Showing posts with label Brian Rosenberger. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Brian Rosenberger. Show all posts
Trespassers
By Brian Rosenberger
A glimpse is all they afford. A face in the windshield of a parked car. A reflection in a puddle. In the eyes of an infrequent lover. They are people you almost remember, like the gossamers of a wonderful dream, forever lost upon waking.
God, how you wish they would remain lost.
Instead you continue to see them. In a movie theatre’s darkness, at the bars you frequent, in your rearview mirror. You and no one else.
Church doesn’t scare them. Neither does trips to the dentist. Nor threats of suicide.
Alone with the question. Who haunts who?
- - -
Brian Rosenberger lives in a cellar in Marietta, GA and writes by the light of captured fireflies. He is the author of two previous poetry collections. As the Worm Turns, a collection of short stories, was released in 2010.
By Brian Rosenberger
A glimpse is all they afford. A face in the windshield of a parked car. A reflection in a puddle. In the eyes of an infrequent lover. They are people you almost remember, like the gossamers of a wonderful dream, forever lost upon waking.
God, how you wish they would remain lost.
Instead you continue to see them. In a movie theatre’s darkness, at the bars you frequent, in your rearview mirror. You and no one else.
Church doesn’t scare them. Neither does trips to the dentist. Nor threats of suicide.
Alone with the question. Who haunts who?
- - -
Brian Rosenberger lives in a cellar in Marietta, GA and writes by the light of captured fireflies. He is the author of two previous poetry collections. As the Worm Turns, a collection of short stories, was released in 2010.
Contact
By Brian Rosenberger
Her husband had died unrepentantly doing what he loved, digging in the dirt. She didn’t miss him but the will had not turned up yet. The widow was getting nervous, worried the university where he taught would get his fortune. She was in Wyoming with her overpriced medium for answers.
“Are you there, Walter? Your wife is here. She needs you now more than ever.”
“Come forth, spirit.”
The ground shuddered.
The tent was shredded.
The widow jerked into the air.
The medium realized her mistake. She should have known better to risk a séance in a dinosaur graveyard.
- - -
Brian Rosenberger lives in a cellar in Marietta, GA and writes by the light of captured fireflies. He is the author of two previous poetry collections. As the Worm Turns, a collection of short stories, was released in 2010.
By Brian Rosenberger
Her husband had died unrepentantly doing what he loved, digging in the dirt. She didn’t miss him but the will had not turned up yet. The widow was getting nervous, worried the university where he taught would get his fortune. She was in Wyoming with her overpriced medium for answers.
“Are you there, Walter? Your wife is here. She needs you now more than ever.”
“Come forth, spirit.”
The ground shuddered.
The tent was shredded.
The widow jerked into the air.
The medium realized her mistake. She should have known better to risk a séance in a dinosaur graveyard.
- - -
Brian Rosenberger lives in a cellar in Marietta, GA and writes by the light of captured fireflies. He is the author of two previous poetry collections. As the Worm Turns, a collection of short stories, was released in 2010.
Blood Trails
By Brian Rosenberger
Dad and I use to go hunting in these woods a lot when I was a kid. I told my girl Jean how picturesque the woods were, especially in the Fall when the leaves were just beginning to change color and the lake was post card perfect. Most of the vacationers had already headed back to their nests and we would have it practically to ourselves. Perfect place to camp. She fell in love with the idea so much that she blabbed it to her friend Mary Ellen. That’s how our romantic getaway became a foursome.
Mary Ellen brought along her beau, Juan. I knew Juan only peripherally but the few times we had spent together, he seemed alright.
Juan was the first to go. There’s no telling how long he wondered around in the dark unable to scream. Quite awhile judging from the blood trails. He had been stripped of his eyes and tongue at knife point. That’s what I told the girls, not to scare them, but to alert them, whoever did this to Juan wasn’t fucking around.
Mary Ellen was next. We heard her screams. She headed out on her own instead of sticking with us. Dumb bitch. I warned her but she wouldn’t listen. That had always been her problem. Deaf ears, loud mouth. Her screams echoed.
Jean’s out there now wondering around with only the moon and the bugs to keep her company. I told her to stay put while I went to check on Mary Ellen. Not much to check on after Dad gets through with them. He’s always liked the ladies best. But he promised he’d let me have a stab at Jean first. He had better. Otherwise I’ll kill the son-of-a-bitch and he damn well knows it.
It’s in the blood.
- - -
Brian Rosenberger lives in a cellar in Marietta, GA and writes by the light of captured fireflies. His most recent book is And For My Next Trick and a collection of his short stories awaits release in October. Additional updates can be found at
http://home.earthlink.net/~brosenberger.
