PDX Writers

by Helene Constant

admin — Wed, 01 Feb 2012 00:08:51 +0000

If I could, I would… have love to share with the people I meet. I would be generous with warmth. I would say, Gee you are looking great! The person who lives inside my head would get up from the ground of being where the good and the great is done happening.
I would be able to feel excitement, and not be focused on how it feels to come down.
I would sing and vibrate and dance around — for no reason except it feels good.
I would stop replaying the way my heart feels twisted and stomped upon; I would replay the joy that preceeded those feelings.

scary watchman by Helene Constant

admin — Wed, 01 Feb 2012 00:08:34 +0000

It was dark and I was in a strange downtown. Traffic was whizzing by, cars were pulling out of parking garages, traffic lights blinked from red to green faster than they did at home. My friend had sneered at my idea of going downtown during the holidays but I had to hear the acapella group singing in the museum.
I specialized in finding alleyways to park in for free and had actually found one not too far away from where I was going. Usually meters told you when you were safe from getting a ticket; it was a couple of minutes before 6 PM. I got out of my car and peered into the face of the meter but I couldn’t make out what it said. Some part of the day it wanted $3.50 per hour— but what part? Gee, a ticket from an expensive meter must be a hundred dollars. I glanced around the alleyway. It was dark and shadowed. In my fear and frenzy I must have mumbled aloud. “I can’t see. How late do these meters go?” a voice answered me, out of the shadows. “Lady, you’re okay,” it said.
A few inches from where my tire rested against the curb I saw a pile of ragged blankets with a cardboard box at the head. A man was sleeping there! “That son-of-a-bitch cop ran through this alley already. He won’t be coming back before 6. You’re safe.”
I stood still in the dark, feeling the arm of protection around my shoulders. I thought about giving something to this watchman, but gratitude was what I decided on. I ran off to hear the holiday voices.

Blind by Kaitlyn

admin — Wed, 01 Feb 2012 00:08:19 +0000

Slowly awakening I turn in my bed, but it isn’t my bed. This bed is rough, mine is silky. Sitting up in the bed I open my eyes in hope of knowing where I am. blinking i waited for the colors and figures to come but they never did. My slowly beating heart started to pick up pace as I became frantic. Where am I, why can’t I see, what is happening, all of these questions enveloped my mind. Feeling my face I assumed something must’ve been covering my eyes, to my despair nothing was, I was now blind. Only yesterday I was looking at my beautiful, exquisite paintings. My eyebrows pull together as I heard footsteps, do they belong to my hero, or the villain?
“You’re awake, ma dear,” a dark melodious voice echoed the room. slightly moving my head towards the sound I wished to see the villain, how could someone righteous have such and nefarious voice. Standing up from the bed I wonder how I got in this state. Standing next to an viscous creature in the dark.

Betty Couch

pdxwriters — Tue, 01 Nov 2011 19:19:09 +0000

My card was a picture of El Sol, “the sun.” I immediately recognized this card as it was part of a “Bingo en Español” set I had purchased for my grandchildren. El Sol was N-46 in Bingo-eze.

This card brought back memories of the beautiful country of Mexico, especially the Copper Canyon. And it was a reminder of how young my grandchildren were the first time we played Mexican Bingo in Portland. They are growing up now and some of them even are learning Spanish.

So as I always say, “Portland is a very small town.” Where else would I stop by a table with a jar of Mexican Bingo cards and turn into a writer.

from James Wood

pdxwriters — Tue, 01 Nov 2011 19:11:01 +0000

Juan checked and then rechecked his equipment. Deep breath, then running. He reached the first support, grabbed the package and attached it without slowing. His hands already grabbed the next one before the beep-beep confirmed that the first charge was xxx. Three minutes.

He weaved from support to support, planting the C-4 charges. Juan had practiced until thought faded into action. He saw the timer counting down to detonation as if it was suspended in front of him. One minute left.

The last charge was planted just as the first exploded. Juan heard the groan of tearing metal as the first one toppled. He froze, stunned. It worked. Months of training had never prepared him for this. It was never expected to work.

“Juan! Juan, get your ass moving,” the voice came from the darkness to the left. “Damn.”

