What Is Creative Colloquy?

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.

And in the month of August you can help. Go to our Indiegogo site and become a contributor. ONLY 10 DAYS LEFT. Together we can reach our goal and spread the talent of the South Sound farther and more effectively.

 

New Stories for 8/18/2014

 

The Collective Story titled “No, the Future” from the contributors at the Downtown Block Party 2014

Big BookOn Saturday (8/16) at the Downtown Block Party, Creative Colloquy opened a big book and asked everyone who was interested to add a line to our story. There were simple rules:

- Add one line or two
- No hate, profanity, or sexually suggestive themes
- Published Monday 8/18
-
After that it was a free for all. The contributors were only given the previous page (approx. 5 lines) to work from before adding their own.

Contributors ranged in age from 4 to 70. They were at all levels of writing skills, and equally at all levels of imagination. This is what (roughly) 75 Downtown Block Party patrons came up with.

To Read No, the Future Click here

 

Eleventh Hour Brother – An Arthur Beautyman Mystery By Erik Hanberg

erikhanbergThe state of South Dakota would have executed an innocent man if Arthur Beautyman hadn’t cleared the alleged killer’s name from a sofa three hundred miles away.

Deidre Kirkpatrick, a wealthy 96-year-old recluse, had been found with a charred cantaloupe-sized hole in her chest. The list of suspects was short. Her only visitors anymore were her two sons and the medics who were regularly summoned by her medical alert pendant.

When the police located her son Ethan, they discovered his left hand was blackened and missing two fingers. A result of the same explosion that had killed his mother? Had Ethan rigged a miniature explosive device to kill her, accidentally losing two fingers in the process?

Unusual, to be sure, but the facts were clear to the South Dakota District Attorney. He pressed for the death penalty against Ethan and the jury agreed. Now, after years of failed appeals and protests of innocence, Ethan Kirkpatrick had just one hour left before his midnight execution.

“What a bizarre story,” Ruth Beautyman murmured, watching the news coverage from her home in Minneapolis.

To continue reading Eleventh Hour Brother click here.

 

The Community Garden by Michael Haeflinger

Haeflinger Berlin Reading
Photo by Thomas Farr

Nothing beats a hard day’s work.

Among snap pea trestles
and tomato plant cages,
I breathe deeply
decomposition.

Gone are barges
of iron frame ghost rails
and gone are board-ups
of the imagination.

It’s just me
and the dirt
and the morning

To continue reading The Community Garden click here

 

Into the Storm – An excerpt from The Backside of Nowhere By Alec Clayton edited for Creative Colloquy

Author photoSheriff Randy Moss is an uninvited guest at Pop Lawrence’s hurricane party. He says, “Oh, hi. Um, Shelly asked me to come in.”

Not everyone returns his greeting. David and Mary refuse to speak to him. Melissa turns her back and walks into the kitchen, brushing right past him, pours herself a big shot of straight whiskey and swigs it down, and then pours herself another and carries it down the hallway. She goes into a bedroom and kicks the door shut behind her.

A huge crack of thunder shakes the house. Outside the sky is almost as dark as night, but floodlights aimed at the front walk and out across the bay from the deserted deck highlight sheets of sideways rain that look like shimmering mercury. Another loud thunder boom rattles the house, and the lights go out. For a moment it is pitch black inside, until their eyes gradually adjust. Pop says, “David, go crank up the generator.”

David heads out to the garage, where he starts up the generator. The lights come back on. Shelly wanders back to the bedroom, taps on the door and opens it. Melissa is sitting on the edge of the bed holding her drink in her hands. Her eyes are red. Shelly says, “Sweetie, how come you’re in here drinking all alone? You’re not going to let that Randy Moss ruin your day now, are you? You can’t let your resentment ruin you.”

“What do you mean?”

To continue reading Into the Storm click here

 

My Prostitute Story By William Turbyfill

521628_10153084132195624_555272240_nThis is my one and only story with a prostitute that I am aware of.

It snowed for the past few days and the city of Tacoma only saw fit to plow every other street. Back then, I worked downtown at a call center and got off work at 1am. I walked to my car parked 3 blocks away listening to the spillover of a nearby club making raucous noises in the streets. My poor car. The driver side door was forever secure and needed me to enter the passenger side so that I might crawl over the gear shift in order to drive her.

Upon entering I noticed two things. The first thing was that the front windshield was frozen over. Not unexpected considering the weather and could be easily solved.
The second thing was a real bitch. Due to the cold and the forces of evil, the passenger side door would not shut. The latches or whatever wouldn’t latch or whatever and the door insisted on staying open. On the one hand the driver door would not open and literally on the other hand the passenger door would not close.

I started the car and began attacking the first problem with the defrost button. If things went as planned, the heat would clear the windshield and melt the coldhearted heart of the frost demon who kept my door from closing.

To continue reading My Prostitute Story click here