Two Page Stories

Struggle and worry of a woman on a bring of shedding tears sitting on the stoop with her head slipping in her moist palms. As she calms no one notices her slight head bunt, a bruise on her left thigh. Did she fall, was she attacked? No one asks. An

Triptychal understanding of my journey misses, cries, and pushes out what’s on my feeble mind. Licked by a muse that usually visits cars and dogs I’ve had no luck in doing what I wished for when young. Foolish endeavor captured in black-and-white stillness kept me up through the

She, he, they whatever they are today puffed straight into my face. I didn’t care for it to say the least but then again what came after was worth the worry. I flew out of my body in the air up up up I went smiling wide. I knew

As a master of the Drunken Fist I rhyme with a deranged liver. Trip over my words instead of my feet to fight off the dreariness of common. I flail my thoughts rather than my arms to conjure up strength.

Writers are scared of no ideas, no thoughts. The blank mind. I think It’s a beautiful opportunity. With nothing set to sway you in either direction, there’s no right or wrong. You write from an emotion, not a fantasy. Perhaps that’s the sad part if you are

There. Where? Like this? Like that. Great. Yes. OK. Got it? Almost. Good. Thanks. Hmmm. What?