Category Archives: Writing

Fictional Writing

Posted on November 12, 2018 by John Swinburn

Wherein the writer attempts, unsuccessfully, to return to writing fiction vignettes, producing swill and incoherent drivel instead. Coleman Daniel Sprague was the first person convicted under the new thought-crime statutes. The charges against him were extensive. The first count with … Continue reading →

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That Miserable Thought

Posted on November 11, 2018 by John Swinburn

I euthanized that miserable thought, that idea that reeked of the stench of rancid self-indulgence. I ran a spear through its heart and I severed its head. After a day, I threw the rotting corpse of that thought into a … Continue reading →

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Published

Posted on October 1, 2018 by John Swinburn

One poem. Finally published. They (Do South Magazine) selected the one poem I submitted, Emotion. Now that it’s in print, I wish I’d submitted something else. But wishing is an idiotic undertaking, isn’t it? So I’ll try to stop. I … Continue reading →

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Experience

Posted on September 24, 2018 by John Swinburn

Walk through the hardest moments. Walk without stumbling. Slice through the fear with a machete of resolve, tempered with rage and trembling with unbending purpose. Step over the broken pieces of bad judgments turned to ugly regrets. Push through the … Continue reading →

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For future use

Posted on September 11, 2018 by John Swinburn

This just fell from my fingers a while ago. I felt I had to capture it for future use and this is the only place I can reliably find stuff. So… He lured her in with food. It started with … Continue reading →

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Elevator Eyes

Posted on September 8, 2018 by John Swinburn

Loudly speak the word “transubstantiation,” enunciating clearly, in a crowded elevator and observe the reactions of the people around you. There may be one or two who, not quite sure what was just announced, will say, “Excuse me?” Another couple … Continue reading →

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Old Home Week

Posted on July 26, 2018 by John Swinburn

We arrived at the fringes of Corpus Christi yesterday afternoon around 4:30, locating our newish hotel situated in an industrial district near the Coastal Bend State Veterans Cemetary.  All along Interstate 37, our route into the city, chemical and/or petrochemical … Continue reading →

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A Simple Desultory Dystopic

Posted on July 23, 2018 by John Swinburn

I recall a somber afternoon in January when it all began to fall apart. We knew we were circling the drain, but we didn’t realize just how quickly we would be sucked into the septic tank, that basin awash in … Continue reading →

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A Miss for the Moonbegotten

Posted on July 19, 2018 by John Swinburn

I spent part of yesterday afternoon painting colorful little circles on a small canvas. The endeavor was part of an art lesson in which the leader was explaining the relationships between primary colors, secondary colors, and tertiary colors. While it … Continue reading →

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Raccoon Encounters

Posted on July 9, 2018 by John Swinburn

For the second time in just over a week, a raccoon managed to make its way to our back deck, which is at least seventeen feet above the ground. Metal tubes, wrapped around the middle sections of six by six … Continue reading →

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Vicarious Escape

Posted on June 15, 2018 by John Swinburn

A eighty-year-old friend whose husband died recently called me from her road trip this afternoon. She was waiting in her grandson’s driveway in Prescott, Arizona for his arrival. She had just gotten to his house when she received my text, … Continue reading →

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If I Were a Tailor, I’d Stitch a Book

Posted on June 14, 2018 by John Swinburn

I suppose I always intended to write a book. Or, rather, to have written a book. I’ve never wanted to begin the process, only to complete it. And I wanted no part of the effort involved between starting and finishing … Continue reading →

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Less Traveled

Posted on April 19, 2018 by John Swinburn

My wife and I have had extremely good fortune with regard to travel. We’ve been lots of places, both together and separately, that would cause a lot of people to express envy at our good fortune.  But the degree of … Continue reading →

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A Start for L’Audible Art

Posted on April 18, 2018 by John Swinburn

The realization washed over me like a monstrous, rogue wave flushes the air and hope for the future from a quiet cove on a peaceful island. (Too much? Yeah, probably.)  A deadline looms and I am utterly unprepared for it. … Continue reading →

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Reviving the Town’s Soul

Posted on February 11, 2018 by John Swinburn

I’ve played with the town of Struggles, Arkansas, using it in a few vignettes I’ve posted on this blog and in a few stories I’ve drafted. When I conceived of the town, I had a specific picture of the place … Continue reading →

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The Awful Secret

Posted on February 6, 2018 by John Swinburn

A tiny knot of local would-be writers has been playing with the idea of strengthening our skills by marrying art with writing. The idea is to use a piece of art (painted by the husband of one of the women … Continue reading →

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Last Man Down

Posted on February 1, 2018 by John Swinburn

“On the cusp of my departure, my words are hollow and weak, as I struggle to describe the man I wished I’d been, a speck of the decent man I failed to be. I tried but I failed. I could … Continue reading →

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Compassion in Winter

Posted on January 7, 2018 by John Swinburn

The frigid fingers of winter, long and cold and callous, can tear at the fibers of compassion when the homeless are left to fend for themselves in cardboard homes behind picket fences stitched together with razor wire and disdain. Whose … Continue reading →

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Snake Sighting

Posted on January 3, 2018 by John Swinburn

Gwynn Slottman was deathly afraid of snakes. The mere sight of an elongated, limbless reptile sent her into a panic-stricken delirium of the highest order. She screamed, swore, and jumped on chairs and tables. Sweat poured from her brow. Perspiration … Continue reading →

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A Real Memory, Unwelcome but Unchallenged

Posted on November 25, 2017 by John Swinburn

I’m not sure which of the two of us were more guilty. I suspect it was me, though she could have made the first move. That’s always been the case though, hasn’t it? I was the one who felt unloved … Continue reading →

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Ice

Posted on November 25, 2017 by John Swinburn

I remember that night when you fell through the ice. You were so sure of yourself. You were such a fool. “No way I’m gonna fall through,” you shouted back at me as I pleaded with you to come back. … Continue reading →

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Jumble

Posted on October 19, 2017 by John Swinburn

I have more things to say than I can put into words. My thoughts are jumbled, random, unconnected. I’m soaked in confusion, amplified by world events and streaked with fear and anger, and muddled by beads of hope so small … Continue reading →

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Pendulum

Posted on October 9, 2017 by John Swinburn

The bob of our pendulum is a razor sharp disk, cutting the air with its long swings before gravity and time curtail its trajectory, when it cuts our ties with time and severs the cables that bind us to this … Continue reading →

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Serpent

Posted on September 8, 2017 by John Swinburn

“What in the name of God is that?” Brenda’s voice hissed, jarring Carl’s attention, as the unexpected sound erupted from behind his left shoulder. “Why do you do that? You startled the hell out of me.” “Sorry. Well, what is it?” … Continue reading →

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Clenched

Posted on August 24, 2017 by John Swinburn

Dangling from a mesquite shrub on the edge of a cliff, nothing below me but sharp rocks a thousand feet below, I reach up for that helping hand that’s not there. It’s dark here on the precipice, dark and lonely, … Continue reading →

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