Archives for category: Fiction

Not so much the cold, but the wind
pressing against glass, announcing his passing
glances, lifting wood smoke over snow-fields of soft prints
broken through ice.
These are clues, you say, as we sweep the steps of powdery air
and fallen sky. Without looking up, I know a hawk by its shadow.
The sound of a chainsaw in the distance without seeing the blade.
The shape of your hands covered in work gloves—clues, as we sweep
last night’s silence from our doorstep. The stones uncovered,
veined with time, the sun bright outside your leaning, his
name, here, finding me.

 

Sharon Rousseau is a poet, writer and photographer living in New York City and the Hudson Valley. A 2014 New York Times Poet’s Pick for NYC Haiku, she also posts regularly at sharonrousseau.com.

We’d only driven 200 miles since sunrise and had stopped often. Something about the Angler, though, the faded sign maybe, or the way evening mist dipped close to the motel, required documenting.

The night clerk, a young man lost in a game on his phone, agreed to be filmed. He began, pointing to a photograph taped under the glass countertop. The Polaroid’s edges were scalloped, a black and white image faded into smoky hue. Two women leaned on a shiny 1960’s sedan.

“My grandmother and her sister the day they bought the motel,” he said. “Make sure you mention them.”

–Sharon Rousseau is a writer and photographer living in New York City.

Visit Sharon’s Website Here

Looking out the high-rise window into a fog so dense that it blurs an afternoon sky deep into the thawing river, that wash of gray as far as everything, a world of gray, except for the squares of snow, which from above in high-rise relief appear as boxes of city park and tree guard and trash bin, you think about leaving.

Tomorrow isn’t different, except the sun shines, and the banks of the river suddenly appear, and you see the place on the cliffs where you went on that day trip—back when every rattling bus ride was an adventure.

–Sharon Rousseau is a writer, photographer and poet living in NYC and the Hudson Valley. Visit her website.

Imagine the stark symmetry that created these apples—you said—rows and rows of trees, craggy with wind and months of frozen Upstate winter, which can somehow coax blooms again. You pulled a cap that I’d knitted for you closer to your eyes. I remembered finding the yarn, thinking immediately of your skin, the way our first summer had changed you into someone I’d never seen before. You were like that. With every season, I saw a different person. Now, walking through autumn in Union Square, we’d been a couple for over a year, and you were talking about orchards.

–Sharon Rousseau writes and takes pictures in New York City and the Hudson Valley.

sharonrousseau.com

Kennedy Park was given to the county by Burdette Kennedy, an unkempt recluse. People ignored him. He would come into town periodically, and he often stopped at our house. He always asked, “Where does Ernie Tracey live?” My mother would give him directions and a sandwich.

Ron Thompson once went out to Burdette’s farm to ask permission to fish on his property. Burdette was cooking supper. Six cats and Burdette circled the pot eating pea soup together.

Two generations later, people enjoy the park as though it were donated by a philanthropist in a three-piece suit, not a man shunned.

 

Jim Krotzman is a retired English teacher at Watertown (WI) High School. He is a struggling haiku poet and fisherman.

I look at the stream behind the house and see water rushing violently. It has no memory or shame. It cares nothing for the damage done to the structure or foundation that time has created alongside the tormented boundaries of its existence.

The stream just flows, always ahead without looking back. It has forgotten and forgiven but I have not forgotten or forgiven myself for having done nothing other than make your life miserable.

However, I am not the stream nor have I learned its lessons, yet in my mind I am floating on the water without regrets or blame.

Visit Pat’s website here.

Pat Horner is a painter/collage artist and writer exhibited and published in the US and abroad. Horner is a member of the Board of Directors of the Woodstock Artists’ Association Museum and a journalist, photographer, coach, teacher, publisher and editor at publications including the “The Woodstock Guide.” She’s currently writing fiction and memoir from Woodstock, NY.

Most people don’t know this, but in the basement of every Fox News office sits a shrine to Our Lady of Perpetual Immigration (OLPI). Each office has a slightly different statue of OLPI, depending on the ethnic composition of the surrounding area. In some cities she resembles Our Lady of Guadalupe, in others she looks like Kuan Yin. Each day all news bureau employees are required to pray a chaplet of ten Hail Marys for the sake of perpetual immigration. As a memo from Fox News Chairman Roger Ailes explains: “Hating immigrants is the only joy real Americans have left.”

-Clark Strand

Clark Strand is the author of books on spirituality and religion, including HOW TO BELIEVE IN GOD: Whether You Believe in Religion or Not (Doubleday). He has been writing microfiction for the past 15 years and describes his art in terms of robbery: “You really want to get in and out in under 60 seconds…or else you’ll get caught.”