By Brian Rosenberger
Dad and I use to go hunting in these woods a lot when I was a kid. I told my girl Jean how picturesque the woods were, especially in the Fall when the leaves were just beginning to change color and the lake was post card perfect. Most of the vacationers had already headed back to their nests and we would have it practically to ourselves. Perfect place to camp. She fell in love with the idea so much that she blabbed it to her friend Mary Ellen. That’s how our romantic getaway became a foursome.
Mary Ellen brought along her beau, Juan. I knew Juan only peripherally but the few times we had spent together, he seemed alright.
Juan was the first to go. There’s no telling how long he wondered around in the dark unable to scream. Quite awhile judging from the blood trails. He had been stripped of his eyes and tongue at knife point. That’s what I told the girls, not to scare them, but to alert them, whoever did this to Juan wasn’t fucking around.
Mary Ellen was next. We heard her screams. She headed out on her own instead of sticking with us. Dumb bitch. I warned her but she wouldn’t listen. That had always been her problem. Deaf ears, loud mouth. Her screams echoed.
Jean’s out there now wondering around with only the moon and the bugs to keep her company. I told her to stay put while I went to check on Mary Ellen. Not much to check on after Dad gets through with them. He’s always liked the ladies best. But he promised he’d let me have a stab at Jean first. He had better. Otherwise I’ll kill the son-of-a-bitch and he damn well knows it.
It’s in the blood.
- - -
Brian Rosenberger lives in a cellar in Marietta, GA and writes by the light of captured fireflies. His most recent book is And For My Next Trick and a collection of his short stories awaits release in October. Additional updates can be found at
http://home.earthlink.net/~brosenberger.
The Rainy Season
By Brian Rosenberger
It's raining again. This time of year, it's expected. You learn to take careful preparation and plan excursions with caution. Don't leave the house if you don't have to. The elements don't play favorites. Of course, there are those that never learn, pay no attention. They think the forecast is a fool's game; anyone can predict the weather. You don't need tea leaves or Doppler radar or old rhymes of sailors. Just look out the window.
It's a gusher today. The clouds let loose the deluge. Cats and dogs fall and fall and fall. Old-timers could feel it in their bones, knew it would be a bastard of a storm. There are still a few town folk old enough to remember the old bitch. Those of us who stayed inside today remember her curse. We stare outside, our pets on our laps, and say a prayer for those who didn't.
- - -
Brian Rosenberger lives in a cellar in Marietta, GA and writes by the light of captured fireflies. A collection of his poetry, And For My Next Trick ... is slated for a July 2010 release and a collection of his short stories awaits release in October. Additional updates can be found at http://home.earthlink.net/~brosenberger.
By Brian Rosenberger
It's raining again. This time of year, it's expected. You learn to take careful preparation and plan excursions with caution. Don't leave the house if you don't have to. The elements don't play favorites. Of course, there are those that never learn, pay no attention. They think the forecast is a fool's game; anyone can predict the weather. You don't need tea leaves or Doppler radar or old rhymes of sailors. Just look out the window.
It's a gusher today. The clouds let loose the deluge. Cats and dogs fall and fall and fall. Old-timers could feel it in their bones, knew it would be a bastard of a storm. There are still a few town folk old enough to remember the old bitch. Those of us who stayed inside today remember her curse. We stare outside, our pets on our laps, and say a prayer for those who didn't.
- - -
Brian Rosenberger lives in a cellar in Marietta, GA and writes by the light of captured fireflies. A collection of his poetry, And For My Next Trick ... is slated for a July 2010 release and a collection of his short stories awaits release in October. Additional updates can be found at http://home.earthlink.net/~brosenberger.
Waiting
By Brian Rosenberger
Summer, temperatures rise, thoughts of ice cream and days spent pool side, cloudless blue skies as you walk to work, the same route 5 days a week, so familiar you could do it blindfolded.
Past the coffee shop, past the post office, past the pet grooming salon you once thought read saloon, past the bench where sits Gus, expressionless, eyes heaven bound. Gus the Gargoyle, Gus the Statue, Gus the Petrified Man. You don't know him, have rarely spoken to him, only a cursory polite Hello or Mornin' with no acknowledgment. He is a stranger in the truest sense of the word. You don't know him. You don't even know if Gus is his Christian name but he looks like a Gus so Gus it is. He reminds you of high school, make out sessions at the movies, your old boyfriend James who loved Judas Priest. The song The Sentinel - "The figure stands expressionless, impassive and alone." That's Gus to all right, a black hole impersonating humanity.
Leaves turn brown and gold and orange. Pumpkins endure carved smiles. The temperature drops. Shorts are on sale half price. Air conditioners fall silent. You dress warmer for the morning walk. No slave to fashion, Gus' clothing does not change. Flannel work shirt, black converse, faded blue jeans patched on both knees. Once you saw him sneeze like the Sphinx hiccuping, like a thunderclap. Gesundheit you offer, getting silence for your politeness.
