New England Poet
Bio
Novice writer and nature lover. Here to admire and learn from others' works whilst sharing my own voice.
Stories (15)
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The Last Spell in the Margins
The house at the end of Holy Cross Road looked like it had let out its final breath. The rooftop sagged slightly, and the shutters leaned off-kilter toward the soil. Even the fence, once pristine white, was now yellowed and peeling. Inside, the family picked through the remains of Eliza Bankop’s estate with hazy, tired eyes. Piles began to take shape as her adult children divided what was left. The younger grandchildren dashed around the mess, their energy unleashed after sitting still through the two-hour funeral. In the kitchen, the spouses chatted with beers in hand, unfazed by the solemn occasion.
By New England Poet 7 months ago in Pride
Bloom
I look in the mirror and I see a friend. Someone's daughter, lover, some-day mother. She is meticulously crafted from the Earth's dust and she is the universe given form. Her cheeks are red with the blood of life and her limbs are thick with nutrients and strength. Her curves are immaculate and authentic, like she is Venus reborn. She is beautiful, inside and out.
By New England Poet 9 months ago in Pride
The Oak Tree. Content Warning.
I watch the news coverage of your trial months later. I don’t have cable up in the mountains, so I have to travel to a small cafe in the valley that offers free internet. There is a small TV in the corner that can stream various news channels. The owner of the cafe does not ask me why I return every day to watch a criminal trial on her small TV. She just places my black tea beside me - I won’t drink coffee anymore - and then she leaves me be.
By New England Poet 9 months ago in Fiction
The Sprout. Content Warning.
The furnace rumbles to life as the clock hits 7:02am. Your chest rises and falls again my spine. I have been wide awake for several minutes, staring at the gray, concrete wall inches from my face. My thoughts do not race or jog. They walk in a casual but continuous stride through the center of my mind.
By New England Poet 9 months ago in Fiction
The Seed. Content Warning.
Dig a hole. Plant the seed. Bury with soil. Dig a hole. Plant the seed. Bury with soil. I'm hunched over the flowerbed with dirt caked up to my elbows. The sun is harsh upon my back, and the ground is hard under my knees. It's been 179 days since I realized that the safest thing to do was to act exactly how you wanted me to. Even if it was the exact opposite of how I really felt.
By New England Poet 9 months ago in Fiction
The Soil
I hear the soft pads of your feet descend the stair case, quickly followed by the hurried sound of paws on hardwood. I pause reading the newspaper and look up as Milo, our three-year-old German shorthair, rounds the corner first and gallops over to me. I scratch behind the pup's ears, laughing when he rolls over to show me his belly.
By New England Poet 10 months ago in Fiction
Rot.
Today I'm awash with self-loathing. When I gaze into the mirror I see a dull, fickle, incompetent child. She doesn't know how to work hard, and she'll never be a responsible adult. She's embarrassing. She's low-born. Why else would she come out of college without a job lined up?
By New England Poet 2 years ago in Poets
