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Ari Walker

Author on Reedsy Prompts since Jan, 2025

Stories (8)

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27 Followers

47 Following

8 Stories

251 karma pts

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Petrouchka's Fatiguing Dream

Ari Walker

Submitted to Contest #304

November 18, 20232:17 AMSubject: Fatiguing Dream Sis,I had the dream again last night.The Charlatan’s hot and bitter breath was moist on my fuzzy face; his hands were firm on my sawdust shoulders, holding me in place. The Moor, scimitar in hand, led the Ballerina away. I tried to protest; pathetic, high-pitched sounds emerging from my levering felt mouth. My oversize head was hanging to my chest; my arms and legs were waving under a force beyond my own. The gathered people laughed. Dad stood off to the side, watching.I needed to piss, but I ...

1 like

I Have Heard the Mermaids Singing, Each to Each

Ari Walker

Submitted to Contest #290

1One morning Father observes that she has brought forth these downy hard nubs. So coldly forlorn in the bright morning frost as to seem almost dead, her diaphanous white buds augur a quickening in white and pink. He knows that her blossoms will soon blush awake, her young leaves will blink shyly at the chill dawn. Dressing her spindly twigs in bright green promise, her leaves and blossoms will attract flies and bees and all manner of little things.The rain will come, persisting for several days. Petals falling with the rain. Littering the tu...

18 likes

Let a Thousand Flowers Bloom

Ari Walker

Submitted to Contest #289

My dad lives in this time and space, riding his motorcycle about the neighborhood barefooted, in cutoff jeans and old t-shirt, black curls blowing high above his forehead in the breeze, round sunglasses flashing sepia light shining through 1970’s Polaroids. Thanks to him, I have the impression all life began here.Within a few years immoderate facial hair will absorb his features, cutoff jeans will grow into filthy dungarees, heavy work boots will cover his bare feet. The body will grow puffier - caked in bits of drywall mud - on his trousers...

15 likes

A Horse Bolted in Boylston Street

Ari Walker

Submitted to Contest #288

Though I walk through the Valley of the Shadow of Death, I fear no evil. On the day in 1937 when Grandpa Aaron was incinerated, shabbas had arrived sunny and mild. A pity of doves gathered, pecking and muttering, sighing and cooing about the pond in Public Garden. Then G-d winked, the sun flashed, an involuntary chill coursed through creation, and a horse bolted in Boylston Street. Its cart, loaded with Diamond matchbooks and Standard Oil kerosene canisters, hit the curb. Volatile freight striked and clattered. Matchbooks ignited. Canis...

20 likes

Chava

Ari Walker

Submitted to Contest #287

September 30, 1979Chava,Because this was the end, Bernie rented a big house on the lake for one last shindig before the winter would set in, and I would die. The place had a wrap-around veranda in the shadow of a grove of large deciduous trees blowing and dancing and holding space on the edge of the lake, their brilliant leaves obscuring the setting sun, her light refracting through their boughs, reflecting from the lake, alighting here and there upon the drifting piles of autumn leaves littering the low cropped turf, etc.Bernie placed a cup...

12 likes

It's a Pity

Ari Walker

Submitted to Contest #286

It is springtime in this littoral wasteland. Heavy Gulf weather, having relieved itself over the Mesopotamian Marshes, hangs oppressively upon these blown-up shores. The midday atmosphere smothers every cooling breeze whispering off the recumbent sea.As war machines desolate this slip of land, the writer seeks shelter in metaphor. The birds in his rafters shuffle, and sigh. The sun’s first rays have awaked them. Hunting drones predate above his creaking attic. Their sites have discovered his aerie. Like the pity in his rafters, distractedly ...

25 likes

Sleep Whispers 'Come'

Ari Walker

Submitted to Contest #285

Now I can't return to the patio bar. I can't remember the way. Perhaps I want it too much.He leaned in. His body. Bergamot and citrus. His muskiness. A curl falling before my eye, a knuckle pressing upon my temple. Studied grace. Sleep whispered, ‘come.’ Coruscating tikis. His stubbled jaw, now a hooded eye. Moistening breath warm on my neck, bittersweet. A smoldering cigarette. A Sazerac melting the rocks in a low ball on a high top. I rise from bed. Pink slippers, slightly soiled, spilled coffee. Taking up my fraying shawl, quiet...

19 likes

Pinkie's Promise

Ari Walker

Submitted to Contest #284

Note: This story contains a scene of accidental death. It describes cruelty toward animals. It includes a letter written from the perspective of a combatant in wartime, describing some of the difficult things he has witnessed there. The goldfinches arrived sparkling upon the landing the same day that Ernesto returned, alone, bearing his news like a rucksack full of stones, weighing down each doleful step in a cloud of San Luis dust. I noticed the goldfinches through the kitchen window, gathering upon the cement outside the door, and flutt...

12 likes