Translate

Monday, September 30, 2013

Road Trips


quick fiction up for your story fix ... 



Road Trips


By Lis Anna

Those pale toes have known Yellowstone, city of clouds, land of rainbows, 
weaving wildflowers in her hair, out in the night air... 
Ollie Ollie Oxen Free 
the soulful temptress screams 
wailing out deep within the Tetons. 
She is whipped cream tequila, whisper writing, running wild, 
driving free hand over highways like Beat poets, 
poets beat independent in the crazy psychadelic elevator 
that is this land, America. 
The lessons of the river roads, over a second sight sunrise 
reflect light on her temple body mansion 
where the wind has often said 
even her eyes speak of expansion.







copyright 2013 (c) Lis Anna All Rights Reserved

Friday, September 27, 2013

Fresh, fabulous flash up for your weekend reading pleasure. Welcome to my world. Enjoy.


Everyday
by:
Lis Anna



Juan Garcia waited impatiently in the drizzling rain for the taxi to arrive, gripping his battered suitcase, protective of its secrets.  He dreams of Havana.  Havana and the revolution.  The sounds teeming with a passionate idea pushing the boundaries, pushing against itself, crashing and breaking over the streets. falling like rain into gutters of obscurity.  Now he remembers, lost in scratchy memories, of those streets walled in, crumbling facades, voices yelling from window to window.  For years he dreamed of shadows he can’t catch, like butterflies that have never known a caterpillar.  Still, he smells of his father, stale cigar smoke, red wine, sweet custard, bread, cheese, sweat and rum.  The inside of his soul smells like the steamy rice, garlic, tomato chopped fresh dipped in the oil sizzle trapped in the still air like a lazy man.  Water dripping, humid, claiming everything.  Water was the only thing there before…before Castro, before the revolution, before the island, before there was light.  Even God says.


            He shifts his eyes across the street, back to the apartment where he’s lived for months, over the bread and cheese that he eats on the cutting board, catching the scent of exhaust expelled from the back of a bus filled to the brim, pungent with the salty scent of alive, breathing dripping, becoming the drops that form pools from storms at the base of his spine.


to read this full piece of flash fiction go to Word Riot.

 http://www.wordriot.org/template_2.php?ID=1139

Copyright 2007 (c) Lis Anna All rights reserved 




Friday, September 20, 2013

flash for the weekend

The Words
 by Lis Anna


I gather up the words. They are everywhere. On table tops, in the deep recesses of my mind, written in foggy breath on winter windows, behind the curtain, on scraps of paper, taped to the washing machine, magnetically clinging to the refrigerator, etched in black ball point inside matchbooks.

I gather them, carefully considering each one.  They beg so. Distractingly. Pick me. Pick me, one squeals. I say, “You are a noun.” And it screams, “I could be an adjective if you work hard enough. If you are creative enough you will weave me into the flow, feed me to the hungry bowl of story, gulping back millions of us everyday.”

And I say, “Whew. Hold on. Let me get another cup of coffee first.” They do not wait. They show no concern for my requests. They follow me into the kitchen heckling me with each step, dancing through my brain in repetition. I stop at the coffee pot and say, “Naked is not how the character feels.” Naked retreats.

The others hurl themselves at me like pieces of hail. Open. Ready. Exposed. “Okay”, I say. “Exposed is a possibility. Maybe.” I wag my finger.  “Maybe.” They dance a jig, each letter jiggling against the next. They howl with delight. “Do not get ahead of yourself,” I demand. “This is not carved in stone.” They shudder, then roll into a single file line. They shudder and titter. I laugh.

The words. They are so easily impressed.



Copyright 2013 (c) Lis Anna
All rights reserved 



Friday, September 13, 2013

new fun flash fiction up for da weekend ...


This is an awesome fun piece that most of you will be seeing for the first time. This piece of flash fiction was published in the Summer 2011 edition of 5X5, a wonderfully small publication full of tight, dynamic fiction.



You Are Such a Poem

By Lis Anna


Drunk again, unruly. The smell of gin is thick on your tongue in the courtyard where you have been intoxicated for three days straight obsessing over dirty stanzas, your stubbily rhyme, your greasy meter. Words make nuisance of you.

 Sunset and evening star and here you are still in your bathrobe missing its belt, haggardly threadbare around the collar. You are such a poem. You have been sipping too much metaphor today, if such a thing can be true. All of your oranges are Japanese sunrises, skin the bark of maple trees, days line up in circles of infinity. You are testy, refusing to allow even a single sentence to be constructed until someone makes you a martini, dirty and wet.


