the words and worlds of John Robinson
I don't write a lot of poetry anymore. I used to once upon a time, but my poetic muse has largely left me in the last several years. Every so often words or phrases invade my head, or something happens and bits and pieces work into something resembling a poem. These three, more or less, …
A young child on Christmas night during the Roaring Twenties learns from her immigrant grandmother that some customs from the old world should not be forgotten...
When two strangers have a conversation over drinks in a bar the future is changed in drastic ways.
“Loretta,” her mother called from the living room over the rattle of the window unit. “Loretta!” she yelled when she received no answer. Loretta stood outside on the steps, smoking a cigarette. She could feel the cool of the kitchen coming through the screen door, teasing her as the sun poured down its heat. Bugs …
Gene watched the tattoo artist, one Sid Sinowski of No Mercy Tattoos & Body Piercings, mix Luanne’s ashes into the ink. The tattooist grunted from time to time as he worked, scratched at his thick neck which was covered in art like the rest of his exposed skin (save for his scruffy face). Even the …
Jordan Hinshaw was three years old when his dad abandoned him and his mom, Gail. By age ten, he had no living grandparents. His mother had two sisters with whom she was not on speaking terms. She didn’t even know where they lived, or if they were dead or alive. His mom had mentioned great …
The crowd for Gladys Cobbridge's estate sale was composed mainly of curious neighbors wanting an inside glimpse of the woman's decrepit house and to peruse the daily items she touched with her, possibly, murderous hands. They would buy a relic if the price was right. With so low a turnout, a bargain was inevitable. Pots …
Author's Note: This story is inspired by events which happened June 9th-10th, 1912. Historical accuracy has been attempted, but artistic license was also implemented. All errors are my own, be they historical or grammatical. A rooster crowed from a backyard coop somewhere down the dusty lane in the moments before the first rays of dawn …
The room is big. It is as big as a house. It is filled with caskets. They go as far as my eyes can see. I am four years old and it is Tuesday June 9th, 1981. My dad, the deacon of Center Free Will Baptist Church, died the previous day, on June 8th (my …
Scott sat in his car in the garage. He had buckled his seatbelt out of habit. The garage door was closed and, through the little rectangular windows set into it, he watched the trees in the wind blown night. They danced violently against the sky which was illuminated red/orange by the fires that had erupted …
