Words fall from my fingertips during an absurd time of human existence.
Category: prose
My fiction and creative non-fiction pieces.
Prose: Seattle: Everything’s Going to be OK
I used to live a few blocks up, behind you, and around the corner. You can’t see it but up there is Joe Bar. It has cozy loft spaces for sitting and sipping coffee or wine or eating crepes, but they’re tiny and get hot in the summer. The spaces, not the crepes. Across the…
Prose: Summoning Seattle
Even though it’s a balmy 1,000 degrees out in South Louisiana, today I will be summoning my inner Seattle. Memories, so many. Feels like yesterday. We were all hangin’ patchouli’d-out, cloves-in, at Ernie Steele’s. Where were you? Living in the 90s. Drum beats. Wood floors. Vampires in my bed. “You’re life’s just like Singles,” she…
Prose: Mr. Preacher Man
“What about you, Julia, have you been saved?” I was caught off-guard. “Yeah, but I have a church in Seattle I watch online.” “Oh, ok, well, y’all don’t mind if we pray? Dear heavenly father …” I wanted to reach out and hold hands. But none of the others made a move. Wasn’t that what…
Prose: NYC Ramblings
Hot, bitter coffee in my cup swirled with sweet thoughts of hot dudes reading in the subway. Touch. Chocolate. Kisses on my tongue. Is that a Spanish accent? You look like you stylishly rolled out of bed. That signature coat. It’s probably designer, but I wouldn’t know. My hangover, headache subsides. Too much lemon on my…
Prose: Waitin’ on the Rain
Windows open Cool air breezin’ in Rumble rumble in the sky In my belly Black coffee sputters to the top To my lips Thank you, Universe Tick tock on the clock Biscuits rising Cast iron’s hot Eggs, freshly born Freshly scrambled On my plate Kisses the smoked Pine Prairie boudin good mornin’ Last night’s farewell…
Prose: Exposed
Walk up. They turn my way, see through me. Inside. Outside. I am naked. Beautiful shoulders. Love your hair. Nice legs. Grab it. Grope it. Kiss me. No me. No me. My body trembles. That was my last drink. And on and on and on he kept on. Time to go. Who am I? Who…
Prose: Silent America
Senses are heightened. Look around. Notice. I push the radio off button, roll down the windows and soak up the humidity. A faint cool breeze chills my left shoulder, tickling thoughts of early mornings, Mom driving me to the mill where the yellow school bus waited for me. The air thick with the scent of…
Anne-Julia Price 