Tag Archives: short story

Sarah, She’s Still In the Womb: Short Story

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I dont know how long its been since I last saw vacant car lots filled up with cars. Has everybody moved away? Am I a singularity, a lone youth wolf out in the wild, separated from the pack? Will I return to school only to see the hallways and staircases emptied?

 The parks are filled only with shadows and empty benches. One little girl is playing on the swing, but I don’t see her parents. I have an urge to go up and talk to her, but something tells me she knows what to do. Her bright chestnut hair is long and plaited, with big pink bows at the ends. I thought she was smiling, but it was just my imagination. I think she wants to think to herself.

I walk to the street up ahead and buy an ice cream. I’ve taken my camera so I can go to the thrift store later and see if there’s anything pretty around to take a picture of. There is. It’s a little worn book of hymns the size of my palm. It’s brown and leather with little gold lettering. The lady at the counter says no pictures. I snap one anyway when she’s not looking. 

The next day is the first day of school. Trouble is, I’ve forgotten how to wear clothes. What looks good. What is acceptable to wear in public. I wear an old plaid dress from my uniformed schoolgirl days with a forest green cardigan on top. Something about it seems wrong, but I don’t quite know what it is. I keep it on anyway, drawing on a line of kohl pencil on my eyelids. Is that how people do it? Unsure of myself, I scarf down a bowl of cereal and grab a banana as I head out the door, kissing my mother goodbye before heading out the old worn secret path I took to school. 

Something stops me from taking a back-alley route though, and I swerve back onto the main road and bump into an old acquaintance from school. He’s supposed to be a year older than me. Black greasy hair and tall; he’s thin, with big, green-blue eyes. He looks depressed, a little sunken into his body, his frame isn’t necessarily  bony but out of shape. He manages to smile as i shyly reintroduce myself.

“Sarah” I say say, my voice soft, hardly there.
“Peter” he replies, with the same reticent tone.
I shrug it off. everybody’s anxious on the first day, right? 

Math and Biology are a bore.  All the teachers are handing out their syllabus papers in various colors: pink, yellow, blue, green, orange. I guess the school still hasn’t gotten enough money for real school office supplies. Peter is in every one of my classes. I think he was held back a grade, he’s supposed to be in college. But he hardly notices me, looking down at his feet or rolling his pencil back and forth over and over again on his desk, humming to himself, doodling, or staring blankly at the wall, the window, the blackboard. 

Time runs endlessly like this, slow and unvaried, and I find myself falling into a strange rhythmic oblivion. I should have left this town two months ago with the rest of them, I decide mournfully, my thoughts turning once again to peter. He suddenly stares back at me, his gaze intense and long, eyes like flashing rivets in his skull. I don’t know whether I ‘m dreaming or if I’m ever awake, for that matter. All I know is that I might as well disappear into the wall where he’s staring. I think peter smokes cigarettes. I think maybe nobody is going to amount to anything, especially on this town, and even me-I think I might dissipate or self-combust and it would’t make a bit of difference.

Copyright 2015 Golden Star Poetry 

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Letter to the Lost Girl

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go to the cemetary
by the privacy of which
you will find a trundle of papers
by the gravestone;
each of them
was an unsent letter
addressed to you.

You may find it strange
that I had no courage
to speak to you directly
after inking into the
endless paper void,
that i was afraid
somehow,
but
(I loved you).

please don’t forget
how i
walked
endlessly
with you
through the back
house acres
like we were
schoolchildren.

please don’t remember
the silent graveyard days
when i sat impenetrable
not speaking or sleeping.

please forgive the
sporadic bursts of
anger.

and even though
i was a terrible writer
i made you a story
even though
i was a terrible speaker
i told you i was waiting for you.

so go to the cemetary
and find the trundle of papers
by your gravestone;
each of them
was an unsent letter
addressed to you.

You may find it strange
that I had no courage
to speak to you in person
after inking into the
endless paper void,
that i was afraid
somehow,
but
I loved you,

and all i can see
are your smiling eyes
by my windowsille
when i try to look outside
to the world
that seems as dull
and senseless
as the rotting earth

Copyright 2014 Golden Star Poetry

ps. sorry if this reads more like prose than poetry!

