Poetry, fragments, and a few small stories from Owen Schaefer
And while we’re here, my story “In the Floating City” can be found in the anthology Hong Kong Future Perfect. https://www.amazon.com/Future-Perfect-Writers-Various-authors-ebook/dp/B01N4GB4W0
E-books only on Amazon at the moment, with physical copies available in Hong Kong bookstores. But I understand physical books will be available on Amazon at some point in the future.
the day builds grime
i wear salt and burnt air
humid as oil
this is how it all sticks
uncomfortably close
this is how i fail
sometimes it all gets so small
buildings so high your neck breaks to look
all that ocean just sitting pulled flat
by the singular boredom of gravity
the infinite toroid dunked in coffee
and eaten in cigarette stinking rooms
surely one sigh could just blow out the stars
here, the trees cast late day bar codes across the highway as the cars scan west to east
so this is fear
my own voice untrustworthy
words just so many stains
coughed into a hand
my thoughts all the same crow
circling as if many,
everything more pressing
laundry a craving
a passing question
than to say
it goes like this
it hits so many miles
so many years from you father
that i am unprepared for the weight
of just a morning park
a silenced lawn mower
& the green its smell
heaped in damp clumps
sweet with notes of iced tea
& ham sandwiches you’d eat
with grass-stained hands
having pulled the wet-dry clods
from the mower’s well
while i stared at its blade
convinced some violent potential
could somehow still wake it
for this one chance to taste red
then machine flip & cough
to life we’d push & rake
speaking little sharing less
but we did not fight
not here the work sacred
the young grass to be kept small
& bleeding its green incense
strong even now even here
with these freshly broken blades
cutting still into memory
i grow rooted leg to chair
feet to ground my
window open for water
muscle knotted to wood
& chlorophyll eyed i
still wither in the light
of this cold, square sun
there is something pulled over me
the wool perhaps or sweater caught
that fucks things up a lack of
sleep or age or autonomic noise
& all my words are static hiss
a scream in cellophane behind
my eyes i try to pay attention
place some tension fight this
penchant for distraction from
the right words in the wrong
order another drink and i
place them here to buzz and fret
against the page hoping this
is where they open up to speak
A little while back, I participated in the Hong Kong Writers’ Circle 24-Hour Story Competition. The winner hasn’t been announced yet, but a few good stories came out of it. I’m semi-pleased with mine. It’s far from perfect, but considering the time limit… well, it turned out.
If you’d like to take a look, it’s here: “Noah and the Elephant”
Feel free to check out the other entries while you’re there.
Sheung Wan after the rain.
Source: thehotintimatebug
Old news, but three of my 50-word stories were published in the e-book linked to above, along with stories from many other people. Have a look if you like.
(via etceterata)
Source: etceterata
Caleb unwraps the conch from its cloth, and passes it to Karin. Her eyes widen, surprised at its pinkness. He explains to her how, before the oceans went black, people would put shells like this up to their ear and listen to the sea.
But like most children now, Karin has never been to the beach. Can’t even imagine it. Even Caleb can scarcely remember it. It’s not a place you visit. He watches her hold the shell close to one ear, afraid of letting it touch. Her brow furrows. “It sounds empty,” she says.
My story, Myopia, was shortlisted in the Writers Union of Canada Postcard Story Competition.
I’m rather happy about this. I continue to hope to place it somewhere, and if that happens I will let you know.
Also, congratulations to the winner, Sharron Bertchilde, for her piece “Indra’s Net.”
After we fill in the grave, I brush dirt from your sleeve and you smile at me. The forest, complicit, drops leaves to cover our passing, and we make the main trail before dark. The hikers see only a couple in love. We kiss, and your mouth tastes like blood.