No Poem Is the Only Poem. No Story Is the Only Story.
“So you know?”
“Know what?” Carol asked.
“That he believes Ben is the reincarnation of your mother.”
Carol put the journal down on the coffee table.
“Would you like some tea?”
“No thank you,” said Grace. “Where is Gabe?”
Carol’s eyes filled with tears.
Discovering the economy of phrasing necessary for a screenwriter to tell a story in 110 pages or less, is akin to my discovering the poetry of Anne Sexton or Sylvia Plath...
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.
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.
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.
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.”