The sun kissed the autumn leaves
On its way into my room
Now it is a shy shade of pink
There for an hour
Gone by noon
I want to capture it
Frame it on my wall
Mount it on a pedestal
Roll it in a ball
For me to keep
My fingers flirt with the keyboard
I try to write it a new life
A sorry reflection
A blunted knife
The words come to me
Like the leaves
Floating in gentle arcs
Against an autumn breeze
Gorgeous and dead
It started with a chinchilla named Gizmo and something approximating 500 condoms. Well at least it did if by “it” you mean us: the two amigos, the burger with a side of fries, the sub-legendary duo Mac and Cheese. If by “it” you mean the mountainous lizard currently redecorating the Boston skyline (and I imagine you probably did), then I don’t know what to tell you. I guess sometimes lizards just like to fuck shit up.
But let’s rewind for a second. That’s an archaic term. It means wind the tape back up for those of you joining us after the new millennium. If you’re confused don’t worry about it. What’s important is that Cheese and I were best friends from the very beginning. Of course she wasn’t Cheese back then. Back then she was just Brie, haughty Brie with a penchant for mimosas and shitty homemade guacamole. She was fabulous and wonderful and she annoyed the ever-loving crap out of me.
It went like this:
“Hi, I’m Brie. I guess we’re roommates?”
“Good guess, Brain”
“I got ya. Hey help me with this will you?”
“Ooooh Champagne? Oh do you have any OJ? I love mimosas.”
“Sure, invite yourself to my champagne.”
“Oh I’m sorry…I mean…uh”
“I’m shitting with you”
“I mean I’m fucking with you.”
“Also, Grandmother’s drink mimosas. Grab that bag of condoms will you?”
As you can see, it was love at first sight. Brie and I were thrown together by the gods of the random housing selection process at Boston University. Who were we to stand in the way of fate? So as not to keep you in suspense, I’ll tell you that Cheese DID hand me that bag of condoms.
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Today I wrote about railroads. This morning, I was a mom. I picked up my contacts, grabbed a coffee at the local Caribou, and sang Disney songs to my five month old son all the way home. We played with stuffed animals, read books, talked at length about Twitter, and changed a diaper or twelve. Then he napped, and I became an expert on the history of railroads in America. During his second nap, I was an expert on iOS 10. On his third, I was a fictional advice columnist, offering colorful guidance to young witches and wizards. Now he’s asleep for the night, and I’m taking a moment to write as me…or try to. Continue reading
Haiku on Having a Son
He is my hot breath
On a foggy window pane
Air cold by longing
* * *
His life is a bloom
That eclipses my vision
And mutates my world
* * *
But the truth is that
I can see life perfectly
Because I see him
Haiku on Raising a Son
Between sound and sensation
Hot death fills my nose
* * * Continue reading
Back from a long hiatus following the birth of my son, Asher. To get things started up again, here are some photos from our recent trip to University Park in Denver, Colorado.
I’ve decided to return to my blog after a long hiatus (following the birth of my baby boy) to introduce you to Sydney Scrogham’s latest installment in the Guardians of Agalrae series.
A prequel, Ariel: The First Guardian can easily be enjoyed on its own. You can purchase this story and others in the series on Amazon. You can also learn more about Sydney and her work on her website at http://www.sswriter.com.
Sydney is an experienced writer with a positive message. She loves creating happy endings. When she’s not writing, she’s at the barn with her horse Snowdy or catching up on reruns of the best TV show ever – Castle. She lives in Harrisonburg, Virginia with an adorable dachshund named Zoe.
Check her out on Facebook at SydneyScroghamWriter or follow her on Twitter @sydney_writer.
“I’m mostly trying to decide if this is a step up or a step down from skipping school.”
David’s dad stood in the doorway, hands on hips, surveying the scene before him. David was sitting up quickly, a thin blanket balled at the foot of his bed where he must have kicked it in the night. To his right was a bedside table, his lamp guarded by a series of action figures. Just past them, the window looked out on some jagged branches and a street that was empty but for a couple of early morning joggers. To his left was a low bookshelf topped by a fire engine red alarm clock and a thrice-read comic book. Beneath that, his sneakers peaked halfway out from under the bed and, oh yeah, a girl was wrapped up in his comforter like a burrito, asleep.
Read the whole chapter at http://www.appleandoranges.com/read
Catch up with David and Taylor at http://www.appleandoranges.com/taylor–david.html
Mr. Garou hadn’t spoken, but his very presence interrupted David, arresting his voice in his throat. Mr. Garou stood some seven, eight, twenty feet tall. His shoulders stressed the limits of his cheap suit jacket in a way that reminded David of Andre the Giant applying for a position in sales. There was nothing humorous about it though. David imagined Mr. Garou tearing the seams of his jacket and popping the buttons on his dress shirt in a similar way to how he might tear and pop David in a moment. The aggressively unsavory look on the man’s face cascaded down his body in tiny tremors, urging his hands into fists, a position David imagined they were all too familiar with.
“Ha! Yeah, me too. Sorry I can’t get a decent fucking scotch around here.” Mr. Garou’s body sighed a little as he turned to an empty bottle of Glennlivich. The tiny bit of tension it let out seemed futile to David, like a boat losing water at one ounce per gallon it took on. Those paying close attention may feel briefly heartened, but the boat was still ultimately going to sink. David watched warily as Mr. Garou poured himself a tumbler of cheap whiskey with one tremulous hand. He imagined, if he were to turn around, Mr. Garou would just tear the top of the bottle off with his teeth and down it glass and all.
“We were just going dad.” Tay piped up once it became clear that her dad was not about to explode.
“Going? Ha! Not you sweetie, I need you to get me a lime.” Mr. Garou paused and turned to David. “Or you. You could get me a lime couldn’t you boy?”
“I’ll show him where they…”
“He can find a damn lime Taylor.” His voice was silk and made Taylor blanche. As David watched them, he felt they were speaking a secret language. A language built on threats and bad memories.
- Taylor and David Chapter Five: The Monster Under Your Bed
- Read the whole chapter (and more) at appleandoranges.com