Every Writer

I walk out of the paper factory all sweaty and pissed off. My tattoo-covered arms are dripping with dirty sweat. My long hair and beard are full of dust and bits of raw paper as tiny as gnats. It is always the same at the paper factory in the summer time. By day?s end I am sweaty and pissed.

She was pretty as the Sierra Madres in winter, leaving her girlfriends behind to sip their beers. The boy she danced with couldn?t rope calves much less break broncos, while she could have ridden bulls into the ground. I sipped Bourbon and watched her rhinestones shimmer, her hips sharp enough to rip denim.

Marilyn Monroe Moment by Courtney Smart There is not a teenage girl more sheltered, na?ve, and always out of my place than me; honestly, I am from a bleak, dirt town with a population of 3,000: people never leave, mothers confine their children in doors for fear a coyote will devour one of their eight,…

?Waiting for change always seems to take longer than you would expect.?
Amy must have read this sentence thousands of times. If it was a saying by a famous writer or philosopher she might see the point, but they?re her mum?s own words. The yellow tile stands out against pale blue wall; the writing is done in black, calligraphic letters.

Recently one of the cardinals in my back yard performed a unique variation on his usual song. I was fortunate enough to be outside at the time, tying basil plants for drying. As I stood listening to his melody I recollected an experience I had had many years ago while traveling south on the Oregon coast highway.

?It is Michael,? she screamed in terror.

?Can you help my daughter?? Mrs. Gray asked desperately.

Michelle froze at the sight of Dr.Nelson. She gave a feeble cry as he took a sample of her blood.

?It Never Ends by Frank Joussen A single red rose in the middle. It?s a nice enough grave. Well, if you like this mixture of dentimeter and clyclamen. But her flowers had already withered. And I planted my red, red rose smack in the middle. It was worth it all. Running away from the old…

I haven?t seen the sun for weeks. Months really. Maybe one day last month. And everybody talked about how beautiful the blue sky was.

Amazed at the sight of the sun. Really?

Guapo by N. Fabal Name?s Guapo, I run the streets around here. From the Sedanos on Palm to the Red White and Blue thrift, from Mango Hill to Milander, from Westland Mall to ?ooo Que Barato!, that?s right I run this shit. The Fat Man, he?s got a different name for me, he calls me…

The Day of the Dead by RLB Hartmann It’s October. The air has grown mild and dry, sere like the skin of an old person, pungent. On a worn bench beneath whispering maples shading the plaza, I watch families. Stubby fathers in work clothes, mothers in bright skirts below their knees, children swarming everywhere. Those…

Step Two by Julia Newman I wish I could sit down right here. Would that be so weird? In the middle of the aisle, right here? All cozy and cross-legged in front the day old cakes, the Pepperidge Farm display, and the peanut butter. Back against the freezer, that nice cool door separating me from…

Turtle Dreams ?by Susan Dickman She inhabited a different universe. Metaphorically stuffed cotton in her ears while others listened to rock, Bach or disco, though remembered vividly the slick plum-colored skirt and wrap her mother had bought for her fifteenth birthday when dancing was again all the rage. But the girls danced with each other,…