The Motley

Elephant
Saturday, May 2nd, 2015

Cow Skull
Saturday, May 2nd, 2015

Still Life
Saturday, May 2nd, 2015

Still Life
Saturday, May 2nd, 2015
Rock On
Saturday, May 2nd, 2015

Shalonda
Saturday, May 2nd, 2015

Stoneware
Friday, January 17th, 2014
 Interior/Exterior
Friday, January 17th, 2014
Constellation
Friday, January 17th, 2014

Red and Blue Glass
Friday, January 17th, 2014
Hand Print
Friday, January 17th, 2014
Untitled
Friday, January 17th, 2014
Still Life
Friday, January 17th, 2014
Friday, January 17th, 2014

The wooden walls of the small shotgun house did nothing to alleviate the sharp wind of that January night. Nor did they hold out the noises that surrounded him through the darkness: tiny clawed feet scurrying across the slats, groaning mufflers on decades-old trucks passing by outside, voices so loud they stayed audible from down the road. They all passed through the rotted and brittle wood like a song.

The man sighed in the darkness, sitting up from the makeshift mattress of leaves and discarded blankets stashed from donation centers along his migration. He leaned against the rough wooden boards, his eyes closed and deep breaths drawn in through his nostrils and released slowly through his lips.

Friday, January 17th, 2014

 

It's Just a Run

Your heart is pounding,

But your body is calm.

You're with friends,

Your team,

Your family.

 

Your problems fade and worries disappear.

You feel comforted.

You feel at peace.

Friday, January 17th, 2014

Meg began her morning by waking up. That's a horrible opening to a story she thought to herself as she opened her eyes. A writer shouldn't open up a story with a character waking up, it was bad form. She could hear the narration perfectly, She heard the rude chime of the clock rattle her awake from a dreamless sleep. With an opening like that, she assumed whatever the heroine was waking up to face that day most likely involved an angst-filled love triangle. Meg sat up to face Tom, who was seated on the armchair at the end of her bed. He was wearing his old maroon high school sweatshirt and blue jeans that had faded to pale blue-grey. His large body was draped over the chair horizontally, his feet dangling carelessly over the arm. The journals she had filled up over the last five years that had been where he now sat were spread beneath him, pages decorating her floor.

Friday, January 17th, 2014

 

for Sylvia Plath

 

Mother is dressing me

in her Sixties'

yellow taffeta prom dress

overlay in Chantilly lace.

Now, a black velvet hat

with a flower on the side.

It's drooping over

my ears and eyes.

I'm cramming my toes

inside these pointed-toe slippers.

Friday, January 17th, 2014

Fear, oh wretched fear,

evil and deceitful,

I shall not listen!

 

With a cast of confidence,

a burst of bravery,

"Your love will shine,

if you be mine."

 

My shoulders once strong,

now dead and useless

 

Fear, oh wretched fear,

evil and deceitful,

Friday, January 17th, 2014

While driving to the vet, with Cybil throwing up in the backseat, Ethan nearly caused me to get in a wreck. He wouldn't stop freaking out about our German Shepherd, who was whining in the back, vomiting on the seats, and I almost pulled over onto some idiot cruising in my blind spot. After the other drivers had pounded on their horns, and made rude gestures at me as they passed, Ethan shook his head in frustration.

"Jesus Christ, Megan," Ethan said, twisting around in the passenger's seat so he could cater to Cybil. "Pay attention."

I glared at him, blowing air out of my nostrils in fury. "Maybe if you would shut up for a minute, I could actually concentrate on the road." I executed a sharp turn, and Cybil vomited onto the backseat again.

Tuesday, April 30th, 2013

People like to talk about their happiest moments. “Those were the happiest days of my life,” they say. “I was never happier.” How utterly human. How fucking desperate. You’d never see a pig reminiscing from his puddle of shit about the best bucket of slop he ever had. That might have been some pretty swell slop, but I guarantee it doesn’t do anything to wash the taste of shit out of your mouth. People who recall their golden days are deluded into thinking they’re part of some storybook fantasy. That they actually matter. The truth is too harsh for them. We’re just buzzing around like mosquitoes until we die. The only thing about us that really matters, the only thing that gives us any significance at all in the grand scheme of things, is the primal urge get drunk, get naked, and pop out two and a half young ones before we dust out for good.

Syndicate content