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This is from an assignment in the Innovative Fiction Course taught by Karen

I'm just not making it in my innovative fiction course.
What is innovative fiction you might ask? Well, if you have to ask, I'd say you're one of those rubes who still thinks old farts like Shakespeare and Dostoyevsky are relevant. So you probably don't care.
But if you're artistic, you would understand there is nothing more important and more relevant than innovative fiction.
I'm working on a number of major innovative fiction projects. But due to a lack of cooperation, or just being too far ahead of my time, they're just not working out.
Let’s start with collage.

Collage Fiction.

I know, I'll have to explain this to you. You combine many disparate parts to make a really interesting whole.

Project number 1
Take the boring, dull works of Shakespeare. A few plays will suffice. Cut the pages into paragraphs, throw the paragraphs into a hat, and pull them out.
Paste them all together, photocopy them, and voila, you have a great innovative work far superior to the Bard’s lines known the world over.
Extra credit.
Don't use whole paragraphs, using several pages, just cut whole words out. This process expands the originality, creating something completely nonsensical that has no relationships to Shakespeare.

I started this project, but my local library has objected to my modernizing ancient works and says they consider the books now destroyed. Destroyed? I brought that old fool into the modern innovative age.

A Hyper-text Drama

Woods. Dark. Trees. Young girl in a red hood. Do you need any more? This is the new, innovative fiction. It's not my job to paint pictures for you. Use your imagination.
Now, click here to see what happens as the wolf approaches.
Here. I said click here. If you want to read the fruits of my high-level labor, you un-dear reader, need to do some of the work.
So, click here for enlightenment. Here. I said click here. You do know how to click, don't you?
Are you one of those fools who only reads books? Want to stay in the past forever? Try.
Put your cursor over the spot. Right over the spot. Get that cursor over that spot.
Did you find it? Is your cursor over that spot? Are you sure? Be sure. This matters.
Now click. You do know how to click, don't you? Take your finger, be sure it's on that spot over your mouse. Is it there? Can you feel it? Push down, down with your finger. Not too hard? Just get the right rhythm. And click. Click.
Click here. You'll see the wolf and be enlightened.
Did you click? Were you in the right spot? Did you use the right finger, and do it gently, but with confidence?
Well, I don't think so. I don't think you care enough. You’re selfish.

You don't care about me or my story. You don't care how you click. You're just focused on your own satisfaction. If you weren't, you'd be clicking right and you wouldn't be stuck here anxious for satisfaction but unfulfilled.
One last try. Here. Click here.
You fool. You're unworthy of my new, creative innovative fiction, but if you ask nicely, I might share some other output of my genius.

Another collage project.

The original idea behind the play, "Found," came from some young people who created a magazine with "found" notes, etc. scattered about, I think, San Francisco.
Good idea, I thought, but who under the age of 60 today uses paper for notes? Everybody keeps everything on their smartphones.
A genius idea. Gather random smartphones of varying kinds. Not just one model, true art is eclectic. Gather those phones and collect random notes from their notepad apps, random appointments, etc. A true modern day collage of grace, beauty, and wit.

This would be my crowning achievement, and I'm sure lead to major grants from national artistic funds if they stay around.
With determined artistic dedication, I proceeded to gather cell phones. I didn’t think I’d need many, perhaps ten would give me wide enough range to critically select the most important and interesting notes that those less talented than me might jot down on their phones. I would take these silly day-to-day ramblings and weave them into a great piece of beauty.
Of course, I planned to give the phones back. I’m not a thief. I also believed those who had their phones chosen for my project would be thrilled to enter into artistic immortality.
What a fool I was!
Pearls before swine. Thrilled? I met only bitter accusations and a couple very nice detectives who, while polite and courteous, scorned my art. They gathered up my collected cell phones and referred me to a good lawyer who, not surprisingly, was little impressed with my desire to expand my work by recording our discussions and making a collage of her advice.

Some other techniques I tried.

Freewriting.

First thing in the morning, a few minutes capturing my thoughts.
Pain in my chest. Man. Is that just heartburn? Could it have been the Indian food? My wife said we wanted a 10 out of 10 spice level. Is she trying to kill me?
Okay.
Start over.
Think of nothing. What is nothing? Can you see nothing? If you could see nothing, wouldn’t it then be something?
Start over.
Empty your mind. A task my wife claims should be easy for me. Still. Count your breaths. One. Two. Working. Thinking of nothing. Mind empty. Waiting. Calm. My mind is empty. Waiting.

