Shanty
by Hostess on Sep.02, 2010, under One Shots
The schooner turned coastal barge underneath a blanket of sand until one February. For over a century the ship hid, safe from the worms, fed by salt and water, until a storm found its sanctuary. Storm by storm they pelted the shield, shifting the sand until the poor shipwreck lay exposed. Soon the iron bars bubbled with rust and worms threatened to eat every piece of Douglas Fir until nothing remained. No man alive could save the ship in time, so they left it alone. Two deceased experts, however, readily took on the job of saving the C.A. Smith.
“Really Sean, you sh’d know better ‘an to drink on yer watch.” The first caressed the wood gently, almost reverently. The barge would never carry wood again, but it might serve for a decent ghost ship.
“Aw, Rich, how was I s’pposed to know that a storm w’s comin’? I only had a little.” Sean crawled up the dune, surveying the work ahead of them.
“You were drunk off yer arse, and you know it.” Rich leaned close to the ship, as if to kiss it, and blew a small layer of sand away.
“I was sad. M’girl lef’ me! Wot was I s’pposed to do? Sail sober?” Sean picked up a shovel he’d stolen from a dairy farmer. Hopefully the farmer wouldn’t miss it.
“You sailed against the wind, you buggerin’ bastard. If it weren’t for you, we would have made it past the jetty! But noooooooooo.”
“I said I was sorry.”
______________
The next morning the BLM showed up to look at the shipwreck again, but they only found the hole, quickly filling with sand, that once held the keel close. With no other answer but a couple of stolen shovels, the BLM blamed it on the storm, at least in their reports.
Summer Night
by Hostess on Aug.30, 2010, under Poetry
You pulled me close
as the sun sank into orange sherbert.
Your lips met mine,
and my arms were too heavy to hold me.
My spirit floated with the clouds,
and drifted back down in sunlit rays
to pick you up and carry you with me.
Post Card
by Hostess on Aug.26, 2010, under Drabble Letters, drabble
Dear Grandma and Grandpa,
I hope you are doing well. I’ve been really busy with my new friends. They took me to Silver Falls last week, and yesterday they took me up to the Governor’s office while he was away. My friends said that Mr. Governor would be honored if I sat in his office chair. And so I did! My friends took pictures, and they helped me paper clip it to the back of this letter.
I miss you a lot, and I promise to come home someday, but I wanna see more of the world before I stand in your front lawn and watch cars go by.
Love,
Your Garden Gnome Ithamar
The Line between Sunshine and Moonshine
by Hostess on Aug.23, 2010, under Uncategorized
Your voice changes as the chords get wet,
like milk to sour cream.
The volume turns up on your inner stereo,
as if every word is worth blurting out.
Your words flip like your moods,
like the second hand on a broken clock
You are heavier than lead in the paperweight you ignore.
Soverign Flies: A Manifesto
by Hostess on Aug.18, 2010, under drabble
We will bzz through your ears and before your eyes. We will haunt your kitchens and race across your light fixtures. We will bzz past your notebook computers and over your morning coffee. We will not leave. We will never die as long as there’s food to eat. When you think we are gone, we will return.
Waiting
by Hostess on Aug.16, 2010, under Poetry
She waits for him,
wearing a gold dress that’s long since faded to pale.
Someday, she hopes
he will abandon his lily pad
for his crown,
and his fur for his own skin.
That he’ll trade his pumpkin
for a carriage,
and his ass for a horse.
But the spell hasn’t broken,
and she’s still left with straw
instead of gold.
Teddy goes to the doctor
by Hostess on Aug.11, 2010, under drabble
The operating room was nestled in a corner of a bedroom. Teddy was brought in by the only operating staff, the surgeon. This surgeon doubled as a chauffeur, a coach, a nurse, a chef, a chaperon, and of course, a surgeon. She laid Teddy on the tiny operating table, next to a sewing machine. Pulling out her implements, a pair of sewing scissors, a needle, and a spool of green thread, the surgeon got to work.
It was a routine surgery, but it still required utmost patience in preparation. The surgeon wired the thread through the needle in the sewing machine, and inserted the spool at the top. She checked to make sure the machine was plugged in, and switched on the built-in light. Pressing her foot on the peddle, she moved Teddy’s broken arm underneath the needle.
The machine growled to life, and the needle went up and down and up and down until Teddy had sixteen stitches. Fortunately, Teddy wouldn’t need any physical therapy, but his best friend Kyle would have to be careful with his right arm. It wouldn’t take much to ruin the sixteen stitches in green fur.
Keepsake
by Hostess on Aug.09, 2010, under Poetry
I let your body go months ago,
and I let your soul fly to heaven like a dove,
but do you mind if I
carry a piece of your spirit around with me?
I’ll keep it in my left pocket,
and take it out when I need your backbone,
I need your smile,
need your laughter.
Food for Thought
by Hostess on Aug.06, 2010, under drabble
What do they keep in those back rooms downtown? Those rooms always seem bigger than necessary, and mostly empty. Perhaps the owners of the coffee shop live there, but they insist on hiding the furniture upstairs. Or maybe, at night, they drag in the comfy couches from the shop decor, and sleep on them (as well as the lamps.) That’s why they serve coffee you know. It takes nearly all night for them to move the furniture; they hardly get any sleep.
I found a bike in one, with empty stalls. The stalls may or may not have had curtains. What does a coffee shop need dressing rooms for? If you whisper the password with your order, will they give you a costume to try on? Is it frappuchino? No place seems to serve them, and Starbucks doesn’t have back rooms.
Lit
by Hostess on Aug.03, 2010, under Poetry
Strike, strike, strike
the match,
strike it hard,
light a blaze,
a supernova,
watch it shine,
glimmer and kill,
and watch it create
stars.
