recent picos
It's Thursday. The days are getting shorter.
The headstone sat on top of the concrete slab covering the sinkhole where the outhouse used to be.
Outside the city lights were glowing; men and women out on the town. Inside, she was curled up in a chair and could only think about him...
Life is really like a long, never ending run-on sentence and when you place that period in the end you are done, over, complete and finished
A lone gray cloud floats across the blue sky as I lie, white shirt stained with brown coffee, on the green grass.
He cut through the white water as if navigating through life while keeping the rivers currents from tipping his steady raft gliding through.
he used to call em "hoodlums." now they are coming over to read a novel, and he is flat on his back with parkinsons. Fucked up, but norma
With no preparation he readied to read the lines as if they drooled off the paper and on to the cool, sweet, brilliant green suburban grass.
He was redactive while he took a bite from the last hamburger. Looking at his lesbian partner he said -it's now time to move to California
"Damn," he whined, "nobody ever gets back to me." "Maybe they take time to sleep," she whispered. Then she grabbed the remote, and hit
with key in hand, he broke the door from the hinges anyway, he smiled as the warm sun and outdoors now shined through the opening forever!
"You've got to be kidding me," as she turned and walked away. Another damned monkey up and gone with no goodbye. "Fine" I thought.
A screaming comes across the sky
The Og Man tries to find the door. Stumbles, fumbles. Will the key elude him? Will he break in? Will he use his rapidograph, and redesign?
Holding his knees to his chest and praying silently: "Please don't let them find me."
Surrounded by the steep walls of tiny worldviews, I sit on scratchy carpet and try to remember the point. Outside the sun is shining.
The stress kept building. I scraped the bottom of the dinghy, hanked on the sail and cruised the harbor. "Whoopee" lived up to her name.
Silence is never Golden. Silence may be Chow, or Newfie, or Saint, but happiness, playfulness, joy and affection are Golden.
Was it always like this? Too much coffee. The pencil shaking in my hand. Can't think and can't see.
At 2:30 a.m. the dog must go out. The world has become crystal. The air is full of the sound of falling snow. I breathe in the deep cold.
pico news
Picofiction is back online! Sorry about the brief hiatus. A few things did not transfer well in the server move a while back and needed to be cleaned up.
I very much want to rewrite the code behind Picofiction, and to give it a major facelift. But at the moment I'm doing the same to my blog, so my resources are spread a bit.
I will do my best to avoid service interruptions but they may be necessary.