I am the demon Harvey. Thank you for welcoming me to your mind. It’s been a long time. Let me take a minute to look around.

Jump up. Search frantically for a Bible and some Holy Water.
Cross automatic writing off your list.

Innovative publishing

Prepare a hardbound book with two hundred blank pages. Market it with the ads, “You Write the Book You’ve Always Wanted to Read.” Sell it via massive campaigns on the Internet. Figure out how to hack the Kardashian’s twitter tag. Add the caveat that once the book is written, you send it to me, assigning me all rights. I pick the best publisher and rush it off to them. Will it work? Trust the words of P. T. Barnum about suckers and minutes.

Tattoo art.

Ask my friends to get tattoos of my fiction. Start with a short poem. “War and Peace” is out of the question for this project. Don’t have that many friends. The few I have, respond: “Are you crazy?”
Those who are still talking to me after I’ve insulted their limited acceptance of art.
“Tattoos?” they say. “Have needles piercing my skin? In this day and age?”
A few who already have tattoos, offer what they have. I am sorry, but a big heart with your ex-wife’s name slightly visible after the attempted blackout in it doesn’t make it.
And no, I do not want to meet the rather odd angry friend you just met at a local biker bar who has L-O-V-E tattooed on the knuckles of his left hand, and H-A-T-E tattooed on the knuckles of his right. Yes, you tell me, the fact that he’s right-handed says it all. He says his hands can tell a story on their own. He says bring a full wallet to that dive bar at closing time, and he’ll tell that story. I say, I think the story he will tell is about the frustrated writer who gets mugged for his art, and it seems too pedestrian.
Decide to show them it’s not a big deal to get tattoos.
Stop into a tattoo parlor.
Have a brief conversation that ends with me saying, “You’re going to use that thing to do what on my flesh?”
Once again, art meets reality. Cancel that project.


Another option. Modern Tarot cards.

That sounds like a good idea, like the I-Ching book.
I’ll create a deck of modern Tarot cards with more meaning for our times. Assign a plot scene to each one on the back, then market them as a really innovative, innovative fiction project.
Here’s a small smattering from my fertile brain. And I don’t need any snide comments as some might make about what is the best fertilizer, and it’s in my brains.

Card 1: Eternal Wanderer. A young person in a car condemned to wander without end because their cell phone went dead and their only clue to get where they’re going is their GPS on the phone.
Card 2: Dangerous Snow Shoveling. A picture of a man over 60, forgetting he is over 60, as many men over 60 often do, standing before his pavement with a shovel, glancing at his young next door neighbor who has a happy smile on her face, and snow flying from her shovel.
Card 3: The Lost Author. An author sits before a computer screen. Some Word file we cannot make out is in the corner. In the center of the screen, large and glowing, is a video game battle scene.
Card 4: The Stuck in Freeway Traffic Skeleton. This is a picture of a skeleton sitting in a car on a long slowdown on a freeway road. Note: if you get this card after the Eternal Wanderer, cancel your vacation road trip. Stay home and write a story from the cards.

Now all I need to do is design these cards and package them and I’ll be on my way.
But not in time for my class.


Random Art Selection
Okay, this assignment is due, and this is one I must be able to handle. Take your favorite book or novel, open it to several pages at random, poke your finger down and find words to include in your next story. Huh. Sounds good.
First stab: potatoes, fried chicken, yams, onions, garlic.
Okay. Lesson number one on choosing a book for your innovative fiction. Avoid cookbooks. If you use a cookbook, you’ll look like you’re practicing for an episode of “Chopped,” on “The Food Network.” Don’t say it’s a dumb idea, we’re all learning here.
Second stab: Running scared, happy belly rub, and wicked angel.
Winner. This is the name of three horses that ran in a local race, in the order they won. I bet big on them and won something I discovered is a trifecta and pays big.

