http://slow.writerscafe.org/BohemiaScot The original writings of author Mac en-us Copyright 2026 WritersCafe.org 1776008462 WritersCafe.org RSS Generator 15 It's what you do when you are twenty-nine, burying yourself in sidewalk cracks,         raising crops out of the soiled footprints of the crowd.He sat in his hand-me-down recliner,       reading fairy tales out loud to his window,     &n.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/BohemiaScot/1490281/ I fell for a world where clouds fell apart like snowflakes, where we cultivated rain *make sure it gets plenty of moonlight* stars constantly pulsing and radiating like a constant, frozen breath.The deserts there are riddled with cacti that slosh with cheap whiskey, quenching sad-eyes, rationaliz.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/BohemiaScot/1490280/ PrologueLet's begin with a steady pulse. . .thump    thump    thumpThen add a deep growl. . .thump    twang    thump    twang    thumpLater, we will bring in a sporadic, heavenly chord. . .chord  thump twang  chord  chord &nb.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/BohemiaScot/1490279/ "Dead heels"pounding away   like church bells. The spotlight noir      shining on bright, collared shirts torn;puddles sound like wind-chimes during torrential storms' hell-fire.Dried in the morning, gray, sunshine-covered turf, basketball hoops and chain-link fences .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/BohemiaScot/1490278/ IIt’s in the way you walk. . .that slow mud-sunk saunter,a graceful falter that capturesa hope in your step that the earthmight show pity,pulling you into its cool bosomIt’s in the way you talk. . .quiet . . . a quivering messof breath, stripped of girth;a caged lyric, singed around the .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/BohemiaScot/1483194/ Human Frailty: found perfectly in the confines of a mirror. The deep, solemn eyes of a Grandmother, her aging lines spread out like butterfly wings. . . The sunken sockets of a teenage boy, bloodshot veins carrying drunken thoughts to a headache. . . The hollowed impressions of a curious child, w.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/BohemiaScot/1483104/ "I have been here. . .I do not know when. . .. . .but I've been here. . ."I can see my smell like a fog,hovering in the room, taste my presence swirling out of flume;I can hear my impression on the bed like a whisper,see the swishing of cold sheets as I tossed and jerked in random, tattered blurs;"I.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/BohemiaScot/1482635/ "Growing Old with His Great Self"His soul grows tired, like the garden he's tilled for the past sixty yearsHis smile cracked, like every line crisscrossed on his body, his bones only there to support his sagging skin;-These are his thoughts-His easy chair: hand-made of hard, decaying woodHis watchd.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/BohemiaScot/1480333/