Poem: Youth Lost

Posted: May 12, 2016 in Uncategorized

Forbidden the fruit
From garnered memories
and overgrown paths

Steps lead beyond pastures
and rotted wood and barnyards
through dried flowers and grass

Denoted the seconds
A clock ticks somewhere
Listen-it chimes ever so fast

Hands in holy pockets-
Feet traverse homeward
Seeking dreams you did cast

Lost to the ages
Of Paradise past

Nothing remains
forever intact

Ne’er again
The die has been cast


Non fiction: Free Write

Posted: March 29, 2016 in Uncategorized

I love free-writes that get the blood pumping, the mind clicking that opens creative circuits, and I’m not getting graded for mis-spelled words or formatting. This free-write is about family.

When I was ten months old, my Daddy bought the farm next to my maternal grandparents and we settled there. His parents lived twenty miles across the state line, yet he chose to bring my fifteen-year-old mother back to what she needed–still a child, she needed her parents and it all worked out. She had her first child at seventeen and the last one at thirty-five.

But I never forget much, so my memories go back to learning to walk, and observe life, or rather older family members such as great aunts and uncles and I could fill books with growing up surrounded by a huge family and relatives that lived clustered off side roads and into the hills and higher levels from one main two-lane blacktop road.
To live within walking distance of your grandparents was like having two sets of parents. My son has one grandma, so he will never understand the bonds that exist between grandparents and grandchildren much like the bond of a parent. That makes me sad that we are all scattered, in present tense, from Alaska, to Texas, California, Arkansas, Mississippi, Tennessee, NC, and SC. Home is still home where I began, not where I reside in present tense.

That’s the best decision Daddy ever made since it gave my brothers and me a solid foundation which resulted in the best of abilities to live a normal, just about perfect childhood. Foundation you have in youth also makes you live longer as an adult, able to cope and so on. I loved home so much that every time I moved, such as finishing high school and moving 100 miles to Memphis, I stayed away about six months and moved back home–until I was in my twenties. Super little towns all clustered together like the heritage I came from.

I never understood why we were so poor when Daddy had a state job, but I figured it must have been because there were so many mouths to feed, bodies to clothe. Daddy paid cash for our house and land, but it was a small house with good ace rage for farming when he got home from work every day and weekends. Being poor is under-rated since we were happy and didn’t know another way of life and never had to do without sustenance or things we needed. Didn’t have a telephone till I was in middle school–didn’t matter.

Old people can be a real learning experience; I grew up and now consider myself old, as a baby boomer, so I think I’m safe to use a word that describes me, although my mother is in her eighties.

As I grew older, I learned, or rather figured out that Daddy was trying to make it up to my grandparents for marrying their daughter so young. Forgiveness was the reason and it backfired on Daddy because Grandpa comes from a lineage known for not forgetting or forgiving. He never forgave Daddy. To top it off, those two were Democrat (Daddy) and Republican (Grandpa).

I was a quiet kid who said little as a kid; I absorbed my world around me which was mostly nature and family.I suppose that’s the reason I’m still among the living, well that and my nine-lives. It amazes me of all the mischief and the chances I took at a young age and upward that I lived to tell about it. Then I grew old and totaled my son’s car on the way home from college about twenty miles away. I gripped the steering wheel, calm as can be and said out loud what I thought would be my last words, “Well, I guess this is it.” I’ve heard others say the same thing about being near death from an accident. Calm as a cucumber, for real. The mind knows when you’re in a bad situation and prepares you in a second’s notice.

When I write things like this, no one cares or believes me, but that’s okay since I am a fanatic about truth and silly little things in most categories imaginable. Most young people in this generation, related to me, anyway,including my son, don’t want to hear about heritage or where he or she came from, and have little time for “old” people, baby boomers.