I’m wealthier than I ever dreamed of, and my wife says this is the best writing course I’ve ever taken. I think so, too. And am working on picking up a copy of the latest sports schedules to find names for my next story–er…bet

  


Ed Kratz is a retired civil servant who heard about Writer's Village many years ago from a member at the Philadelphia Writer's Conference. Since then he's taken a number of courses at Writer's Viillage.
He has been published in Daily Science Fiction, Every Day Fiction, and OG's Speculative Fiction.


Yearning - F2k WINNER!

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Noel



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Read more: Yearning - F2k WINNER!

 

 

 

Flamenco

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Cedar White

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Marbles

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Abe, the Teenage Hypnotist from Planet Garfunkel

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Albert Orejuela

You’re hearing a voice, but no one else hears a sound. It’s a deep distant whisper, soft, safe, and inviting: the words of which you can’t yet make out. The harder you listen, the softer it gets; softer and softer, deeper and deeper. The more you listen to it here, ...

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A Night in Fontana

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Brody Carlisle halted his horse on the crest of a shrub-covered hill, slapped his Stetson twice sending dust floating skyward, and after placing it back on his head, coaxed a swallow from his canteen.

To the west, the sun slid behind a scattering of tall pillar-like plateaus. Their...

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Full

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Food. Globes of mashed potatoes glistening with a thin layer of gravy, plump slices of pie gushing with ruby red cherries–food wassensuous. It was sensuous before Abby even knew the meaning of the word.  Sparkling Christmas goodies enticed her as a child. She would sneak from her...

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The Decision

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Brigitte Whiting

Stan stood on the sand, crumpled by how many people and birds running and sliding into it today. Now, it was getting dark, the last of the purple, streaky clouds turning black against a pale, gray sky.

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He reached down...

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Swiftwater

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Cedar White

10

Amos stood on a thick, muscular knoll on the shoulder of a dark river. He shivered, soaking wet from his silver hair to his leather shoes, and stared, disoriented, at the pines across the river. They seemed to stand with their backs to him. Amos felt...

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Minerva Shield

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Frank Richards

In July the monsoon rains returned and with them came the little green frogs. Price Aurigena had first seen them in the summer of 1969 when he’d arrived in Korea and now, a year later, they were once again everywhere. Frogs sprang from the ground like exploding popcorn...

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Seinfeld Moment

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Frank Richards

I have studied martial arts all my life: Karate, Judo, Kenpo Tae Kwon Do, Aikido, and Hsing-I, but as I've gotten older, I pretty much stick to Tai Chi. I used to study Tai Chi at a park in Washington, D.C. called Glen Echo Park. It's an old...

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Wedding Portrait – Life Portrait

by

Glennis Hobbs

July 20, 1942


Escorted by her eldest brother Neil, Annabell walks across the front lawn to meet Bill. her groom. She is dressed in a long gown of pink net overlying pink point d’esprit. A bandeau of artificial roses secures her pink net veil. She also...

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Salvation

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Teresa Crowe

S is for Scintillation. 

Their arms and elbows locked as they vied for control.  Major released her grip and dredged her beet-colored nails across his muscled chest.  Zane glanced at the four lines of ripped skin, blood dripped onto the rim of his pants.  He lunged forward, grabbed...

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The Explorers

by

Glennis Walker Hobbs

Black, ginger, and tortoiseshell felines zoom through the open screen door onto the deck. Black Nic pauses and surveys his domain from the top of the steps. Kittens race down the ramp and scamper into the backyard. Glory, the tortoiseshell, runs to the maple in the corner, ...

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Beckett – you asked for this

by

Joy Manné

Here am I, on this grey morning, here I am again, entering this day as I entered yesterday and the day before and unless I am spared by death will enter tomorrow and the day after, endlessly growing older with the anxiety that brings, the fear of coming...

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Reconciliation

by

Brigitte Whiting

Mattie opened the front door. "I'll be back in a while, Henry," she said, then stepped onto the porch and clicked the door shut.

It opened behind her and Henry stuck out his head. "Wait, I can come with you."

She shook her head. "I need...

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Road Trip

by

David Snyder

  The eight-year-old 1958 Chevy was purring along through rural Kansas with ease. Don smiled with pride. When it hit 180,000 miles he planned to celebrate with a smoke and an ice-cold Mountain Dew from the cooler.  It was a beautiful late April day with the sunny...

