Sharon took a slow deep breath of the foreign air and a faint smile rose her cheeks heavenward. White clouds sailed on a blue canvas and the sun flickered on and off.
A light wind blew her skirt a little and she pressed her arms against her legs. She walked towards the water and knelt down stretching her palm flat on the ground. "The grass here is so green and beautiful!". Matthew was standing behind her and his shadow shaded her small figure. "Honey, I don't think that's grass."
By Timothy Poovey
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Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Crystal Clear
On Monday he went on a walk in the woods.
He left the path, and walked where the briars were thick.
Pushing his body through a doorway of thorns,
he discovered something unusual.
77 feet tall at the tip of it's delicate spire,
turning only as the breeze seemed to permit;
a carousel made of blown glass enshrined
in the root structure of the oak and pine trees
that made a ballroom of the forest.
There was only one animal on the carousel,
and it was a panther posed in a gentle prowl.
He knew not to touch it, the glass was very thin.
He left the woods intending to keep it only as a memory.
***
Weeks went by and he drank with his friends.
They had fun and talked each about the events of their own lives.
His intentions of forgetting faded, and he thought of it every day.
It became all he could talk about, and he wanted to show them.
His best friend came with him first into the woods.
He remembered every step of the way.
In what was left of the evening sun they came into the ballroom,
the last light glinting on the top of it's tallest part.
He let out a deep breath and smiled.
His friend could not see it at all.
One by one he brought all of his friends to this place
which at this point, he was visiting daily.
None of them could see it,
but they were good friends, so they would drink and listen
to him describe that with which he was so enamored.
****
Months went by and his friends grew tired of the same adventure.
They told him it was a fantasy
and did not want to go with him any more.
On Sunday, the boy disappeared into the woods.
Sitting alone in front of it, waiting for the breeze to make it spin.
He and it belonged to, and were a part of each other.
Weeks went by and he often thought of walking closer, even touching it.
His friends were worried and came looking for him.
They knew where to go.
They left him food and water.
The boy had become as intangible and ghostly as his fantasy.
In the morning he walked over to it.
Though he was nervous of disrupting it's balance
He forced his hand towards it.
Centimeters away however, he felt as though
he were betraying his relationship with this beautiful object
and stopped himself.
After weeks of sitting near it, eating what his friends brought him
he began to hate it, but couldn't look away.
***
It was the middle of the night.
The moon was reflecting in the eyes of the panther.
A bright sensation rushed over the boy's body and
leaping to his feet, he ran towards the carousel.
The moon was behind the clouds.
The crashing was invisible in the darkness.
He spent the next 3 nights
bleeding in the dirt.
The ballroom was vacant and ordinary.
His friends found him a few days later,
laying by the stream that wound
through the woods.
They could see the cuts, but not the glass.
They stitched him up and in the next days
made him healthy.
For a while he kept some of the invisible pieces
on the mantle above his fire place:
the panther's paw, and the whiskers that were removed from his side.
He kept them right next to a fish he had caught,
it was bigger than you and me.
He left the path, and walked where the briars were thick.
Pushing his body through a doorway of thorns,
he discovered something unusual.
77 feet tall at the tip of it's delicate spire,
turning only as the breeze seemed to permit;
a carousel made of blown glass enshrined
in the root structure of the oak and pine trees
that made a ballroom of the forest.
There was only one animal on the carousel,
and it was a panther posed in a gentle prowl.
He knew not to touch it, the glass was very thin.
He left the woods intending to keep it only as a memory.
***
Weeks went by and he drank with his friends.
They had fun and talked each about the events of their own lives.
His intentions of forgetting faded, and he thought of it every day.
It became all he could talk about, and he wanted to show them.
His best friend came with him first into the woods.
He remembered every step of the way.
In what was left of the evening sun they came into the ballroom,
the last light glinting on the top of it's tallest part.
He let out a deep breath and smiled.
His friend could not see it at all.
One by one he brought all of his friends to this place
which at this point, he was visiting daily.
None of them could see it,
but they were good friends, so they would drink and listen
to him describe that with which he was so enamored.
****
Months went by and his friends grew tired of the same adventure.
They told him it was a fantasy
and did not want to go with him any more.
On Sunday, the boy disappeared into the woods.
Sitting alone in front of it, waiting for the breeze to make it spin.
He and it belonged to, and were a part of each other.
Weeks went by and he often thought of walking closer, even touching it.
His friends were worried and came looking for him.
They knew where to go.
They left him food and water.
The boy had become as intangible and ghostly as his fantasy.
In the morning he walked over to it.
Though he was nervous of disrupting it's balance
He forced his hand towards it.
Centimeters away however, he felt as though
he were betraying his relationship with this beautiful object
and stopped himself.
After weeks of sitting near it, eating what his friends brought him
he began to hate it, but couldn't look away.
***
It was the middle of the night.
The moon was reflecting in the eyes of the panther.
A bright sensation rushed over the boy's body and
leaping to his feet, he ran towards the carousel.
