You probably know what the word polymath means; it refers to a highly skilled person, someone who is an expert at a lot of different things. Benjamin Franklin was a polymath. Leonardo da Vinci, Leibniz, Buckminster Fuller — they were all polymaths. Elon Musk is probably a polymath.
My name is Jim Dutton. I am not a polymath. I chose, long ago, not to become an expert in any particular field, but rather to learn just enough of them to enjoy them, without over-specializing. Wow, that sounds arrogant and self-serving. Fact is, I tried to become the very best in…
For 25 years, Annette Sanford taught high school English in a tiny town just outside Houston, Texas. She wasn’t my teacher though; I met her much later at a writer’s conference at Rice University. Having recently published her first collection of short stories, Lasting Attachments, which had been well-received by critics, she was a published author and served as a judge of the short story contest for new writers.
It was the first time I had ever deliberately allowed someone else to read one of the stories I had just taken to writing while traveling for work. Mrs. …
From behind on the steep trail, Jack looked to Darian like a backpack with legs. The two of them moved steadily up the mountain, a little slower than Darian would have liked, a little faster than Jack’s preferred pace. The sun had already begun to accelerate in its afternoon fall toward the high horizon of the adjoining peak, and Jack wanted to reach a certain spot a little farther up the trail with enough time left before dark to pitch the tents and gather firewood.
“You okay up there?” Darian asked the legged backpack.
“Yep. Doing just fine. We should…
A graveside is a solemn place,
and this one more than most,
for it stands alone on a grassy hill
beneath an ancient oak.
On it grows a daisy,
and in it rests the ghost
of a man whose body turned to dust
before his spirit broke.
A man who taught me many things
of briar root and pine cone,
and subtler values, deeply felt,
like family, friends, and home.
There was a time, a childhood phase,
when he seemed to me a god.
He could devastate with a single frown
or thrill me with a nod.
And later, as his time grew short,
his strength succumbed to frailty,
his memories entranced me still,
and his humor never…
I’ve had sex on the beach (not the cocktail)
On a plane, in a car, and on a train
I could fill a book with the bawdy tales
Of my youth when I had sex on the brain.
I’ve been on the bottom and at the top
Sub to a mistress and dom in control
I once had a girl in a pastry shop
Who had the sweetest of all donut holes.
I’ve done oral, anal, and cranial
Styled in doggy and missionary (natch)
Licked my fear of going au naturel
Without staring at somebody’s…smile.
I’ve bonded with those who…
A one-lane bridge,
straight as a needle,
across a roiling divide
toward a green and healthy land
on the other side.
But I’m not so sure.
I sit in my car,
half on and half off,
wondering, will it hold me?
Will it deliver me to paradise
or be my final folly?
I’m just not sure.
A fire burns behind me.
I cannot see it,
or feel its heated gusts.
I am told it is there
by people I trust,
but I’m not so sure.
Who built the bridge?
I cannot say.
There are rumors around
that they want to lure us
This podsitter gig is usually pretty sweet for a teenager like me. I just sit around some family’s ground pod and tend to the houseplants and pets while they’re away on earthcation, swimming in an ocean, or whatever. I’ve never been to Earth, so I can only imagine. I actually love the solitude though, sitting in these comfortable, isolated homepods, reading, writing, and plinking out new tunes on my guitar.
It’s the easiest job in the world — this world anyway. I water the plants when they look droopy, monitor the gauges for the core drilling equipment to make sure…
Cyril Tully was a farm boy. He lived with his parents in a rural farmhouse, far away from the nearest neighbor. Six days a week, he plowed the fields, slopped the pigs, and drove a combine for hours up and down arrow-straight rows. On Sundays, he lived in his head.
Cyril Tully was also a poet. Though he’d never learned to write, he read many books borrowed from the school or the town’s library. And he composed poems in his mind, silently reciting the words over and over as his body performed the menial tasks required of it. …
Writer, Musician, Carpenter, Inventor, Entrepreneur