Creative Colloquy is a submission based literary site.
It’s our aim to share Tacoma’s rich literary talents and foster relationships built upon our mutual admiration of the written word.
A big thank you to all the contributors of our Indiegogo campaign. Watch for updates on Creative Colloquy Vol. 1 due out early November.
New Stories for 9/29/2014
Bill at the Bible Study By Dave Engel
Bill walks up to the door and presses the doorbell. The doorbell says, “Ding dong,” and ushers in our hostess. Oh Karen, her little Bible Study. The diligently prepared desserts and Columbian coffees. Oh how she loves to play grown-up and entertain a host of… ding dong, time to fetch the door! So in comes Bill to be greeted by a group of grasping hands, all teeth and gums with welcomes to share. Bill’s eyes slide down to the super-fashionable, ultra-religious, “Jesus” bracelets that loudly ask a question meant to probe one’s heart. And yet this marketable statement of faith somehow doesn’t probe Bill, he’s just left wondering if the abstract couldn’t do the same.
So after the pastries and chocolates and coffees and introductions comes the Bible. Oh yes, the Bible. It doesn’t speak very loud but it has so much to say. But since everyone is so busy unzipping their ultra-fashionable, super-religious Bible covers they don’t even notice that poor Bill doesn’t have a Bible. That is, until he says something. Now what a pickle Karen is in, all that planning for nothing. But she spies hope! A guest Bible just for this occasion, when a heathen or gentile or Jehovah’s Witness or whoever comes over unequipped. How thoughtful she is. Well as soon as Bill gets his Bible and opens it up, the Bible starts saying all sorts of stuff. On page 221 it says, “I took my concubine, cut her up into pieces and sent one to…” Flip a few more pages and more of the same. Page 283: “The Lord will repay him for the blood he shed…May the guilt of their blood rest upon the head…” Page 580 is all in a fever with, “Instead of a fragrance there will be a stench, instead of a sash, a rope…”
A Misunderstanding Pertaining to Tomatoes by William Turbyfill
I do not know how to make fried green tomatoes and I have mixed emotions about this. Part of me is glad I didn’t know. If I knew then the following experience never would have happened and I would be missing an important defining story in my life. The other, larger, more honest part of me wishes I had known so that I could have skipped this moment because stories are over rated.
My one goal was to bring back a contribution to our community’s weekly potluck meal. The theme this week: southern food. The menu included chicken, cornbread and beans. So basically someone with no idea what actual southern people ate designed the menu. Because I am originally from the great state of The South it was my moral obligation to bring some authenticity to the night.
The problem is, I didn’t and still don’t own a deep fryer. Thankfully, not a mile from my house sits a restaurant that serves as my Southern consulate. Despite being located in Tacoma Washington, as soon as you pass through the doors of the Southern Kitchen, you might as well be crossing the Mason Dixon line. That is to say, it serves fried catfish for breakfast and the lemonade comes in massive mason jars.
No Kind of Rain by Morf Morford
No wind to carry fortunes
Or even weary wings home
There are dark birds
From far corners
There is little steady kindness
From the turning of the earth
The seasons chafe
As if the earth itself
Was running dry
Another Equinox by Ellen Miffitt
the celebration -
mother nature is sending
her first big fall storm.
subtle shift charges the air…
mare’s tails are enhanced in the setting sun.
I collected oak leaves to dry.
already they’ve turned a burnished bronze.
Maple trees have leaves with red edges.
Aspen leaves are golden…
evergreens are loaded with pine cones.
Assumptions by Joshua Swainston
What is that stupid saying? Never assume, because it makes an ass out of you and me. Well that pretty much fits the bill, except the only ass here is me. I was brought in, I thought, to handle the money. An intermediary. Winslow, the guy who hired me, runs some sort of coke outfit out of Vancouver, BC. The idea was to collect the cash and make sure it crossed the border at Blaine, Washington. I’d heard about the job from a friend of a friend. Winslow needed “a nobody.” I was told he was too heavily watched to take chances transferring his own cash. I didn’t ask who he was watched by. The money up front looked good, and in this economy even crooks have to get it where they can.
I found it funny that the cash was moving to the United States. I always thought the drug business worked with the money going out from the US and the drugs coming in, but I couldn’t tell you anymore than what I’d seen on TV.
I assumed that it would’ve been an easy job. I assumed I wasn’t going to be a patsy for some degenerate drug dealer offering me up for sacrifice in the wake of some bullshit I’d nothing to do with.
Right now I’m lying bound and blindfolded on a cold concrete floor. It gives me time to accept I assumed too much. I should’ve been on my guard.