The moon was behind the clouds.
The crashing was invisible in the darkness.
He spent the next 3 nights
bleeding in the dirt.
The ballroom was vacant and ordinary.
His friends found him a few days later,
laying by the stream that wound
through the woods.
They could see the cuts, but not the glass.
They stitched him up and in the next days
made him healthy.
For a while he kept some of the invisible pieces
on the mantle above his fire place:
the panther's paw, and the whiskers that were removed from his side.
He kept them right next to a fish he had caught,
it was bigger than you and me.
by justin hantz
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Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Their Little Secret
Each pumpkin that glowed bright orange on the porches streamed up and down the street and made Charlie think of his neighborhood as one big Christmas tree as he sped along on his bike. The clicks of the playing card he had stuck in his spokes came to a halt at the old abandoned mansion that towered in front of him. It's rotten foundation and broken windows looked like an old mean face. The rustling leaves were the soundtrack and somewhere a gate was opening and closing. Mary parked her bike beside him and they gazed silently at the haunted house. They were a very cute ghost couple there in the night. Charlie took Mary's hand and they walked in the front door timidly. It was dark and empty except for old furniture and grandfather clocks covered in silver cobwebs. Mary whispered through her sheet "I think I heard something upstairs." They climbed the creaky steps carefully. Charlie pushed open the door to the master bedroom and tip toed over to the dresser. There was a small picture frame on it that contained an old photograph of Mr.Driftwood. This had once been his home. Charlie and Mary stared at his face through the dust it had collected. He removed his satchel and placed the small frame inside. Charlie thought "Now we have proof." They looked at each other through their eyeholes and knew the other was smiling too. They left the mansion and mounted their bikes. Mary said "Lets go smash some pumpkins!" and they rode off in the brisk Halloween night laughing and shouting. Later on when they were married they would tell their children this story every Halloween as a tradition. They left out the part about smashing pumpkins though. That was their little secret.
By Timothy Poovey MORE
By Timothy Poovey MORE
Saturday, June 6, 2009
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Old Turkey was not an elegant bird.
Walking like he just woke up, Old Turkey came down the mountain.
Dumb and violent, scratching the dirt road with his feet.
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His eyes, yellow and as always bloodshot.
I thought I remembered him being smaller.
He stared at my window
taking interest, walking toward it.
I thought he saw me but Im not sure
He pecked at my window
His fingernails yellowed from tobacco.
I moved away and his gaze didn't follow me.
Too old and blind.
Like an elaborately delusional bully,
he was fighting his own reflection.
I ran at the window to scare him off.
My face and his reflection merged.
He grew and spread his useless wings
beating their feathers against my window,
in what was an attempt to make a failed escape
look like an attack.
I cant believe I am involved with him
enough to laugh at his failure.
It's maybe more out of relief
that I had flinched at something stupid.
maybe it's pity or something else,
regardless, I'm laughing.
Whatever. Ill get him some bread.
He was pacing around in the rain,
yelling unintelligible things from
his pink dinosaur throat.
He actually saw me this time.
menacingly he paced toward me.
lower to the ground
like I couldn't see him hunting.
I broke the bread and gave him some.
He looked up. Mouth Open
the bread fell and his posture didn't change.
Hypnotized, he had never considered
where the rain came from.
It wasnt the epiphany that killed him,
He choked to death on the weather.
His huge wet frustrated body, dead in my yard.
Dont things smell less in the rain?
I thought I remembered him being smaller.
Old Turkey was not an elegant bird.
by justin hantz
Monday, March 9, 2009
A story for Gus
It was somewhere in the midwest, I dont remember where.
somewhere flat, I dont remember when. Around 1900.
It was a monday. Late afternoon.
She walked down the same dirt road she walked down to get to the market
only this time she was going to see the fair. She was dressed for a summer fair,
hair pulled back, polkadot dress. about 14. Her mother said it was okay.
As it got dark the fair described it's place with lights and music in the distance.
When she got there it was magic, everybody in town was there. Alot of people
Alot of rides and alot of salesmen.
They sold everything from bicycles to goldfish in a bowl. They sold apple pies and
baseballs. America and the new way of life.
One Salesman caught her attention with his pitch.
He promised to sell her something she had never seen before. Something
she had never dreamed of. Oh but maybe this wasn't for her, she didn't look like a dreamer.
What would she do with it anyway?
She insisted otherwise and walked into the tent where he uncovered a cage
full of tiny zoo animals. Monkeys, Lions, and of course Giraffes all that could
fit in the palm of her hand.
"Nice right? modern science, go ahead, hold one"
she picked up a giraffe and put it in her palm.
the giraffe screamed from the pressure.
"I didn't know giraffes made sounds"
"In nature, nothing picks them up by their heads. please be careful."
"sorry"
she put the animal back on the table and started out the door
"Not interested?"
"not really, my dad takes me to the zoo upstate and the ones there are more impressive"
"but these fit in your hand, it's a miracle really"
"who cares about miracles?"
