Miscellaneous Writings and Musings


A genie and her rock band

(Novel and Short Stories)

Steal Tomorrow

Steal Tomorrow
Murder, Mystery, First Love, and the End of the World

(Novel and Short Stories)

My Books and Stories

My Books and Stories
Where to Buy, Read, Download

55 - Insect

I was there when the strange winged creature landed. I wasn't sure what to think. A few curious people wandered over and we speculated. We weren't afraid of the monster, but maybe we should have been, since the odd being's presence led to an invasion of art-seekers, followed by that even more noxious species: tourists.

Note: This work of art was observed in Terlingua.

This is your last time to submit your 55-word story to Mr. Knowitall, so get on over there!


I saw you
with a hole inside
that could not be filled
with mercy
(though I tried).

With the cunning
of a judo master,
you took my food
milk of human kindness
and turned it into
something foul,
fuel for self-destruction,
an ugly, noxious thing,
a flame
that gives no warmth,
only ash.

And so I waited for the end,
wrote the obit,
held my breath,
picked out my widow’s weeds.

But you have emerged
from the fire,
a degenerate angel
transformed to man.
And now I see the truth:
that all our darkest moments
precede dawn.

This is a Three Word Wednesday post.


Each fever runs its course:
white heat,
No quick healing here,
just an endless grind:
ground down
and plenty of

Cast into the desert,
stung and sweating,
searching for something
(to hold onto)
searching for someone
(with an answer)
but in response,
the dismal quartet of words:
It's not my job.
It's not my job.

No one can help you here.

So I watch the time
tick away,
each additional second
a further weight to bear.
Longing for escape
is only natural,
for the fever burns,
and contains no answers.

Today i am made of little pieces,
tied together with twine.
Fuel for the fire.

This was written for The Sunday Whirl.

55 - Silverware

Too many spoons.
What should he do?
Though he pondered it often,
he hadn't a clue.
Then a friend said,
"Go make a zoo.
Take that old silver
and make it like new!"
So that's what he did,
using forks and knives, too.
If you're near Big Bend park,
you can now buy a few.

Does your work of art contain exactly 55 word? Tell the G-Man!


It’s just a little phobia,
that we can love
and yet despise;
hold each other close
while miles apart.

And though I search
for something true,
true to life
true to you
(and me)
authenticity eludes my grasp
and I am left
with empty hands.

Should I try again
and risk contempt?

Oh, hide away the ego
and enlist common sense
to guard it,
lest we do more damage
than before.

Tiptoe quietly past.
Let sleeping dogs lie.

This was written for Three Word Wednesday.


Green days and sunshine
turn to Indian Summer,
and the small but telling signs
that winter comes.

Nothing in a bottle will save you.

Season's turning
strips us bare,
and truth's towering form
casts its shadow.

Dust to dust.

Youth is squeezed out
of mottled hands,
flesh goes slack.
The body yearns
to plop into a wicker chair,
fuss and  fury ended.

But the mind still feels
spring's caress
and, seeing youth
pass along a city street,
recalls an earlier season.

Fires die but sparks remain,
and I will eat of the apple
all the days of my life.

This was written for The Sunday Whirl.

55 - Terlingua Afternoon

They brought me here in the old pickup. Now they're hammering and calling to each other. At the other end of the patio, a man without shoes strums a guitar. Tourists wander around with cameras and sometimes go inside to buy a t-shirt. I just lie here, soaking up the sun.

Another day in Terlingua.

Dog lounging outside the Starlight Theater (now a restaurant) in Terlingua ghost town.

Have you written a story in exactly 55 words? Don't keep it to yourself! Tell Mr. Knowitall.


We moderns stride about,
smug in certainty
and gizmos,
muttering paeans to our gods
via Bluetooth.

We live indulgent lives:
instant answers
instant love
beamed by satellites
and towers.

But still there remain
pockets of wildness.
Devoutly tapping
yields no magic here.
Only rocks will answer.

Note: Photo taken on recent visit to Big Bend National Park.

This is a Three Word Wednesday post.

55 - Jacal

He had only a shack
of ocotillo and mud
but he raised a large family
and was known as a stud.

With wives in two countries
and friends in three nations
old Señor Luna
had quite the relations.

And though he was poor,
never did something great,
this tough old Latino
lived to be 108!

Gilberto Luna had wives on both sides of the US-Mexico border and at least 11 children, possibly more. He raised many of them in this jacal in what is now Big Bend National Park. He died in 1947.

Have you written a story using exactly 55 words? Tell Mr. Knowitall and join the fun!