I have five nieces and nephews and two great nephews and haven’t seen the youngest great nephew born in December. I’m not that close to any of my nieces and nephews except the sixteen-year-old one. She’s a tough one born with brains, good looks and a hard life after Mother got sick and she landed in the court system. Her mother, my sister will get custody back in a few months so we’re looking forward to that. Niece is going to be in the eleventh grade in the fall, on the Tennis team, and works after school. I call her the diamond of our family and that pretty much sums her up. Life isn’t easy for any teen as it was when I was one and actually picked cotton for one of my uncles.

This free-write means nothing to anyone but me, but that’s okay. Unlike the free-writes in college, it doesn’t have trolls, or haints in it and it’s not graded. Peace and be well.

Science Fiction: Free Write

Posted: December 25, 2015 in Uncategorized

A free write unedited as it flows. Errors in punctuation or spelling do not matter with free writes.


Wretched was the nightmare under a veil that touched upon madness. I was unwell those days of rain that never ceased racking my body with chills of near to convulsion. Catapulted into a world I knew not nor from whence I had been sprung.

Memories were shrouded in a pathetic murk of muddy water that drowned inner senses and obliterated my ability to think in a normal sense of the word. Light and dark melded together to cover images long-since forgotten or maybe I’d never existed. I knew not the circumstance that brought me there nor was it the uppermost in my mind. Survival was at the helm and I was the captain that steered my needs.

Clothes hung upon my bones as if I had been starved and wrapped in remnants of another time and place—an age of neglect.
Weak to the pitch of my soul, I found myself on a desolate and isolated shore where the ocean was endless and with each ebb and flow of the tide, it mesmerized me into a state of submissive brain warp–a hypnotic trance that robbed me of caring for my outcome of deliverance.

The sand was as hot as the Sahara and like a fool I stared at my blistered feet. Near to numbness, one step at a time I moved in a slow motion type of dance yet it was not a dance. It was a shifting of positions from side to side and I was a prisoner of my self as the sun watched and tortured my very existence. I had never felt such heat and new not how to survive such of the elements.

I knew that I was under the sun on a beach with my hands cupped over my ears to shield me from relentless pounding waves oppressive and angry against jagged rocks beyond the shoreline. With each slap of the waves, I jerked like a madman for it was torment and rattled the little serenity remaining.

It was a maddening torture and I found myself crouched on the sand in a cross-legged fashion such as an Indian might sit. I stared at the wrinkled soles of my feet and watched the blood ooze from open sores that the sea might heal with its salt, for it ebbed inward to me and I welcomed it with crazed lucidity of what was real and what was unknown–in other words the world of reality and normalcy I knew not the difference.

My hands had grown numb from my slumped stance in the sand and I shook them freely about me to awaken them. Each sound, aside from the waves, brought me to an awareness of my surroundings and the sounds were of a tomb with lashing waves slapped past me and covering my wretched form.

It was at that moment I heard a roaring sound from the skies as if of a thousand birds in flight, only the sounds seemed to descend with every second and crazed I began to count from one hundred backwards. Expectations of what was to come had an eerie, frightening foreboding and I forced myself to open my eyes to see what was occurring.

It was then I saw them!
Creatures with wide wing spans and I ceased my pointless counting and began to surmise their numbers and whether they were bird or man or perhaps something descended from the pits of hell. Maybe I had been plummeted to hell for all the sins that I knew not whereof had been committed.

Heavy beings they were and landed upon what appeared to be two feet. Their skins were liken to a reptiles with toes that webbed out like frogs. My body was wracked with the shakes the likes of which I had never experienced for I knew not their purpose. Then my mind went rabid and I thought they might be in search of food and I was to be the meal. A parsley meal I would make for I was half starved, myself.

I heard a hoarse voice from within me cry out to the seven avaricious faced creatures I had thus far counted approaching me. Their slithering webbed feet was covered with an oily substance that stuck sand to the surface and I saw one shake it loose as some foreign object might react, as if it had never beheld grains of sand before.

And then it dawned on me to observe the faces and horror filled my being, for the eyes were liken to a man with beaked features for noses, and the ears were long and hung loose. Such an appearance I had never seen and I cowered like some fool while they came closer and eyed me. All seven stretched out their wings as if a habit of existence and perhaps they had flown some great distance to land upon this desolate island–perhaps in search of food as I had forethoughts upon their arrival.

