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The first bite seemed to take moments that felt like minutes to develop on the tongue. Sweet, followed by strawberry with a hint of raspberry on the nose. It’s tartness coming to me almost instantly after the strawberry hit me. The icing was melting almost immediately upon my first chew. It was Sven’s birthday and I hadn’t seen him in years since our last get together, a funeral down in Key West. I could still taste the briny air and feel the wind on my hot, salty skin. Shrimp was cooking on the grill. Not too long I said, I hate it when it gets chewy. A little extra lemon please. She placed the chilled glass on the sail boat coaster next to me, condensation sweating off the glass in cool drops on my arm as she passed it across my body.
The ring of the bell tower over my shoulder startled me out of my fog. The mist parting in front of me. The breeze here was not crisp and cool like it was that night on the keys. It was stifling. It felt like I was inside the heart of a beating furnace. I yawn as the day gets to me. Fishing is not for the light hearted weak soul, especially if you don’t have your sea legs. Luckily my steadiness from which I draw my breaths help the assimilation to the sea manifest itself whenever I stand on the deck of a boat. I itch from the bite on my ankle. Slight sting. Intense itch. I can’t scratch it through my shoe and it’s driving me insane. My eyes burn with concentration as I try to reach the swollen raised bump under my sock. Every time I itch, it makes it worse. The moment the bridge was flooded by the saline spray of the Indian Ocean, I could tell things were going sideways.
My eyes stung like pickle juice had been flung into my eyes. I'm thinking too much and just need to write down in my log what's happened and where we are going, what we are doing, what I'm seeing, hearing. I taste the ocean on my lips as the boat rocks suddenly to the starboard side. My ankle gives way in a crack as I slip on the smooth floor of the cabin that's been my home for the last 3 months. I reach down to grab my ankle and suddenly the boat calms. Nothing's moving. Am I dreaming? I see a star over my left shoulder, its light blinding my eyes, leaving a glowing halo on my retinas that I can't look past. The orbs block my view of everything in front of me. Panic sets the hairs on my arms and neck to stand. Cling. Cling. Cling. It rings in my eyes as the water drains off my face, along with the blood in my veins. Smoke ringlets dance in front of me as the orbs start to dissipate. Clang. Clang. Clang. It rings again. Closer. More resonant. I hear footsteps on the cold grating above me, but my vision is still blurry. Consciousness leaves like an exorcism in reverse. Contorted and breathing heavily. I inhale the salty dew and go into a violent coughing fit. I'm not going to make it. Cling. Cling. Cling again. Wavering back and forth as the sinking vessel lists. I don't know where I am, but I see the sunlight and I see her face. I can keep my eyes open for only a few seconds longer. Cling. Clang. A rush of wind and light pours over me and I'm out in the sunlight before my eyes can adjust. Prize - sight, touch, hearing, smell, taste
Brian Theoret - July 7, 2025 The smell of gas fumes and burnt rubber filled my nostrils and my sweaty, damp forehead crunched up into a wrinkled mess as I took the corner at 107 miles per hour. The g-forces pulling on my neck and arms with such force, straining my muscles inside my flame suit. The computer at my fingertips, with its myriad of buttons, levers, and flashing lights went from green to red as I hit full RPMs at the apex of the curve. My mind was blank. I couldn't think. Or I didn't need to think because this was all automatic. My mind was so fast that everything felt like it was moving in slow motion. The taste of sweat on my lip, saline, boiling, humming. The blur of the red blazing lights in front of me blinking, as their battery sips on its charge, building kinetic momentum between the leads. The buzz of 50,000 to my right, the rattle of the curb to my left, I take the next corner at full speed, faster than I ever have before and I taste blood in the corner of my mouth. I must have bitten my lip on that last listing curve, almost rattling my fillings loose. I grip the steering wheel firmly but softly, it's a gentle touch that gets me around the track in one piece. If I grip, I'm bound to slip. I can see the glint and shimmer of the trophy. I can feel it, cold in my hands as I lift it above my head, the dryness of the champagne cooling my super-heated body and the crowd below, holding me up on their shoulders. It wasn't just me in that car. There was someone else. Somebody pushing me along, keeping me moving towards the checkered flag. I can see it again when I close my eyes. Black, white, like a checkerboard. Checkmate. A jingle whispers in my ear as I sit on the patio listening to the dull thud of the kick drum in the café down the dusty street. It's Monaco in the summer. I've never been but that's where my mind is taking me right now. I look up at the sun, its rays beating down on me, heavy with intensity and warmth, charring my skin. It's like I'm on a grill grate, slow-roasting from the indirect flame.
