Creative Writing Commons^™

Indian Summer, Noel Wyatt

Manuscripts

As the blood red sun began to sink, a silhouette broke the painted scene. It approached the Apache Reservation roaring like the Father Wind on a winter day. The beast seemed to shout its name above its own voice; across its shiny hood "Lincoln" defied any opponent.

A Fourtwothreelegs Poem, Ed Shacklee

Manuscripts

The first grade teacher greeted
with simplicity the coming of the Day

Untitled, Alice Monds

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He took an old Barlow knife from his pocket and eased into the cane bottom chair, tipping it back on two legs against the low stone fence. Methodically, he drew the gleaming blade across a fragrant block of red and yellow cedar. His gnarled, weathered hands moved deftly. He worked intently for some time, honing the block to a soft roundness and piling thin light curls of cedar around his feet. He peered at his companion from singular eyes set below incredibly unmanageable gray brows.

Of Sap And Tears, Diane Hale

Manuscripts

I sit in the woods
and watch the stream
admiring the trees as they ripple and flow
Waves sweep us in,
lulled into dream-sleep,
carrying us away--
content to settle beneath the gentle caress
certain to end as we began

Battle, Bob Sullivan

Manuscripts

Wet from the cold March rain, the white paint glistens fresh. It is almost as if the barn has been swept by a snowstorm of Elmer's Glue. In contrast to the radiant purity of this barn, the soil of the farm is a tiring alternation of milky gray and soggy brown. Tattered stubs of once-green corn cling to the ground in haggard remnants of narrow rows. Like the littered aftermath of Gettysburg, this land is hallowed--Mother Earth. The farmer sees himself as the victor. He has tamed the cycle with civilized plastic machinery.

Avatar, Mary Harter

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You see her in the supermarket every day. She wears size 14, stretch pants (that advertise plainly why she needs the stretch) and a matching print blouse. She wears them with tennis shoes.

A Child's Viewpoint, Alice Monds

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She beckoned to me, and with much apprehension I entered the door of the shabby unpainted house. Inside, the room was small and dark and almost the entire space was taken up by a big metal-framed bed which stuck out into the middle of the room. A ragged upholstered chair in one corner and a small pot-bellied stove in the other completed the furnishings. The windows, uncurtained, were filthy and one was covered with pieces of a cardboard box where the pane had been broken out.

The Surrender, Diane Hale

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Light revolves
patterning grey age faces
in flashing momentary brilliance--
exposing shadow dreams
of victorious kingdoms
built in bottle caps
the shrapnel of hope's treachery--
to be swept away with
debris of belief

The Hairy Arms Poem Or The Love Song Of J. Alfred Poofrock, Mary Harter

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I have encountered "The Love Song of J. Alfred Poofrock" in three different college English classes taught by three different teachers. They all agree that T. S. Eliot wrote the poem. On everything else they disagree.

Heat Lightning At Night, Michael Martone

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mute mimic,
the splashing spark

The Fine Art Of Ineptitude, Sue Winemiller

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Each of us knows at least one of them. They are perched before easels duplicating the spring's emerald meadows and the autumn's turbulent skies. Clad in leotards, they pirouette and pas de buerre their souls into the "Nutcracker Suite," while their colleagues entrance the audience with skill in the orchestra pit. Not content with a monopoly of the fine arts, their type is found fashioning Christmas angels from empty toilet paper rolls, making doll houses out of old cereal boxes, and whipping together gourmet dinners from cans of Campbell's Chicken Noodle Soup. I speak of my personal nemesis, the artist--one …

Definition Of Poetry, Lynn Z. Bloom

Manuscripts

Once
I took a course in aesthetics:
Three hours credit
If I could learn
What a poem was.

Untitled, Carol Thornton

Manuscripts

The ugly, hairless, pink snout was arched skyward, head trembling in weak defiance. Rivulets of creamy, yellow mucous flowed thickly from the unseeing eyes.

An Initiation (There Are No More Somedays...), Mike Swarzman

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"Come on son, today's the day we find the perfect piece of wood, strong, yet easy to carve--come on."

Scott refocused his eyes on his father who stood over his bed.

"Come on son, let's go."

The brown haired blur moved again, and Scott, full of expectation, dressed quickly and hurried to the door.

Front Matter

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Front matter includes: front cover, table of contents, and masthead.

Volume 10, Issue 2: Full Issue

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Full issue of the March 2014 issue of Manuscripts. Includes work by: Lucy Kaufman, Thomas J. Luck, Mary M. Schortemeier, Verse Forms Class, Jeanne Gass, Jack DeVine, Mildred Reimer, Donald Rider, Donald Morgan, Joe Howitt, Elizabeth Hyatt, Arline Hyde, Stuart Palmer, George Zainey, Peggy O'Donnell, Lester Hunt, Arthur Graham, Rosemary Haviland, Fayetta Hall, and Jane Burrin.

Excerpts

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Excerpts from additional submissions by authors: Betty Lewis, Joseph C. Greenlee, Suzanne Weesner, Katherine Armstrong, and J. Wm. Lynn.

A Nightmare, Jane Burrin

Manuscripts

The lake was unusually calm that particular June day, when my Mother and Father started on their daily fishing trip.

I bade them farewell from the dock, and reluctantly started back to the cottage. Although I did not have the patience for fishing, it seemed that there should be something more exciting to look forward to than a game of solitaire.

Resigning myself to this entertainment, I settled down on the screened porch with my cards and the radio. I played the necessary unsuccessful game, and my luck began to change. I triumphantly placed the last ace on the stack …

The Butler University Library, Fayetta Hall

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There are many features about our school which I admire, and there are surely some features which I have not yet learned to appreciate fully. One prominent feature which falls into both of these classes is the university library. My realization of its worth has increased with my growing knowledge of the library's history and development.

