I push the mower through three weeks growth,
three snakes appear, each one smaller than the last.
The first, long and black,
slides from the front of the mower
dodging the blades of grass,
disappearing in the woods
just a few steps to my left.
I let him go.
There's an ax near and in the house, a gun,
but he did nothing to deserve either.
I push further and the second,
this one striped black and white, emerges.
I feel the repulsion in my arms,
it's a slight jerk, just enough to stop the mower,
just enough to make my legs want to run,
but the snake is gone, and I'm the only threat.
I start the mower, my arm barely able to pull.
Current Residence: Florence, SC deviantWEAR sizing preference: 3XL Favourite genre of music: everything Favourite photographer: William Albert Allard Favourite style of art: everything Operating System: Windows XP/Linux MP3 player of choice: Droid Favourite cartoon character: Bloo
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Update
Just wanted to say that I haven't posted anything because I'm kinda developing my style. Well. I have a style. I'm just pushing it.
And on another note. Forget my entire last post.
That is all.
So my fiction professor is having us read a collection of essays that correlate with some of the short stories we're reading about why different writers write. Some sound realistic, some sound romanticized. But this got me curious about why I write. And maybe to some extent why I write what I write.
I feel like I write poetry and fiction for different reasons which is tied into the differences between what I write in those types of writing. Since, as of the writing of this I only have one fiction piece posted, (I'll try to post more,) I'll begin with the reasons why I write it.
Fiction, for me, is a way to live a new life. I tend