Zzzzz. Zzzzz. ZZZZZ! The black-and-yellow striped devil, with its shiny eyes and murderous face seems to blink at me as it hovers for a second in front of my eyes. I sit, trembling, sweating, not so much from the heat anymore, but from the impending sting. I hope it doesn't happen. I hope it doesn't land on my nose, its spindly legs tickling my nostrils before shoving its red-hot iron poker into my face. ZZZZZ! Zzzzz. zzzzz. I stand, legs trembling, aware of the sweat beads lingering on my cheek and forehead. My locked jaw unhinges and loosens. I hear the hum and rattle approaching again. An explosion of sound and wind comes around the corner. The papaya-colored sprinter flies by faster than the blink of an eye, yet the whine lingers for what feels like minutes. Is the buzzing in my mind or coming from my shoulder? I stop breathing for a moment. Chest heavy. Lungs bursting. I slowly turn my head, timidly, inching my view closer to my shoulder's crest. What would normally take a split-second feels like an age. The mischievous face blinks at me once again. My ankles are chilly as it’s cold in this room
I should do my chores but I can’t find my broom There’s dust on each surface and grit on the floor Just a small path uniting me with the door There’s only one clump of coal in my basket To keep this place warm and fit to inhabit I’ve run out of milk there’s a hole in my pocket No tea in the pantry the fever is starting The shuddering of windows as the wind says hello I can hear all my children skip and play down below Their laughter’s a smile to my worn tender face Last evening they picked me some primrose and lace We had us some porridge and bread with some milk Our tummies wrapped gently in velvety silk The raisins a treat from the bakery on Main Street We may not have much but we have us a family A blessing together our happy retreat The cold of winter can’t chop down this tree We had us some porridge and bread with some milk Our tummies wrapped gently in velvety silk The raisins a treat from the bakery on Main Street We may not have much but we have us a family A blessing together our happy retreat The cold of winter won’t chop down this tree The cold of the winter won’t chop down this tree The cold of the winter won’t chop down this tree Brian Theoret 12/14/24 I am about the head out on a journey to a place that doesn’t require shoes or shirts and arms will be itchy and legs wll be sore and minds will be racing while I head out the door. There will be whispers among the willows and wakings from beds that sway in the moonlight a pillow under head. There will be sunshine in the morning give thanks for looking over us. Your warmth provides cushions from the coldness of the North. The edge of the darkness will wander around your feet while the path lit up ahead will stamp out a beat. Beautiful buzzing bees will dance from petal to flower us with honey, sweet and drizzly under our tongues. Your waist up to the water will be surrounding every inch and bog full of bull frogs as they cantor in the wind. The whispers among the willows once again will wake us from our slumber in the pine grove by the windmill in our minds.
I have stories to learn and lessons to earn in the confines of my mind.
I’ll take the line and sort out the moss on the rotted logs as I jump across rivers flowing rapid down the white water canyons of time. I’ll write the hymns humming in caverns like bearfoot whispers dancing in the moonlight. I’ll sing it out loud until my voice turns gritty, harmonies sung through the branches of a barren tree yearning for cover under moonlit eyes. A free write exercise. July 10, 2023 Writing Prompt - He learned the hardest lesson of his life and had the scars, both physical and mental, to prove it. It was the beginning of another week. Another day. Another month. He set out to make it be a different day then the last 273 days.
