Mari sat in the passenger seat, waiting for Mark’s return. They had come to the Marina for the Independence Day fireworks and been there most of the evening.

It was just before 10pm, and the fireworks display would be starting any second. Mark had a crush on Mari since high school, but was never brave enough to ask her on a date. Even she could see it and she encouraged his attention, but events conspired to keep a relationship from developing.

First there was Brian, her “dud” ex-boyfriend, who was the perfect rebellion relationship to inflict on her parents. But like the firecrackers in the distance, he was all noise with none of the flare. She was glad when he finally left town and that ended their relationship.

Whistle….pop! A bottle rocket exploded nearby.

Then, Mark left to go to college across the state. They exchanged a few emails and texts, but it had been two years since Mari had seen him in person. Mark called her up and invited her to the display at the Marina. Her curiosity compelled her to accept.

Crackle-crack-crack-crack. More firecrackers.

Mari looked up to see Mark standing at the front of the car with a sheepish grin. He held two cups of cherry slush.


The first firework went off behind him. The impact of the sound rattled the car window. Mari smiled and got out the car. They climbed on the hood and watched the perfectly timed and placed explosions, filled with color and sound.

Sometimes events conspire to make perfect moments, too.

Written in response to writing prompt on Poets&Writers, to write a short story that takes place at fireworks display. This is more of a character study, or maybe flash fiction, but the prompt definitely helped me.



“Why I can’t get something on paper,” Bill thought to himself.

He tapped his fingers intently on the table in a rolling rhythm of four beats– from ring finger to thumb. Rapping over and over.  That motion always seemed to calm him, though it irritated Allyson.  He always did that when he was trying to think, sometimes too hard.  His wife only heard the noise and didn’t understand the coping strategy.

Bill stared at the white screen of his laptop…tapping his fingers.

His writer’s block had worsened in the last several days.  He had a submission deadline looming for a set of four stories, and was struggling to get the final one written.  To help alleviate the stress, Allyson had suggested they come to her family’s cabin for a four day weekend.

Normally, he could type out ideas with little effort – they would roll from his thought process through his fingers to the screen.  Editing was always more difficult. He couldn’t bear to chop up his work.  His short story drafts were legendary in his writing group for their superfluous detail and he always plead ‘stream of consciousness’ writing.

Bill ran his fingers through his hair, and stood up from the table.  The laundry buzzer sounded off four repeating beats. After switching the load of the spare bed comforter to the dryer, he returned to kitchen table to continue his writing.

He sat for a moment, then he began to type some random sentences about the idyllic scenery at the cabin. It was situated on the edge of ridge with a stream running beneath it, in ravine about 50 feet down a steep grade. There was a spectacular view from the porch, where you could look across the ravine to rolling hills and watch the morning mist burn away.

His thoughts were interrupted by a thumping sound from the laundry closet. Thump, bump bump, thump.  The dryer rumbled, but the noise continued.  Bill rose from the table and went to investigate.

Opening the dryer door revealed a bloody smear inside the drum, and resting on the partially damp comforter was a severed left hand.  He stepped back, startled and confused.  Then he noticed the dried blood on his shirt.

It all unraveled in his mind as he stumbled backward.

“Hon…why don’t you take a break and go outside to clear your head?” Allyson called from the bedroom. Bill looked around in disbelief, the sound of the dryer was still humming in the laundry closet.

Bill poured a cup of coffee, and stepped outside on the front porch. The morning mist was rising away from the hills, revealing the undulating landscape. In the distance, there was the sound of a woodpecker.

Tap, tap, tap, tap.

Bill smiled, then drank a gulp of coffee.


Day 30: Not yet

Some say that the poetry is dead
That it doesn’t reach the minds, they said.
Yet, the wily part resides with ease
In the underpinnings of its devotees.
Goverse when you pedestal the stars
Noverse, in the metastable dark.
Candles burning, wicketized and bright
Little ball of omnicating light.
Wordornate the comical, amuse
By parasailed and floated words you use.
Poetry’s not dead, as vilers say
It simply waits to sing another day.

Day 30: Not yet

Day 29: Catchy

In Ketchikan, the totems watch
In all directions, there and such.
The rain falls nonstop through the day
Then stops enough to start again.
The settlers were brave pioneers
Who built their homes and commandeered
The land, the Tlingit called their home.
Ketchikan, it’s far from Nome.

A bit of a throwaway verse I’m afraid. Today’s NaPoWriMo.Net prompt was to write a review-like poem. Maybe it will lead to something.

Day 29: Catchy

Day 28: a cross stick

Trebuchet a stone, a weight
In duplicate ways
Triplet if you try.
Another absolute attempt that
Never needs triumph.
If cast away over land
Underneath the vaulted sky.
More so,
Trebuchet the burden
Equally far, throwing
Sunlight to the end of the day.
Tomorrow gives back
Everything that yesterday

A challenge to use the words “titanium testes” in a poem…I supposed an acrostic might work, but not sure. 😉

Day 28: a cross stick

Day 23/catchup: balm

If I spent my last moments
on this planet
indespant and shrense,
would you finally open up
and breathe me some barthey verses.

juncted words –
brandished in copper,
metable to your heart
and knotted into mine.

Sometimes in the silence
beneath an oak tree,
words are salvings
to soothe
the indespant and the shrentic.

Day 23/catchup: balm