a bit of an up-tick. My daughter  sent me an Amazon e-gift card for my birthday and now, I'm puzzled as to what to purchase next.

So, what should I read?

Recent reads include:

1. The Shallows, Nicolas Carr
2. The Tipping Point, Malcolm Gladwell
3. The Blood that Bonds, Christopher Buecheler
4. Full Dark, No Stars, Steven King

Please feel free to offer suggestions...

Real Men Don't - Really

In 1985, at a time when society was struggling with gender based issues and books like "Why Men Are The Way They Are" and "The Hazards of Being Male" were attempting to lead men (and women) in another direction - I wrote the following story.

“The Land of The Nams and The Nims”

Once, long ago, in a far away land there lived an odd group of people. They lived much the way we do, eating, sleeping, playing and such things, but in this land there where two types of people, the Nams and the Nims. Oddly enough, the only difference between the Nams and the Nims was a simple steel plate.

You see, when a new child was born, it was decided if that child would be a Nam or a Nim. The Nams were the rulers. They made all of the important decisions, did all of the hard work and were served by the Nims. Both the Nams and the Nims where born exactly alike, small hands, round hairless faces, big brown eyes and most importantly, with a small hole in their chest, right over there heart. It was a dangerous hole, because, as every Nam knew, if anyone touched your heart, you would surely die. Thus, those that were picked to be Nams had a steel plate fixed to their bones over their heart hole. This made it safe for them to rule, of course,”

“On one day, a young Nam named Ned was following the instruction of his teacher. ‘Remember, Ned,’ he said with a strong huffy voice, ‘Your job will be very important and you must always remember to hold your head high and work hard.’ ‘Yes, sir,’ the young Nam replied. As they walked down the hall, two young Nims passed them and quickly entered a room off the hallway, laughing as they went. “What are they doing in there,” Ned asked? “Just silly Nim stuff, cooking, cleaning… Don’t worry about,” grunted the teacher. At that moment another Nam ran up, “Master Teacher,” the young Nam excitedly announced, “there is trouble in the outer garden! A dragon I believe!” Well, before Ned knew what happened, the teacher and the messenger had left Ned there, standing alone in the hall. “Figures,” Ned thought, “I miss everything.” Ned turned to head back down the hall to the small room he kept, when Ned passed the door the young Nims had entered and heard them laughing again. Then Ned had a thought, a clever little thought. “I bet I can find out what they are doing,” Ned reasoned. Without another thought, Ned ran down the hall to the boiler room and slipped inside. Making sure no one had followed; Ned closed the door, and grabbing a chair, the young Nam climb up and into an air ventilation pipe. Ned knew the way, and soon had crawled into the pipe directly back to the Nim room and was peering down the vent at them. Teacher was right, they were cleaning, washing dishes, and stacking towels, and all the while, they would laugh and giggle with each other. Ned was a little disappointed, but figured that The Master was right. Nims were silly and less interesting than Nams. “It was good to be a Nam. It is good to rule,” Ned thought, and touched the plate over Ned's chest proudly and started to slowly crawl back down the pipe. Then Ned heard a scream come from the room below. Ned looked quickly. One of the small Nims had been hurt. It looked like a tray had fallen and hit its head, cutting the Nim's face. The small Nim knelt to the floor and cried. Then Ned saw the most peculiar thing. The older Nims moved close  and gathered around  in a circle. One by one, they reached out to the Nim and, to Ned's disbelief, touched the Nim's heart hole. Ned gasped. “They are going to kill...” Ned's mind raced, “What should I do?” But, the little Nim did not die. Instead, as each one touched the heart hole heart, the Nim began to feel better. The young Nim stopped crying, stopped bleeding and soon they were all laughing and singing again.

Ned looked down at the steel plate that separated the heart from all others, and wondered...

Her Single Tear Traced a Trail

Before she quickly brushed it aside, her single tear drop traced a trail - like a silver scalpel slicing so quickly through flesh that the very bone is revealed before blood begins to rush through the wound - such was this tear - a momentary revealing that she cared too much, that her need was too great and that her hope for recognition, salvation actually, would not come. Not tonight.

Book Excerpt

Chapter 15ish

By the time I awoke, the sun had warmed the bedroom and day was well underway. I was alone in the bed so Kelly was already up, and I stretched fully using the entire bed to flex my legs and extend my arms. I herd a rustle overhead.

"That must be Russell" I thought.

Russell was the squirrel that I had tried repeatedly to run from my attic. His name was an indicator of his modus operandi. For weeks now he had shown up, sometimes in the morning, sometimes later or throughout the day, scurried onto the roof and either worked on chewing his way through a new portion of the house, or entered the attic to romp and 'rustle' about. Kelly had named him Russell. I wasn't so forgiving and would prefer to call him a few other select names.

"Your buddy is back in the attic!," I shouted to Kelly.

Climbing out of bed, I grab my jeans and a tee shirt. I walked barefooted into the living room. Rubbing my eyes, and scratching my head, I looked for my shoes. I wasn't climbing those pull-down ladder steps and crawling in the attic with bare feet.

"Where are my boots," I asked, partly to myself and half heartedly to Kelly.

The silence finished the job of waking me. Kelly wasn't there. No coffee. No shower running. I walked back to the bedroom, scanning for any of her things. Nothing. She was gone. Walking back into the kitchen, I saw a note on the table. Picking it up, I knew. It could have begun with "Dear John."

Evan,


You were sleeping so beautifully when I left that I didn't want to wake you. Honestly, I didn't want to face you. I'm sorry for being chicken, but try as I might I've not been able to tell you to your face.


We've tried this for a while, and much of what we have is amazingly wonderful. You are a caring and considerate man. You are funny, smart and a fantastic lover. You know me, my body, my needs. God, it is all I can do not to run in there and make love to you, again, but I know that I'd not be able to do this, and it isn't fair to you anymore.


Despite your wonderful heart, you can't give me the one thing I need; your total and unwavering love. I've been waiting for you to let go of the past, your parents' death, the pain of being alone, and your lapse in success as a writer… none of that matters to me. I've told you. I've been patient. I've tried. I know that we will never have what we each need, as long as we are together. The distraction is too powerful. Our passion is too pleasant, too comforting. I feel that even in that passion we have grown more and more apart. You need your space, your solitude. I know you abhor being alone, but that is your journey. I can't help loving the city, and all that it is. I need to settle in to my life there and hopefully find someone who is ready to fully give...


Shit. Forget it, I'm rambling on. You already know what this is. I just don't want to crowd you with my things.


Goodbye, Evan. I love you.


Kelly

Just like that, she was gone. I looked at the paper in my hand. I was trembling. My head began to spin, my gut twisted into a knot. Somehow, I carefully folded the note and slipped it into my back pocket.

Disconnected Communication



Recumbent desires and cumbersome guilt affords us little in the way of meaning. You shouldn't look at me that way, if you don't want my delicate demands. I can't say what ferment swells and requisitions our future from clasped hands. Nor do I dare impart a wish to want more than fanciful moments, minuscule ticks off our kindness. Your seemly essence troubles us.

Is that enough?

Hello?

Why won't you listen to me this morning?