So it’s been a little while since I’ve written anything. A lot of stuff going on and I was honestly just a bit of a breather over the summer. Let’s get back to it shall we.
I watched them hack him into pieces that no longer looked like they came from a human and shove them into their mouths. Their tools were crude misshapen gouges of nearly black iron, and I knew by the grunts that accompanied their thrashing blows that they were not sharp. The jagged metal was tearing more than it was slicing. Continue reading →
His legs felt like overstretched elastic and his lungs crackled and burned like a campfire.
He had been pedaling for hours through the cobblestone streets.
His hands had grooves worn in them from the grips on his handlebars.
He had been riding for days through this burnt out husk of a country.
Twice this week he had been woken up by the terrible feeling of a pack of feral dogs trying to make a meal of him. He had run then, too shocked to get to his bicycle in time. Climbed onto a balcony where they couldn’t reach until they lost interest.
He was almost out of food now. The canteen he had pulled off of a dead corpsman and filled with rusty green fountain water was nearly gone as well.
He hadn’t seen anyone alive for nearly two months.
Even then he had to run to survive the blows.
Again a prompt from another blog. This from VisDare and the prompt was the picture above. I’m pretty sure the originator asked for whimsy, but I felt it going another way. Then again, I just like dark prose so… sue me 😉
It is grey here. It is always grey here. On the other side I’m sure there are days filled with yellow and green. I can feel the faded reflections under my fingertips. I can sometimes hear things from the other side. Not like the gaping shrieks that fill the yawning nights. Different sounds. They make my palms itch and my neck sweat, frightened. If only I were taller I could maybe see the things making the sounds. Or see the yellow and green. But this side is grey. This side will always be grey. What else could it be?
This is based on the prompt walls and a 100 word writing about that prompt. follow the link here to see what I’m talking about/
This is a series of vignettes that make up the larger piece that is Papa and Me. I wrote this a little while ago, and I had it posted on another blog, so I thought I’d move it here. It should also be said that this piece won me the Grand Prize from Bergen Community College for Creative Non-Fiction, an honor I dedicate specifically to my Papa, Joyce Wensel Schmidthuber.
Papa and Me
To say that my start was a rocky one might be an understatement. My parents were married young and I came into a family of alcoholics and addicts. Inevitably, the relationship went downhill and my mother called home to her parents for a way out. They bought us a plane ticket, and put us on a plane home when I was only six months old. Now of course I don’t remember any of this, but my mom tells me that the flight went well and that I wasn’t fussy on the plane at all. An older man sat next to my mom and I on the longer of the two flights and when she was given her meal, he held me and kept me entertained while she ate. It’s funny to me now, but my mom seems to remember that the man looked exactly like an actor that was in a Norelco Shaving commercial. She said she wanted to ask him, but never did. She’s been curious ever since. Continue reading →