Front Porch Rambles

 I sent away ten messages, naught but nine returned. Eight cigarettes, I smoked them all on the way. Seven knocks at a time on the loud metal of apartment six's door. Five minutes 'fore neighbors anger 'came corporeal. I tried to fight past only so much I could have done. I was simply outnumbered. Three to one. ------- Author's note: That was really fun!!! - JG-

Even as a child, I was averse to sleep.  I was the kid in Boy Scouts who got out of his sleeping bag once I was sure everyone was snoring. The night whispers to me, even more so with a campfire.  The embers stay hot for a very long time, though thy may not appear so.  In the morning, all you'd have to do was stir up the dead gray ashes to find the glittering deep heat beneath.  Toss on some tinder and voila, fire is born again. At 2 in the morning, the flames were merely napping, easily aroused to continue their hypnotizing dance.  How many times did I crawl back into the tent when the stars began to vanish? How many times did I pretend to have woken early? Sometimes I would walk the unknown wilderness while the world slept.  This habit has continued into my adult life.  Whenever I visit a friend in a new city, I inevitably find myself walking alone through the night.  One snowy dawn in Chicago I found myself at the end of the Navy Pier, silent and trackless but for my presence.  I

The man had his eyes open, but nobody was home. He lie on the tile, black and white and red all over. His swollen face cast about in wild terror and he spasmed as if he could only control some of his muscles at one time. Everyone could see that it was done, but Homer liked to make a point about these things.   "I can't help but notice that you're not talking anymore, Timmy. Do you mind if I call you Timmy? You look like a Timmy to me. I have to tell you, Timmy. You were pretty rude back there." His voice was astonishingly gentle after the sudden and ferocious display of violence. Every person in the cafe was frozen in place, wide eyes locked on the huge man with bloody fists. His words were quietly conversational, but no one missed them. These had been the first words Homer had said since he'd walked up and punched the man in the throat. The man had been in the face of a server with an entitled tirade about one thing or another, it didn't matter.  The server w

Hey there spook fans! I want to write a scary story or two in prep for Halloween.  I'm undecided between a "real life account" or tale of terror, but I've always enjoyed the adrenaline rush that fear brings forth. It's a feeling that is most easily summoned from a deep forest at night with a couple like-minded friends to bounce your nerves off, but occasionally I have gotten chills from the written word. I aspire to do this on screen or on page, but I'm pretty sure it's going to be difficult to pull off.  I am gonna try it anyway, at the very least it will be a project to practice refinery. Who knows, maybe I could submit to a contest...   Jotting down some story starters here for posterity and feedback.   Let me know if any of these ideas whisper at you from the shadows. You sleep... ******* When he woke up, something sharp was trapped under his leg.  When he looked, there was nothing but a small but painful swelling.  Most likely a spider bite, he though

She watched the lifeless face slip beneath the lapping waves, but she no longer saw the man. She could only think of Anne. This one act couldn't bridge the chasm that had split the ground between them, but it made her feel steady and sure.  Truthfully, her body had been shaking for the last hour. The mist that sprayed from the bow of the small boat rose in clouds that she drifted through.  Everything was damp in the predawn air.  She found an old towel the owners must have used for wiping droplets off the smooth blue sides of the vessel.  It was thin and had holes, but it felt good to have something to wrap around herself.  The gaping mouth of the real world waited to swallow her at the edge of the water, and she hesitated.  Had she been careful enough? In the back of her mind she knew that Anne would realize the truth, at least the important part of it.  Even if they never spoke again, it would have been worth it.  For a moment, she considered pointing the small craft at the preda

Artist! Writer! Practice your skills. Read something, pen something, sketch something still. Swiftly unraveled,  Long work to re-bind, The tenuous strands 'tween thumb, fingers and mind. Let not the dreams slip, Through unclenching hands. Guide them, direct them. Make patterns of sand. Pay no mind to mistakes, They belong, let them be. They're trees in the forest you're trying to see. Make ready your keyboard, Sketch paper and ink, You're readier now than you may ever think.