Content: dying

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I want to know about knitting, rips and tears. I'd also like to know if this is a unique plot idea. Have you ever seen this plot twist in fiction before. If so, where?

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This was written some time ago and recent events prompted me to re-work it and make a few changes. Comments welcome.

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The plight of an addict. All comments welcome.

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This story won a contest run by Monadnock Writers Group, and was selected as one of seven short stories (plus a bunch of poetry and photographs) to be published in their anthology themed on memory. The anthology has just been published and is entitled "Shadow and Light: A Literary Anthology on Memory." http://www.monadnockwriters.org/publications.html Of course, I'm generally not the literary type (sex, drugs, rock and roll is more my speed - ha!), but I wrote this story when I was pretty sad -the lead is modeled after a dear friend whom I'd just lost. Do you have to be depressed to write literary fiction? (Just KIDDING, sheesh!) As with my other work, the lead is a no-bullshit kind of woman (just like my friend - a true-blue Yankees fan, btw! -was). So caveat emptor: It's a little depressing : O : ) *** Note: I thought I posted the final version of this, but reviewers have been pointing out some punctuation malfunctions and typos, so I must have goofed. I've made the corrections.

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This the first half of a short story I've been working on about an old man who kidnaps the terminally ill to prolong his own life. It's about 1500 words so far and is just something weird I was experimenting with. I'm not really sure if the rhyming aspect of it works... So I'd like to ask whoever reads it to provide feedback on that particular part of it, and of course, on the story itself. Hope you enjoy :)

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I am not particularly happy with this story. It is straight from the brain and needs a LOT of work. So, I'd like to know what it needs. I know it's repetitive. Should it be flash fiction? Should I work harder to convey his terror? His pain? SHould I find a way to moralize less? To leave Bryan in the dark all the way to the neverending experience? Or should feeling remorse be part of his experience. You tell me.

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"The tests reveal you have a tumor in your pancreas..." These are the words we hope and pray we never hear, yet these were the very words the Gastroenterologist spoke as Max and I waited for the "but" followed by the miraculous news that made him the exception. This was not to be, however, and so we were referred to an Oncologist, and we went home knowing Max was dying... On the way home silence filled the car. Suddenly, Max shouted, "Pancakes. Pancakes and bacon." I just looked at him not knowing what he was talking about. "I don't think I need to worry about my cholesterol any longer." Max said with his boyish grin. "So I want pancakes and bacon for breakfast every morning." "That is exactly what we will have!" I replied struggling to hold back my tears. Max was not one who was fond of being coddled. "Give it to me straight, no sugar coating." the once Marine aviator told the doctors. At home, after the first several weeks of tiptoeing around the reality of his impending death, I was gently reminded, "No sugar coating." This was my first attempt to accept the reality of my beloved's fate...

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This is my memory of my father's passing back in December of 2004. I was with him that day, and it was an experience I am glad to have had. As heart wrenching as it was to watch him die, I know that it was meant to be for me to be there with him.

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Reposted at Flowing Pencil's behest. Since writing this poem, I've made it the first page of the novel, Good at Dying, also posted here on TNBW at the inspired suggestion of s_thatcher.

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A poem in the form of a song for Haiti... No reviews are needed as only my own way of handling sadness I feel watching the horror... Not a critical piece of writing. Just heartfelt feelings that keep racing through my head. So little distance between Haiti and our own shores. How in God's name was this allowed to happen. Not the earthquake but the very conditions that led to so many deaths.

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Trying for a Tanka

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Any and all. Mostly emotional impact as trying to rhyme sometime doesn't work well for me. I push too hard and fear it sounding trite and overused. Be honest if this sounds plain silly.

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Back in the 70s, I lived in San Antonio, Texas for about five years. I played lead guitar in a country band while I was there. I would see all these guys in their Stetson hats and Tony Lama boots trying to impress the ladies. My guess...you put any one of them on a horse and they'd crap all over themselves. I got to thinking abnout it and wondered when the last TRUE cowboy would eventually disappear. This is what I came up with. Any and all comments welcomed.

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An open letter to my brotha is a response to looking around my community and seeing too many young men dying from violence.

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