A place for short fiction and poetry while your coffee brews or your tea steeps
This gentle giant
Ended by corrupt police
Remember George Floyd.
Hope strained, smoke-stained streets
Shattered hearts, Minnesota
Patience, as we heal.
(This, on top of COVID. And those who gather together–prayers broken by opportunistic anarchists–risk a steeper next wave in the coming weeks.)
© Liz Husebye Hartmann (2020)
Long, dark days alone
Habit well-practiced for years
My coffee brings cheer
Karoline felt the ache in her back radiate around to her front, the pressure increasing. She breathed deeply, willing her belly to unclench. Thinking herself safe to hike alone, she’d fled her family, their sole skill for processing grief in quarreling.
The yard was covered, leaves bright yellow, and wet from last night’s rain. Randall shook his head, tipped his cap to scratch his balding pate, and looked up to the sky. No help there. Rainclouds fisted up again overhead. Continue reading “And Then the Sun Shone”
Hunkered down in double socks,
Layers of wool and moisture-wicking long johns.
It’s a quick hike to the kitchen for more
Coffee hot soup the sweet pungency
Of Sumo oranges in a hand-turned bowl. Continue reading “Polar Vortex and Privilege”
She stood by last night’s bonfire. Flames leapt high, our drunken faces and dancing limbs in hideous relief, like Dante’s inferno on the shore of this northern bay. Continue reading “Red Sky at Morning”
“Are we there yet?’
Valerie hunched her shoulders and pressed her forehead against the passenger-side window. She hated her younger brother–hated being trapped in the back seat with him on this faux family vacation. Continue reading “The Long Drive Home”
I hold this in my cupped hands,
Stare into its depths.
Red and orange flicker, leap and stab.
Smoky, shifting colors blacken and curl
Its abundant petals. Continue reading “Bouquet of Shadows”
It's All True, None of It's True. Don't Ask.
Words of a clarklike female
A writing blog by H.R.R. Gorman
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