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Why I’m Failing My Innovative Fiction Course

by

Ed Kratz

   

This is from an assignment in the Innovative Fiction Course taught by Karen

I'm just not making it in my innovative fiction course.
What is innovative fiction you might ask? Well, if you have to ask, I'd say you're one of those rubes...

Read more: Why I’m Failing My Innovative Fiction Course

 

 

 

Dear Don...

by

Ed Kratz

   

The Don, whose real name you do not want to know, ever, has vast experience solving problems. Our organization, Don’t Try to Find Us Press, never advocates violence. We take no responsibility for violent acts committed by those misinterpreting the Don’s recommendations.
Now for...

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Todd’s Miracle

by

Leslie

Todd shivered in the dark, seated cross-legged on the linoleum. Coats and dresses draped gently over his five-year-old shoulders. He flinched as a slit of bright light flashed through the space at the bottom of the door. Seconds later the deep, rolling rumble followed. “Mommy?”

Silence.

“Mommy?” ...

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Mad Hatter Town Planners

by

Margaret Fieland

   

I fell down the rabbit hole straight into the town planning committee meeting. A large basin of Sangria sat in the middle of the scratched wood table in the center of the room, and a keg rested against the back wall. Al, Stan, and Art...

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Dinner at Grandma's

by

Lolla Bryant

You’re at Grandma’s house again for dinner.  As always, the family is gathered together and everybody’s trying to out-talk everybody else.   You ask yourself why you continue to go through this ordeal every week, but you know why; it’s Grandma.  Also, it’s a family tradition that brings you...

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Mommy’s Little Secret

by

Leslie

At age five, Amy told her mother that the thought of swimming scared her. Not surprisingly, her mother poo-pooed the idea, and said that fear showed weakness and stupidity. From then on, Amy said she hated swimming and never admitted any fear to her mother again. I don’t...

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New Age Centre

by

Natalie Knight

I had been in Oz for a few months when I received an emergency call to come back to South Africa. Every émigré who leaves elderly parents dreads this call.

 

But this was worse than death. Our family lawyer called me to attend a meeting...

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"I’ve Been With Willy All Day"

by

Brigitte Whiting

   

The late August sun hung hot in a bare blue sky. Matilda picked up a tattered straw bushel basket and trudged into the garden with it. The rows of beans were dusty green, the corn stalks tall, their leaves edged with yellow. She settled on...

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Of Heroes and Holiness

by

Angela Hess

What does a hero look like?

 

George Bailey is a hero.

 

George Bailey dreamed of traveling the world.

 

George Bailey gave up his dreams to care for his family and community.

 

Rudy left his family...

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A Red Squirrel's Narrative

by

Brigitte Whiting

This past summer and fall upturned me. The birdfeeder, usually so generous, abdicated her job, and I had to scrounge for food during the long wet season. My mother told me it was unusual to have such a rainy August and October. She would know. I was born...

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Talk-Back, Dear Lia, on FnF

by

Joy Manné

This essay is part of a Talk-Back series – I owe that title to Karen. A Talk-Back is my response to a chapter in a WVU textbook, my communication with its author.

This Talk-Back is a response to the exercise in Lia Purpura’s chapter, ‘On Miniatures,’ (Flas...

Read more: Talk-Back, Dear Lia, on FnF

 

 

 

Reunion

by

Lina Sophia Rossi

“Why the F--- Do I want to see a F—ing alligator jump up to eat a F—ing chicken hanging on a clothesline?”

 

The last time I hung out with my Uncle Dan is when I dragged him to Gatorland to do something touristic. ...

Read more: Reunion

 

 

 

A Fear of Broken Things

by

Angela Hess

“Does he look at you?”

 

My cousin’s innocent question triggers a flashing red warning light in my brain. My baby doesn’t look at me. I assumed he was too young still, but my cousin’s baby is only four days older than mine, and they are...

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Wild Roses Growing in the Ditch

by

Louise E. Sawyer


It is a joy to hold a lovely scene, a delightful moment, in memory.
~Marjolein Bastin

Frank was four and I was five and getting ready to start school when Dad and Mom moved us into a new house on Glasgow Avenue—a three-bedroom home that wasn't quite finished—in...