Long Stop Through Nowhere

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Chapter one.

The only thing that the red truck in front of her wasn’t going to do was kill her. Maybe cars in this side of town went slow, you know, like that phrase–slower than molasses in January? Yeah, that’s the one. No, It definitely wasn’t going to kill her. But she had heard her mother say very distinctly that the world was much more stark and scary when you went out into it’s clutches, and cars were one of the things you had to look out for.

“I told you. Practically no one drives here Cornelia, it’s a dead zone. Nobody lives here.” said Peter.
“Then why’s he stoppin’?” drawled Cornelia vacantly.
“Because we were just about gettin’ ready to cross the street, that’s why. Didn’t nobody ever tell you ’bout such a thing as driving rules?”
“Uh…no” Cornelia admitted defeatedly.
“Well then, what are you waiting for? That truck ain’t gonna wait for us any longer! go on, git!”
“You sure, I?…”
“Git! go on ahead, that driver ain’t got all day!”
The brisk morning air suddenly struck the two young travelers as they flittered across the narrow dirt road. Pine trees ran along it’s whole length; an endless wood ran on either side of the mountain highway like a secret hideaway into the endless mystery of nature. But that wasn’t their focus anymore. They were almost on their way to a city, and this was just where civilization had begun to turn up.
A twisted grin began to play on peter’s sun burnt face as they continued walking along the road.
“What’s so funny?” whined Cornelia, who was just about through with her brother’s pointless games.
“You don’t know about the pedestrian’s right of way, Corny. It’s like knowin’ the world goes around the sun. Common knowlage.”
She hated it when he called her that stupid nickname. And she hated how he knew more big words than her, since he was in the tenth grade.
“What’s a ped-est-rian?” Asked the bewildered girl carefully, who was now at her wit’s end. This question only made Peter laugh harder, snorting through his nostrils and cackling like a hyena, which made Cornelia even more outraged. At least, thought Cornelia,we only have ten more miles to go. It was a comforting thought at best.

If seen from above, the whole journey would have seemed startlingly picturesque; A young girl with shockingly red hair walking down a mountain path along side a much older, very red and tan boy dripping in sweat, looking as if they were on some secret spy mission to save the world, hold up the one car traffic of a huge scarlet truck in the middle of the day.

Copyright 2014 Golden Star Poetry
I do not own this photo

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The B-10 Mystery– a short story

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Just before we begin–

this is a piece of fiction that I wrote, and I know  it seems a bit out of character, considering the fact that I usually  just write poetry. However, I was very interested to write this, so I hope you all enjoy!

love,

–GSP

 

PROLOGUE

Nobody lives on on the fourth floor anymore-at least, not after what happened to Mrs. Winters. No, everyone stays an arms length from that thin dusty blue carpet and the doormat in front of apartment B-10 that once bore the strange and unfamiliar word “welcome.” It’s funny people even speak of it now. Most people would just label it as a “convenient superstition”.

PART ONE

Molly strode up The narrow staircase nonchalantly, carrying a rather large and unmarked cardboard box. She was dressed in an out of style Calvin Klein tee shirt, a taupe, knee-length overcoat and perfectly washed, but faded and slightly ripped, designer blue jeans, suggesting that she had once been wealthy but recently lost all of her money.Molly Plunked Down the Package outside of apartment B-10, smiled briefly, then ran down the staircase to the lobby and was gone.

A man at the end of the fourth floor hallway had arrived there accidentally, just as the old building elevator, which often malfunctioned, carried him one floor above his desired destination. He observed Molly walking along the fourth floor with purpose, carrying the box, and suspected her of doing something she ought not to do.
The next morning, the man tiptoed up to the apartment B-10 and realized that the box, and whatever lay inside it, was gone. The man shuddered. He dragged his feet back to his residence, then sauntered through the door, unlocked his desk drawer, picked up a shiny revolver and shot himself. If anyone were to have asked him who took the box before he went back to his apartment, he would never have disclosed what he knew: people have a way of constructing detailed and vivid stories on their own, and have such wild imaginations that it would spoil the fun of explaining it.

 

PART TWO

A small portion of a conversation between a Ms. Hewitt and a  Mrs. Cooke, at seven thirty eastern standard time, Monday, June seventeenth, 1996.

