A streetlight stands tall showering down its autumnal glow below, on the sidewalk. An old homeless man, sat half illuminated, with gnarled hands like tree boughs and knotted snakes, peering down at the curb, at a small Emeralite lamp. The little Emeralite lamp sat next to a heap of refuse. A wind kicked up, the ties on garbage bags fluttered in tune. The lamp began to wobble, falling against the refuse heap, clattering off the curb, and resting in the gutter. A pothole nearby, filled with rainwater, a tire screeched wetting the lamp. Another driver fumbling with a bag of fast food swerves into the gutter, crushing the Emeralite lamp. The streetlight overhead, due to a manufacturing error, shines its prairie larkspur light on the ground. The old man crawls over to the lamp, picking it up, laying it down, on the heap of refuse, the shattered emerald glass gleaming in the gutter.
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Your work is, to me, within the genre of horror, but in a more specific sense, realistic horror. As I pursued the truths as diligently as my mind allowed, you gave me the agency to decide the horrors I wanted. I was literally able to able to 'pick my poison', Inceptionism in its motion, and so truth-oriented that I was, and still am, consistently believing that the climax of the work will be the death of me. I have it in my mind that it will be a heart attack or a heart failure, but I’m sure in some way that it is through the power of literary belief. I hope it is, because I do enjoy my life on this planet, at least for now.Â
Suggestive of so much, great
Excellent stuff, Bruce.
I would like to start a correspondence with you. Talk about our writing and other things regarding art in general. Subscribe, for I have done the same. I imagine our bonded will power with these exercises will bear much fruit. I'll be in touch.
Looking forward, brother!
Killer poem. "prairie larkspur light" has great mouth-feel, love that.