Fiction · Writing

Trainer Orange Ep. 7

The waiting room was still and slanted. Nurses switched rooms quickly without a glance out. Pokemon being taken back and forth, large ones, large enough their horns or skulls would touch the ceiling. A Snorlax came through, just like Red’s, eye swollen shut and purple like a plum. A young girl, reminded Franklin of Tina, had bug bites the size of plums on her right arm. Tears drowned her eyes as a nervous adult and the red haired nurse escorted her to a back room. All the panic in this Pokecenter, the red haired nurse never seemed flustered or bothered.

Vulpix had been checked into the Pokecenter an hour ago, the red haired nurse moved towards Martin, who was fiddling with change at a vending machine. Mumbling, the nurse did the majority of the talking and filled Martin with white pause that held his tongue. She walked away from him and he stood there. Franklin glared at him until Martin finally looked back.

“Vulpix is going to be fine.” Franklin felt the oxygen exits his lungs into the Center.

“However,” The air backtracked. “We don’t have the money to the pay the bill. Even at home, I don’t have the money.”

The white left Martin and entered Franklin.

“I only brought enough for food and a room. The bill is that, plus.”

Franklin raised to his feet and headed towards the exit of the Center. Tangelo Island was quiet and the streets bare and Franklin walked it.

Poetry · Writing

Perfect Cast

Fishing without a rod.

salt fizzle wind brushing the shoreline

across its forehead. Fish aren’t biting.

Fishing without a rod. Water gently strokes

the fins of dreamy trouts as they smile. Fish

aren’t biting. Clouds cover the eyes of the sun;

casting pretend night over the sleepy water.

Fishing without a rod.

Fish aren’t biting.

Poetry · Writing

Flash

The centered frame

stand still for the shot

sweetie.

Your perfect moment

with fake people

and a cheap unanimous grin.

This perfect moment

standing next too a twenty-four pack.
Cousin Frank being held up

like Weekend at Bernie’s.

It’ll get cropped out. Can’t

destroy the perfect moment.

Poetry · Writing

Haunted

It’s on a one way path

never off track

only passenger.

Ghost train.

The harrowing steel wheels

lift into screaming black

nowhere.

Window seat flash

children playing with armless

action figures.

Beer belly man

walking

a German Shepherd.

A woman on her wedding day;

peach ball gown tracing the cracks along the sweat filled sidewalk.

The train makes no stops.

Fiction · Writing

Trainer Orange Ep. 6

Valencia’s buildings all looked the same. Franklin has seen Pokecenters on the television before but none of these buildings sparked familiarity.

“Franklin slow down,” Martin said limping behind. Vulpix’s breathing in Frankin’s arm was becoming feint, the complete opposite of Frankin’s. Steady brink buildings, blurry faces, and domesticated Pokemon, and no Pokecenter.

The edge of Valencia, the end of the city, a building of red brick and a red roof with a Pokeball engraved into white lining. The ball was large, the size of Franklin’s eyes. Vulpix, cradled in Franklin’s failing arms, body previously burning the flesh of his arms now going cold.

The door of the Center automatically opened and a blast of cool air ejects.

“Hello and wel- Oh my! Bring her here sweety,” a young woman said. Her voice was high pitched as she trotted towards Franklin. The woman wore a white dress tied in the back with a large bow and a red cross in the center of her white cap. She relieved Franklin’s duty and took Vulpix to a table occupied by two other women wearing the same attire.

“Will she be okay?” One of the nurses looked up and took Vulpix to a isolated room.

The red haired nurse returned to Franklin, “Your Vulpix received series damage, she will be recovering for a couple of hours. I would stay away from the Krabby at the pier, they are dangerous Pokemon and not something beginning trainers should battle,” she concluded and held her hand out.

Franklin’s face turned green and handed the Premier ball over to the nurse.

Poetry · Writing

Hibernation

Hello?

It’s time to wake up.

You’ve been sleeping under that tree for to long.

The sun has set

the season has changed

the winner has been crowned

your house has been moved.

Tiles of metric meaning layer over the place you once called home.

It’s time to wake up.

You’ve been sleeping way to long under that log that keeps you sane. Time to rebuild that home.