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Hazardous Happenings

by

Albert Orejuela

At some point, everything comes to an apex.  Status quo can only persist for so long before the natural balance of the universe calls for consumption, and then it all comes down to a choice.  That’s it, a lone decision that ultimately leads down a pathway to a higher level...

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Dealing with Rejection

by

Carolann Malley


Sending your writing out into the world can be scary whether you write poetry, fiction, or nonfiction. But, at some point, if you are a serious writer, you will do it. Getting a rejection letter back can be more devastating than asking a girl out as a teenager and...

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Backyard Neighbors

by

Brigitte Whiting


I took an hour to walk outdoors in my yard, first to clip dead honeysuckle branches, pluck dandelions, and then to fill the birdbaths and feeders. And to ponder what to write about one of my backyard neighbors, the gray squirrel, Sciurus Carolineses. Its name is derived from the...

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Betrayal

by

Angela Hess


My four-year-old son has a friend over. I overhear my son’s friend tell my two-year-old daughter, “Gracie, you can’t come in here.” Then my son’s voice: “It’s okay, she can play with us. Here, Gracie,” he says, presumably handing her one of the toys they are playing with. My mama...

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The Weight of Emotions

by

Angela Hess

  I can hear my parents’ raised voices upstairs. They are fighting again. I turn on the sink faucet, letting the sound of the running water drown out their voices. I thrust my hands in the nearly scalding hot water and methodically scrub each dish in the sink...

Read more: The Weight of Emotions

 

 

 

An Apology

by

Brigitte Whiting

   I'm sorry that I hadn't thought of how I would take care of a puppy. It had seemed like a good idea, accept the gift of a puppy from acquaintances. She had the coloring of a coyote and was named Brindle for those tawny markings. I'd...

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Baby Precious

by

Louise E. Sawyer

It was Christmas Day 1950 and my sixth birthday. Under the tree was an unusually long, large box with my name on it. I was excited to open it. I couldn’t wait. When I finally did, I was amazed to look upon the most gorgeous doll I’d...

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Downsizing

by

M Clare Paris

 
I think about death quite a bit. Not morbidly, nor do I worry about what happens when one dies. Although I enjoy a spiritual life, I am also philosophical about the end of my life. If there is something else, it will be darned interesting. If there isn’t, ...

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Absent But Present

by

Louise E. Sawyer


My father, Thomas George Sawyer, was absent at my birth and absent the first seven months of my life.

It was Christmas Eve 1944 at the two-story white house on Beechwood Drive-my Grannie’s house in Victoria, the capital city of British Colombia on Vancouver Island. Grannie Price, my...

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Gathering: A Contemplative Essay

by

Brigitte Whiting

I'm always looking for ideas to use in writing: for that prompt at which I first gulp and then slowly retrieve some thread of an idea, for the poem I need for the Monday morning poetry group, for an essay that's due in two days.

I've heeded...

Read more: Gathering: A Contemplative Essay

 

 

 

Seasons in a Wild Turkey Hen's Life

by

Brigitte Whiting

Last spring, a wild turkey hen incubated her eggs for twenty-eight days. When they hatched, she scrambled to keep up with them. Poults to scientific literature. Babies to her. She didn't need to teach them to scratch for bugs—they came with that instinct. Nighttimes during their first four weeks, ...

Read more: Seasons in a Wild Turkey Hen's Life

 

 

 

Lesson in Subtext

by

Joy Manné and Karen Barr

Roles

Teacher – Karen Barr

Student – Joy Manné

Teacher

WELCOME TO WEEK 8 OF SUBTEXT.

There is no word count, but the challenge is to get all ten types of subtext in as few words as possible. Here they are:

Show don’t...

Read more: Lesson in Subtext

 

 

 

Teenage Escape Plan

by

Danielle Dayney

I woke to warm, gooey air smothering me even though the ceiling fan was spinning on high. Dangling lightpulls smacked and banged the glass globe with each rotation of the blades. The base of the fan swayed and groaned, ready to jump from its screws in the drywall any second.

...

Read more: Teenage Escape Plan

 

 

 

Miracle Baby

by

Harry C. Hobbs

The mother and father watched as the sun rose on a cold morning in February 1945, wondering if their four-month-old son had lived through the night. Could miracles really happen? Perhaps this child they had wanted so badly wanted wasn’t meant to survive. His mother was a month past her...