Ms. Hewitt: You know he had a bad day, Maggie! It was bound to be a rash decision!

Mrs. Cooke: No, not the way I saw it. He was pacing around the kitchen table giving me that look. I got so freaking scared,  I–

H: Well don’t you dare blame me, I was the one to get nearly 50 letters from the man,while you sat there at home doing nothing to stop him.

C: Don’t exaggerate.

H: What?

C: I said don’t exaggerate. It’s called a Hyperbole.

H: Yes, we all know you went to grad school, Margaret.

C: He only sent you five letters.

H: More like 20.

C: The point is, I know he hid it from us.

H: So… he had it brought back for…safekeeping?

C: Bingo!

(there is a long pause. Ms. Hewitt breathes heavily)

H: Let me get this straight. Are you telling me that Bas***d had the balls to do PLAN G?!?! Of all the–

C: Nobody has to know!

H: Oh, but they will know, they will Maggie, the second it gets there someone’s gonna go bananas. And if it gets out, It’s gonna be–wait, who did he hire?!

C: Molly

H: Ah Shit! you’ve got to be kidding me!

C: I can always have her let go–

H: No, No! It’s all ruined! she knows too many people…

C: We have it under control.

H: That’s highly doubtful.

C: Beth, we have it under control, okay? I love you but–

H: Yeah, love you too.

C:  What I mean is,  sometimes things don’t  turn out how you want them to. And, I know it’s never getting any better for us, but–

H: You want me to order flowers?

(Long pause)

C: You’d do that for me?

H: Of course.

C: Thank you darling.

H: Not a problem. Call me if anything else goes wrong in the next 24 hours, which I’m sure it will.

C: That I will do.

H: well, so long for now.

C: so long.

Copyright 2014 Golden Star Poetry

 

 

 

Tenuous;

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she knows she is a secret

and the many worlds that hide her remain silent

she is the unawares,

the tracked divine

I am yours and you are mine

and you with your little

unabashed talks

the ways you talk to me

is unnerving

the only thing I regret is not saying

hello

enough.

x x x x x 

I am shouting that the only thing in this World that I have left

is the thing that I wish I couldn’t lose.

but you are one hot mess,

and besides you are less

than what I had hoped for

in a boy.

your chest is just a rock

of breast

and the lakes swim by our heads saying

his heart has always been dead.

escape while you can

while you are still alive.

go on girl,

you can swim with the tide.

go on,

go on,

you’re still alive.

no

sing the song,

and be alive.

his hands know nothing

he seems vaguely sad

but how could you tell

on that misplaced expression?

you want to lie with me

on fine stemmed grass

breaking

ateeming

bending

coarse.

a trip to the otherworld

would tell me that

your eyes are vacant

because they see everything

and i would be a surprise,

because mine

do not.

Copyright 2014 Golden Star Poetry

Aside

dear readers: “not your average day police claim” is NOT a true story, despite the fact that the places i mention do exist.

Kirsten had always dreamed of working at the post office or the county jail. Daily living and house chores were her bread and butter, and she craved it with a passion. Everything that was banal seemed to sing to her with an effervescent joy, and even the prospect of brushing her teeth filled her with a strange sort of wonder. Today was a Monday, and her school was having a taste of danger.
Wanted serial killer number twelve had just escaped from the Terre Haute Federal Correctional Complex and was passing through the small town. Kirsten did not like the sound of it at all- and not because she was afraid of menacing criminals, but simply because it was disrupting her average Monday drone.At the moment, she was fumbling around in the dark, musty classroom of Mr. Bingler’s English class, trying vainly to whisper a conversation to her friend, Nora.  Nora suffered from over twelve different illnesses, none of which Kirsten could pronounce or differentiate from one another, and all of which seemed perfectly plausible at any given moment. Nora’s favorite of the twelve was the piercingly white hair she acquired from living with Waardenburg syndrome.

