Fifteen Minutes Of Fiction Featured Gallery

Ink on the Saddle

Well, the clock is ticking, but I ain't scared. Writing is in my veins. Cut me, I bleed ink.
I'm the writinest fool to ever come out of Texas and my wit is even sharper than my pen.
Why, I could round up all you young bucks in a lasso of my immortal prose and have you hog-tied, pronto, but I'll ease up on the reins a bit and admit that I'm an unrecognized, unpublished genius, and the only thing holdin' me back from blastin' everybody right out of the literary OK Corral is my danged laziness (Can I say "danged", Doug?)...
Yep, I'm a ringtailed writin' renegade with a thirst for action and adventures that I'd never have the courage to embark on in real life, being a 98 pound pipsqueak, and all.
But put me in the old scribbler's saddle and I'll be ridin' tall into that
sunset, don't you know

Visit this author's page

Kite

…….….......…A
……..….......boy
....….....….flies a
……......…kite on a
…….…...windy day
.…..…..a diamond of
…..….colour in the sky
….. tossing and swooping
….staying high til a sudden
.gust with a downward thrust
.takes control hurtling diving
….back down to the ground
…..…he tugs the string to
…...…..right the thing
…...…......til he gains
….….…..….control
…..….…..……the
……...…..…….k
……….....…….i
……….....…….t
……….....…….e
……....…….soars
….....…………a
….…....……….l
….…....………o
….…....………f
….…....………t
….…...…….once
….…...……...m
….…....………o
….…....………r
….….....…....e

Visit this author's page

Untitled

My heart is in a town by the sea
Not for the buildings
Or the salted air to breathe
Nor the old new england charm
Which is lovely, I'll agree
No, my heart is with my darling
In a port town by the sea

Visit this author's page

Confession

I’m honestly not quite sure how to say this. I really don’t want to hurt you, but I feel like I’m not being fair to you. You’ve expressed an interest in me and I feel like you should know that I’ve given this a lot of thought, but I just don’t feel the same way about you.

I really feel terrible about this. You’ve always been there for me when I needed you, and we’ve spent so much time together over the years. You’ve been with me since I was two, all through my school years, and most recently, you helped me through the college classes I needed to earn my degree. You’d think that after all these years and all that you’ve done for me, my feelings for you would have changed. But no, I still feel nothing for you. Our relationship can’t even really be called a friendship. We’re more like… acquaintances. I know how much you’d like to be my friend, really I do. And yes, all of my other friends have encouraged me to get closer to you. They all love you. They think we would be great together. My father especially thinks we would do well together. He’s always liked you, but in my defense, he’s spent more time with you than I have. I realize all this, and yet, I just can’t change the way I feel about you.

Please don’t take this too hard. There are so many others out there who absolutely adore you. You’d be much better off with them. They love you like I never could. They aren’t satisfied unless they spend the majority of their day with you. Now that’s devotion. I could never spend that much time with you. Indeed, I try avidly to avoid you, though considering I work so closely with you, I very rarely succeed. I’m sorry to be so harsh, but I feel the truth must come out. Believe me when I say that it is with deepest regrets that I tell you that I can never love you, Mathematics.

Visit this author's page

Chisel, Hammer, Stone

Each word I speak is like a sharpened blade,
A chisel set to cut the hardest stone.
And every deed performed, for ill or good,
Pounds out the rhythm of a hammer's blow.
And day by day, though I am unaware,
The chisel and the hammer never pause,
As letter follows letter, spelling out
The epitaph proclaiming who I was.

Visit this author's page

Pennies

I could live on pennies
if my thoughts could buy me bread.
And I could dream for days on end
if that would keep me fed.
But hands are far more studious
than wishes ever were.
If daily work is to be met,
some dreams must stay deferred.

Visit this author's page

These Words

I look at you,
And never want to look away.
Now as our eyes meet,
I search for words to say
To tell you…
“I love you.”

Had we not met,
This moment never come to be,
In your sleepless nights
Would you have dreamt of me?
Whispered to a face unseen,
“I love you”?

Yet here we stand,
Soon to walk life hand in hand.
As we take these vows,
I feel I understand
When I hear you say,
“I love you.”

Visit this author's page

Morning in the Tropics

Morning is my favorite time of the day. The city is quiet, tranquil even as it anticipates the rush to come. In the early morning hours before the rumble of buses and the din of pedestrians begins to echo through the concrete canyons I can think. It is in the morning when the sky is clear and the promise of something new seems closest.

This morning is like any other in that way. The sun pops up into the sky - certainly not unannounced but much quicker here on the equator than it does in more northern and southern climes. With the sunrise comes the heat and rising humidity as the settled moisture from last nights rain wafts up into the atmosphere. Heat and humidity drain the energy out of me. So I have to make the most of the early morning hours. I jealously guard that brief period of time before the stifling heat and humidity mix with the cacophony of human activity to render all thought impossible.

As is my habit I sit perched on the railing of our balcony - gazing out over the city full of hope. Perhaps this morning will be the day. Perhaps this morning before my master chases me back into the climate controlled apartment a foolish bird will fly too close. This might be the morning that I get to satisfy that primal longing I have to be myself, to satisfy the urge to hunt. Soon, my master with coffee cup in hand will disturb my sanctuary of unmet desire. Barging onto the balcony with his noise and size. Rubbing my fur and talking nonsense to me - all the while unaware that his mere presence banishes forever any chance I have of catching that bird which surely would have come my way today.

With tail raised high I proudly march into the apartment. Another morning come and gone. Another opportunity passed. I don't get far before stopping to primp and preen as the humidity is already getting into my fur and causing me trouble. Morning is my favorite time of the day. I can't wait for tomorrow.

Visit this author's page

Jazz Ensemble

Like shards of ice, the broken moonlight floats
In fragments on the gently tossing wake:
A shattered line of silver in the dark,
A gleaming spotlight twinkling on the lake.
And all around in shadowed splendor stands,
The audience of grand, majestic trees,
With arms upraised in quiet eagerness,
And broad, green leaves that murmur in the breeze.
The shrubs and grass, like children, also wait;
They bend and turn with every passing blow.
The breeze rebukes them with her hushing sound
As all the lights at last are fading low.

The jazz ensemble waits in nature's halls
And listens for the nighttime's silent pause,
Then in the darkness takes the center stage,
Amidst the soft and rustling trees' applause.
So first appears - their fanfare soft but clear -
The horns and saxophones, with raucous score:
The happy sounds of children's laughs and shouts;
Their trilling echoes call from distant shores.
So softly now, the fiddlers tune their chords,
And nervously they put the strings to bow:
With trembling touch and ragged chirrup sound
The crickets add a high and gentle tremolo.
At last, beneath it all, the bass begins;
Its underpinning lends a rhythmic trail:
A lone and lonely frog with sadness sings
A downward rumbling melancholy scale.
And then the breeze, delighted with the sound,
Returns and calls the eager crowd to sing;
The softly lapping waves and whispering trees
Provide the hi-hat's soft percussive ring.

Read more...
Visit this author's page

Hope

the fool is only a person who believes
that things can change and carries
deep within a secret light that
somehow guides their way
through darkened days and
stormy nights, across beaten
paths and away from angry gods
who play puppeteer with dreams
and desires...

and it is the fool that is
always happier than the
scholars for with the gain
of knowledge comes loss

And those who know are
left in the dark and those
who believe are always one
step ahead, swept away on a
single whim of hope.

Visit this author's page