I’m humbled and honored to have been invited by J. S. Graustein, managing editor of 
Folded Word, to edit their weekly “Pic of the Week.” You can read the archives here, then check out the current prompt by following @picficprompt on Twitter. Submit at SubMishMash, and see the selection on Twitter @picfic.
It sounds more complicated than it really is. Just surf on over to PicFic and take it from there.
Maybe I’m missing out on golden opportunity to endear myself to the editors, but I rarely include a meaningful cover letter with my submissions. I don’t want to appear overly impressed with myself, especially since there’s damn little to impress anyone. Any thoughts from my fellow writers, or editors?
When houses
appreciated and mortgages
flowed like champagne,
the inbox on my desk
was constantly full.
Now, I have no inbox.
I have no desk.
I have no office.
I sit in a box
called a cubicle.
I sit in one box
on Fridays and Mondays,
and a second box
on Saturdays and Sundays.
I don’t know those
who sit in the boxes
on the days I don’t.
They don’t have inboxes, either.
Prompted by We Write Poems Thursday Prompt #1: Boxes
The bottle arrived from
God-knows-where, driven
by forces beyond the
control of the sender. He had
simply cast the bottle to the
sea, trusting winds and currents to
deliver it safely to its destination.
The message inside:
Don’t be like me.
Empty bottles clink
but never spill their secrets.
What happened last night?
They come from
Sonora, Chihuahua, and Coahuila.
They pound
nails, sling
hash, scrub
toilets. They
risk their lives,
desperately searching
a better life in the
Land of Opportunity.
I know I’d do the same.
My great-grandparents came from
Ireland, Italy, and Hungary.
They dug
coal, stoked
furnaces, poured
drinks. They
risked their lives,
desperately searching
a better life in the
Land of Opportunity.
I know I’d do the same.
Don’t
Really
Understand the concept of drinking but
Not getting
Knockered
O Lord, open my lips.
And my mouth will proclaim your praise.
Some promises are too public to break.
I’d rather not go,
but my son is twelve, and
I must take him hunting.
The killers awake before dawn, and yes,
we put our boots on.
I double-tie Daniel’s laces, zip
his coat, and help him
force his uncooperative fingers
into gloves. Like two drunken
sailors, his wheels leave careening trails
across the frosted forest floor.
O God, come to my aid.
O Lord, make haste to help me.
Once, I quickened at the rush,
older and more human than language.
I’ve evolved, I practice, I see.
Dawn’s frost dissolves in morning rain.
We wait, wet and sleepy.
The morning is gray, the forest is brown, and
our vestments are blaze orange.
“You know why that side of the vee’s longer?
Cause there’re more geese on that side.”
“Dad! That’s stupid!”
Shots echo. They are not ours.
Fifty yards away,
a stone’s throw,
two deer cross the path.
My breath catches.
Daniel doesn’t see them.
Fill us with your kindness in the morning, O Lord.
Bless the Lord, all the earth,
praise and exalt him for ever.
Farewell, my friends. God go with you.
In manus tuas, Domine.
Booze Anecdote #37 and Booze Anecdotes #38 & #39 were published today in Issue Twenty of Short, Fast, and Deadly. Check them out, along with the great (and brief!) work of fellow contributors.
It was my
second
time in rehab.
I was listening
to this broad rattle off
all her consequences:
lost
her nursing license, lost
her driver’s license, lost
her husband, lost,
lost,
lost.
I wondered why this broad couldn’t
connect the dots.
That was my
second
time in rehab.
.