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Postcard Fiction Collaborative: Jury Duty

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Tuesday, March 3, 2015. Sailing The Painted Gliders by Bill. Above us all only truth and sky. And if truth is sky, then is it endless? Does it stretch and bend into the nothing that is infinity? And if our understanding of infinity is limited, is truth a compartment in which we store our nothing? Call it a placeholder. We find dogs to feed on the perimeter. We eat dog at night around the fires in barrels when we can no longer stand the sound of our own hypocrisy. Shorthand. What's shorter...One of the PF...

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Postcard Fiction Collaborative: March 2015

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Tuesday, March 3, 2015. Sailing The Painted Gliders by Bill. Above us all only truth and sky. And if truth is sky, then is it endless? Does it stretch and bend into the nothing that is infinity? And if our understanding of infinity is limited, is truth a compartment in which we store our nothing? Call it a placeholder. We find dogs to feed on the perimeter. We eat dog at night around the fires in barrels when we can no longer stand the sound of our own hypocrisy. Shorthand. What's shorter...One of the PF...

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Postcard Fiction Collaborative: June 2015

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Thursday, June 4, 2015. Sugar, Chef's Quality. Maybe, Sugar by Alan. Sweetness, why do we sway in the trees so? Where is it that those sudden wings fold in genuflections over hidden earths? What is it that the thirsty man said to the breeze before it lifted his desire and turned it into a dove? Can we meet again? I will meet you there. Some Other Ghost by Sherisse. Sweet Tea by Lyle. He took me away that night and I never returned. I had never known such sweetness. After a Dying Ray by Bill. One of the P...

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Postcard Fiction Collaborative: Ruins & Remains

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Wednesday, February 4, 2015. These Trees by Alan. Lake Atitlan by Johanna. The lake gives so much and takes so much away from us, like Ernesto when his fishing boat capsized and Angelina when she was bitten by a snake. Their spirits always walk ahead of me as I follow the trail, surefooted through the woods, carrying my load as I have for all these years. No Home by Lyle. The Very End by Forrest. Posted by Lyle Rosdahl. Subscribe to: Post Comments (Atom). May 2010 - Dennis E. Bolen.

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Postcard Fiction Collaborative: October 2014

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Monday, October 6, 2014. Stasa's Husband by Bill. Ivo, the big Czech sits at his desk, half-cocked out from underneath its surface with one leg thrust into the walkway. He just doesn’t fit under the space he's so big. His eyes studied the proofs from the most recent set of pages for the issue, layered across the workspace in front of him. The Blood and the Body by Alan. Someone will put all of this together if someone cares to look. Posted by Lyle Rosdahl. Links to this post. Subscribe to: Posts (Atom).

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Postcard Fiction Collaborative: April 2015

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Thursday, April 2, 2015. The Lovers by Alan. Sometimes it takes a window to understand light. Sometimes it’s like I can’t believe I’ve been living in all this dark. It’s like what’s there, through curtain and glare, is a kind of fuzzy invitation to look inward and make sense (as in shadows, take inventory, check the mail) of the later frames. Slowly the sequence to the season: Is there any other way? We think, on good days. Is there any other way? Defying Evolution by Johanna. I’ve given up chairs&...

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Postcard Fiction Collaborative: Two Chairs

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Thursday, April 2, 2015. The Lovers by Alan. Sometimes it takes a window to understand light. Sometimes it’s like I can’t believe I’ve been living in all this dark. It’s like what’s there, through curtain and glare, is a kind of fuzzy invitation to look inward and make sense (as in shadows, take inventory, check the mail) of the later frames. Slowly the sequence to the season: Is there any other way? We think, on good days. Is there any other way? Defying Evolution by Johanna. I’ve given up chairs&...

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Postcard Fiction Collaborative: December 2014

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Tuesday, December 2, 2014. To shape the channeling of history. To redirect the norm towards collaboration. Free market. Open source. Explosion. The basement tapes. This is how young Bartholomew swore he would change the face of music. From his parents’ basement. Vanishing Act or The Vanished by Lyle. 8220;Put your hands up where we can see them,” they yelled. 8220;Hands up,” they shouted. I heard a screech. A woman nearby. The shrill in her throat broke me from my fantasy. My head flung up in...One of th...

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Postcard Fiction Collaborative: July 2015

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Saturday, July 4, 2015. The first thing he did that day was consider the circumstances. Like other sudden discontinues, there is no other way to say it. No familial dream, no going backwards in a fairy tale. The water flows one way and inside the most sensitive cavity an aching transformation. The rest is, as one likes to say, historians, not so much history. He thought about the kiss much, the lips, interruption. We’re always interrupting or interrupted, aren’t we? She Tells the Houseguest by Sherisse.