City of Writers: A Weekly Newsletter
I won't let you in, I'll fight you to the endToo close, I can no longer be your friendLove ends, where hate beginsYou are which of the seven holy sins?Hold you down, surrender to meMission to the black hole of a distant galaxyYou make me strong, can no longer denyThe…
Fruitful and productiveTired and antisocialEmotions that define my life I have seen wonderful thingsCelebrate milestones with loved onesI am a true gastronomeYet I feel alone in a crowded room It is time to stop dwelling on the negativityAnd let the sunshine inIt is time to believe all the storied words…
Things that are full of musicCascade like a waterfallDown the coin slotChirping in acceptance,once, twice, three times luck be a lady. They call me the One-Armed BanditThe meadow in the Wild WestWords and music under the gunOf the tiger's sun. The Ballad of Michael ValentineCould be a country song,but isn'tTelling…
It was a ludicrous assignment. Claire Peyton, the entertainment columnist for the Mountain Valley Daily News, knew it. After their morning meeting, editor-in-chief Warren Harris pulled her aside. He mentioned a ghost story that had persisted in Mountain Valley, population 150,000, since after World War II. Then he let slip…
The battlefield in my headis littered with the loversI'll never bed, let alone wedSee me ride the light of loveTo a place inside his heartFalling below the mists, undertowSinging the praises of an unknown soldier,Broken apart by the promise of releaseFight with me, beside me, inside meBehind me, roller-coaster ride…
"Honey, there's something I have to tell you," Gavin Matthews said gravely. Catherine - his wife of fifteen years was at the stove, her back to him. She paused, her hand gripping the wooden spoon stirring their tomato soup dinner on the stove in front of her. "What's wrong?" she…
We practiced our haibun in my grad school poetry class. This was my result. The tsinelas on my feet do not protect me from the grains of sand. My mother's pale skin is a gentle reminder for me to protect my face from the sun, so I don't get tan…
I won third place at the 2002 Modesto Junior College “Celebration of the Humanities” contest with this story.
I think love is real and true when all those cheesy love songs on adult contemporary radio begin to make sense. My name is Francesca Miller. I am the product of an American fighting man and an attractive Italian-American. I’m twenty-four years old. I want to tell you a story about the One.
I first remembered Giovanni Paretti when his little brother Joey and my little brother Anthony met in choir class. The drama teacher at school had decided to do the musical, Picnic. That’s where their friendship grew and I got to know of Joey. Then I put two and two together. I realized that he was related to Giovanni and that Giovanni had been a teacher’s assistant in my sophomore English class. He was a senior at the time.
I did that whole turbulent “I’m stupid, fat, and ugly” teenage crisis during my freshman year. It didn’t take me too long to get over myself and grow up. During my second year in high school, I felt remotely self-assured and confident enough to stand on my own two feet, doing whatever puts a smile on my pretty face. Lucky (as people at school nicknamed him) never really stood out to me; he blended in with the woodwork. I mean that in the nicest way possible, of course. He was attractive, but not something I’d typically pursue. He was one of those clean-cut, friendly, easygoing, helpers of old ladies to cross crowded streets, and feed the homeless type of guy. I’m usually infatuated with a more streetwise kind of guy if you know what I mean.
Where are you from, a person is often asked.Where indeed? I have no answer. My eyes are slanted, but I'm not Oriental.I'm not a rug, don't tread on me.My jeans are Levi's, but I'm not a stadium.Don't play games with me.My feet are blistered, but I don't wear high heels.I…
She looked at him pointedly. Amidst the fervor of the green room of the Empire Ballroom, he got the hint. Only a few people knew of their love affair – and if the rest of them knew, they played dumb. They left in their respective tour buses for the budget…