Our ancestors sold the future
for convenience. Now,
we waste away,
fighting for peace of mind.
Original poetry, short stories, and other bits.
Our ancestors sold the future
for convenience. Now,
we waste away,
fighting for peace of mind.
I would have rather walked. Despite the early spring chill, I longed for a refreshing hike.
I parked, feeling the tires’ dread an inch from a small grit burn. They needn’t have gone through this existential horror except that I had so many quarters to rid myself of.
Standing at the roadside, the long–necked animal swallowed my change. It ate eagerly, one by one, and in turn showed all that I was an honest person with no proclivity for petty crime.
I waited for the meter to down the last coin with a metallic gulp. After it squawked happily, I climbed back behind the wheel and drove home so I could take the walk I desired instead.
Art
Shapes in raw granite, a person. An unaware, apathetic block- head staring blankly in the mirror, hammered and sanded. From top to toe, mouths run - collecting minerals - dribbling away. Forward springs life, etching down the drain. Rock chips stumble over each other. Dust finds home on rough edges - inevitably the floor, cracks in my dry, clay-soaked hands, and cloth folds wherever paint doesn’t already cling. The eyes: pained, long set. A muscular beauty, the rest, one casual greeting at a time. In and out of days, nights fitting somewhere between, apparently. I work.