Showing posts with label short fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label short fiction. Show all posts
Monday, October 3, 2011
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
wet leaves
Some short fiction, prose-poetry, and "small stones" of mine are posted here: wet leaves. I've been doing most of my practicing over there, and I guess it's getting better as I go along. I keep changing my mind about the title, though... The good thing is, from there, I post, make edits, and, after a few revisions, submit some of them to blogzines. That has been working well so far.
Saturday, August 13, 2011
russian supermarket 2
They stopped on the way home and picked up good bread, butter, and caviar from the Russian market. As an afterthought they bought a bottle of red wine from the Baltic.
She spread two pages of newspaper on the large table and they feasted, while reading passages aloud from Chekhov and Dostoyevsky.
After eating bread and caviar and drinking the Baltic wine and reading from the great Russian writers, they crumpled the newspaper into the wastebasket and went to bed.
Did they dream? If so, of what?
She spread two pages of newspaper on the large table and they feasted, while reading passages aloud from Chekhov and Dostoyevsky.
After eating bread and caviar and drinking the Baltic wine and reading from the great Russian writers, they crumpled the newspaper into the wastebasket and went to bed.
Did they dream? If so, of what?
books (100 words)
Miss M couldn't remember the last time she'd read a book, but she remembered how nice it had been.
She liked the smell of books, their rich mustiness, the thickness of the pages, turning them, one by one.
The sound it made.
She could drown in books, could sink deep down, enfolded.
You weren't quite floating; it was more like going under and afterwards you'd forgotten who you were.
Birds sang. Light faded. Shadows fell.
People were murdered.
Trains passed through tunnels and sounded their horns.
Reading, time passed slowly, whereas time spent not reading passed quickly and without satisfaction.
She liked the smell of books, their rich mustiness, the thickness of the pages, turning them, one by one.
The sound it made.
She could drown in books, could sink deep down, enfolded.
You weren't quite floating; it was more like going under and afterwards you'd forgotten who you were.
Birds sang. Light faded. Shadows fell.
People were murdered.
Trains passed through tunnels and sounded their horns.
Reading, time passed slowly, whereas time spent not reading passed quickly and without satisfaction.
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