Between pots of coffee

Shoulders and arms, bones carved from hickory, rawed by fire. I sleep between three and four hours a night. I don’t know, because time is mud. I sit at the kitchen table until Connie comes down, and she complains when the coffee pot is dry. She taught me how to make a fresh pot. Everything is on the counter: the filter, the Folgers, the measuring spoon. I make a second pot for her when I hear the creaking floorboards. I am mostly neat, but it takes all my concentration, and my hands are still clumsy. But I do it. She growls when there are grounds in her cup or when the floor is splashed. Then do it yourself, I growl back. Do siblings ever stop being children towards each other?

The hours between pots of coffee are long. Continue reading “Between pots of coffee”

Who do you write like?

Interesting. I tried two different samples from two different books written years apart, and apparently I write like Stephen King.

All Things Chronic

A link from (Thumbup and Buddha9):

Check which famous writer you write like with this statistical analysis tool, which analyzes your word choice and writing style and compares them with those of the famous writers.

Any text in English will do: your latest blog post, journal entry, comment, chapter of your unfinished book, etc. For reliable results paste at least a few paragraphs (not tweets).

Paste your text here:

I submitted a few paragraphs from my post on the fight-or-flight response (from 5/26/2015), and allegedly I write like David Foster Wallace, from Wikipedia:

David Foster Wallace (February 21, 1962 – September 12, 2008) was an American author of novels, short stories and essays, as well as a professor of English and creative writing. Wallace is widely known for his 1996 novel Infinite Jest, which was cited by Time magazine as one of the 100 best English-language novels from…

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Not so Ordinary.

A much appreciated comment.


I’ve put the book down. It’s been finished for nearly a month. It’s a WordPress author and I’ve waited. If nothing came back then there’s nothing. One scene is written so well it comes back often.

A boy was pressed against the trees. The trees held no shelter. It was late and the road was there. The boy was making his way home. I felt as though the trees and the night were perfectly lined up for this one moment. I read and turned the pages to gain what’s further.

Two cars came. The boy knew they were traveling too fast and he pushed himself into the trees, along the curve, best he could.  He listened as twigs snapped; it’s safer here.

The cars came closer. The twigs wouldn’t let him in.

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A voice so hushed

it may disappear

before you hear

her words,

a hurried wind

beneath the silence.

Deep sleeper

To the point

She exhales the dreams from her lungs. I brush her hair with my hand, stroking it in short sweeps with my fingers, from forehead to crown. It is thick hair, and short, and the texture feels oily. Fingertips touching scalp, faint aroma of balsam and tobacco. Continue reading “Deep sleeper”

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