" you're a spoiled little girl"
"well, you're a drunk."
She stormed out of the tent and walked all the way home
a little zebra followed her and when she got home
she put it in a cage next to her goldfish,
and neither one knew what to think of the other.
by justin Hantz
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Catcher's Mitt
a hundred years ago young men did as they were told
I was told to go over the hills to Matney to work for Mr. Carver
It was a long trek and I never made it.
I spent five days wandering in the woods
drinking from the creek and eating fruit from the trees.
It wasnt quite autumn and the leaves were just starting to turn
I whistled aimlessly and caught a few crawfish under a rock
funny little lobsters, I wondered how they made it this far
I got bit by a horse fly, he wouldnt let go of my body
I jumped in the water and drowned him
One day late in the evening a stranger passed by me
he was old and had a face like a catchers mitt.
I dont know if he was lost too, he didnt say anything
we were whistling the same song.
by Justin Hantz
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Saturday, February 28, 2009
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Johns Dog
He will sit with us patiently
until we are ready
to leave
We are proud of ourselves
when we teach him
to shake
He is grateful that we love him
but who couldn't love such
a good dog?
Golden fur like the hair
of one hundred
new babies
A loyalty as beautiful as any
woman could be
it is pure
Sleeping for the day to disappear
until John is home
to be happy
One bark says everything
he needs to say
to us
What his eyes don't know
does not matter
shouldn't
There is a place for him
in the ground when
he dies
By Timothy Poovey
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Saturday, February 14, 2009
Friday, February 13, 2009
Animals In The Night
I lived in a haunted house once.
But the ghost there was nice.
He liked to sing.
At night, especially when it was stormy out, I would see him float around.
And hear him.
Once, I tried to talk to him.
I crept into the living room, where he always was.
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He looked at me as if I was the ghost.
I asked him "Are you scared of me?".
He said "No.
But You should be scared of me.".
"Why?"
"Because I am a ghost."
"I'm not though." I said.
Then I felt the need to add "You seem nice is all."
I think this was disappointing to him
He kept looking at me for a moment.
Then he slowly lowered his eyes to the floor.
Very quietly, he began to sing again.
His voice sounded like animals in the night.
"What are you singing?" I asked.
He looked back up at me and said "It's a sad song."
By Timothy Poovey
Saturday, February 7, 2009
She Is A Dreamer
Over there in the grass
you are asleep on your side
the sun is shining on your black hair
I walked towards the tree in the field
It is a very big tree
When I climbed it's branches
I could see for miles
I could see the house that we walked from
and it's blue paint that turned green from the sunlight
I sat on a branch for while and thought
this is what the world looks like to birds
You must have been very tired
because you slept very long
When I got down from the tree
I went back to you
I sat down and surveyed the large field
The wind was blowing your dress
and it revealed your knees
that glowed
You looked so safe
and I wondered
what you were dreaming about
My hand
slid down your pink cheek
and you awoke
You
looked into my eyes
and said with a calm smile
"I love you"
by Timothy Poovey
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Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Paper Sailboat
There is a pretty girl
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standing in the street
her tongue is sticking out
as she catches snowflakes upon it
from my apartment above her
I am singing a song
it travels into her ears
and our eyes meet
she begins to walk away
and I yell at her to stay
she smiles, but does not
I shut my window
In the street there is silence
I listen but hear nothing
her footprints are etched in snow
I place my foot carefully in each one
they lead off into woods
the darkness makes them hard to follow
the last one is on a river bank
where did she go?
There is a paper sailboat
drifting on the water
It left a childs hand
who wanted to see it sail
by Timothy Poovey
Sunday, January 25, 2009
First and for most
Brilliant Shit is a collaborative effort between Justin Hantz and Timothy Poovey using the medium of blogging as a means to share creative output. Songs, Short Stories, Poems, Films, Essays and General Critique make up most of the material that will be submitted. Exercise is an important part of any kind of artistic endeavor, that is to say, practice. A story will be posted, critiqued and a corrected or "influenced" version will be uploaded. Alot of the time we agree on certain aesthetic decisions, but not all of the time, so this will be a way to help each other and ourselves. This is where you, the reader come in. Through our sacrifice, that is to say admission of having several versions or bad ideas or good ideas etc.. you too will learn the virtues of both practice and shamelessness. We will deal largely with the objective of sharing with an audience an uncensored, sometimes even unfinished, ideation. Input is encouraged. For without the reader writing would simply be a subjective experience in which there are no subjects. This will ultimately serve also as a recorded history of development in craft. Words are groups of symbols which are imbued with power to relate everything about the human experience to another human. Why then do we have so many words for some things, and in turn lack a single word for others? Why is it that two words grouped together can illustrate something to which neither applies? The word Brilliant dates back to 1696 and is defined as very bright and distinguished by unusual mental alertness. The word Shit comes from the early fourteenth century and simply means an act of defecation.
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