Category Archives: nanowrimo

Spilled milk

“Sit up.” Mom says.

She gets up and stands behind Sissy’s chair. Sissy’s hair is always in her food. Mom uses her fingers and combs it back into a ponytail. She sits back down.

Photo credit: Creative Commons
Photo credit: Creative Commons

“John, at work, got the first deer of the season.” Dad says. He shovels more potatoes into his mouth and Mom nods.

“That’s good. He didn’t get anything last year—right?” she says.

I look down at Sissy’s hand and slide mine towards hers. She starts eating the chicken, and I pull one of her fingers.

She smiles.

“Yeah,” Dad says, “at least this year they can fill their freezer.”

She reaches over and flicks my thumb.

“Mhmm, I can’t believe how bad things were—“

I squeeze her pinky finger and she starts giggling.

Mom looks over at us.

Photo credit: Creative Commons
Photo credit: Creative Commons

“Shhhh! Eat your dinner. Dad and I are talking.”

We look down, still trying not to laugh. Sissy sticks her fork in another piece of chicken.

“Anyway, it looks like things are getting better for them.”

“Yeah, yeah. Seems like it is.”

Mom and Dad keep talking. I slide my foot next to Sissy’s chair leg.

Continue reading Spilled milk

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Fog baby

The bus smells.

It smells bad every day, but today the boys in the back made it worse.

Photo credit: Creative Commons
Photo credit: Creative Commons

I can’t tell, but it smells just like dad when he comes back from standing behind the shed. It burns my nose and my throat when he walks by.

Mom hates when he smells like that.

I swing my feet, writing my name in the fog on the window. The bus goes over bumps and makes my writing messy. I wipe all the broken letters away and wait for it to fog up again.

A boy comes up the center aisle and sits across from me. He’s a lot older than me and he’s looking at me like my Dad does. He’s looking at me like there’s something evil in his brain. Continue reading Fog baby

A metaphor

“What was your favorite poem you read for today?”
“Plum.”
“Okay. Why did you like it? What was good about it?”

Photo credit: Creative Commons
Photo credit: Creative Commons

“I liked the diction.” The stress of the word caught her tongue.
He turned to the window.
“What about it?”

She looked up, noting his subtle shift from one foot to the other.

“The way the words flowed—I liked the meter.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s all.”

Continue reading A metaphor

This old plaid shirt

This old plaid shirt

That I wore to a

middle-school

basketball game,

where pretty-faced girls

gathered in the bathroom

and laughed at me,

for the sake of laughing, Continue reading This old plaid shirt

Jonothan’s Hands

Oh Jonothan, that Jonothan,

Yes we knew him well.

Just go ‘round,

Ask everyone,

They’ll tell you he was swell.

Jon—he had these hands, you see,

These hands, and eyes, and ears.

Actually, all of Jonothan

Was envied by his peers.

“Hey—give me a hand!”

They’d say, and off would pop his right.

“Yes, yes! I need one too!”

They cried, and the left was off in flight.

Continue reading Jonothan’s Hands

Free writes 1 & 2 on California and the West Coast

1.

The west coast looks like a Lite Brite at night—like one of those things you had as a kid, ya know? But it’s not all spectacular and perfect like it looks on the box, nah. It’s like when you got real fed up with that stupid, clown-face bullshit and just shoved the pegs where you wanted.

Continue reading Free writes 1 & 2 on California and the West Coast