travellingquietly.blogspot.com
Travelling Quietly, Writing: September 2009
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Travelling Quietly, Writing. A ragged accumulation of writing. He lay down his head, pulling off the old neckerchief from his head and putting it over his eyes. Squirming into a comfortable position, he clasped his hands behind his head, crossed his ankles and sighed with relief. Within minutes, he lay there, sleeping contentedly and snoring softly for all to hear. When the hobo woke a few hours later, he found he rested well and, even more surprisingly, at his feet lay such gifts as to take him aback un...
travellingquietly.blogspot.com
Travelling Quietly, Writing: March 2009
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Travelling Quietly, Writing. A ragged accumulation of writing. The bell hanging from the doorway to the shop in East Mickmack rang while the hinges lent their accompanying squeak. Seamus, looking up from his bent over position, noticed the haberdasher as he came in, walked to the counter and sighed with his whole body. Old man Johnson, he thought. The boy was 13 at the time. Afternoon, Mr. Johnson.". Aye Afternoon. You got any old leathers lying 'round the store I can take home? For the pup, you see.".
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Travelling Quietly, Writing: May 2010
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Travelling Quietly, Writing. A ragged accumulation of writing. This goddamn chair is goddamn uncomfortable.". What did I tell you about taking the Lord's name in vain, Clinton? He hits himself. You think he'd go 'Medamnit! The older man chuckles and eyes his son. You're trying too hard, Pop.". I suppose not. Hey, can I ask you something,? What makes these divets here, in the wood? Clinton hands the branch to Howard, who turns it over in his hand, feeling the grooves left behind. Thanks," he says. OK OK H...
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Travelling Quietly, Writing: The Exchange
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Travelling Quietly, Writing. A ragged accumulation of writing. The pain in his gut was so intense it made his head buzz. He lay on the cold concrete, his warm blood seeping beneath him and staining the ground, his clothes, his backside. And my mom said to always wear clean underwear," he thought. "Good use that's doing." He smiled to himself, thinking of his mother: her warm cocoa eyes, her smile to him when he was a child, the way her hands made soup for him when he was sick. View my complete profile.
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Travelling Quietly, Writing: June 2010
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Travelling Quietly, Writing. A ragged accumulation of writing. Making for the Shore. He wiped his brow and took slow breaths, opening his eyes to see what lay before him. The distant shore was no longer distant, but a mammoth of mesas and shoreline stretched out before him. The boy cried, silently, to himself. He continued on, kicking and paddling again, head down. He had done it. He swam to Sanctuary. Links to this post. Subscribe to: Posts (Atom). View my complete profile. Making for the Shore.
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Travelling Quietly, Writing: In the barn
http://travellingquietly.blogspot.com/2010/05/in-barn.html
Travelling Quietly, Writing. A ragged accumulation of writing. Just a writing exercise to keep me writing. We lay in the haystacks, breathing heavily. The deep shade from the barn loft hid the seawater of her eyes from me. Sweat began to glisten and stick below my t-shirt. I lay there, panting. In, a maelstrom of cool air into my nose. Out, a tornado of warmth out my mouth. She rolled onto her side, propping up her head with an arm, looking at me. Not staring, just casually observing. May I help you?
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Travelling Quietly, Writing: The False Boyhood; The Blank Page
http://travellingquietly.blogspot.com/2010/12/false-boyhood-blank-page.html
Travelling Quietly, Writing. A ragged accumulation of writing. The False Boyhood; The Blank Page. The page lay open and plain-white like pressed t-shirts hanging on the line when his mother used to wash his clothes as a boy. Except that was thrilling, running through the sheets, the laundry, the wind. Innocence was always on his lips and turmoil at his back, the way he shaped the tall grass with his feet as he ran past. But those days, those engorged and fattened memories, were gone.
travellingquietly.blogspot.com
Travelling Quietly, Writing: September 2010
http://travellingquietly.blogspot.com/2010_09_01_archive.html
Travelling Quietly, Writing. A ragged accumulation of writing. Within the next 6 months, the 515th squadron were being awarded medals for incalcuable valor. They dressed in their best, went to meet their Supreme Emporer and, as the Ace shook his hand, they murdered him in cold blood. Of course, that wasn't his official title. He still answered to the Conglomerate of Corporations and Congress, but, without him, they would have all died a long time ago. Even as things currently stood, he might stil...
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Travelling Quietly, Writing: June 2009
http://travellingquietly.blogspot.com/2009_06_01_archive.html
Travelling Quietly, Writing. A ragged accumulation of writing. I have not the memory of your sunbeam smile as it caressed. The western horizon, casting fires of red and orange over. Arc of the waves. I have only heard the stories of your. Or how the winds of your voice blow cool refreshment to. The weary soldiers,. Reviving them, relieving their suffering and stanching. But I have traced the curvature of your ribs in starlight,. And followed the line. Your firefly eyes in. I have been to the.
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Travelling Quietly, Writing: Skin Tapestry
http://travellingquietly.blogspot.com/2010/12/skin-tapestry.html
Travelling Quietly, Writing. A ragged accumulation of writing. As far back as Andrew could remember she was there, quietly looming away his own flesh. His skin peeled away from his musculature, always to her loom. The boy's memory did not go back so far that he could remember the details of his kidnapping, or even to a time that he could recall ever wearing clothes. He had always been in pain, naked and in the company of the Blind Loomer. You will pay for that, Skin-Reaper! Mark my words, you will pay!
