[Critique Group 2] Pieces for 4-10-2018

[Abbie Taylor]

###1. Fiction from Brad Corallo

Bernie’s Recurring Nightmare
© By Brad Corallo
Word count 416

The small, desiccated, white haired gentleman sat on the old scarred bench that ran around three of the walls in the damp, dark, dingy railroad station. He wore a clean though thread bear grey suit and scuffed black Oxfords. Between his feet was a stained old duffle bag whose color may once have been blue.

A chance sound caused him to try to look through the ancient window glass which was covered with the grime of years during which time it may never have known the touch of a cleaning rag. He saw nothing. He said to him self “she’s acommin’ down the line, the Glory Train.”

An old woman who snored in the corner echoed in a sleepy voice”she’s a cominn’ down the line.”

A ragged old man who was lying under the bench said “how long you been waitin’?”
The gentleman, Bernie thought and said “bout a yearin ahalf.” “And you still believe?” the ragged old man asked with contempt.

“I gotta get home and I’ll be agoin’ on the Glory Train. She’s comin’ down the line” he said with conviction.

“You’re a fool” the ragged old man spat. “That train is nothing more than a myth. Once it was a hope but now, empty wind!”

The sound of automatic rifle fire split the early morning quiet. With that, three heavily armed, uniformed men crashed through the door and said “no body move, this station, in fact this entire railroad is now under the rule of “the peoples liberation front (PLF).

“Here we go again” said the no longer sleeping woman.

“I advise you to comply with our orders. If you do, you will not be injured. But for starters, none of you are going anywhere!”

A terrible awareness lit in Bernie’s eyes, “it doesn’t matter, we never were!” he said, in the voice of a man whose eyes were finally opened and whose last hope was finally dashed.

NOTE: This piece is based on four lines from the song “What I did on my fall vacation” by Bruce Cockburn. A recent writing prompt regarding writing short stories as a result of songs was put forth on our writer’s list. These lines have always been of special importance to me in this song which came out about 38 years ago. Below is a youtube link. I will leave it to the reader to find the lines that inspired this piece of flash fiction.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EFXUwblZpTA

###2. Poetry from Valerie Moreno

Ultimate Decision

River flows with terrible speed,
taking everything in its path 
within its' unyielding force.

Survival dimb for fragile creatures
clenched in its' power,
yet, a single hope glitters.

Against teaming circumstances,
refuge is utmost, sliding beneath unmoving rock--
crammed in wet mud alone.

Against impossible odds, we cling to love,
a strand of hope, thinner than fear.
Spinning prayers toss us from the torrant
wounded, yet unbroken.
###3. Poetry from Abbie Taylor

I’m planning to submit this poem to The Weekly Avocet for its gardening challenge that Lynda Lambert posted about a couple of days ago. It’s an acrostic, and the first letter of each line is in bold.

GARDEN

Groceries from one's own back yard,
asparagus, corn, peas, tomatoes,
rejuvenate life and the world,
destroy last vestiges of winter,
end snow, cold, despair.
New beginnings come forth.

###4. Poetry from Alice Massa

Happy National Poetry Month, Group 2 Writers:

    For National Poetry Month and for my fellow members of Group 2, I have written a new poem--a document of 301 words.  For emphasis and design, I use bold print for what is revealed in the final line of the poem which is pasted below and attached.

Looking forward to our meeting on April 10,
Alice

 
What Is the Name for a Group of Poets?
a poem by Alice Jane-Marie Massa
A colony of beavers
must know something
about colons and semicolons.
A sleuth of bears  
hibernates to envision
the highs and lows of detective stories.
A kaleidoscope of butterflies
flutters around fictional fantasies.
But, what do we call
a group of poets?
A murder of crows
sounds appropriate for 
a group of mystery writers.
A flight of doves
must develop
many creative ideas.
A convocation of eagles
must ease into
historical fiction.
A cast of falcons
must focus on
TV scripts and stage dramas.
A stand of pink flamingos
perches upright and ready 
to present behind
any podium.
Perhaps, you can think of what to call
a group of poets.
A cackle of hyenas
have to turn to comedy.
A troop of kangaroos
can write military history.
A leap of leopards
jumps into a variety 
of genres of literature.
A charm of magpies
channels their talents
into romance writing.
A watch of nightingales
knows when to write 
bedtime stories for children.
Before the end of this night,
please tell me the name
for a group of poets.
A parliament of owls,
a pod of dolphins, 
a pride of lions,
a company of parrots,
a kit of pigeons,
a litter of puppies--
all meet to ponder
the predicament of naming
a group of poets.
Near the Poetic License Branch,
a  chattering of squirrels
may reveal the choice.
A game of swans may select
the winning name.
A descent of woodpeckers
may tell us their pick.
A dazzle of zebras
strongly endorses:
"a passion of poets."
However, I vote with
an exaltation of larks
and their proclamation of
"an exclamation of poets."
We will write, 
discuss, recite, and critique
poetry:
welcome, and come join my
Exclamation of Poets.

###5. Poetry from Leonard Tuchyner

A Price to Pay 
Yesterday and the day before,
my scarred, wrinkled, age-worn hands worked
the cold dark Earth of middle March,
digging and pulling lush chickweed,
whose pertinacious roots grow deep --
its tiny greedy rambling leaves
claiming every patch of soil.
These hands and wrists once invincible,
these arms that once knew no limits,
now strain in miserable pain
and become fatigued too quickly
in these early morning freezes.
Though I am old and declining,
my garden is forever fresh.
But its beauty would be blighted,
were it not for care and toil.
Last night my body protested
the waking hours’ hard labor,
rousing me at four in the morning
to exact payment for misuse,
denying me the peace of sleep.
And yet, today I labor on,
fearing the toll that must be doled.
How powerful the luring call
to one who would work a planting bed,
that he would sacrifice his slumber
and his body’s normal comforts
for the sake of his dream garden.


Abbie Johnson Taylor, Author http://abbiescorner.wordpress.com
http://www.abbiejohnsontaylor.com
abbietaylor945 at gmail.com
Order my new memoir at http://www.abbiejohnsontaylor.com/memoir.htm