One of my friends from Facebook posted a challenge on her wall. Make a story out of this prompt: “The stone man and the fungi went to the beach.” Below is the picture she posted to give us inspiration. I took the first half of the sentence and did a story with it. 6 words instead of 3, but that’s okay! This one is for you Melissa. Read the rest of this entry
Ice, lock, wind
I am a dead man. Zack bobbed like a cork in the black waters of the Bering Strait. His bright orange survival suit covered most of his body but his head was getting hammered by one wave after another. He had long ago ceased to feel his fingers and toes. In the end, the ocean promises only cold and darkness.
Read the rest of this entry
Trying to reach
So far away,
yet so near to me. Read the rest of this entry
(Lunar, Schnitzel, Monogamous)
Ladies and Gentlemen, please bring your attention to the left side of the rover.” The tour guide pointed. “Right there, see it? That folks, is a Schnit, oh how fortuitous to find one!” She pointed to a smallish thing like a tube worm only with legs. “They are a monogamous creature, as far as we can tell they are indigenous to our own moon. On all the planets we’ve landed on and explored so far, the Schnits have never been seen anywhere but here; they are quite rare.” Read the rest of this entry
(Forty-five, Anteater, Karma)
I walked into the hospital room they put my son in. I was tired, kind of in shock. It was a semi-private room, holding a bathroom and two beds, separated by floor to ceiling curtains that could be drawn back. My son Donald was in the bed by the door. His appendix had burst. None of us had recognized the symptoms and by the time we realized there was something seriously wrong my husband Bill had to call an ambulance. Bill would come in the car, as soon as he got my sister to sit with our six-year old daughter. Read the rest of this entry
(Garnish, Wise, Politics)
Dear Dorothy, December 1, 1948
I was glad to get your letter in the post. It was forwarded to us by the state department. You will notice that the return post on mine is Paris, France. Yes, my dear Paul has been stationed here for four years, four years! I shall love every minute of it, do you hear? Paris! Read the rest of this entry
As published in “The Valdosta Magazine,” Winter 2010.
The Christmas Box by Monique Nagel
Early on Christmas morning my family gathered around the tree my stepfather had cut down, decorated with ornaments that we kids had used our entire lives. Our home was decorated with popcorn garlands, lights, construction paper chains, and cards everywhere. The entire Holiday Season was spent with Jingle Bells frolicking on the radio and Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer flying across the television. We played UNO at the kitchen table and laughed until we cried. My mother and stepfather were the glue that held this happy whirlwind together. Read the rest of this entry
This is a “trunk” poem, I wrote it when I was about 14 or 15.
The Christmas season has arrived,
I am so happy to share
the giving of my heart to you
because I know you care.
You make the season better
with warmth and such goodwill,
that even the star on the Christmas tree
is shining brighter still.
May your Christmases be merry ones,
may the days bring life anew,
and all the hopes you’ve ever had
~ Are my Christmas wish for you ~
(Napkin, Tonsils, Watermelon)
It was the day before Thanksgiving and the turkey rolled out of the oven. Juice splashed everywhere but Mary caught the frisky bird and got it back into the pan.
“Turkey not done yet Mama?” Daddy called from his recliner.
“Very funny!” She hollered back, and then a few minutes later, “Okay, wash up for dinner and then everyone into the kitchen to say grace!” Mary walked through the living room, shaking Daddy’s big toe and went through the bedrooms in the back. “Kathy, you and your fella come on out here and eat.” As 16-yr old Kathy followed her boyfriend out of the bedroom Mary whispered in her ear. “He’s a cutie!”
Kathy blushed and walked away, hand over her eyes. “Mo-om!” Read the rest of this entry
Bojangles, Vineyard, Jackalope
Carl and Martha Dubois were sitting on the porch one summer morning. Eighty year old Martha was doing a crossword puzzle from the paper, eighty-one year old Carl was reading the sports section.
“Carl.” She had a distinct northern accent, and sounded a lot like Katharine Hepburn in “On Golden Pond.”
“Hmm?” He absently waved at a fly. Read the rest of this entry