Scribbles 'n Bits

Tag: writing community

  • cream

    cream

    i.    

    Elt tripped over his thoughts stepping into the light, swinging against the weight of his gun. The matte black Impala soaked in afternoon sun while waiting for backwoods dust to settle. The thick pine wood isolated the road in a semi-circle around them. Elt didn’t think he needed the piece, but it made him feel good – powerful.

    “Even when we go to the fucking McDonald’s, he’s ordering oatmeal.” Mosely didn’t retort, just grunted back at Elt’s whining. Elt always did the talking. Mosely knew these jobs made Elt nervous. Mosely liked his job. He pretended Elt’s monologues beset him. Despite the squealing pitch, Mosely liked that Elt found humor in long pauses of their job. The job was already morbid, Elt figured, and that silence gave him the creeps. Elt didn’t push fate too far, but knew it didn’t bother Mosely. One of his few instances of self-awareness.

    “I mean who does that? Pretentious prick.” 

    Elt eyed the meadow between the trees and the woods suspiciously. He flicked the safety of his piece on and off. He stopped when he got nervous that he’d lost track of where he left off. 

    “Alright, flip for it?” Elt tried not to sound too casual. Mosely took the bait. He left his wide frame straight on as he turned to side eye Elt. Heat from the Impala filled the space between them. That’s the closest Elt got to confirmation. He called “tails” on the quarter pinging through the air.

    He smacked the quarter over and allowed himself a slanted smile, “I win.” Again, he timbered his voice to stay even. If he knew one thing from jail that stayed true no matter what, don’t piss off the big guy. Especially when you only made it up to 180 pounds soaking wet. Mostly grease. 

    Mosely grunted and uncocked the gun he had resting at his hip. If it wasn’t the cops, it was the farmers. If it wasn’t the farmers, it was Elt’s pale, pretty face and screeching to ruin a good job. Not sadness, but something relative to Mosely, winced a bit at the thought of the loss. 

    Pages: 1 2 3 4

  • The Final Rising

    “Here lies a man
    who laughed at everything,”
    a speckled, gray stone declared.
    The name “Ulta Mareis”
    sunk into its brow.
    “Even his own pain,”
    a woeful voice agreed.
    Faceless and gowned in black,
    uproarious laughter broke through
    solemnity
    as they dropped their flowers.
    Loudest and highest of all,
    when the last rose
    found its resting place;
    Ulta Mareis gave his last laugh.

  • The Stylist’s Curse

    Foreword: Though the elements of horror fiction commonly make their way into my writing, it is oddly one of my least common reading choices. The bulk of which, when I do partake, is centered on a psychological component. In appreciation, few other subjects offer a laboratory as free for exploration. I felt, in holiday spirit, what’s the harm? Hope you enjoy.

    Pages: 1 2

  • A Moonlit Garden

    Foreword: I have wrestled with myself for about two months now as to whether or not I would share this story with you all. I wrote this as I pondered potential edits and revisions for my “Midnight Rose”, and when the story came fully to fruition I was, admittedly, somewhat displeased with the results. I may yet make another version of this story which I can find more entertaining, but given our current situation I wanted to release more content that I hope you find entertaining. In these awkward times we must find other ways of connecting.
    That said, I appreciate your patience with me as I indulge myself in the perpetuation of this little fantasy. Though it may not set itself completely apart from the original inspiration, I hope you enjoy it all the same. The original poem came to me as I thought about rewriting an old assignment from school and from there this developed. After all, “The thorns of the past can become the buds of the future.”

    All the best,
    Josh

    Pages: 1 2 3

  • The Midnight Rose

    A rose in the garden 
 
 grows ever sweeter. 

 Lovely white petals 

 soften a thorny demeanor. 

 Though twinkling between twilights 

its pale beauty casts gloom; 

 a baneful silk shadow 

 by light of the moon. 

 Safe in the small hours, 

 but deadly at dawn: 

 the buds draw in, 

 the thorns begin to yawn. 

 If stung in the light 

 there's no time to feel sick. 

 The petals glow red 

 as blood from the prick. 

 Forget your family, your life, and your friends. 

 Off to a new garden 

 you roam to make amends. 

 To his mistress, the moon, 

 the rose does take. 

 Another stranger - a sacrifice - 

for his mistake. 

 You won't wonder or think. 

 Your mind has gone. 

 As you lie and wait 

 for the last light has shone. 

 When daylight has faded; 

 now covered in dirt. 

 You twist and tangle 

 as stems with white flowers, 

 from your skin, 

begin to spurt.

  • Chooglin’

    Passed around the campfire, 
like cold whiskey rye, 
has long been a story 
of a river boat on high. 

A siren on a Saturday 
in line with a row of smoke. 
Chugging through the Mississippi 
where fools rock the boat. 

Crying, "don't you believe me!" 
"Well, what's it take?" 
A half soul and three pence 
for a jug and icing on the cake. 

The sirens wailing, 
said, "come have some fun." 
Those sailors jumped right in; 
danced to the sinking sun. 

Hootin' and hollerin' 
to the wild wicked moon. 
As crazed as dog bane, 
but you'll sure pay soon. 

Up came the toll -
hat passed around. 
The sailors had nothing,
not a soul to be found. 

That's what yah' get, boys, 
when you give the devil due, 
but he's a fair poker; 
now you'll be too. 

Folks don't believe me 
when I tell my wary tale. 
Those damned rosewater's  
for a night of glutton and ale. 

Mark my words clearly, 
when you see a ship of white 
turn stern and flee 
or work the Devil's shift all night.