Unfortunately, this ailment also left Nora with a very bad left ear, and blurry vision, which bore Kirsten’s whispering attempts quite fruitless. As mentioned previously, Kirsten also had the inability to remember all of the diseases Nora suffered from, and so she carried on whispering, unfazed by her friend’s lack of response. Andrew Klein, who sat next to Kirsten, was enjoying the awkward exchange between his fellow pupils. Most of the school knew of this unusual friendship, but had failed to communicate this knowledge to their peers, for fear that it would be considered unthinkable to speak of such lowly peasants, or-as they were affectionately called by the rest of the student body -“nerds”. This label, oddly enough, was not quite accurate in this case, despite The girls’ nebbishy outward appearances. Kirsten was failing three of her classes, and Nora was quite unable to work in the school environment at all. The disabled program at the school was unable to find a suitable category in which to place her, and had no option but to file her under the title of “hopeless case”.
Of course, in order to resume this saga of unusual proportions, one must be reminded of the horrors awaiting Kirsten and Nora’s hometown. As the students sat cramped and sweaty in the dank unlit classrooms of Alpine Mountain high school, the Wanted serial Killer (whose name was Artie) was sweeping across the city in a frantic rage. Fortunately, the townsfolk knew how to carry out the mandated precautions like the backs of their hands. They had all been trained at early ages on how to prepare for all types of disasters, due to the hard work and effort of the late Martha James Brawn (1875-1960), a nurse and educator at St. Mary-Of-The-woods College, and the pride and Joy of Terre Haute city.
Artie the serial killer was not that surprised to see that the place was in a state of great angst. He had escaped from prison on a dare. He spoke in a strange dialect not known to most city dwellers and was having a hard time communicating his situation to people. In reality, Artie was not trying to pose as a threat to anyone. The act of looting and thieving was second nature to him, almost the same as an impulsive reflex. No, on the contrary, he had been forced into most of his earlier gang activity and found it quite unfair for the government to rule him out as a real danger to anyone.
Or, as Artie would have put it “I had more friends nutted up than me most times. The whole thing is just a load of bum beef. All I got was a case of broke weak when they called me a cracker. They just made me do shit cause all I had was drag and they said they heard it a thousand times already. I put it on my skin!” The killer took the rest of the day committing crimes until he was captured fisherman named Gregory Ipswich, and was sent back to the Terre Haute Federal Correctional Complex, safe and sound. Kirsten could have sworn she had never been so happy.
Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry

Not your average day, Police Claim — a fictional story by me, golden star poetry

My Dad’s Lawyer’s Friend’s Daughter’s Name is Muriel

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My Dad’s Lawyer’s Friend’s Daughter’s Name is Muriel

She was real fancy, even down to the way she would spread Nutella onto her toast. You know, the way they do it in the commercials. I tried it ,but I think she does it better. Anyhow, she showed up last night at our house because dad’s lawyer friend was over, -I think He’s something of a millionaire-and this girl’s his daughter. I had to ask her if she went to boarding school or something fancy like that, but she just said she went to private school. And then, after dessert, my brother Frank had the nerve to say “aw, why are y’always askin’ her questions like that? Hey, look! Trudy’s got her eye on Muriel!” . And then dad had to shut him up. I don’t know what’s gotten into him teasing me like that, saying I fancy her. Doesn’t he see all the posters I got up in my room of Carry Grant?

Anyway, one time Muriel was in the living room, and the sun was going all over the couch, and she kind of looked like this delicate little angel sitting there just quiet, just thinking, and then I asked her-but I don’t know why, maybe because she was just so pretty- “Muriel, do you have a Boyfriend?”. Then she came back to life suddenly from her thinking pose, and gave me this twisted sort of grin and said “girl’s don’t get a real beux until they graduate from high school” -as If I was supposed to know. Last year I was real sweet on my Fifth grade History teacher, Mister Daniels, but then When I told my friend Beatrice about it, she went on and on about how I was going to get arrested for that, and she got me scared stiff. Well, except for I’m not scared of carry Grant, ’cause he’s just a movie star. Last week I saw him in North by northwest, but I snuck into the theater on account of the rating system or something. But I didn’t get the ending. So then I asked Muriel If she wanted a Boyfriend anyway, and her face got sad all of a sudden. She looked real wistful for a few seconds, just looking out of the window, and then she said “I guess, but my father won’t let me have one”.

I don’t know what I felt then. I guess I felt glad that my father isn’t a millionaire.