Comments Posted By Chris Rogers
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I smelled the bourbon sitting on the edge of the bar and coughed. I didn’t just cough, I snorted and gagged. The fumes of that strong, pure, alcoholic drink did me in.
» Posted By Chris Rogers On 01.10.2014 @ 5:02 am
I am tracking down my keys, which, in the frenzy of making a bottle, changing a diaper, and de-snow suiting my son, I haphazardly discarded in, what at the time, may have seemed like a logical place.
» Posted By Chris Rogers On 01.07.2014 @ 6:19 am
I was hoping to see you tonight. Not that I’ve been waiting or anything. It’s just, that, well . . . these things are boring along . . . or if you don’t know anyone. And I’m glad to see you.
Do you want a soda?
» Posted By Chris Rogers On 10.03.2013 @ 12:50 pm
There was a mirage of him the passenger window of my Ford Explorer. Like he was there like he used to be there – in that grey leather seat. Not so much navigating as ignoring the consequences of a wrong turn, and embracing my panic as I repeatedly, exit after exit, swerved across busy lanes of traffic to stay on course.
» Posted By Chris Rogers On 09.27.2013 @ 6:09 am
I went scuba diving once. Down deep to the sandy white ocean floor. Off the coast of an island somewhere south. Far away from what I consider reality. And to be down there, beneath the world, in another state, with another population, changed my view of everything above. And when I surfaced and returned – when I went north – I didn’t see people or cars or buildings. Instead, there were beautiful individuals floating about – human powered and motorized. There were reefs of buildings, with organism shops living among and within.
» Posted By Chris Rogers On 09.18.2013 @ 4:11 am
The intrigue in the eyes of Yogi Bear chasing after the cotton-tailed bunny bounding behind the jagged rock piles at the foot of the driveway let to a sudden jerk of the leash that shocked his walker, who lost grip of the leash handle letting him chase.
» Posted By Chris Rogers On 09.05.2013 @ 5:56 am
Sam brushed his hair away and set to sweeping the floor of the high school hallway. The checkered squared went past him and began to have a hypnotic effect, as they always did.
» Posted By Chris Rogers On 01.16.2013 @ 3:18 pm
The barrel of clubs in the corner was filled with dinged up old treasures. Putters that hadn’t seen the light of day in years, if not decades, but were old, well-made, tools that did the job as well as the new-fangled alien clubs.
» Posted By Chris Rogers On 01.01.2013 @ 7:26 pm
I was so sure, that I set the come down. And I walked to her and said,”Hrllo, beautiful. Can I have this dance.” She looked at me with her blazing brown eyes And nodded. Just a little. And so I took her hand and walked with her to the edge of the laminate wood that was the dancers’ floor. Like the boxers ring. And I had made it this far. And I was holding her hand. And my heart was racing. F’ing pounding from my chest trying to reach hers to see if it, too, wanted the same kind of freedom. And all I could do was take that next step. The leather of my shoe skidding to a start on the dusty wood. I reached my arm around her thin little waist and pulled her warm body to mine so that I could lead her away to the rest of her life. For there was no turning back on this little leap of love. She was my wallflower. Me, her punch bowl mixer. And together we were everything at once. The disco ball above stopped to watch as we spun faster and slower around anyone who dared to stay. And then I stopped us. The music stopped. And I dipper her til her hair was in the dust of that worn out floor. And I looked At those brown eyes of hers and I whispered that I was amazed by her grace and beauty.
» Posted By Chris Rogers On 12.30.2012 @ 7:49 pm
“Scatter, buster, before mom sees you on the tile.” The dog sulked backwards to his usual spot in the corner of the TV room. He was safe for not, but unhappy and wanted to play.
» Posted By Chris Rogers On 12.22.2012 @ 5:54 am
Sate, I have no idea what it means. It sounds like many things, safe, ate, late. Different meanings for everything. Why sate? is this a test? writting about things you dont understand.
» Posted By Chris Rogers On 12.19.2012 @ 8:53 pm
Across the street, backed by climbing ivy and silver graffiti hearts, is a young couple sitting on a green cement bench. The axis of his world tilting towards hers. A lean to her gravity – to the sunny disposition of her beautiful smile, and all of the kind things that come with it. And then he lifts his left hand, which is covered by a mitten, and runs it along her right jawbone to pull her cold light pink lips to his.
» Posted By Chris Rogers On 12.17.2012 @ 8:45 pm
She was a patient of life, as it administered its medicine in daily doses of freshly cut tulips on her round oak kitch table, delivered there by her husband after a rather mundane day at work. Of sunrises that greeted her as she turned right out of her driveway each morning to take her child to fourth grade. And of feeling of her baby’s beautiful little hands pressing against the inside of her womb – reaching for the starts above.
» Posted By Chris Rogers On 12.13.2012 @ 7:33 pm
They were determined – on a mission – sent by the god that gave them orders – the government. And they sought to carry on that mission – to save as many lives as possible, in whatever way they could.
» Posted By Chris Rogers On 12.12.2012 @ 8:16 pm
Themselves got to go now. Don’t listen to the devil. But to the cool whisper of the morning dew that sticks to the soles of their ratty work boots. Their glossy penny loafers. And it says to them . . .
» Posted By Chris Rogers On 11.09.2012 @ 5:57 am
The fourth step leading up to the front post of my grand parents house was always a little loose. It squeaked and rocked back towards the street a fraction of an inch. The redish stain was wearing thin.
» Posted By Chris Rogers On 10.22.2012 @ 5:56 pm
She sat on the red and black buffalo plaid blanket we received from my uncle in Seattle and she kept taking enormous bites from a thick quartered slice of light pink watermelon. The clear juice from the melon was running down from the corners of her mouth and dripping from her chin onto her light blue bikini bottoms. She looked happy and pretty.
