Tag: Yeah Write

The Pros and Cons of Writing Contests

The title suggests I’m a veteran of writing contests. I’m not. I’ve only entered two and I’m in the middle of the second one. Both are Yeah Write Super Challenge contests with three rounds, each requiring an essay in response to a prompt. The…

Cold Reality

The man of letters looks out over Lake Michigan, steam fog rising into the subzero air. We are stopped at a light waiting to turn left. I roll down the window and snap a series of pictures with my phone. I want the perfect…

Picked Last

I want to play tag It’s just running I can run Everybody runs the same Tag is stupid, they say We should play ball, they say Let’s pick teams, they say I line up and wait Until the line is gone Hoping

Options

Prayer might work. A poultice perhaps. Crushed flax seeds have helped some but I forget their names. A trip to the Grand Canyon to see the abyss in daylight is said to be good preparation. It’s up to you at this point. __________________ Written…

The Tiny Ceilidh

Be very quiet, kiddo. Don’t make a sound. Look right here, under this bush. One of them is playing a wee fiddle and the rest are dancing. See their little shoes? They’re gold, kiddo. Pure gold. Aren’t we lucky to see them?

Time Travel

Never mind It’s nothing I forgot It just comes to me Now and then Whistling Like a tiny train across the desert Of what is left of my memories Songs on the car radio Tuned to then Going away and coming back

We Made It!

I could’ve quit but I didn’t. It’s not like it was such a big deal. I didn’t paddle a kayak across the Atlantic Ocean or ride my bike from Jersey to L.A. I didn’t climb Mt. Everest or swim from Cuba to Key West….

Waiting for the Brass Band

There’s a brass band way down the street. Part of me is excited for its arrival on my doorstep and part of me wants to lock the door and draw the shades. It’s been very quiet in my head for the past ten days….

Smile Everlasting

Today is my father’s birthday. He was born November 25, 1913. Incredibly, I didn’t know that until he died and I read the date on the card the funeral director handed me when I walked in to my father’s service in 2003. He died…

Still Ready for the Round Up

We ride trucks. We spit on the ground. We wear old black Levis. We drink coffee black. We break our own hearts. We smoke what there is. We don’t want any mail. We go where we are. We live when we want.

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