Creative Colloquy strives to highlight the South Sound literary community & build relationships based on mutual admiration of the written word.
[Newest] Stories
2025 is the Year of the Wood Snake and in honor of Monkeyshine season and the Chinese New Year CC opened a themed call for submissions! In Chinese astrology, the Year of the Wood Snake is a time for growth, stability, and creativity. It's also a time for personal development and navigating challenges.
We're encouraged the community to submit a short story, poem or essay revolving around these symbolic themes (or centered on the Wood Snake itself).
Pieces selected for performance:
I am the Tree Snake by Sasha Victor
Wasteland by Christina Slack
Magic by Julie Baldock
And Dust You Shall Eat by Ronen Perry
The mosaic floor in the bed chamber depicted scene after scene of war, violence, and death. It was a fitting aesthetic appreciation for the queen, who waited for news—any news—and traced the warm sunlight setting across the tiled artwork. Myrrh burned. The scent of the incense was a sweet and welcome distraction from what was to come.
“Word from the battle, my queen,” a foot soldier huffed at the end of his run. “Your son, the king, has fallen by Jehu’s hand.” He caught his breath in the moments waiting for his queen’s response.
“And what of Jehu?” The queen turned toward her balcony, unwilling to show whatever reaction her face may convey.
More calm but still ensconced in his duty, the foot soldier spoke again. “He rides for Jezreel. He will be at the palace by sundown.”
The battle had been lost to the dowager queen’s peril. A loss made worse still by the approaching usurper. Though feather-bedded and gilded in fineries, her life had been one of political unrest and religious tumult. It came to her as no surprise that her end should be of a similar kind.
sea salt caramel fudge
sits delicately inside a tin
it has traveled across continent borders
to wait for the upset stomach
of one
who has grown so tired
of plain rice & ramen
how does it taste they ask
when simple riches are washed down
with pepto bismol & tums
…
Behind dingy cellophane,
the photograph in the family album
encases me, where I grimace like I’m behind bars—
lips stretched taut across gritted teeth,
eyes plaintive, fixing my father, the resident cameraman,
asking any witness not to believe
the bottom half of my face.
My age, ten,
my hair, mostly brushed, my pantsuit, floral,
a K-Mart layaway acquisition,
my hands, clutching a certificate reading
“Honorable Mention.”
A bone thrown by the school district arts committee,
a pack of energetic, under-employed moms who
anoint the preteen illuminati each spring.
