A Litbreak Anthem

Litbreak publishes writers. The poems and stories that appear here represent those writers. That’s like the paintings of Jackson Pollock personify Pollock. They’re traces of the soul.

The Crow

Since then, the crow’s come back every day at sunset. It sits there for exactly an hour, tilting its head this way and that, feathers flashing blue in the fading sunlight.

I Couldn’t Help Being a Writer

By the time I was 12 or 13, I was writing my own stories and poems. Seeing that I was serious, my parents bought me a typewriter, an old Royal that in memory seems as big as an upright piano. It took real strength to depress those keys.

Richmond, May 6, 1836 – Novel Excerpt

The bride, though, catches his arm. “There will be dancing tonight after we clear away lunch! There’s a fiddler coming, an old man, tall as a scarecrow, he fought in the Revolutionary War! And a blind boy who toodles on a clarinet and a girl -- a girl! -- who taps and scratches on a drum. I saw them once, at the market, playing for pennies. And Eddy invited them to come and play for our wedding, later, when we dance. They seem very poor, and we’re going to give them supper too.”


Some people are afraid of the office environment; I sympathize. Ari, who has spent a full five years of his life at a job that is clearly intended as a stepping-stone, once told me that the only thing worse than being in the office is being out in the field. I had just started with our group and I had no idea what he meant but I tried to be polite, an effort I now realize was lost on him.