Read more: Miracle Baby

 

 

 

Ylva the Úlfr

by

Cynthia Reed

When I flew to California in September, the golden archipelago summer, verdant below and mazarine above, still held sway. Twenty-three days and eleven thousand two hundred and forty miles later, if you’d sat here with me on the back deck this afternoon--you’d know, too--autumn now envelopes Sweden in...

Read more: Ylva the Úlfr

 

 

 

Boardwalk Stroll – A Prose Poem

by

Glenda Walker-Hobbs (Glennis Hobbs)

My morning stroll leads me to the east end of Flinty’s Boardwalk by Del’s Cairn. A replica of ...

Read more: Boardwalk Stroll – A Prose Poem

 

 

 

Adventuring — An Unrhymed Heroic Couplet

by

Brigitte Whiting




I've been where no red squirr'l has gone before,
toheights and depths, despair. Until an opened...

Read more: Adventuring — An Unrhymed Heroic Couplet

 

 

 

Ode To A Poem

by

Glenda Walker-Hobbs (Glennis Hobbs)

you start as a blank screen
or a sheet of pristine paper,
words elude me, then
tantalize, taunt...

Read more: Ode To A Poem

 

 

 

The People’s Princess ~An Elegy

by

Louise Sawyer

There was a day never forgotten
When the world, including me, watched from afar
the fairytale wedding of...

Read more: The People’s Princess ~An Elegy

 

 

 

Crystalized Fog ~a Pastoral Poem

by

Gerardine Gail Baugh

Of cold air hitting a warmer ground
Yesterday ended in a rising fog
Or was it the other...

Read more: Crystalized Fog ~a Pastoral Poem

 

 

 

Elegy for Judy

by

Gerardine Gail Baugh


I try to hear her voice; its sound has faded.
I see her hair, shining dark, brushing her...

Read more: Elegy for Judy

 

 

 

Becoming a Writer ~ Prose Poem

by

Glenda Walker-Hobbs (Glennis Hobbs)

How does a person achieve success as a writer? The answer is fairly simple. One should work in...

Read more: Becoming a Writer ~ Prose Poem

 

 

 

Elegy for Dad

by

Glenda Walker-Hobbs (Glennis Hobbs)

Easter, 1996

that year we began to plan a tea
for Dad's ninetieth birthday,
insteadhe landed...

Read more: Elegy for Dad

 

 

 

Sestina

by

Glenda Walker-Hobbs (Glennis Hobbs)

my passion in life is to write
perhaps I should start with a poem
to rhyme or not...

Read more: Sestina

 

 

 

To RBW: An Elegy

by

Brigitte Whiting

You've been gone for a long time now,
and I think of you, reminded beneath
the autumn skies...

Read more: To RBW: An Elegy

 

 

 

Last Cigarette

by

Belinda Moutray

Under the shaky match’s sulfurous flame, the last Marlboro’s tip blazes brightly, dims and flares.

Broken, quivering...

Read more: Last Cigarette

 

 

 

Writer's Prayer

by

Margaret Fieland

Bless my paper, bless my pen,
bless my keyboard, Lord. And then,
please keep track of all those...

Read more: Writer's Prayer

 

 

 

Unmutable

by

Lina Sophia Rossi

She’s unmutable beauty in life and death.
Endearing spirit, smile warm as sunshine and everlasting.
From birth’s first...

Read more: Unmutable

 

 

 

Spiders Are My Friends

by

Lina Sophia Rossi

From the breeze, I saw the glistening web.
The big, cozy spider stared out at me.
I wonder...

Read more: Spiders Are My Friends

 

 

 

Serial Killer

by

Lina Sophia Rossi

Hide behind an actor’s mask and prybar;
Some humans are born with souls as dark as night.
Abduct, ...

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Resembled His First Love

by

Lina Sophia Rossi

All victims resembled his x -first love, Stephanie Brooks,
Long middle parted brunettes with small framed feminine good...

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Phrasical Subordination

by

Margaret Fieland

The main clause of the sentence names the thing you mainly do
but it can have subordinates and...

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Passing Through

by

Margaret Fieland

Morning sun shimmers through gray clouds,
etches shadows on cracked sidewalk.
Empty beer cans surround broken fire hydrant.
...

