Wild Poets - Fiction

Minnesota Virgin

David Wright — Wed, 18 Mar 2009 21:29:00 +0000

Keesha knows that she has done something wrong, just not what exactly. It is not always easy to do the right thing, especially when rules are unclear. Keesha is old enough to know that running away will only lead to more scoldings from her mother and a hard, stern look from father. Dramatic parental signals remembered well into next week. Running away is never pretty.

Anodyne

David Wright — Sat, 14 Feb 2009 15:24:00 +0000

Over the years porch planks broke from old age, square Mason’s nails were sticking out bent and crooked, and Gallow-grass annuals grew tall through the cracks of the floorboards. It was lucky the house hadn’t burned down years and years ago. A nice Lord knows, if any where some awkward fire could start, it’d be on the front porch where grandma shot grandpa twice with buckshot. Then tried stabbing him with the pick axe by the dusty old woodened planks once she’d realized her shells were gone. Sent him flying, then flying again, fast through mid-air and off Louise’s new front steps. He lived. Landed hard onto the bushes that little Louise had called flowers. Weeds were plants misplaced into an environment where their worth was deemed unwanted, Louise had later learned. “Mi-o, My-O, Mi-o,” she’d always sing. Mio, Michigan was a wonderful place to be born, Louise had always thought.

Paradise

Caribou Slim — Thu, 15 Feb 2007 17:24:00 +0000

Don't worry, you're not gonna fall.

Pete, grab my legs. Got me? Okay, I'm gonna dangle my jacket over the edge of the cliff.

Man, that's not gonna hold him.

Don't worry, dude, it's wool - seriously tough. Okay, we're gonna pull you up. Ready?

One

Two

Three

FUCK!

Shit.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Dude! What were you thinking? You said you had him!

Magellan's Dark

Caribou Slim — Wed, 22 Aug 2001 03:33:00 +0000

When I first met Magellan, I thought he was dead.

His eyes were stretched out to the stars with a vacant gaze; hands lay open, palms upwards, as if in supplication. His long body was spread out across the sidewalk, blocking my way. I went to step over him, ignoring him in my solitude; he was only homeless to me then.

“Mirrors,” he said, gazing up at me.

“What?”

“We’re all mirrors, everything is a mirror.”

“Okay, sure, whatever buddy,” I turned to go.

“Wait,” he said, so soft and direct that I froze in place. He gave a long, luxurious stretch and stood up, turning me to face him.

“Everything you see is reflected light. What you see is not the truth of me, but the light bouncing off me, my reflection. You are a writer?” he said, looking at the journal in my hand.

I nodded, slowly.

“Consider this, then: billions of mirrors, calling themselves human, moving through time, all of them reflecting the same light, but bound by different frames, looking at the light and calling it Truth.”

He paused for a moment, turning his dilated pupils to the moon.

“Prophet, scientist, philosopher, these all claim to perceive Truth,” he said with a grin. “But an artist, a writer, these know it’s only light, and bend it to their whim. They reflect what they want to.”

“But there is Truth,” I said, angry and confused. “There is a Truth to everything.”

“Everything is Truth,” he said, nodding. “But the only place to know it is in Darkness…”