Tuesday, April 28, 2015


Whoo woo ah ooo. A train whistles like a minor chord on a grand piano, muffled over the distance by the fog and snow.
There’s a body laying across the train track. Drunk and dramatic.
“You hear that sound? That’s seriously a train. Get up, you idiot, they come a lot faster than you think.”
The idiot stiffens his arms and legs a little more, if that’s even possible. He looks like a cartoon, like a cardboard cutout. It would be funny, if it weren’t for that minor detail.
“O. M. G. Are you kidding me?” A flurry of agitated kicking stirs clouds of snow that settle over his face. His eyes are closed, and he flinches, shakes his head, flails his arms and as the kicked snow continues, finally sits up, shaking snow out of his hair.
“Ok, okay, relax. It’s not like I’m going to really . . .”
Whaooorrr thundered out a sound, and there was nothing musical about it this time, it was like the groan of a beast before time, before the kill. Panic, and roll, and the screech of metal wheels on metal rails and the vibration of the ground and the draft sucking in. And even after that monumenteous organ grinds by, a thin echo of its shriek keeps playing in his ears.
Or maybe it was just her, because she’s kneeling next to him, mouth wide, and the screams merge into words, “Ohmygodohmygodohmygod are you all right, are you all right, are you all right?”
Yeah. He’s all right. She’s hugging him now, calling him a fucking idiot, is she crying or is that just snow melting on her face? It was all right. Sometimes you just had to force life to feel it.

Photo Prompt Mag 267

Monday, April 20, 2015

Girl Power

That time again, the bloodied shin,
The Achillies gash, the nick behind the knee,
Wicked campground shower stalls, foothold free.
What pose to pose, the flamingo, pliƩ or tree?
For that microscope of summer sun, and glistening sand
The magnifying lens of sunglassed vision
Glaring at those few strays with derision.

She strides past all of us waiting our turn,
For our five minutes of freeze or burn
Her sporty shorts and shoulder-length hair
She’s been here before, she knows she doesn’t care.
She plants a foot on sink edge, like claiming the moon,
A lathered leg, flick-flick the blade, she owns the room.
Rinse, repeat, brush teeth and polish out the sink
The big male mosquitoes at the top of the mirror didn’t even blink
I haven’t blinked, she’s gone, I’m still in line, but now I know
I’ll be in her camp, her legs, her flip flops, starting now.

Photo Prompt: Mag 266