A Collection of Prose and Photography
Towering clouds peak on the horizon, while all eyes on the screen flickering red, yellow, green. The air sucked out of the room, mouths mute, agape. The red ticker tape flashing warnings, and oh what a morning, the mourning begun for those already passed, the world aghast, and we’re waiting in the path of calamity,... Continue Reading →
Child, when did it die, the light inside? A decision at some point in time? A bitter, free fall dive or mournful, listless slide? A whirlwind ride, or the long wave goodbye to the ebbing tide of potential energy stored once inside, where hope, now lost, did once reside? Was it pride? A call to... Continue Reading →
They’re women. Not a plank in your stage, just average everyday Janes; your neighbors, for Godssake, mothers and sisters. Some have, some consider with trembling and doubt — one way in, no way out. Some married, some teens, so many between a hard choice and a harder so they barter with God and the stars... Continue Reading →
Mid-July, mercury high, summer sky blue with a grey hue above the horizon line. The west wind will be blowin’ in a boomer come afternoon, but in the meantime she takes a set on the porch railing, listless eyes trailing, “The heat brings out the green in the leaves,” to nobody in particular she declares.... Continue Reading →
A seam is not a place, not a space, rather a void, like a borderline — not a destination but a fabrication of the imagination. Tear the pieces apart, slash every last stitch and the seam no longer exists — a momentary blip. Not a thing to hold, but to behold; and if I could... Continue Reading →
Look at that smile, been a while since it had last been seen. Had to hop off the wheel. So we swapped one coast for another — left the kids with your mother and bid a fond fair well to the Atlantic. Flew three thousand miles to walk ten more, a tour of the shore... Continue Reading →
Jack was hungover as he labored alongside Father, but was sobering up quickly by the sights and sounds of humdrum reality. The faint peal of church bells, like smelling salts, woke him fully to fresh ol’ hell. The distant mountains purple-gray, golden fields, every shade of green, all God’s majesty and yet the scene brought a pang of anxiety. The bells, those Sunday morning harbingers of desolation, singing hymns to Creation, and yet Jack saw only isolation in them hills. Those grim ranges a fence, hemmed him in, miles from significance. Scream as he might, though the stars could hear his howl, though the angels would scowl, though Zarathustra would weep just up the Road yonder, the hills echoed only the ding-dong bells of noon.
B David Larson 