Wednesday, July 22, 2015

Stephen King on the Craft of Short Story Writing

Tuesday, July 21, 2015

Famous Last Words

The Aborted


A hope or dream
Maybe a nightmare
Never to be realized
I sense a fleeting moment
Of time
And of knowledge that
Events will never take place
I will never be born
Squalling beneath a bright
Reflected light
I will never be held
And passed about
Like a treasure
Found unexpectedly on the ground
A gift that fate has given
To my mother
Who is destined
To be a stranger to me
Known only through
A pinhole of time and awareness
I will never walk
On weak wobbly legs
Or mouth uncertain words
While people pleased and puzzled
I will never barf
On Billy Boylan
In a gaudy green hallway
That smells of crayons
I will never skin
A knee or elbow
And feel the comfort
Of concerned hugs
That still my sobs
I will never know
Sunny spring mornings
Or see the dewy
spider webs spun on
The budding branches
Of bushes and trees
I will never hear
The grumble of thunder
Or feel the rage of wind
Of see the soft fuzzy
Arc of a rainbow in
The calming sky
I will never run
Over my father's foot
While learning to drive
I will never know
I will never marry
Who will wed a
Junkie instead and
There will be no
I will never grow old
And cherish the seconds
That seem to belong to me
And to no other
I will never feel
The loosening grip of life
I will always remain
An inking
An iota of doubt
That causes people
To pause and wonder
Whether something is
"I should have bumped
Into somebody but nobody
Was there"
"The picture of three
Ought be of four"
"I ought to have shared
This supper
But I was alone"
The minute hole
In reality
My life
Will go largely
I will be that
Vague emptiness everyone
Even at death
When memories of life
Seem somehow lacking
I am a vagrant idea
Thought then forgotten
That passes
Through the minds
Of all that
Should have

Freaky Jules-- it's kind of like that

Monday, July 20, 2015



Number one
Flew into the sun
And shined very brightly
To be number one

Number two
Went to the zoo
Watched all the animals
With nothing to do

Number three
Tried to ski
Fell off a mountain
And hurt his right knee

Number four
Lived behind a door
Looked out now and then
And was seen no more

Number five
Was very alive
Did many things
But loved to skin dive

Number six
Played all kinds of tricks
Finally got caught
And ended up in a fix

Number seven
Named himself Kevin
Was a good boy
And went straight to heaven

Number eight
couldn't see straight
Bumping into things
That was his fate

Number nine
Was very fine
Got very spoiled
And called everything mine

Number ten
Picked up a pen
And started writing poems
Again and again

Saturday, July 18, 2015

The Skull


There it sits upon a shelf
White and bare and old.
It never says a single word
Just sits there mighty cold.
The eyes are filled with shadows.
The teeth are old and grim.
The hair is just a memory
So it never needs a trim.
I wonder who lived in there
All those years ago.
What life they saw
What lies they told
I will never know.
I wonder how it came here
Up there for all to see
Whoever put it up there
Surely did not ask me.
I wonder what its name was.
Was it Sam or Carl or Jed?
I think I'd rather have
A vase of flowers there instead.
What bothers me most of all
And no one really knows.
What happened to the rest of him
His arms - his legs - his toes?