Friends I’ve invented work at diners
and coffee shops ’til the sun sets.
At night, who knows what they do? They don’t
exist excepting our interactions, yet I
often wonder, worry about them — how
might their lives have led to mine, their
mistakes, lost opportunities and loves.
How come drab rooms become dank wombs
for the dark and lowly people, my friends?
Friends, I’m proud to present The Adept Writer #2. Our lineup this week features nine authors you need to start paying attention to:
Natalie Hernandez’ “Red Light District” sizzles with sex.
Claire LeDoyen’s math poetry is unlike anything you’ve ever seen. Really.
Joel Nickel’s latest work may have you questioning social media and/or your sanity.
Andrew Hill’s carefully chosen words are guaranteed to singe.
A.A. Knight presents a gripping psychological portrayal of the dynamics of relationships.
JihbazFubyok hammers hard, presenting the reality of life without compromise.
Deyalyn Batista is a first-timer publishing with The Adept Writer. Her work is stunningly artful, yet visceral.
Ryan McGinnis’ poem will haunt, deconstructing the essence of love.
Samantha McLain’s work stands up with the best of The Twilight Zone.
Alfonso Colasuonno, Founder, The Adept Writer
You can follow Ryan at: scriabinist.tumblr.com and rrmcginnis.tumblr.com
It is Sunday at around one in the morning, and it’s the Jack in the Box on Geary. Inside, it is as packed now as it would be at one in the afternoon. Outside, a cadre of police officers are surrounding a man, with their…
Enjoy my typo.
My history of failed romances is best represented
by the list of saved passwords my web browser
keeps for Netflix.
I am leaving. I took the colors off the walls again, and the whiteness left behind is blinding and empty, and the corners are especially incongruent and painful. I took out the furniture, and revealed the subterranean blight keeping me sickly. My back is worse now. I’m surrounded by my life as told by objects. I took out pieces of paper people wrote on for me. I threw some of them away. Those things are meaningless and those people are gone. This room was their final rest. I kept the light out for years to preserve their whiteness. Now the light moves freely. I don’t. Not yet. I’m crawling still and stepping around hazards with my hands. I am leaving behind two years of worry and mistakes. Something was learned here even if it was procedures for taking steps backwards. I lost friends in this room. If the closet was big enough I might’ve saved their skeletons. I am leaving. I stayed up in this room to contemplate its sonorousness when hollowed out, its obdurate shape, a final time. No one was supposed to live here in a constant state of maneuver. I broke my heart in here. Keep out. I am leaving.
here, starting now, I will intermittently post bits of writing - verse, prose, in-progress, abandoned, discovered, hidden, astounding, shameful, everything - that I want you to see. thank you.
(a dash implies interruption, and in this place a poem not yet finished. and I am sorry if the numbered narrative becomes interrupted. I sometimes change my mind.)