scantstories.blogspot.com
Scant Stories: Nonfiction: The Dying of the Light
http://scantstories.blogspot.com/2011/02/nonfiction-dying-of-light.html
Friday, February 11, 2011. Nonfiction: The Dying of the Light. I am simply too young, I suppose, to understand what my mom means. When she says she is ready to die. Maybe if it w ere an old lady takin. G her last breath after a long, fruitful life or a hero sacrificing himself for king and country. These words would make sense. But s he is a healthy individual,. And mortality is a subject I find unsuitable for work. The spotless lab equipment surrounding me is no comfort for my. Her dirty blonde hair is ...
scantstories.blogspot.com
Scant Stories: February 2011
http://scantstories.blogspot.com/2011_02_01_archive.html
Friday, February 11, 2011. There was a crash. There was definitely a crash. All of those things. With no hood to pull up to shield his face from casual glances, his posture changed. No longer did he slump forward on the granite bench. Instead he sat, arms crossed and feet splayed out in front of him, taking up still more of the small alcove in which the bench sat. His stitches were prominently displayed, but his defensive glare tolerated no questions. And nothing more to do. The dark and cold were split.
peschpoems.blogspot.com
Pesch's Poems: Empty Chocolate Box
http://peschpoems.blogspot.com/2013/09/empty-chocolate-box.html
Friday, September 20, 2013. If life is like a box of chocolates. I can only assume it's meant to be devoured. Rapidly, and wholeheartedly,. The pretty gold foil of childhood eagerly discarded. To get to the good stuff. And when the first layer of goodness. You realize all too suddenly. You only have half left. And even though it's true. There's some marzipan in your past. And in your future,. Waiting to take you by surprise. With its clash of soapy texture. And a hint of bitterness.
peschpoems.blogspot.com
Pesch's Poems: September 2013
http://peschpoems.blogspot.com/2013_09_01_archive.html
Monday, September 30, 2013. I was always sure. Hers would be the next call. Delayed with some excuse. Errands, car trouble,. I was always hers. Until that last call,. The one that meant no more. Calls were coming,. The one that ripped. The bowl of cereal. To the laminated floor,. On the spreading sea of milk,. As it made its way. I sank down and sat. My slippered feet sliding. A bit as I splotched down. The wave of milk rolled. Blueberry islands in arcs. As the drips landed. As it rippled into spilt milk.
peschpoems.blogspot.com
Pesch's Poems: Spilt Milk
http://peschpoems.blogspot.com/2013/09/spilt-milk.html
Monday, September 30, 2013. I was always sure. Hers would be the next call. Delayed with some excuse. Errands, car trouble,. I was always hers. Until that last call,. The one that meant no more. Calls were coming,. The one that ripped. The bowl of cereal. To the laminated floor,. On the spreading sea of milk,. As it made its way. I sank down and sat. My slippered feet sliding. A bit as I splotched down. The wave of milk rolled. Blueberry islands in arcs. As the drips landed. As it rippled into spilt milk.
peschpoems.blogspot.com
Pesch's Poems: Obstacle
http://peschpoems.blogspot.com/2013/09/obstacle.html
Friday, September 20, 2013. There was an impassible. I guess when it was labeled. On me bridging the gap. I'd have reached back. To bring you out. Of the dark, damp. Where cool walls shade. From the sizzle of the sun,. But you're not here. Since when I overcame. I did it alone. So now this place. By wedging my body,. Working slowly upward,. With its royal rock,. Spread out and shining,. And back there,. Assuring my solitude,. A slit in the ground. Just an impossible leap. View my complete profile.
scantstories.blogspot.com
Scant Stories: Fiction: Knowing
http://scantstories.blogspot.com/2011/02/fiction-knowing.html
Friday, February 11, 2011. There was a crash. There was definitely a crash. All of those things. With no hood to pull up to shield his face from casual glances, his posture changed. No longer did he slump forward on the granite bench. Instead he sat, arms crossed and feet splayed out in front of him, taking up still more of the small alcove in which the bench sat. His stitches were prominently displayed, but his defensive glare tolerated no questions. And nothing more to do. The dark and cold were split.
scantstories.blogspot.com
Scant Stories: Nonfiction: Frogs
http://scantstories.blogspot.com/2011/02/nonfiction-frogs.html
Friday, February 11, 2011. Of course, people are fragile too, when you think about it. Sure, I. While we have spent thousands of years trying to invent tools to achieve various phenomena, the frogs simply incorporate them into their very being. Breathe underwater? Check Kill things effortlessly? Another check. The golden poison arrow frog is too dangerous even to hold, and two tenths of a microgram of its poison can be fatal. And speaking of fatality: Life after death? My Pseudonym Is Misa.
