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Author on Reedsy Prompts since Mar, 2023
Submitted to Contest #197
Summer Eighty-five You’re not the first Falcon hero to scale Bowman’s Tower with a panoramic lens. We wait all year for a day like today, a fauvist fantasy, maybe rapture; post-modern way to say red and yellow if you’re a patron-of-the-arts. The autumnal equinox illustrated this year with readier maple and rowdier sycamore, though you might leave that open for debate with the pointillists before making an actionable case. Clyde’s footsteps biffed on the iron stairwell and then buffed on the carpeted corridor. A solemn gilded-brass...
This is 1969 my seventh-grade year Stage left the windows glaze from Tappan register to acoustic tile ceiling. Venetian blinds truncate halfway to the register. The lower course of windows vent October morning up your rolled sleeve when you turn to the window automatically. Two tracks of florescence cede this bright morning. Our desks are modern aluminum frame sliding on squat conical feet that make a hollow hiss when they skate. We stow our extra books in the basket under our seats, and we lay our pencils in the shallow...
Submitted to Contest #194
Summer Seventy-Five Are you decent? I’m always decent. Please rephrase the question. Nightstand lamp lit the satiny leopard fabric drawn between eye clasps; elbows squared; fingers led by muscle memory negotiated contact with grace. Tussles with eye clasps may have been settled with pullover spandex, but no such providence this late July midnight pregnant with promise. That’s all I can remember. I said something like, “Bless my heart.” Securing the door, erstwhile etiquette marched me down the staircase to a ...
Veronica Man wearing a Space-X tee shirt covers his brow to see better through the backlit window. He lowers his hand satisfied and enters the foyer just off the Centre Street sidewalk. May I ask a question? He settled on the redhead with a natural wave sculpted to her face. Name tag Rosie. Rosie, who cuts your hair? One of these ladies? Melanie. She’s in the back. Latina holding court by the basins piped… Mel! When’s your first appointment? Half hour. Who’s asking? Gentleman is ask...
Submitted to Contest #193
American Ale House Happy Hour “People tell me to buy a trailer.” “Of course, it’s the thought that counts, presuming there was one.” “Your thoughts, or a penny, whichever?” “Don’t listen. Worst real estate purchase of all time.” “I thought that was the Brooklyn Bridge.” “Turns out you can’t buy the Brooklyn Bridge. It’s an historical artifact.” “This trailer is pretty old.” “Same problem, historical artifact.” “I guess I’m a renter. Until newer models come on the market.” “Wouldn’t want to break any laws, high crimes, or mis...
Our Fearless Leader Chuck told the cabbie he wanted to hear jazz like he was mainlining angel dust on chatter Bill Evans had the trio back together. Cabbie nodded -- tacit engagement -- took a minute to register maximized distances. Northside Tavern amp volume seared a blue gash on my consciousness. It nullified my taste for draft beer. Chuck smoked and John chortled in silence only visible. Headless beers all around. The waiter withdrew the tray behind his back like a butler. Chuck beamed-in to deliver to his...
Submitted to Contest #191
The next girl was pretty and looked close to my age. I could see she was closer to Gold Star than I was to Eagle Scout by the badges sewn in formation down to her rope belt. She moved faster than the first girl, so you could see the brass pin to her sash bounce off her caboose in a rhythm allegro. If I were Gene Autry I would come up with the next verse before Tex Williams took a breath, but anything less than an aria would insult her erudition. I was no Tajo, this was proven time and again, but I could still steal from The Sh...
French Women Always Know What to Say I was Hemingway-crazed in those days. Freshly minted divorce decree: quit claim deed; unemployment under review, but today was a sunny day. Lifted a tulip from the tall, generous vase by the geraniums at Eglantine Fleurs. Around the corner strafed every kiosk for an English printing of Moveable Feast. La Nef des Fous was wedged onto rue Ste-Croix-de-la-Bretonnerie at the edge of the Marais, my adopted arrondissement. Little wonder every book was French; salty irony it’s a love boutiq...
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