His mind had just begun wrapping itself around facts that haunted him for what felt like an eternity. Scars had developed behind his eyes so he saw them everywhere he looked. Not physical in nature but actual in their emotionality. What does that mean to him? What does it say? He wanders around the desert wanting water but he's carrying it all on his back. He could drink for days but he doesn't have a straw. He could walk out into the ocean but the salty sea would swallow him. He could wander down the path up the hill over the bluff onto the sand into the sun over the rocky pebbles of the wave battered beach. He should whistle but his lips are dry from parched conversations in the moonlight. He draws his wrist out in front of him, looking at the veins as they pulse. He knows he's alive but he's yet to live again. He's learned the hardest lessons but can't move away or towards them. He's stuck. He's stationary. He's unwaveringly undecided. He's wilting under the heat of the moment that painted physical and mental scars on his body and his mind. He's wondering what he can do. He's wondering what he can say. He's pondering the meaning of those lessons that he learned 273 days ago. 12 minutes pass and he hasn't blinked. 11 more and he starts to whisper. 10 minutes drag him up onto his feet. 9 leaves fall from the tree in front of him. 8 times he stuck his foot out from off the curb yet put it back down without moving ahead. 7 meals he ate alone without taking a bite. 6 rolls of the dice before he saw the eyes of the snake. 5 fingers ran through his hair and he relaxed. Finally. 4 minutes passed before their stare was broken. 3 beers between the 2 and they became 1 again. I am tired.
I am sore. I am winded. I’m spread out on the floor. I’m scared. I’ve fared. I am wounded. I’m sent out the door. I’ve thought. I’ve pondered. I am whistling. I’m going to the store. To pick up some bread and milk and eggs. It’s time for some French Toast. Sometimes using the alphabet as a literary crutch becomes an exercise worth doing. In this exercise I used every letter of the alphabet to create a short story in prose form. It's really difficult to get anything to work with the letter "X" as there were very few words I could think of in the moment that started with X. This always ends up being a fun exercise whenever I do it. Anderson crept along the cliff edge
Bribing the seagulls to squawk Careless his toe caught a stone and Down the hill he dropped Every moment passed by his eyes Flashed in between the seconds Gaining speed he began to panic How am I going to make it? Intertwined within the branches Just beyond the cliff-wall’s edge Kept his eye on a piece of rope Length of which he couldn’t have said Making a last ditch effort’s worth Not having another chance Out he reached to grab the rope Praying he trusted his glance Questions answered in one blink Reaching one last time Scorching hands to a halt The moment he held the line Under pressure he heard a crack above Vicious burning in his hands With an inch to spare it held him “X-ray Tango Delta copy?” “Yessir loud and clear” “Zero chance to let this slide?” #writingprompt #whatwordsstartwithx #alphabet In this episode of Writer's Block I tackle a couple of verses for a brand new song inspired by a childhood memory.
Took the railing in my hand Slid down to meet the ground Upon arrival the wood it split In my hand a splinter was found It took my breath outta my lungs Gasping for an inch of relief Wonder from the fall is what I found A jagged sword or an olive branch wreath In my Writer’s Block Series I talk about songwriting, what tools I use to get the lyrics right, how to break through writer's block, my inspirations for the songs I'm writing and you get to see it all as it’s happening in real time. For more Videos in my Writer's Block Series: 🖋 http://bit.ly/WritersBlockPlaylist 🖋 Winter storm impending inches
Gathered in the corner lot Suddenly the track it changes Staring down this little spot Fixtures stuck in solid ground Will soon be under foot The snow will bury everything The squirrels are really spooked Their tails they flicker to and fro Perched upon their branches Seeking out some shelter As they gather nuts in bunches The finches dance and tweet aloud Seeds within their beaks Making sure their nests are sturdy Ready for the sleet The generator’s primed and ready Humming drones sipping fuel Steadfast waiting for the snowflakes To get the message to the crew It’s almost time to rev up engines Hope the stations don’t run out Get those plows ready to push Uncover buried towns Another warning came our way This morning on the news “We’re expecting 3-36 inches” Said old Miss “Weathered” Sue She’s predicted storms back in the past That turned out to be nothing We're not prepared if this comes true So we’ll be eating stove top stuffing That’s all we have beside some bread PB&J and oats We have some milk and eggs to boot We could just make some toast The storm’s a-coming it’s true said she Old Miss “Weathered” Sue Batten down the hatches Get some candles, matches, soup Winter warnings watches boots Gloves and hats and coats that poof The track it shifted once again I think this really was a spoof Come on over, the griddle’s hot I think I’ll put on a fresh pot At least we have enough supplies To make French toast for sixty-five "Winter Storm Warning" is a poem by Brian Theoret. The pinks and purples and orange flares
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