Vol.3 Issue.1

My name is Charish and I’ve been calling myself a writer for a while now. Where do I get these ideas about other people? I work in a library and I’m constantly observing the interesting people that frequent it. I find that I have nothing better to do. Work? Yeah, I guess I could get around to that. I ride the city buses and there is no shortage of writing material. Something slightly strange is always happening on a bus. Just the other day, I suspected the man in front of me was pretending to be deaf while flirting with a couple of co-ed, sitting across from him.

I have a muse in the form of an eight-year-old me. I realized that I was my most creative when I was eight. I talked to myself, told lies, and tried to stand on my head. I don’t believe life can get anymore creative. I continually refer to my muse so she can remind me that it’s okay to ask a multitude of questions, laugh raucously at my own jokes, bite my nails, and speak in foreign accents. I keep her placated with sugary snacks and rolled up baloney slices. We get along pretty well. Other than writing and feeding my muse, I read when I can and watch plenty of television. You can’t ever read too many books nor watch too much television. This is the God’s honest truth.

Leather Captain

Charish Halliburton

 

He was Ahab in a leather jacket

Shit kicking boots and silver earring

His lofty stature; like an aging oak

This comely gent did not wish to dally

 

He waited to use the copy machine

But there was a line to stand behind

“Sir, there’s another copy machine to use,”

I said, in awe, as I stared up at him

 

He smiled an nodded acknowledgment

In a deep rumbled voice, he said, “Thank you.”

My face turned red for a man twice my age

He walked to the machine with a purpose

 

Assuredly, his copies were produced

I watched him leave without preamble.

 

Euphemism Campus Box 5555 Illinois State University Normal, IL 61790