Tag Archives: edges

WIP excerpt: “The Archer”

With a loud snap, Jack stepped squarely on a dead branch just beneath the leaf litter.Tolan turned and spoke softly,

“Even the forest bison are quieter than you.”

Jack shrugged and waved a hand at an insect.

Tolan went on,

“If you wish to die today then continue without looking for where to put your feet first.”

Tolan waggled a long finger for emphasis,

“Walk as I do. Stop when I signal you to stop and move when I signal you to move.”

Jack nodded and leaned against a large red oak.

Tolan frowned.

“Did I say to lean against that tree?”

 “No.”

Tolan sighed.

“Surely the gods sent you as a test.”

© Erik Hansen 2017

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Filed under Creative Writing, Edges, Fiction, outdoors, Writing

Four One

Once her hair hung down
her back
rich, shiny, black
Like a crows’ or Grackles’ feathers
Or piled up tight
in a bun
stuck with pins
you could barely see
Now age has cropped it
to a utilitarian length
silver white it shines
from between the flowers
she has painstakingly nurtured
in her gardens
like the full spring moon
high
in the daytime sky.

© Erik Hansen 2016

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Filed under Creative Writing, Edges, Poetry, Writing

Rains

culvert

The rains come

And never really clean

The parking lots and streets

And driveways

Just carry things away

To unseen places

Far away, insensate pools

Oil residue

Creates a kaleidoscopic slick

Upon the water’s surface

As even more spills forth

Churning indefatigably from the culvert’s maw.

© Erik Hansen 2014

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Filed under Creative Writing, Poetry, Writing

The Burning

Your sonnet burned itself

Into our minds

A brand held lightly

Yet firmly pressed

Screaming its smoky life

Released into the world

To bring ruin upon us all

Cities lie in ashes

In the whispered echoes

Of your love.

 

© Erik Hansen 2014

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Filed under Creative Writing, Edges, Poetry, Writing

Patriot Acts

Pages drift down feather slow to the empty street from the open window high above.
Flakes of snow falling in a pristine, winter night.

Fluttering for a singular, immutable moment, they touch down whisper light upon the concrete and asphalt.
Ink bleeding through as the warm paper melts the dusting of snow beneath.

“Would you say your words could be construed as seditious Mr. Jones?”
The harsh voice posing the question causes him to start, waking him rudely from his distant reverie.

The light is large and bright, pointed directly in his face. Dark forms just beyond the lights’ reach inform him his questioner is not alone.
“Could you repeat the question? He asks in a hoarse whisper.
” I asked, could the words that you have written be construed as seditious?”
He stares at his clasped hands in his lap.
He struggles to think of something clever to say.
After a long moment, he simply says, “No.”
Silence.

“Wrong answer Mr. Jones.”

The water saturated towel wrapped about his face and head is mostly used to haul him and his chair backwards, four other hands grip his arms and shoulders tightly.
He strains futilely against the bindings that secure his legs to the chair as more water is poured into his towel masked face.
Drowning on dry land.
If they let him live will they let him speak?
He hopes so.
He knows his answer will be different then.

Snow lands lightly to melt upon the man’s overcoat as he bends down to pick up each damp page from the street with surgical gloved fingers.
The window above is closed now, the lights have all been turned off in the now empty apartment.
He places each individual page into its own individual plastic bag labelled “STATES EVIDENCE”, slowly, deliberately.
No one watches as the silver sedan rolls to a stop beside him.
The trunk pops open with a muted click and he places the plastic bags in a plastic bin within the trunks’ recess, locking the plastic bin, the plastic cover securely in place.
He quietly closes the trunk, pads softly to the passenger side door, opens it and quickly gets in.
The sedan slowly rolls down the empty, snow spotted street, leaving partial tire tracks in the white patches that will melt away to dark puddles before the taillights disappear around a distant corner.

A warm breeze sweeps across the street as dawn arrives, lifting the solitary page from between the slats of a nearby abandoned pallet. It flutters in the wind, the writing upon its face unmarred and clearly legible.
It comes to rest upon an ever widening dry patch on the sunlit sidewalk where everyone can see.

© Erik Hansen

August 2014

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Filed under Creative Writing, Edges, Fiction, Short Fiction, Short Story, Writing

Interred

Image

Interred beneath the cool

Damp loam

The past lays curled

the rope around its neck

an invitation

or a warding

against the spirits lurking

just beyond the reach

of the dim bog light

at the edge of the gloaming

ghosts with dark twitching fingers

tongueless mouths

and cemetery smiles

all to beckon me

Fear of Death

unknown

twin ravens tirelessly scout the dusty surface

advancing miles of an unnamed road

twisting far into the silent distance

beyond the rotting trees

a lonely grove of gallows

full of reticent ghosts.

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