Slovenly, you smoke, cuss. You are always unemployed, drinking straight from the box of golden Chablis. You are such a poem. Yet, you are so much of what the world strives to be. We want to know what its like to be you. Bumming smokes and borrowing money
to buy deviled eggs and plastic chaise lounges from the Dollar Bin that you call new chic faux antique.

And yet most days you are just like all of the others, unrequited, broken hearted, memories formed on pages in the quiet repose of morning light instructing laymen on the art of feeling.  You see, I wanted you to be an Italian Renaissance painter, a big lipped movie star, an abandoned house deep in Alabama or at the very least an underwater volcano. But instead, I got you. A drunk who refuses to go to meetings, will not cooperate with prose, picks fights with biography and constantly scoffs at nonfiction,
claiming there isn’t such a thing as fiction that is not fiction.

You pee outside, howl at the moon, and scratch in unmentionable places.

And yet, I cannot remember a life before you showed up promising to pay rent someday.
 It must have been unremarkable. Filled with scheduled mealtimes, stacks of newspapers towering on the floor, fresh bed linens and plastic organizers on my desk. Now the clocks have all been thrown away, newspapers shredded, bed linens are worn as capes and I shudder to consider the fate of those organizers.

So, now when I find you outside drunk, wearing a brown wig and frightfully tight purple underwear, I pull up a new chic faux antique, pour you a dirty, wet, triple olive and offer up my attention in the hopes that if I flirt enough with the edges of your sensibility
then you just might pick your teeth and tell me a story.



You can purchase this edition here: http://www.5x5litmag.org/Back%20Issues.html

or check out 5X5 here because it is AWESOME, baby.

http://www.5x5litmag.org/index.html



copyright 2011 (c) Lis Anna All rights reserved


New fiction up for your weekend reading pleasure ...

The Descent
by Lis Anna

The prince who awakened me from my slumber was not my husband.

“Marla?”
Samuel is sitting on the sofa reading The Times.  “Penny for your thoughts.”
I point to my day planner. I’ll give you a nickel if you just go away
“Oh,” his eyes say, dropping back to the page.

Need, Want & Desire play a game in my head.  I follow them out to a dark labyrinth where they talk gibberish and take shape.  The fire sings a song. They take my hands, laying them against my own skin and they chant, rattle, shake, across dark skies with no moonlight.  They part my legs and plead.  I obey. They dance into ferocious cries of pleasure. 

            Everything happens in reel time now.  I am starring in the French Film that is my life. Sometimes it is black and white with no sound.  I turn the volume up. When I open my eyes, my lover is watching me.  He says, “I had to get up in the middle of the night to get a blanket because you had the sheet wrapped around you.”
            “Why didn’t you wake me?”
            “Because you look so good in it.”
            We are making the film of us.  The unrated version.  You get the picture.

            My bathroom mirror has become my psychologist.  I don’t understand, I am whining to my other self.  I am confused.  I am driven to live my life at the expense of destroying another.  Driven.  I hear Larry Adler backing his car out of his driveway next door.  He is tall, blonde, dazzling and doesn’t cheat on his wife.  “Not me,” I say, confidently looking the psychologist in the eye, applying gloss to my cheating lips.  “I am having an affair.” I hate myself for being so flip about it but today at 3PM I am having a board meeting in room 504 of the Waterford Inn.  Naked.

             The curtains are pulled so tight that I can only see an outline of my lover’s face.  “I have to be back before dinner,” I say, rolling over, biting into his neck.  His hands ride up to my hips.  I am scaling the tower walls.  We begin making sense.

 Out in the cool, evening air he wraps his arms around me.  The French film that is us drifts off around the corner.  Then we cut. 

We’re having defensive behavior for dinner again. 
            “I’ve seen you for two hours all week,” Samuel says, squeezing his wine glass, laying blame.  “I wish you’d never taken that job, Marla.”

            I think I am an incomplete human being cloned from an earlier version of myself that was damaged.  I want to think I’m on the verge of a breakthrough but what I’m really doing is cheating on my husband.  I’m not stupid.  I do it everyday, habitually, like a chain smoker, sneaking out back, or upstairs, or to the broom closet for my fix. I want to travel across the distance of my lover’s chest, and ride a caravan down to his lips where his tongue waits like an oasis. 

to read the complete story you can find it here: http://www.themonarchreview.org/the-descent/

where it was published in the 2011 Winter Edition of the Monarch Review 

Welcome to my world.
Enjoy.



Copyright 2011 (c) Lis Anna All rights reserved 



Wednesday, September 11, 2013

A quick piece of Hint fiction up for your Wednesday reading pleasure ... 
Welcome to my world.
Enjoy.






