Italo Calvino said: The more enlightened our houses are, the more their walls ooze ghosts. Describe the ghosts that live in this house: Image credit: “love Don’t live here anymore…” – © 2009 Robb North – made available under Attribution 2.0 Generic
I have left behind a wall of ghosts in the nooks and crannies of my old house. It is better that they are left there. Who knows what havoc might happen if they were set loose. The ghost of my first winter hides in the attic, the winter of ’78, coldest on record. I was four months old at the time, but already it seemed like eternity. I howled my lungs out and shivered as the chill crept into my throat.
The ghost of my father sleeps in his bed. The rotting mattress collects little flitting bugs and stirs up my emotions when I peek through the crack in the door. I can hear him snore. It must have been the snoring that killed him as he slept. It was so loud it shook the rafters. It vibrated my bed and woke me from my dreams, and my nightmares, the nightmares I had of seeing my parents die.
The ghost of my first kiss wanders around the kitchen, searching for its lover. He is hiding somewhere between here and the Mississippi River.
My tantrums have raised ghosts of their own, especially the wicked ones involving much screaming and banging of doors. The hole I kicked has never been fixed.
Out in the yard, where the grass is as tall as my waist, the ghost of tomorrow creeps, searching for me, waiting to pounce on me and my bones, where they lie hidden under the stairs in the back. It is always waiting.
Published October 3, 2012
Inner Thoughts , Pen & Ink , Prose
I stepped out from behind the glass doors and walked out onto the darkened cement, wet from last night’s rain. A fine mist sprayed my face as I turned left and walked towards the end of the street. The mist gathered around me. It stuck my leather jacket to my arms. My black bag with the piano keys was thick and protected the thin papers that lay inside its wide cavity.
Twenty minutes later and I am nearing my destination. The cold droplets still pelt my face, larger now. I wipe away at them, not able to discern the wetness as mist or sweat. My breath is heavier than normal, but my legs carry me forward until I reach the slight ramp leading to the big red door that marks the entrance of The Rutgers Club.
Published September 27, 2012
Pen & Ink , Prose
How many times did he have to say it? He twisted the black zarconian ring around his index finger, tracing the thin engraving on its shiny surface. He swallowed and paced back and forth, noting the dark scuff marks on the ground being worn into the cement from his muddy sneakers. His heart thumped in his chest, almost hurting him. He closed his eyes.
“Hey, do you have a smoke?”
He looked up from his thoughts and saw a small girl, barely five feet tall. Her thin frame slouched in on itself. Her straggly brown hair hung around a pale face, big brown eyes looked at him. She was twisting the dangling chord of he
so i actually finished this prose piece and all of a sudden i go to publish it and wordpress freaks and makes me log back in and then my story is only half finished. wtf. i refuse to finish this.
Published September 24, 2012
Pen & Ink , Prose
Tags: conceptual, Life, still life, Writing
There is a painting that hangs on the wall at school. It sits at the end of a very long, very white hall. All of the doors open when the bell rings and hundreds of children pour out of the classrooms. They run into each other in their rush for the doors that lead outside. The painting stay still. It is the painting of a young girl in a pale blue dress. She sits on her white four-legged stool. At her feet sleeps a small shaggy dog. You can see in her sweet smile the love and adoration she holds for the dog as she leans down to rub its ears. No one notices the painting as they mill about in the hallways, calling out to friends and looking at their phones. Then one day it is taken down and replaced with another painting. No one notices.
He leaned out the window and looked down at the tree tops. The yellow light of the setting sun cast dark lengthened shadows across the grassy lawn. The cool autumn wind pulled at his hair. He turned around to face the large bronze bell suspended from the rafters. The gold light from the sun lit up the bronze, creating a creamy texture on its surface. He walked over to it, bent down, and grasped the thick string underneath the bell. He breathed a heavy sigh at the familiar weight in his hands, then looked at the watch on his wrist.
He pulled the string towards him and heard the muffled ringing through the earplugs. Again and again he pulled the string towards until he counted six hits. Then he gently released the string and let it dangle at peace beneath the bell. He walked to the other side and took the narrow stone steps down, taking one last look at the pink and purple gradient forming across the sky.