writing from
Scars Publications

Audio/Video chapbooks cc&d magazine Down in the Dirt magazine books

 

This writing was accepted for publication in the
108 page perfect-bound ISSN# / ISBN# issue/book
 “Drowning in the Darkness”
Down in the Dirt, v174 (the August 2020 Issue)



Order the paperback book: order ISBN# book 		Down in the Dirt

Order this writing that appears
in the one-of-a-kind anthology
Outside the Box
the Down in the Dirt May-Aug.
2020 issues collection book

 Outside the Box (Down in the Dirt book) issue collection book get the 422 page
May-Aug. 2020
Down in the Dirt
6" x 9" ISBN#
paperback book:
order ISBN# book

Order this writing in the book
inside the box
the 2020 poetry & art
collection anthology 		inside the box (2020 poetry and art book) get the 262 page poetry
& artwork & photography
collection anthology
as a 6" x 9" ISBN#
paperback book:

order ISBN# book

Depression

Scott Brown

    In January in western Missouri, the sun never really gets out of bed. Unease, the color of a 4 am bedroom ceiling fades to ashen as dawn rolls over on flannel sheets with puckered off-white squares surrounded by colorless lines of dirty plaid. The gray depth steels movement to a putz of bedroom slippers.

    The day lightens, but there is no source of light, no beam or shadow. Thought is thick like wandering through those heavy curtains that hang in weighted stillness behind the church altar without pass-through or opening to what lies beyond. Crows, wings swimming in the deep slate, are blackened against the leadened fog.

    The rain is not a surprise. There is a black-gray, the color of a city alley in a film noir movie; dingy, skating clouds pelting shivering drops. Back-turning, hunkering non-movement with hopelessness trickling down the spine - not refusing to move, but like staring listlessly into a pile of wine corks stained with memories that were so much better the first time.

    Past summers didn’t shine this far forward. Clogged skies conceal the path for walking backwards into daylight. It is hard to remember how to be in the sun. Hope for warmth is sliced away by gusts of mist, thin like filet knives. Non-existence feels nearby, not threatening, just sitting there quiet, present, like a virus waiting to be brushed onto your hand from a stair railing or a dying relationship.



Scars Publications


Copyright of written pieces remain with the author, who has allowed it to be shown through Scars Publications and Design.Web site © Scars Publications and Design. All rights reserved. No material may be reprinted without express permission from the author.




Problems with this page? Then deal with it...