You can also read my winning Hint fiction piece here:

from 2011..

http://www.robertswartwood.com/hint-fiction/hint-fiction-contest-judged-by-joyce-carol-oates-2011/


Tuesday, September 10, 2013

Summer of Absalom by Lis Anna

To celebrate the end of summer, I offer a wonderfully nostalgic summer love piece of flash fiction for your reading pleasure. Welcome to my world. Enjoy.


Summer of Absalom
by Lis Anna


Sun melted in surrender around the warm glow of our bodies that first summer we spent together. In a small town in Mississippi we fell into each others arms.

The sound of my aunt Louisa reading Faulkner aloud under the pale light in August drove him wild, the past echoing in her gently, lilting voice. A crack in the earth filled with water swooped off beyond the bluff into sunset. Hot, wild fragrant nights were book ended by dust floating down to tabletops. He strummed his six string and made my thighs long to be plucked, long to lay in his lap turning harmonic pages into song. Everything in my aunt’s house was old, with a crank. No wireless, no hi-tech. A lonesome world, recreated every afternoon. No shiny distractions to tear me away from his smile.

Everything turned off at night, except us. I liked the way he called me baby even though the windows of his soul were dirty, streaked with the fingerprints of flawed gods, whiskey rhyming men full of swagger. Under the glow of a hurricane lamp our magnetic attraction for one another crackled like lightning out on the wide open plains.

Auntie read Faulkner while we snuck around all night falling in love with each other, breathing the still, balmy air. I whispered to him, laying next to me in bed and he smiled, laughed, kissed me. His kisses were like a good bottle of scotch. I never got enough of them. Never loved kissing anyone but him, not in my whole life. No one owned him, he’d never been a walking shadow. A bit of madness, trueness in his voice lured me in. Lonely, consumed out under the bright, blue sky a fierceness in his eyes swept me across the landscape.  In the last fading rays of twilight we disappeared into the shadows of the parlor, far from my napping aunt.

A naked searching for feelings just below our skin exposed our layers to the world. Our hands were a wild catalog of exploration. If we slipped deep enough then quiet moans  erupted and his fingers pressed against my lips. We retreated down to the boathouse
in the hot, tomblike air breathing in the scent of jasmine blooming beneath the window.
The scent of me blooming in his hands.

All of our days were nights.

On Wednesdays he went to see his uncle Ringo as he lay dying in the old folks home. Afterwards we’d light stars with our fingertips, call sunsets into being. Storms rolled across the dusty plains. We fled into our warm bodies and listened. The sound of his footsteps on the hard, wooden planks of the front porch was divine music to me, divine in the way that bodies never leave love behind but yearn for it, are driven to find it hiding in the eaves.

We found and old treasure map when we stowed away in a closet. We stole shovels from the boathouse and endeavored to find treasure.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                
Into the dusty back roads went until we rounded a bend, on that dusty back road, and saw a man hanging from a tree. Flies flew in and out of his open mouth. White lips, eyes bulging. He looked over our heads in the direction of his murderer, an image burned onto his mind’s eye but he could not curl his tongue around a name, could not climb down from the hereafter. The stink of the man kicked up in the breeze mingling with gardenia. 

We vanished into the trees. Into the half light of August we went, unaided, alone. The sheriff came. They rode out on horses because the path was too narrow for cars, too far from the road. Thick, warm air clung to our arms. A deputy cut the man down but the rope still hung, ends frayed. We stared at those frayed ends, streams of sunlight rippling though the branches.

Uncle Ringo threw a vase of roses against the wall. I shook my head. Yankees won’t go calmly to take the hand of God. Won’t follow the devil straight to hell like everyone else.

When the last fallen rays of summer departed we slowed down into dreams of humble means, patched together with seams that connected intricate lives. The heat inside me was enough to light up the atmosphere. We tried so hard by not trying at all. It didn’t have to make sense anymore. We went back to the place we’d come from because we’d never been there before. I drank too much Cabernet and tears rushed onto the kitchen tile as I railed against the end of summer, the frayed end of the man in the tree.

I went down to old man Zephron’s cabin and he gave me a powder to drink under a full moon. When we kissed a vision would come, streaked with the fingerprints of flawed gods, whiskey rhyming men full of swagger. And with this we went unaided, alone, into the last days of summer crying Absalom, Absalom.


Copyright 2013 (c) Lis Anna All Rights Reserved



Monday, September 2, 2013





for your (story) telling pleasure today i am uploading 
all new photos.
each one tells it's own story.
evokes it's own emotion.
each one is a visual journey into my mind.

Welcome to my world.
Enjoy.













Copyright 2013 Lis Anna
All rights reserved.
Copying or sharing only with full photo credit.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/99943370@N04/