Tag Archives: Story poem


Well, I do not really know what to call this. Let’s say it is an experiment. It started with a word list from Mrs. X (whom I love writing for) at the Imaginary Garden. It contains poetry, prose poetry (I think) and outright prose. So, lets just call it “writing”, I will leave it up to you to tell me if it works as … well, as whatever it is.



I could feel each nerve fraying as I read
the passages from her diary,
each page revealing the deceit of innocence.

Alice was a twin — the surviving one. Her sister, Abbey, died four years ago at the age of nine. She fell from their treehouse, oddly alone in the sister’s favorite spot. Their parents passed a year later to the day, victims of apparent mourning and an previously unknown nasty addiction.

The writing starts the year Abbey died,
she is not mentioned at all.
The writing is the concise script of a perfectionists.

Alice went to live with her doting grandparents. They were well past child rearing age, but had a nice home in a decent neighborhood. Alice was the golden alpha-girl; last remnant of their only child. Their every joy was found in watching her blossom. Four years passed in a blink.

The first two years of entries were typical pre-teen
illusions and silvery imagination.
No reference to parents, sister of grief.

She was superficially social at school; friendly when required but not particularly close with anyone. Her teachers attributed it to her circumstance. It was understandable that a girl experiencing such loss would find it hard to make friends. At home she was a loner, elderly guardians lacking as companions.

Year three notes become more random, razor-sharp
bitterness and loneliness mingled
with endless optimism, anger and hope.

Alice missed three days of school before anyone was sent to their home. Alice was nowhere to be found; her room was pristine, a diary left on her bed. Her grandparent were found in their bed, peaceful in their repose. The coroner reported them suffocated in the sleep.

The last essays become an unspooling of reality,
a messy scrawl of dangerous thoughts
and the intentions of a killer, each one signed “Abbey.”



Filed under Flash Fiction, Poetry, Poetry - Prompts, Short Story

Dragons and Old Men

Just some fun with a good ol’ sword and sorcery yarn.

Damn, but dragon hide is sturdy stuff,
my lance broken, horse dead or run off.
My shield was busted by a swipe of tail,
helmet went flying and left arm broken.

Our foolishly brave troop is down to me plus three,
all hiding and rethinking our chivalrous vows.
Two have died from swipes of massive claws,
three roasted in fiery breath, one ingested I fear.

Sitting here with my back against this boulder,
wondering how in the hell to get out of this mess,
pledging that the monastery will be my destination;
damsels can stay in distress, the dragon keep his gold.

What’s this? A newcomer to our futility. Oh Joy!
Much help, I am sure, this old man trudging up the hill;
stooped against the slope, leaning mightily on his staff,
clothed in oversized robes and wide brimmed hat.

Halfway up the hill, just below my hiding place,
he is greeted by the dragon’s challenging roar.
Stopping, as if mildly distracted by the breeze,
he looks from under his hat and strokes his beard.

I hear the now familiar mighty beating of dragon wings,
the old man seems unperturbed, as if studying the event.
Another roar is accompanied by the heat of belched fire;
much like viewing the executioners work, I cannot look away.

Suddenly straightening with unexpected speed and strength,
he thrust his staff forward as the fire engulfs him….
What?! I saw it but do not believe! The dragon’s fire parted,
passed him by on sides and above; not a singed hair in his beard!

There is a new tone now to the dragon’s cry; rage maybe? Fear?
The sorcerer takes a step forward, staff held high in right hand,
steely eyed he begins raising the left as he starts chanting,
a white, glowing globe begins to form in his upheld hand.

Continuing his mumbling as he slowly takes two more steps,
coming even with my spot as the globe grows and swirls.
Beating wings are deafening now as he thrust left hand forward,
launching his magic at his monstrous, unsuspecting foe.

A brilliant, blinding explosion of light and a piecing scream….
I awake to his gentle hand on my arm; ‘Is it over? Is it dead?’
He smiles and shakes his head. ‘No, one does not kill a dragon.
You just have to convince it that it is time for it to move on.’

He stands and takes up his staff, a helpless old man once more,
and makes his way down the hill, carefully avoiding the rocks.
My remaining companions gather round and watch him go,
all somewhat surprised that he left us the damsel and the gold.




Filed under Poetry