a tale of 2 puppets

here’s an ancient short story of my yesteryears written in one of my long, wine-soaked weeks passed. i can’t even remember which time period it was put together. before the military? during?  i recently submitted it for a small anthology. it was consequently rejected (like most of my stuff.) but i can see why, and you will too. the language is too phantasmagoric and cluttered to be in a book of compiled stories likely meant to be a mild read instead of a WTF.  originally, the marionette show was in san francisco, and i only adapted it to be in new orleans. that was pretty much my only edit. i just like showing the writing of my past, to me, to anyone. it’s like a glimpse of where my mind was back then. i know exactly who i wrote the story about… and it’s still my secret to the grave.

i’m also still on the fence about whether or not to submit the other short story that i’ve written. the one that i previously posted an excerpt of about a woman who loses everything on a mountain pass. i’d rather have it as a stand alone rather than incorporated in someone else’s vision. although, they’d likely reject it. it’s a bit more quentin tarantino than i’m sure they’re used to. we’ll see.

and, since i’ll have more time in the coming months and perhaps less of this weighty writers block, i can finish the few novels i’ve got chapters and chapters for with no end yet, but planned. i love writing poems and shorts, but a finished novel is my ultimate goal.

THE OLDE PUPPET SHOW

Continue reading “a tale of 2 puppets”

she’s toasting in nostalgia

The baron of apparitions drawls, the original stranger, the viper in a giftbox, the undulation behind an old moth-curtain in an empty taxidermy room. The stranger with the sweeping eyes enlivened as a glisten underneath an insomnia blanket, polished silver in a dungeon, grinning at the corners like a shedding portrait in a frozen castle. He has the sallow radiance of the wolf-moon overhead cringing into the stark lines of crow’s feet beside his unblinking set of alert, unnerving eyes; you can hardly tell that the statue-face has scant color of its own. Not when he steeples tall and dark like the shadow of a broadsword in a gravesite. He’s a pale witching mask, father gargoyle, held on by the slender fingers of fog that envelope and are drawn to him. Unmoving, yet somehow his presence seems to prickle, seems slippery, murky, oil in the heart-line of the palm, as if it is moving.

 

 

 


words = samantha lucero 2016 ©
image = not mine.

she finds old characters

The Unexciting Chronicle
of Miles Glass to His Caravan
By Miles Glass, Reality & His Imagination

minute (1)one :
A falcon-feathered grenadine syrup birdbath, they say, commingled with a flippin’ your fin-splash of mermaid honey-colored, sparkling ginger ale (a medicinal concoction, mind you, brainchild of a Doctor.) +1V.I.P. glowing ember of a crimson ghost-dot maraschino cherry, could make the mathematics and tipsy geometry of any gypsy gymnastically blush. Oh, and it mixed so well and so fine, so fresh and so clean, with the dead purple ♥ hue of medical-grade molasses swash buckling in the sunken ship of his inside vaudevillian, striped vest pocket. Where cough syrup, shave and a haircut, two bits, and dance routines go to die. When Miles bristled, his fake, exaggerated mustache bristled with him.

minute (2)two :
As he hydroplaned through jackpot jumping jacks and stacking chips, bumbling his beeline through the casino with full intent to be insanely punctual and, if not woefully on time at least near so, he kept it all together with a red thread of equilibrium and practiced fumble. She was going to leave without him. She, his matchbook dear, was going to run off if he were to be late back to the room, thrust so many floors up, up, and away. BUT! there had unfortunately been some distraction(s) and obstacle(s) during the arcade course of his jack-be-nimble odyssey.

To put it simply, there had been a gaggle of tribal belly dancers hoarded by the lustrous, distractingly lion-gold elevators, drinks in their slave-bracelet hands and sequins dotting the avian-streaks of their shamelessly multi-colored accents, bells, tassels, pin-point climaxed eyes. Peacock turbans and silver toe-ring spins and back bends. He recognized one of them from San Francisco, and she made it a necessary witchery to delightfully inform the wild plume of the curious flock that he could make a great many things disappear easily, seamlessly, and pleasantly.

He blushed and trickled into the split gray thighs of the elevator door, waving with an overflow of Shirley Temple pink and hazy cough syrup jester grinnings.

minute (3)three :

MISTER
are you a
MAGICIAN?

minute (4)four :
And somehow, he arrived to the room in 4 measly minutes with a pocketbook of intoxicated smiles, stinking of lemongrass, patchouli and glitter, and having gotten a hold of a circus bear which he threw directly into the exposed hole of her tent (gently and whether she was in there or not.) Announcing with a midway roar:

“I won you a prize!”


words = samantha lucero 2016 ©
image = not mine.

blood-blue bowman

he’s rain swelling in the mothers open skirts

the starving soup of venom & wings gone gray

medicine in the mouths of the blessed dead

 

I hear flowers moan

when  fingers break their stems like bones

& press into the trickle of their shook loose hair

stirring the yellow heartbeat of the sky

for only one word

one of his

 

he’s the running light against a sunk

terrain of starry roads

he’s my king of distant oceans;

my watery-eyed snapped arrow

the bulging purr at the begging blood of coastal war

mist into sweat

wet souls, white salt on the upper lip

moist whispers, electric ice, & snakeskin

& one dusty fingerprint of the creator.


words = samantha lucero 2016 ©
image = not mine.