When our college was known as the Northwestern Christian University, it was located on College Avenue. As far as is known, no real library was then existant. However, as far back as 1873, a small room in the building was set aside and two …

Ode To A Jukebox, Rosemary Haviland

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Oh fat gleaming monster reposing in the corner
With your soul glowing like satan's fires,
Whence have you come to destroy life's peaceful existence;
To tempt youth and put new lines in the seers' brows?

Like the roaring blasting furnace, you require nourishment,
Taking pity on your pangs of hunger, I'll feed you a nickle,
Ungrateful one! There you sit with your polished sides gleaming,
Smug and satisfied like a fat Buddha.

Slowly you devour my offering,
And as it reaches your digestive system,
You gr--rr-owl and gr--rr-Ind;
Instead of a soft crooning thanks, you stab at me with a …

Frustrated Genius, Arthur Graham

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He sits down at the desk, tears a sheet of paper out of a tablet, picks up a pencil, and commences. After commencing for some twenty minutes he decides that he should un-commence long enough to decide upon a subject upon which he can commence, Another twenty minutes pass during which he systemazically breaks the lead of his pencil, sharpens his pencil, turns the radio on, turns the radio off, takes his shoes off, puts his shoes on, musses up his hair, combs his hair, loosens his necktie, takes his necktie off, takes off his glasses, twirls his glasses around …

Our Christmas Tree, Lester Hunt

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We, like many other families, have our own special customs. We have our holiday customs, our dinner customs, our own way of making beds, and our own brand of humour. There is one holiday custom, however, that I especially treasure because I had a share in its initiation. It is the custom of getting our own Christmas tree.

As I remember this first experience, it took place about a week before Christmas, but we still hadn't found a Christmas tree that we liked. It was then that we "menfolks" decided to get our own tree. I was eight years old …

Oh, Pudgy!, Peggy O'Donnell

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Well, Pudgy, here we are on top of Maple Ridge. Isn't this the most splendiferous day? I can just lie here basking in the sun (as the Florida travel folders say), and you can sniff around and explore everything to your canine heart's content.

Yes, a spring day up here is wonderful, but I guess it will always be fall on the Ridge for me. Fall, with the maples all gold and red, and the sky all blue, you and me and .. .. and Bill.

'Member Bill, Pudgy? You used to love it when he rubbed your ears. He …

Shortages And Priorities, George Zainey

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The day is soon to come when the shortage of men will become so acute that our feminine sex is going to have to have a priority rating to get a date. This of course will be a great blow to our beautiful, energetic, and studious co-eds when they will have to tear a little coupon from their book, push it in the face of a "soon to be rare" man, and yell with anxiety and a gleam in their eyes, "You're mine tonight --oh boy!" It will be an equally tragic situation if the precious men should choose to …

An Era Was Past, Stuart Palmer

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There sat the old station, all boarded up, and looking very much like a thing of the past. It had changed a lot in five years. It had changed from a place of activity, of hasty farewells and hearty receptions, to a dingy old building that nobody noticed now. Someday soon someone would come along and tear it down for the wood in it, and thus would end one of the most significant and colorful epics that the little town of Richfield Springs had ever witnessed.

Slowly I walked up the old brick path that led to the ancient structure, …

A Dime Novel, Arline Hyde

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Spying a red cover on a magazine at a newstand, a customer may pick it up and upon casual examination notice. the title LOVE blare in large print across the page. "A ten-story issue" the cover reads, with two featured articles entitled "Revenge Honeymoon" and "Hotel-Lobby Flirt." A blond cover-girI peers over her almost bare shoulder. "Hmm, looks interesting," thinks the customer and so another typical pulp magazine is sold for the small sum of one dime.

My Favorite Spot, Elizabeth Hyatt

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About an hour and a half from nowhere in a. western woodland, a tiny cabin nestles among the trees. Nearby, a small brook runs clear and cold, babbling softly over the stones. Flowers flaunt their colors in a gay parade around the cabin.

Inside, the odor of clean, bare pine is strong and refreshing. The furniture is simple and sturdy. Its unpainted finish matches the walls and floor perfectly. In one corner, a double-decked bunk bed stands invitingly. The stone-hewn fireplace at the far side of the one room cabin leads a double life; it warms the occupants and cooks …

The Scrawl Of An American, Joe Howitt

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An American is the sum of all the contributions, both good and bad, of all the peoples on earth. Our country was founded to satisfy the desires and to develop the interests of everyone, be he Jew or Gentile, white or yellow. At first America was settled by people who had been religiously persecuted, and then later by those who sought economic gain in the land of "golden opportunity."

The American, from the time of the writing of the constitution up until the present day, has valued more than anything ~is right to worship as he pleases, to enter into …

Upon Entering My Seventeenth Year, Donald Morgan

Manuscripts

The past summer was, by all of the usual standards, uneventful. It was the first summer I can remember that did not include an automobile trip to the East, West, or to the beloved "north country." Instead, I attended summer school for six weeks, then suffered the worst month of absolute idleness that I have ever experienced. Although disappointing in its monotony, the vacation was not entirely without advantages. In my school course, I was introduced to a subject which interests me intensely, economics. Although totally different from the sciences I had studied previously, it fully satisfied my craving for …

Winter Evening, Donald Rider

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As the year evolves, nature contemplates, nature broods, nature rants, and nature breathes the warm glow of spring. She may brood the noisy thunderstorm of summer, rant the early autumn squalls, and whisper with zephyrs the heralding of spring, but tonight she contemplates. Tonight she contemplates and her utter silence pervades the hunter's cabin.