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.

 

New Stories for 11/24/2014

This addition of Creative Colloquy features authors published in Creative Colloquy Volume One or those who will be participating in Small Business Saturday 11/29 (Kings Books 1pm-4pm, Nearsighted Narwhal 5pm-7pm)

 

Making It Home by Tiffany Aldrich MacBain

MacBain photoFollowing a 10-day sojourn to the East Coast to visit family and the friends of my youth, I return to Tacoma with home on my mind. It’s a complicated thing, home: an idea, a time and a place, a collection of experiences. Like the experience of rounding the corner and seeing your lawn, two-weeks neglected, dandelions knee-high and facing the sun, and wondering if your neighbor with the addiction to mowing and leaf blowing sees in those yellow faces a children’s choir heralding your return. He certainly does not, and your knowledge of this fact forces you to reassume the weight of ownership. You’ll have to mow your lawn today, and you’ll have to stock your fridge, and you’ll remember that the windows need washing–but how do you remove storms, and does OxyClean leave streaks? The trim needs painting and the fence needs scrubbing and probably some painting of its own. And don’t get me started on the room that is not well lit enough to serve much of a function at all and so is both catchall and eyesore.

To continue reading Making It Home, click here.

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Adjust by Nick Stokes

Photo by Jason Ganwich
Photo by Jason Ganwich

Drink coffee. Pack food, gear, shingles, propane, feed, a mattress, rebar, a box of cookies and whiskey, mail, nails. Drink coffee. Bullshit. Wrap. Eat a ham-and-cheese sandwich. Feed. Fix tack, build ropes, bullshit. Knock a rock from a shoe. Dunk in the river. Long. Drink beer. Eat. Read. Stop.

Coffee. Run them in and catch up and oat and brush and saddle the horse and saddle the mules. Load the trucks. Truck. Drop the visor and squint through sunglasses and creep around a blind corner with young sun horizontal in your eyes. Fall back to not eat dust. Beep reverse into the morning chill. Unload the trucks. Coffee. Load the mules. Be helped. Return help down the road. Bullshit. Adjust and cinch. Zip coat, buckle chaps. Ride. Stop. Adjust and cinch. Ride. Stop. Adjust. Sweat. Strip coat, chaps. Hang them on a saddle. Ride into wilderness, through burns old and new. Eat dust. Chew. Long. Think instead of rain, of green, of shade. Think nothing. Watch the river, trees, mountains. Watch for bears. Watch the packs. Nothing to adjust or nothing worth adjusting. Watch nothing. Long. Ride and ride and ride. Stop.

To continue reading Adjust, click here.

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A Feather for a Fan (excerpt) by Karla Stover

Chapter 1

FFAFFog rolled down from Canada and pressed against the smoke from a Northern Pacific engine, obliterating the view of old growth timber on one side of the tracks and Commencement Bay on the other. Inside the stuffy passenger car, Verdie Bacom sighed and waited for her two oldest children, Mathilda, eleven and Reuben, ten, to start whining. It was the view that had kept them entertained for the past several hours. Instead, they pressed their noses against the glass trying to penetrate the murky haze. Next to her, Verdie’s husband, Ira, gave a deep hacking cough and immediately covered his mouth with his handkerchief. At Verdie’s sideways glance, he said, “Don’t worry so much, V, it’s just a cough.”

Farther back in the passenger car where a group of miners and loggers sat, one said, “It’s sure and certain he won’t make old bones.”

To continue reading A Feather for a Fan, click here.

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Dedicated to Steak Knife by Nicholas Stillman

StillmanThomas tried to avoid eye contact with the homeless milling around his apartment. He possessed a long-standing fear of being mugged on his walks to and from the university. He knew he presented a target. His clothes might as well be a bullseye buttoned smartly to his body. Today was no exception as it was Oxford day, both in shoes and choice in button-up. Oxford, he thought about the college with longing–one day he would make it there. One day his novel would get him in.

It was early and the mist limited his sight line to a matter of feet. He tried to walk confidently down 11th, but this was the most dangerous block of his commute, so his ears were perked sonar detectors.

To continue reading Dedicated to Steak Knife, click here.

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Don’t Piss Off the Fairies by Lory French

IMG_20140517_161510He’s there against the wall, straining so hard that the veins on his neck are popping out. Grunting in terror or maybe pain, he’s got his elbows straight out in front of him, hands crossed and against his neck. At first I think he’s strangling himself until I notice that he is suspended about 6 inches off the ground. An icy chill rushes over me from scalp to sole, rebounding back up into my chest. This guy looks like he is fighting for his life against an enemy I can’t even see. My instinct to help is completely embattled by my instinct for self-preservation in the face of a visual I can’t reconcile. I rock on my heels back and forth as if I am going to lunge into the fight, but I can’t muster the courage. I can’t even believe that I’m actually witnessing what I must be witnessing.

To continue reading Don’t Piss Off the Fairies, click here