The Abstract Art Gallery
A writing gallery created by writers from around the world. From poetry to song lyrics, from essays to entire novels and short stories.
Did my memory deceive me? I didn't know. I wanted to know.
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…resolute watchmen patrol the echoing emptiness. Their probing flashlights scanning for any slight thing amiss. The silence broods heavily around them. It’s lonely work. No other souls in sight. They walk for miles through the empty rooms and corridors of these spooky deserted building…
By K. L. Shipley
Read MoreWhen the passion of the equinox stirs the blood and the sap begins to rise, so then does Dionysus, the god of all that is wet and glistening.
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…the winds blows wet and warm. When gray winter retreats from blooming green becoming. When new leaves dance like dyads in the rain. When the passion of the equinox stirs the blood and the sap begins to…
By K. L. Shipley
Read MoreThere is something supernatural about a world that appears and disappears every twelve hours.
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…been fascinated by shallow pools of clear water. I’m drawn to them by charm I do not understand. They’re inviting in some mystical, perhaps primordial way. Memories seem to be connected to such pools, though I have no such conscious memories. There are theories that memories can be carried by…
By K. L. Shipley
Read More…good comes of it. It’s a lot of work. New lies have to agree with old lies or the truth will out, and everyone will know you’re a liar. You have to make sure your lies don’t lie to each other. I’m too lazy spend all that energy defending what was never true. Figuring out what’s true is hard enough without adding lies to the…
By K. L. Shipley
Read MoreMy mother never told me about her half-brother and the scandal surrounding his life.
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…hangs on the wall behind the piano, the large photograph of my mother’s family taken in 1904. My mother, the baby, sits on my grandmother’s lap. My grandfather, Adolf Johansson, holds a toddler, an uncle I never met. Six children occupy this large formal portrait, along with their parents. Eleven would be the final…
By Anita G. Gorman
Read MoreI picked up the phone, even though caller id said Anonymous was on the other end.
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…the phone rang, I checked the Caller ID. Anonymous, it said. I didn't know anyone by that name. The phone rang again. Anonymous was calling a second time. I picked up the phone. Maybe it was a person who knew our code: if we don't answer, dial again right away. A young man was on the other…
By Anita G. Gorman
Read MoreDavid was a dear friend who passed away suddenly…
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…thought of you today and felt uneasy for the third time. This is unusual because every memory I have of you is…
By Sloane Angelou
Read MoreAn essay on friendship, music, grief, and recovery.
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…means something different to everyone, and even more so in this age of digital connection. The ritual I am most familiar with is the vigil. The best vigils involve candles and hope for good things to come, one way or…
By Casey Bottono
Read MoreFrom the mind of a poet’s philosophy of friendship.
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…myself pondering on the meaning of friendship. The love of friends can be very important in life. I know when I am at my wits end and the bottom ring of a ladder, I only need a helping hand from a friend I trust. But having a true friend means being a true friend to experience the special warmth you must be willing to…
By Eva Marie Cagley
Read MoreOn the evening of that same day she slipped into my bed, curling into the crook of my arm, purring.
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…a southern belle, sweet, gracious, and charming. My friend. Eddy described her as a very nice kitty - much too understated. She is a Lady. An aristocrat. Too gentle, too refined for this world. I do my best to meet her needs. She doesn’t rebuke my…
By K. L. Shipley
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