Category: The Daily Odyssey
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Unsharpened Pencils – an essay by P Chatelain
UNSHARPENED PENCILS – by Phillipe Chatelain For the longest I never wrote in pencil. It seemed rustic and was reminiscent of the naivety of third grade.
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Hat in Hand: an Observation by M. Pitter
(An observation during the afternoon of the 30th of April, 2012) I had to take a break. Pen down, seat back, twist out… The elevator lulled me down twelve floors. After a sigh in the machinery, the doors opened to a painting: an ostentatious, expressionistic-frenzied phenomenon involving an assortment of blue squares. Then through revolving…
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She has a pretty face…by G. Mramor
She has a pretty face, and she wears her hat backwards far back, soft brunette streams down the sides of her face, a pesky strand pushed back as she counts money, she smiles a good bye and says hello, an order and more money she counts and returns three dimes to a smiling man, she…
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Taking Shots Alone – Poems by P Chatelain
Author’s note: This is an attempt at documenting silent musings oft-ignored. Please consume responsibly. 1 let’s chill out, light a cigarette in the sun, watching the smoke take shapes.
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What’s on your mind? – Poem by J. Gawrych
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Orphans…by G. Mramor
I felt these ragamuffins were orphans, so how their clothes hung dirty on their dirty flesh, so how their lives hung dirty into the grime and grunge of what their hands wrought, so how gentle and angelic they seemed. A whole new race of artists are they and from out of the earth they came,…
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You are…by G. Mramor
You Are
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Not a Big Deal (Excerpt) – Short Story by P Chatelain
Not a Big Deal (Excerpt) by Phillipe Chatelain Author’s note: Not a Big Deal tells the story of a tragic situation that serves as a catalyst to connect very different people. New friendships are formed and old friendships are questioned, but at what cost?
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Meet Eastern Europe: Budapest, Hungary
I was able to go to the beautiful city of Budapest over my spring break. Here are some of the amazing pictures I was able to take over there.
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I see you man…by G. Mramor
I see you man, your words are old and tired, and your books are green-leaved and barren, I see you man, shuffling your faltering body to the bench a respite for the lost moments near age’s end, and a breath to recapture the lost passage of time and some words now smoldered into air, I…
