Her waist wreathed in clouds,
again, she withholds the rain,
sharing not a drop.
About the Creator
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More stories from Alabaster Wynn and writers in Poets and other communities.
A Fleet's Night to Remember
It is the third rap on the door that Frederick Fleet is unable to ignore. It rings out through the near-empty flat with such nostalgia, a memory cutting through the ever-rumbling din of the trainyard that sits just across the street. It is a rhythm that, for a moment, he fails to consciously place; still, his body reacts, and turns over in his uncomfortable twin bed, back now towards the door. Frederick is ignoring him, as he was always want to do when he would wake him in the middle of the night: Ollie, the ruddy-faced, snaggle-toothed boy who wrongly assumed that family, foster or otherwise, means forever; Ollie, the younger brother that Frederick never in a million years asked for but always misses when he has even the smallest crumb of food to share; that is who he’s choosing to ignore. Him, and not the off chance that it’s really the wreck commissioner at his door, finally come to collect him for another day of testimony and inquisition. Frederick sucks his teeth in annoyance, tongue fiddling in the gap of a missing molar. And then, someone raps that rap at the door again, and Frederick is up.
By Alabaster Wynn4 years ago in Fiction
A Little Bit Of God
January 2026 I thought I’d spend the night in neon lights on grainy film but my brother is telling me how an eternity of hell is caused by prevalent peace, and who am I to disrupt such a thing? So I found myself in the same skin with the same sights, wondering whether or not I am one of those– do I feel peace? Do I expect more when it is gone? It being everything. We’re running out of time but the car is belching up something strange and we’ve got God in between our eyes nodding along to every apology and plea spoken for our friends and loved ones– they don’t know any better, they’ll come around eventually. He’s telling me about barbed wire guides around lives and ties and wives and lies and, look, the snow is starting to fall so I guess we better hang up soon. But it’s been too long. We’re building fields of skills and realms of distrust and these moments are only seen now, can no longer be read as words, only swept with eyes upon oil pastels or smudged charcoal. It’s a painting of an evening, like Daniel’s soles in Edgar Degas’ mind, but if anything is just it’s the lack of unrest in skin like His and lives like this– okay, so maybe five hours on the phone is a lot if you have a job and you’re trying to cook dinner, but only one of us falls into that gorge and only one of us believes in what lies beneath it. My brother tells me things that sit in my spirit like half an ounce of prospect and a squeeze of bourn, how he tells God to let me in: despite my sins, despite all the moons in between these calls, despite the burning in both of our throats. I do feel peace here. I also feel that my peace is a subpar window job, a pinky’s strength avoiding blizzards inside the bedsheets. I’d like to spend more nights like this, with contrasting disaster living between a speakerphone, and God finding some space in between.
By Olivia Dodge7 days ago in Poets
Thoughts on Vocal and the way the world is
"Death cannot stop true love, only delay it." – Wesley in The Princess Bride. I decided to come back to Vocal on a very cold and dark night at the end of December. I had been, and still am, convalescing from a horrible staph infection that had gone misdiagnosed for months. This, paired with the increasing challenges of being healthy, making the best choices for my co-parented child, being a wife, and being a director at a new job, was a lot to manage.
By Jazzy 5 days ago in Confessions
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