Carlos dashed out from behind cover and dragged Juan from his reverie. Juan glanced behind him to see the trail of explosions in his waked. The sunlight blinded him. He’d never seen the sun, not since Mexico became the solar-farm for North America.

The last he saw of his work before sliding down the hill was a bird flying across the blue sky.

Mary-Lynne Monroe

pdxwriters — Tue, 01 Nov 2011 19:10:04 +0000

Cara walked across the street. She wasn’t really paying attention to where she was going.

“Ned, you know I have no time for this,” she sputtered into her cell phone as she dug into her bag looking for her—what was she looking for?

As she stepped between the parked cars driving herself toward the storefront marked “Decorations” (whoever thought that was a good shop name?), her booted toe collided with something hard. She stumbled, tried to catch herself, and felt her food slide over something. As her cell phone clattered onto the sidewalk, her foot smashed through the rind of a melon.

Unsure of what to do next, caught by the immediacy of her boot stuck in the rind, she twisted and plopped herself down on the curb and began to laugh.

from Nannette Taylu

pdxwriters — Tue, 01 Nov 2011 19:08:15 +0000

The beauty of the desert is often misunderstood. As the sun rises on the golden sand, desert life awakens—greens and browns, oranges and reds, turquoises and ebonies all stretch to greet the day, and those who are destined to share it.

Filled with the mysterious and the obvious, it patiently waits for those who will find themselves surrounded by its eternal peace.

Booze by Catherine Lyle

pdxwriters — Tue, 18 Oct 2011 03:25:48 +0000

Many published writers in my family. Some earned their livings entirely by writing.

Newspaper columnists – theater reviews, boating. “New Yorker” short story. Magazine articles. Writing awards.

All successful.

All alcoholics.

I am a writer – not yet published.

I do not drink.

At the very least, maybe I’ll get to live longer and write more.

At the very most, maybe I’ll get to live longer and write more.

Untitled by Gabe Coeli

pdxwriters — Mon, 17 Oct 2011 03:33:43 +0000

- Johnny.
- What.
- Listen to me.
- I’m listening.
- I need a loan.
- For what?
- I can’t tell you.
- Why?
- Because then you won’t lend me the money.
- I won’t loan it to you if you don’t tell me why.
- Johnny.
- What.
- Listen to —
- I’m trying to listen but you’re not telling me anything.
- I’m telling you I need a loan.
- Why?

Sigh.

- I’m going north
- What?
- I’m going north. I got a letter from my brother.
- You’re crazy. They’re killing everyone in the north.
- That’s why I have to go.
- To get killed?
- To stop it. To help my brother stop it.
- They’ll kill you.
- I’ll kill them first.
- With what? You don’t have a gun.
- That’s why I need a loan.
- No.
- Why?
- You’re too young.
- I’m 15.
- You don’t know how to fight.
- My brother will show me.

Sigh.

- I can’t.
- Johnny. Please.
- You’re too young.
- Well, you’re not going. Who else will fight the Fascists?
-
- Johnny. Please.
- How much?
- 50 pesetas. I’ll pay you back.
- You’ll be dead. I’ll never get my money back.
- 40 pesetas. Johnny. 40.
-

La Calavera ( Skull and Crossbones)

pdxwriters — Fri, 14 Oct 2011 23:29:53 +0000

She dressed in the classic Goth mode: Black velvet floor length, black lipstick and black nailpolish. To accentuate the decolletage of her black velvet gown, she choose a long necklace of black baroque pearls with two “sugar skulls” silver beads and a pendant of two lodalite beads, one larger and one smaller, dangling above, with all strung together on silver.

The lodalite had hypnotic depth. If it caught your eye, it pulled it further and further in.

Later that night, that happened to her date, Frank. She was serving him tea when, checking out her low neckline, he got caught up.

“Is that a natural stone, or some kind of aggregate?” he asked.

“It’s a natural stone.” She answered ” The sorcerer’s dream stone.”

He didn’t notice his throat tightening up at first, as he looked deeper and deeper into the large pendant. Soon enough, he grasped his throat and made a gasping, frantic sound.

“Did you not notice the skull beads?” she asked. Then, with a smile, she said “Happy Halloween.”