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Library Book Group

by

Brigitte Whiting

I don't believe in Dracula,
don't even know his story,
Count Vlad the Impaler of Romania, circa 1400s...

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If I Set A Clown On My Lawn

by

Gerardine Baugh

I doubt I am noticed, behind trees, that line of pond, in my front yard.
I turn...

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Falling in Love

by

Margaret Fieland

My mother
sank into cold lake water
bit by slow bit,
first up to her ankles,
then her...

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Ever Wonder About Ted Bundy?

by

Lina Sophia Rossi

I wonder how many others are like Ted Bundy.
He bludgeoned his victims so they couldn’t make a...

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Dreamscape

by

Margaret Fieland

Dreams and nightmares roll around,
fantasies I weave at night,
land of dreams I cannot share,
panoramas to...

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Blueberry Jelly

by

Gerardine Gail Baugh

Blueberry jelly
Splattered across the table,
Ingrained in the rug
Flowing patterns spattered on the wall
Sitting in...

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Dandelions

by

Brigitte Whiting


We discussed dandelions in my poetry group. Some grow so tightly their stalkless stems have to be dug up with...

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TAN RENGA and NÎGUIN: : Japanese poetic forms for two or more writers

by

Carol Neillon Malley, Cynthia Reed and Sharon Ammerman

INTRODUCTION
During the recent MFA314 Japanese Poetic Forms class, WVU students had an opportunity to explore six forms...

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Dump The Core!

by

Gerardine Baugh

A Prose Poem

It is just after ten at night. Michael changes the channel so Captain...

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The Guinea Pig’s Obsession

by

Louise E. Sawyer


I watch Joy munching on her cat grass, head down she gobbles without stopping. Down one row and up the...

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Tomcat Under Nine Antennas

by

Gerardine Baugh

I stretch out over the back of the couch, lounging soft, boneless skin, soft fur stretched so far...

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Words Done Gone

by

F. Michael LaRosa


F. Michael LaRosa wrote this piece for MFA376. He tells us, it is a blues song in prose that laments...

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A Dream: Must Have Been Something I Ate

by

Gerardine Baugh

A pickle meets the side of the barn. Ignoring the rats. With arms like tendrils, it sneaks its way...

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Stormy Weather

by

Glenda Walker-Hobbs


Thunder rumbles, stops and starts again when lightning jags across charcoal coloured skies and splitsinto forks. Raindrops dance...

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Frenzy

by

Glenda Walker-Hobbs


Norva hosts an open mic musical fundraiser two days after Christmas so that people who are home for Christmas can...

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Wearing a Coating of Ice

by

Gerardine (Gail) Baugh

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Long Way 'Til Spring

by

Brigitte Whiting

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Late Bloomer

by

Brigitte Whiting

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Kenji Snuggling

by

Gerardine (Gail) Baugh

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Santa Joy

by

Louise Sawyer

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Joy and Neuron

by

Louise Sawyer

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Bullfrog and Black Butterfly Koi

by

Gevera Bert Piedmont

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Animal Paw Prints

by

Gerardine (Gail) Baugh

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Milky Way Bonaire

by

Miranda Mulders

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A Dark Welcome

by

Albert Orejuela

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The Big Rock Candy Mountain

by

RJ Hembree

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Fog in the Adirondacks

by

Albert Orejuela

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Smew

by

RJ Hembree

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Roadside Attractions

by

Gerardine (Gail) Baugh

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Rock Formations at Point Lobos

by

RJ Hembree

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Hot Air in the Hudson Valley

by

Albert Orejuela

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Rock and Roll

by

Gerardine (Gail) Baugh

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Take a Walk on the Wild Side

by

RJ Hembree

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Tracking a Tractor

by

Gerardine (Gail) Baugh

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One More for the Road

by

RJ Hembree

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Bella in High Key

by

Albert Orejuela

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Chickory

by

Gerardine (Gail) Baugh

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Patterns in Nature

by

RJ Hembree

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Blowing Away

by

Albert Orejuela

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Morning Shot Great Blue Heron

by

RJ Hembree

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Close Up

by

RJ Hembree

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Watchful Budha

by

Gevera Bert Piedmont

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