The first snowfall. Sniffles followed by trips to the drug store for cold and flu medicine. The White Death beckons if you believe the radio. You still walk to work but sometimes are fortunate enough to catch a ride home with a coworker. Gus is still there, a gargoyle sloppily dressed. You wonder where he works, if he works. Snowflakes look like melting dandruff on his broad shoulders.
Spring comes and with it rain. You arm yourself against the elements with an umbrella. You hate arriving at work wet and soaking. For the first time, you realize Gus is missing. He's like your favorite TV show that was canceled unbeknownst to you. You wonder if he moved, bought a car, died, wondering if you'll ever know the answer.
You won't. As the skies split and the Earth cracks and reality as you know it becomes an unlisted number, Gus is forgotten, work is forgotten, all is forgotten as fear becomes the only constant, the prime number, the only zip code left in what passes for existence. Fear and his companion Death. Where walks one, the other isn't far behind.
The bench remains, a tombstone, unmarked. Bus schedules a distant memory.
- - -
Brian Rosenberger lives in a cellar in Marietta, GA and writes by the light of captured fireflies. A collection of his poetry, And For My Next Trick ... is slated for a July 2010 release and a collection of his short stories awaits release in October.
By Brian Rosenberger
Summer, temperatures rise, thoughts of ice cream and days spent pool side, cloudless blue skies as you walk to work, the same route 5 days a week, so familiar you could do it blindfolded.
Past the coffee shop, past the post office, past the pet grooming salon you once thought read saloon, past the bench where sits Gus, expressionless, eyes heaven bound. Gus the Gargoyle, Gus the Statue, Gus the Petrified Man. You don't know him, have rarely spoken to him, only a cursory polite Hello or Mornin' with no acknowledgment. He is a stranger in the truest sense of the word. You don't know him. You don't even know if Gus is his Christian name but he looks like a Gus so Gus it is. He reminds you of high school, make out sessions at the movies, your old boyfriend James who loved Judas Priest. The song The Sentinel - "The figure stands expressionless, impassive and alone." That's Gus to all right, a black hole impersonating humanity.
Leaves turn brown and gold and orange. Pumpkins endure carved smiles. The temperature drops. Shorts are on sale half price. Air conditioners fall silent. You dress warmer for the morning walk. No slave to fashion, Gus' clothing does not change. Flannel work shirt, black converse, faded blue jeans patched on both knees. Once you saw him sneeze like the Sphinx hiccuping, like a thunderclap. Gesundheit you offer, getting silence for your politeness.
The first snowfall. Sniffles followed by trips to the drug store for cold and flu medicine. The White Death beckons if you believe the radio. You still walk to work but sometimes are fortunate enough to catch a ride home with a coworker. Gus is still there, a gargoyle sloppily dressed. You wonder where he works, if he works. Snowflakes look like melting dandruff on his broad shoulders.
Spring comes and with it rain. You arm yourself against the elements with an umbrella. You hate arriving at work wet and soaking. For the first time, you realize Gus is missing. He's like your favorite TV show that was canceled unbeknownst to you. You wonder if he moved, bought a car, died, wondering if you'll ever know the answer.
You won't. As the skies split and the Earth cracks and reality as you know it becomes an unlisted number, Gus is forgotten, work is forgotten, all is forgotten as fear becomes the only constant, the prime number, the only zip code left in what passes for existence. Fear and his companion Death. Where walks one, the other isn't far behind.
The bench remains, a tombstone, unmarked. Bus schedules a distant memory.
- - -
Brian Rosenberger lives in a cellar in Marietta, GA and writes by the light of captured fireflies. A collection of his poetry, And For My Next Trick ... is slated for a July 2010 release and a collection of his short stories awaits release in October.
The Customer is always rot
Brian Rosenberger
The day after any holiday was always department store hell. It was expected, like customer complaints. He had suffered enough moaning and groaning. Thank goodness for the sporting goods section. The smell of gunsmoke lingered. The ceiling, the walls, this week’s ad were stained with Zombie brains. But like the sign said, "Absolutely no returns."
- - -
Bio: Brian Rosenberger lives in a cellar in Marietta, GA and writes by the light of captured fireflies. He is a member of People for the Ethical Treatment of Werewolves and a staunch supporter for equal rights for the Undead.
Brian Rosenberger
The day after any holiday was always department store hell. It was expected, like customer complaints. He had suffered enough moaning and groaning. Thank goodness for the sporting goods section. The smell of gunsmoke lingered. The ceiling, the walls, this week’s ad were stained with Zombie brains. But like the sign said, "Absolutely no returns."
- - -
Bio: Brian Rosenberger lives in a cellar in Marietta, GA and writes by the light of captured fireflies. He is a member of People for the Ethical Treatment of Werewolves and a staunch supporter for equal rights for the Undead.
