Journey of the Mind | Stories & Poems

  “In chess, the primary objective of the opening is to develop the pieces and achieve a playable position.” ChessMarshals.com The smell of cheap catered food wafted from the warming trays and settled over the holiday adorned walls and checkered tiles of the Parlogne manufactory breakroom. In the far corner a television displayed an oddly complected man garbed in a blue suit as he prattled about a rigged election. Lysander looked at his watch. He detested company parties. Trying to pretend that he was interested in his subordinates’ personal lives and they in his was exhausting, and a waste of his time. So much so that he divided his attention between the digital display on his wrist and Patsy Auger, the company’s production manager and acting human resources officer. “I have some great news,” Patsy said to the group of production workers turned party goers huddled around her. “The Occupational Safety and Health Administration has completed their investigation into the death of...

  A shadow visited last night. Not dark and visceral but it radiated with a contradictory light. Its calling felt rather surreal.   I watched as it danced, played and even cried. From a distance I couldn’t help but stare. Its brilliant stature growing wide, living life as if on a dare.   I laughed and wept with this formidable sprite. this person I never met. A life lived outside of black and white, a courage to live without regret.

  The gravel underneath the truck’s tires let out muffled pops and cracks as the vehicle slowed and finally came to a stop in front of the tractor repair shop. The former funeral home, converted to a garage, was given a large berth by the surrounding buildings. The shop’s aluminum siding appeared gray in color giving the structure an unnatural waxy appearance. Sarah slipped from the passenger side and shut the door. The normally loud thud was subdued in the early morning fog. She looked back at the old, dilapidated tractor resting motionless, and silent on top of the trailer its bulk was enclosed on all four sides with only the upper half exposed to the chilly air. Her lips pursed and her eyes blinked uncontrollably, batting at the moisture flooding them. She remained there for a few moments before turning and walking towards the service entrance. Halfway there a figure in blue coveralls wearing a baseball cap emerged from the door. “Morning mam. What can we do for you?” The el...

The echo of blossoms in bloom. Their pink florets - a fable’s genesis. I see them all – all in the rear view. The promise of summer and morning dew little lies that become so serious. Watch the sunrise setting in a lilac sky, Its splendor squandered by the western view. So quiet is the hour before the night, The familiar, changing - colored with a darker hue. Wine and saccharin - comfort in the twilight.

Digital screens light our way, narrow paths we tread. Enlightenment in the information age means not giving a fuck about what you said. ones and zeros streaming in a self-centered rage dark and furious thoughts, living on a thread. division distracts from our poor living wage while slander and bullshit feed the empty head. Biased priests hiding, on a binary stage.

Insults slice like cleavers carving into goose bumped flesh. Pieces fall in a soup du jour served nightly at the mess. Wounds treated with a smile, tears steeped in laughter. An auto-cannibalistic appetite an emaciated character. The stench assails the nostrils pretend not to care. Dreams and aspirations evaporate in the chilly air.

Model citizens they keep to themselves, like closed books on dusty and solitary shelves. I read Within their volumes of poverty and despair. A pauper’s dogma preached with a rich man’s flair. Heirs to the ghetto, they’re wide eyed and full of need. Nearly invisible when consumed by greed.  Eight hours a day I heard the raucous melody play a singular note plunked in rapid succession an arpeggio of lies and fabrication.  Downcast sweaty faces blistered hands clapping with dimwitted admiration, a pathetic charade, but one  of their own creation. The shrills of indignity echoed in my head, Placid silhouettes reflections of the dead. A solemn testament to a  downward progression inequity masquerading in  a history’s regression.  I watched as a thick haze blazed inside an angry red dawn. Tick tock, tick tock  another night gone. ailments like chains tethered to their beds impatient they listen a sinking feeling of dread. The maestro cue...