Outvoted

Or, Circle (cont'd) Against his will, he found himself dragged to something called "karaoke night," which apparently consisted of the worst singers in a three-county radius being, inexplicably, called upon to sing. Into a live microphone. In front of an audience, some of whom were in varying states of actual sobriety. He could think of few more horrible forms of punishment. As for himself, he could physically feel his soul leaving his body via his face, the rare good singer doing a good song not nearly equal to the sheer violation being perpetrated upon music by most participants.

Perfect Ending to a Perfect Day

Cold. Windy. Raining. I'm hungry, and exhausted. Of course I find I'm locked out of the house with no way to get in. Why would it be otherwise?

Circle

He sat in the dim orange glow that fell into the corner of the bar, a slight smirk on his face as he cast an eye over the boisterous crowd surrounding him. The fitness guru with her body, her smile, her infectious laugh. The inseparable pair of writers, history buffs, one given to theatrics, grand lies, the other to apology or inflammation, depending on the moment. The bartender, the artist. The landscaper, keeper of the flame. The jovial Irishman, world-weary. The nurse, talking talking talking. Ex-military man, never satisfied but always smiling. A metalworker in overalls. The boss and her husband. The betrothed. Salesman, vodka tonic. The waitresses surround him. Accountant. Owner. Football dad. Others, faces he knows but cannot name. An interloper or two. He shakes his head. Sips his wine. Drinks them all in.

The End

"I guess so," she said. "I just thought you wanted more." He paused, not sure what to say. "I did," he said slowly. "But that was then. Things change." She sighed. "Things change." They were silent for a moment. Then, finally: "So what now?" he asked. She was staring off into the distance. Finally she gave a half-chuckle and shrug. "What now. What now is that one of us has to pack our shit and leave. What else?" He blinked. "Uh...well. Yeah. Yeah, I guess you're right." "I guess I am."

White Wine

Here my troubles end. Here my troubles begin.

Rain

Slender summer showers     Like lace on skin blossom in secret, immense whispers which build and swell     and slice into storms  of thunder and wonder,  of lightning licking like tongues, tendrils searching,   seeking shelter     like lovers, laughing  after standing  soaked and stranded in a summer evening storm. AUTHOR'S NOTE: I wrote this poem at some point in the year 2000. As far as I can remember, it's my most recent attempt at poetry, which I lost my taste for as a creative writing undergrad. It's not out of the question that I may get back into it on a (very) limited basis. Also, it's coming to seem that "Fiction Blog" is a misnomer, given the myriad items making their way on here. I'll have to give some though to changing it.

Sprinklers

The dance floor was crowded. Packed, more like it. I swallowed the rest of my drink, slammed the glass down on the bar and rolled up my sleeves. Between the crowd and the alcohol, my face was burning, and I could feel the sweat getting ready to drip into my eyes.