Bourbon (an acrostic poem)

Basking in the afterglow of the alcohol’s afterglow

Observing how the light plays among the amber waves

Understanding the time and craftsmanship put in the bottle

Relishing in the transformation of those simple ingredients

But I digress, what did you want to drink tonight?

Only a light beer?

Now you must leave you heathen!


Stab (an acrostic poem)

Stick it to the man they said!

Take back the night they said!

And what happens when you listen to their advice?

Be scared to take a shower I said!



Place (an acrostic poem)

Putting things away, be they trinkets, memories, or even people

Leaves me feeling complete, and yet filled with an uneasy energy

As if the more compact I make my life, the more space I have to get lost in

Could it be clutter is the equivalent of comfort

Even to the point of not knowing where I am anymore?



Sacrifice (an acrostic poem)

Silent repentance was her way of focusing on her sins

After a night that will live in her memory for the rest of her life

Certainly she would never tell another soul what had happened

Really she wished she could just lie to herself that it never happened

It shouldn’t have happened

Fantasies were supposed to play out in the imagination

In time they would evaporate under the harsh light of reality

Currently that harsh light just exposed what she had done

Everyone should be able to see it, that’s why she gave up so much to keep it hidden




Peanut Butter and Banana Dreams (a 150 word story)

Those people that thought Elvis was still alive made Travis laugh.  It had been almost 41 years since that fateful day and yet Travis could remember every intimate, crazy detail like it had been yesterday.  He was supposed to play Utica, New York on that tour.  Why on earth had they booked him in Utica?  Well Travis was happy it never happened.

Travis chuckled at that thought as he looked out the nursing home window.  He spent a lot of time thinking about the past and what might have been.  That was how Travis spent most of his time.  Getting older may suck, but the alternative was worse.  Besides, being 88 wasn’t that bad, really.  He still could enjoy his music and his peanut butter and banana sandwiches.  He then remembered the sequined jump suits.  Man he hated those.  Who thought they were a good idea?  They made him itch.



Robot Artisan (a 150 word story)

As the 3D printer printed out another iteration of his robot’s body, Martin pondered if this method of construction could be considered hand crafted.  He had designed the robot shell in Autodesk Inventor, carefully putting in every curve and thickness.  He had precisely lined up the mounting holes so that all the electronics would fit perfectly with just enough space to make it relatively simple to assemble while making it look tight and tidy to an outside observer.  He had put the previous prototype together, piece by piece, including programming the behaviors himself.  He had molded those behaviors, creating new routines and shaving off excess commands till the code was beautifully efficient.

As Martin watched that previous prototype scurry along the floor, he decided it was hand crafted in this new digital age.  That means he could claim to be a robot artisan, and Martin like the sound of that.