» Posted By Chris Rogers On 02.16.2012 @ 11:52 am
She flirted with me like it was her middle name. Like it was the sun. Like there was a bookshelf full of books and a fresh pot of coffee. Like a dog barks at cars. Like when a President of the United States of America dies and there’s a special report on TV. Like she is something beautiful captured in something cold – like a ripe red cherry in an icicle. Like she was being graded by God. Like her parents weren’t watching.
» Posted By Chris Rogers On 02.15.2012 @ 12:50 pm
“I have no clue what she wants for Valentine’s day!”
“Really? You have NO clue? I barely hang out with you two, and, man, I can tell you she’s been dropping hints like they’re the sun setting in December.”
“Well, nothing. Get your ass to the flower store, make a reservation at Amical and think of something interesting to talk about for an hour other than golf clubs. And get the bracelet at the jewelry store downtown – the one in the window.”
» Posted By Chris Rogers On 02.14.2012 @ 11:41 am
The fog set in and our pace quickened. “We’re going the wrong way,” John said. “The moss on the tree indicates we’re going south. Camp is north.” We’d been hiking for three hours and none of us knew where north was, let alone camp. I kept thinking that I could smell Lindsey’s cooking – camp roast, mashed potatoes, and caramelized carrots – but my mind was playing tricks. Edna tripped on a root, and screamed. My head whipped around to see the commotion. As the maze of hysteria set in midst the evergreens, taller now than their fading shadows, a discord . . .
» Posted By Chris Rogers On 02.12.2012 @ 7:40 pm
We learn to adopt at a young age. Oh, wait, scratch that. I was thinking that you said, “adapt.” Well let’s adopt a new direction to this post and think about it for a little bit before we get ourselves in more trouble.
» Posted By Chris Rogers On 02.09.2012 @ 7:37 pm
He was sitting on the porch near the shadow of the gazebo, rocking on the coiled-wire hinge of his deck chair. The August sun was waning as evening – and with it dinner – approached. He allowed himself to let his focus blur as he took a long pull that finished the bottle of Summer Shandy he’d been nursing for the past half-hour. The waves of Lake Michigan and the sandy shores had called it a truce for the day, and were in the process of retreating to their front lines. And then the grate of the sliding door jostled him upright in his chair, and as he slowed the pulse of his rocker she called, “Dinner’s ready.”
» Posted By Chris Rogers On 02.09.2012 @ 6:20 am
The walls inside our house were covered with finger paint fingerprints,
» Posted By Chris Rogers On 02.07.2012 @ 7:00 pm
This word means a lot to me, and I will write honestly about it. I chose to become a husband nearly a year ago and was married four months ago. Both decisions were significant, as I believe they should be, and I had waited to find who I believe is right person for me. My soulmate. My lover. My best friend. My wife. I love her.
» Posted By Chris Rogers On 10.30.2011 @ 1:59 pm
The riots started on the dawn of the new century when the internet stopped working. All computerized connections were lost around the world and suddenly “it’s a small world after all” didn’t ring so true. In fact, to a population sixty-seven generations removed from the pre-networked-age, the world had never felt so large and foreign. In the matter of hours, the peoples’ digital expressions became physical and tangible. The threat of a resurgent dark age loomed.
» Posted By Chris Rogers On 10.28.2011 @ 12:31 pm
I used every fine silken thread of my soul to relate to the individuals around me. But each night when I set my black-haired head on the cold pillow, pulled the duvet up to the scruff of my chin and exhaled the day’s worries into the sepia glow of my bedroom, I reminded myself . . . (not sure where I’m going with this).
» Posted By Chris Rogers On 10.20.2011 @ 2:49 pm
The braid in her hair ran along the edge of her forehead. It was simple and beautiful. We were in a rush, but she always looked amazing. And then we hopped in the car and headed to the farm, with the hound in the back and a unwrapped birthday present in the trunk.
» Posted By Chris Rogers On 10.02.2011 @ 6:51 am
The other half of the universe is a mystery to me. The “dark side,” as the minister calls it each Sunday morning during his luxuriously long sermons that drone on about the uncivilized details of life on Earth, is waiting for us.
» Posted By Chris Rogers On 09.29.2011 @ 12:13 pm
The denseness of the flesh of the Honeycrisp apple surprised him as he eased his butcher’s knife through the varying diameter of its body. Still shaken by the rusty blue pick-up truck clipping his dog earlier in the afternoon, his hand was unsteady. The black carbon handle of the knife, which he had just rinsed in the double-basin stainless steel Kohler kitchen sink, was wet. The ball of his right hand, located just below where the index finger joined his palm, was the primary source of pressure on the top side of the knife handle. He leaned into the motion and pressed down harder. His eye twitched. His nose tingled. He sneezed. And then, unknown to him, his hand pressed the knife down through the apple and the index, middle and ring fingers of his left hand. The world seemed to freeze in place as he stared down at the grotesque animated still life depicting two halves of an apple laying open on the antipodal points of what used to be a whole apple, three detached fingertips aligned behind the left half apple and a pool of blood seeping across the backdrop like anti-gravity curtains in an upside down theater.
» Posted By Chris Rogers On 09.28.2011 @ 2:54 pm
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The playground a Pathfinder School – my elementary school in Traverse City, Michigan – wasn’t the typical open field or lot with over-sized toys. It was the wood and all of its components. The myrtle-covered hills, the overgrown wander paths, the elder trees, the soft blanket of brown leaves and the black dirt a farmer would love. I could explore and wander about. I could play games. I could even get lost if I dared to do so.
» Posted By Chris Rogers On 09.28.2011 @ 5:37 am