http://slow.writerscafe.org/hoganpeter90 The original writings of author Peter Hogan en-us Copyright 2026 WritersCafe.org 1775973883 WritersCafe.org RSS Generator 15 My day begins with scooping ice. 9 hand-held garden-shovel-sized scoopsper bucket3 pale blue bucketsthe color of chloronic swimming pool waterfrozen over.4 empty bins of steel that sweat when fulland need to be filled before the doors open at 11. &n.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/hoganpeter90/1626242/ an active shooter was reported on a college campus a few days ago.there was no weapon. there were no deaths.there was a video made by the local news. manic screams like sirens through a classroom of tumbled desks barricading the doorwhile young men and women clinch their phones,thumbs like bullets f.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/hoganpeter90/1618828/ I was outside smokingwhen a cardinal landed on the branchjust off to my right.The tips of her wings, a nice crimson contrastto the sea of green she floated upon.Her beak, a pale bright yellow,the end of a lit cigarette blinkingright at me. Her eyes, the color of puddles on asphalt gleaming in the su.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/hoganpeter90/1596002/ A blind man is walkingacross the same streetI am trying to turn left on.He’s not doing a very good job.His cane swingslike a madhouse maestro and there’s something symphonic about how desperately he wantsto find the other side of the street.The cars behind me are starting to pile up.Ther.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/hoganpeter90/1595424/ sitting on the top of our spines, resting  on the pinnacle of bone between neck and back,no bigger than a freckleno more noticed than a child’s blink,.placed there to see just how much weightwe could could hold.So, most will die with a mountain range between their shoulder blades,a full s.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/hoganpeter90/1577085/ I've always had troublefalling asleep. When I was a boy,my mother would come in before bed, tuck the sheets just undermy sides, stroke the hairout of my eyes and like apillow, filled with feathers,she kissed me on the foreheadbefore turning out the lightto draw herselfa bath. I could .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/hoganpeter90/1427841/ When I was young,my mother dragged me to a funeral for a manwho attended church the same time we did.My mother would gossip after Masswith his wifeand I would wait by the car. When they were finished, I would go home, leave my button-down shirton the floorand play with action-figuresI kept in a.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/hoganpeter90/1423560/ Every morningafter my coffeeI like to take a walkaround the apartment complex, clear myselffor another dayout herealone. Just towards the endof the first path, an old mansits in his wheelchairwearing a fine cowboy hativory in color. His skin isweathered, thick-wrinkledlike an elephant's. T.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/hoganpeter90/1420206/ When two praying mantises are about to mate, do you thinkhe knowswhat he has gotten himself into? Is it just the instinctual drive that lures him to suicide, some hormonal concoction that grows so wornof being brownhe sticks out his neckfor the first green thinglooking his way? Or does tha.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/hoganpeter90/1417956/ It's 2 a.m. and rainingwhen my phone lights up. She wants some company,"Bring beer, something lite." When the door opens, she is wearing something tight.The dimples on her backpeek below the edge of her shirt.Her eyes are lonely,her hair, the shade of first sunlight peeking through bl.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/hoganpeter90/1416466/ I came across a spider, her skin cold the marble made from the bathroom counter she laid on. I thought, we all would like to die in bed, sheets sewn from silk, pulled high under our arms, our fingers warm, laced with someone who would love to never let go, but does when our wrists succumb and g.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/hoganpeter90/1411281/ Sometimes I stand like stone,a bouldercarved from a mountain,a sculpture by a river,happy to be still. A leaf floats just beyond my reach,glides downstreambehind a wake left from the flapof a Kingfisher's wingsoaring from sight, a flash of blue on an amber horizon. If I.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/hoganpeter90/1408111/ A reflection on a lonely soul having a smoke at night http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/hoganpeter90/1405001/ “Aw s**t. Left the light the f**k inside.” Shane dragged his body out of that chair, shuffling his feet to the same sliding door Katherine just entered. He slid it open and shut it with a resounding thud, the kind that echoed through the backyard.I was the first to notice the red BI.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/hoganpeter90/1400025/ “Good to meet you brother.” Shane drooled every word out towards Ben and me. “Come on back. I’m set up by the pool. Got yall 18 waiting.” Eighteen beers was all the twenty my mom gave me the day before would cover, plus tip. Shane turned on the pool light.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/hoganpeter90/1400023/ Freedom is a funny thing at fifteen. Not yet old enough to enjoy the full benefits, but not quite young enough to completely ignore it. Right on the cusp of parent’s wide eyes, a blink away from open seas, yet ignorant on what comes next. We whirl around frantically, basking in the lack of sup.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/hoganpeter90/1400021/ “All of my friends are f*****g getting married,” I scowl at a rotted oak stool collecting dust. The ice in the glass slips, dwindles down to cloudy specks suspended in grain alcoholand the bartender dries the last pint before close. The click of the lighter echoes. The room sme.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/hoganpeter90/1400016/ A scene from my childhood during a storm where my brother and I took refuge in the bathtub. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/hoganpeter90/1398858/ A scene from my childhood about my grandmother baking in the kitchen while I played in the next room. She has Parkinson's disease, and this is the first time I remember seeing the disease. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/hoganpeter90/1398856/ A poem about a lonely guy who can't/doesn't want to fall asleep because everything in his bedroom reminds him of the girl he is in love with. The relationship ended sometime ago though. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/hoganpeter90/1398852/ My response to every older person I talked to after I graduated from college. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/hoganpeter90/1398847/ An attempt at understanding the racial tension and division that still exists in my hometown of Memphis, TN http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/hoganpeter90/1398845/