Uncoherent Text
Francine
Ten nude women made their way up the winding cattle path toward the road, prodded along by a Frenchman, painter's brush in hand, canvas under armpit. The strange scene made Francine forget about the twerp she intended to tell to take a hike, and she called to the women, "Your clothes are over here."
Scholarly roads
Fall back to scholarly roads, brown eyes, brown hair, and did you tell of an upstairs room where your story did bloom, and did you call by name three times to stop the world from turning. The green bar was for work, and the spring for disappearing. So sad is the forced flow of the river, and watching the twig you threw get smaller & smaller.
My Work Box:

She laid in silence atop the hill, staring down at tall grass and dafodil. Rooftops there were, of brown and red. On cottages of brick and quill. She daydreamed of a babe wrapped in white and with pink bow. The one she had no choice and was forced to let go. The child now lost among those many cottage tops. What to do when baby had no pops. A tear fell today, as it did the days before. She wished she knew more. She would find that child. She would take her home. nome, rome, roam. poem, not much rhymes with home, gnome, dome, could go with groan. And did she groan, at the work ahead. Yet she did know, she could not sit still.
The Wise Man
I met a man who could open your eyes, and clear away the fog by applying droplets of wisdom. He was a man who could stir your soup with an unguided spoon.

Under a Harvest Moon
Long awaited, under a Harvest Moon, caring, yearning hands crept like vines thru woods, grasses, fields, then in thru my bedroom window and to the bed where I slept. The hands touched my face; caressed. Can people share dreams? Do we connect at cataleptic levels while we are asleep? Tell me.
Sad isn't good enough
I am sad for what I said. I am mad for who I am. I know it was bad of me to treat you that way. Now I want you to know how sad, mad and bad I was, so you can forgive me. Because then I won't be as sad and mad. Isn't that sad and self-centered of me, to wish to be free? What have I given to you, but more sad.
Mr. Climsy's Book
Mr. Climsy had a fine, hard-covered book upon a shelf on his bed, above his head. He hardly ever read. But it was there just in case, he said. One night, he bumped the head of his bed, and down fell the heavy book. The corner of it landed solidly and deep into his eye. He is now half blind, but happy he isn't dead.
On This Page

Scholarly roads

Francine

The Wise Man

Under a Harvest Moon

Sad isn't good enough

Mr. Climsy's Book

Thought I Knew

I Didn't Hear
I call these my super short, short stories. Please Enjoy!
Thought I Knew
Who is this man I thought I knew? His heart has turned a deep, dark blue. It's cold, grown old, and doesn't see true. Who is this man I thought I knew? Who breaks promises without renew. Who stirs you up, then lets you stew. Will he suffer for what he cannot undue? Will he go through life, just like you?
I Didn't Hear (with British accent)
I didn't hear a damn thing. And I didn't hear a damn thing because there wasn't a damn thing said. Not a whisper. Not a word. Not even an ahem. If someone were to have tipped their tea to sip, even the slightest of slurps, I would have heard. So I am telling you, I didn't hear a damn thing. Hence, there wasn't a damn thing said.
None for Nun
As the older boys were ushered into church in a straight and silent line by the old nun, she scolded each with a finger to pre-warn them to keep their eyes to the front. It was as if she thought their stare alone would be enough to impregnate one of the girls. Hearing later in years, it appears the nun knew what a stare could do; knew from personal experience.
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