A Collection of Prose and Photography
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 →
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 →
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.
“Is this seat taken?” he asked, with trepidation. The woman across the table looked up from her book with a mixed expression of surprise and apprehension. The ambient sound of the café was a low, steady chorus of clanking spoons and steam nozzles and Saturday morning banter - all tell-tale signs of a coffee shop... Continue Reading →
Just outside Owego, New York where the interstate turns south, and the terrain of the Southern Tier pushes the horizon ever higher, an offshoot of the Susquehanna cuts into a shallow valley between oak-speckled hills. Through remote country does the creek wind, ever waning as it meanders northward, unnoticed by the infrequent passerby, save the... Continue Reading →
Sean continued to navigate the truck through winding suburban streets, thickly settled but thickly wooded. Each home sat close to the street, bordered by juniper shrubs and uneven sidewalks. Behind them, sprawling yards remained brown-yellow from a long winter, while towering black pines appeared brilliantly green next to the bear slender arms of oaks, maples, and walnuts.
Similarly did a group of teens seek shelter beneath the awning of a convenience store in the next town. They blew grey cigarette smoke out into the air while cursing the rain and their parents and life itself in godforsaken obscurity. Surely, no two towns were exactly alike, but mile after mile, Corey found one local custom remarkably consistent: staring. Gawking, squinting, leering, with tilted heads and mouths agape, the natives postured at the sight of the foreign wagon rolling through their neighborhood. It was as though a silent alarm had been raised, and like wild things did they clamber to windows and draw back their hoods and cease their conversations to address the intruder in their territory.
Somewhere deep within the border of South Carolina there grows a terrible jungle. It is comprised primarily of a handful of wild, spirited, blades of grass and knee-high clumps of innocuous clover. But within this suburban amazon grows a nefarious weed. Surely of alien origins, the hideous vine stretches and writhes its way across a patch of earth no bigger than a dining room.
She opened her eyes and solemnly folded her hands upon her lap. "These are the signs of the End of Times, ladies - that false prophets should strike the name of God from our vocabulary, and cause our people to follow the teachings and whims of mere men and false idols. Do not be fooled. Guard your minds from such teachings, lest their temptations lead to your demise. Yes, dear ones, safeguard your minds, safeguard your children. And when the Lord calls upon you to act as his instrument of purification, do not hesitate, but rather answer the call with a willing spirit and a righteous heart."
"She had to go to an island," he muttered to himself. David sat at the end of the hotel bed - his eyes glued to the television, his mind awash with a cascading flow of fond memories, bitter regrets, and the promise of impending demise.
B David Larson 