Contributor: Brian Barbeito
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Summer rains and purple cotton, where the cool women go, or the fantastic plastic horse from so many years and days and nights ago that it is a miracle to think existence can bring you so far. Dreams of police with the faces of pigs, because someone mentioned they were such, and the old man J-walked and got hit by cars by the grocery store afternoon. The grand church, and the ceilings with saints, where the Madonna will crush the snake with her feet, where the bleached blond knowing one will survey the scene, and the cross-town market is there with nooks and crannies- people old and in heavy suits. The world there and in other places was full of electrical tape, splinters, needle nose pliers, silver watches, cords, small Christmas Trees for the faithful, diligent crates of candies waiting, close angels whispering in the ear, other spirits too, and night terrors, visions, a ringing in the ear, an intensity indescribable, and some kind of hope or chance. But it was also laden with dust and the idea of things that were past their time and only the poor might really want them. If the autumnal leaves swept through the town like a loud racket it would be good, or if winter came and painted everything with snow...or even spring and her flowers trying to survive by the roadside or in an old grandmother’s garden...but it was the summer rains, where the cool women go, and those women are not humble, generous, or wise. The world flashes on and off, and someone tries to remember a dream while another on the other side of the earth tries to dream a dream. The whole thing is sometimes muddied, and sometimes clear, but all the time sacrosanct in the end, though we can’t see it right now, blocked as we are by summer rains and the way of things.
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Brian Michael Barbeito writes impressionistic vignettes, flash fiction, short stories, prose poetry, experimental novels, book and film reviews. His work has appeared at Glossolalia, Subtle Fiction, Mudjob, Six Sentences, Thinking Ten, American Chronicle, Our Echo, Ezine Authors, Author Nation, A Million Stores, Crimson Highway, Paragraph Planet, Useless-Knowledge Magazine, Exclusive Conclave of Delights Magazine, and Lunatics Folly. His work is forthcoming in the Contemporary Literary Horizons Journal, and in Kurungabaa Magazine. He is the author of ‘postprandial,’ an experimental novel, and a compilation of his work, ‘Vignettes,’ is being compiled. Brian resides in Ontario, Canada
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Summer rains and purple cotton, where the cool women go, or the fantastic plastic horse from so many years and days and nights ago that it is a miracle to think existence can bring you so far. Dreams of police with the faces of pigs, because someone mentioned they were such, and the old man J-walked and got hit by cars by the grocery store afternoon. The grand church, and the ceilings with saints, where the Madonna will crush the snake with her feet, where the bleached blond knowing one will survey the scene, and the cross-town market is there with nooks and crannies- people old and in heavy suits. The world there and in other places was full of electrical tape, splinters, needle nose pliers, silver watches, cords, small Christmas Trees for the faithful, diligent crates of candies waiting, close angels whispering in the ear, other spirits too, and night terrors, visions, a ringing in the ear, an intensity indescribable, and some kind of hope or chance. But it was also laden with dust and the idea of things that were past their time and only the poor might really want them. If the autumnal leaves swept through the town like a loud racket it would be good, or if winter came and painted everything with snow...or even spring and her flowers trying to survive by the roadside or in an old grandmother’s garden...but it was the summer rains, where the cool women go, and those women are not humble, generous, or wise. The world flashes on and off, and someone tries to remember a dream while another on the other side of the earth tries to dream a dream. The whole thing is sometimes muddied, and sometimes clear, but all the time sacrosanct in the end, though we can’t see it right now, blocked as we are by summer rains and the way of things.
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Brian Michael Barbeito writes impressionistic vignettes, flash fiction, short stories, prose poetry, experimental novels, book and film reviews. His work has appeared at Glossolalia, Subtle Fiction, Mudjob, Six Sentences, Thinking Ten, American Chronicle, Our Echo, Ezine Authors, Author Nation, A Million Stores, Crimson Highway, Paragraph Planet, Useless-Knowledge Magazine, Exclusive Conclave of Delights Magazine, and Lunatics Folly. His work is forthcoming in the Contemporary Literary Horizons Journal, and in Kurungabaa Magazine. He is the author of ‘postprandial,’ an experimental novel, and a compilation of his work, ‘Vignettes,’ is being compiled. Brian resides in Ontario, Canada
Author:
Brian Barbeito
Brian,
This is a fine example of your writing. After reading this piece I visualized your writing as a laser pointer. Your pen shines a bright light on small details and then brings them all together like a lens to enable your readers to take notice.
Your writing is important.
John Waters