Monday, January 22, 2007

Trying my hand at fiction.....

I've agreed to participate in a writer's workshop every Monday from 3-5 p.m. (teaching instructors get wheedled into all sorts of commitments) and want to use it to work on creative writing. I have a mouldering backlog of short stories and poetry, but why dredge up old work? In addition to all my other duties, I will try and write a short story, batch of poems, or whatever crazy creativity pops extemporaneously off the ends of my fingers.

Soo.... here goes... the rough draft first draft final throwaway hide it in the closet with shame version out there for the e-public to enjoy.

*********************

Forgotten places
gestate strange things
in isolation

Germs, fungal shelves
dank, still air, moist, green
mossy boulders, mildew
blooming in neglect

flowers
microclimate rare
yellow, with pale green vines
creep to afternoon fingers of light

This forgotten heart
thrives in quiet chest cave
and seeks out the sun
with creeping tendril veins

This remembering mind
needs a vision of quiet spots
to deal with falling katabatic
night time chill

*********

Years later, Osbert imagined, when he looked back on this time in his life from a position of comfort an ease, he would laugh. He tried to laugh as he scrambled down the hillside, red Georgia clay clinging to the seat of his trousers, but it came out as a croak, a gassy displacement.

He could see his car's headlights above him, the beams illuminating a mist so fine Osbert didn't take notice of it until he saw it. And below, down there, at the bottom of the ravine, reality, cold, gone, stone and moss, empty promises, betrayal, and a final trauma he tried to put out of his mind.

Be he had to look. He had to find her, through the dark, the snaring limbs of secondary growth forest. Better to imagine something else than his destination. Picture a recliner and a stone hearth fireplace. Or the Playboy mansion, a paisley red silk robe and a meerschaum pipe, a steaming hot tub in lieu of a fire, and babes, babes galore.

This was better than reality, a mist collecting on the ends of lips, the open eyes welled with moisture as if in tears. As if those eyes could cry. As if they should.

Henry Frank William Osbert............

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