The creatures were bold and one that looked to be the leader came forth dragging its wings with seemingly great effort from the weight. Shocked more came what I feared to be some sort of communication among them as they seemed to speak with black slimy eyes and motion with webbed hands that matched their feet.

“Scrawny,” one spoke with a raspy sound and the others nodded in unison.
I was surprised that the language was discernible for it was my native tongue.

The word hallucination reverberated in my mind as a record caught in a groove, spinning and making no sense. I shook my head and held up my hands to shield me from their stares. Piteously, I lay before them in a cowering position as if beseeching mercy. Their wings rustled and flapped about making winglike sounds of a thousand birds, yet they were seven and huge in size, almost to the point of giants above me. My body continued to shake and my hands went up in a beseeching manner of defense or maybe it was a begging sight to such creatures as they looked from one to the other as if confused to the next mode of action.

The one who had said the word “scrawny” reached a wing in motion to the skies and the others nodded in unison. To my astonishment, these unknown birdlike creatures turned with the loudest of noises and I opened my eyes to see one ascent a bit and light again on the sand as if to balance itself or prepare for flight. I wished with all my being for the latter, but knew not what was to come. My wretched existence mattered not and I no longer cared what happened to me. Pain removed fear and made me retch.

Surprising myself, I crawled backward in a slow movement against the sand. Blood flowed freely yet I felt nothing. Instinct guided me and I succumbed willingly distancing myself an inch at a time away from these foul avian beings. No attempts to stop me were made and I wondered at this yet continued to move without reproach or violence inflicted to stop my retreat.

“Man-like creatures” I heard my voice whisper and it was my first vocal integration that made any sense. My feet dug into the sand with each inch of plot I managed to cover away from them. It mattered not to me anymore for I was doomed to be eaten by these wretched beings or doomed to die a slow death in the sand. I saw no way out yet I slithered in a most pitiful manner as a snake might cover the land in retreat.

It was at that point that I heard the same mighty rush of wind as when they landed upon the beach. In short order I braved my head in a backward direction and I saw them in flight as they had been before landing in this unknown domain. The skies were black with their wing spans flapping and the noise was deafening but I could not turn away. Baffled, I watched them until they were as dots in the sky and no longer visible. I was grateful yet I knew not if this had been reality or dreams of madness that my arrival on the beach provoked upon me.

The air was silent once more, save for the waves slapping zagged rocks and the easy flow of the tide rushing in and retreating.

I inhaled in what might be considered relief but had no knowledge of what had happened to bring me to this hellish situation. Therefore; once again, I lay in the sand looking up to the sun and clouds. Saved from creatures yet I was not saved from myself or how I came to be there.

Thoughts ran rabid again and I grasped at them as straws of thin chat. For some time my mind did focus and in my crazed condition a memory came to me of the scriptures of a character, a man named Job who had lived through sorrows and was spared to live a renewed life of plenty. I felt tears and words formed in the air about me. My voice sand at first, then yelled in pain, then it whispered. “Memory,” I shouted to my surroundings, until my voice grew louder and then it echoed from a bluff-like area, not far from me.

In the distance, I glimpsed something different–it appeared to be a vessel of sorts-a ship with a large white mast heralding skyward and propelled by the wind. I saw humans like specks but they grew larger and called to me. The words were not discernible but it mattered not. I would be delivered as the silent voice had spoken to me before.

I heard another voice inside my head, “I will persevere and be delivered to another shore of my own kind,” it said. I knew not if it were my voice or imagination of  dream, only that it made sense.
I listened closely.
“Deliverance is at hand,” the voice said. And then there were no voices. Once again, I lay on the sand, beneath the sun. I allowed myself to be covered with green algae-like coverings that felt soothing to my blistered skin. I waited for deliverance.

Dec. 2015 & don’t know my mindset at the time. Caffeine perhaps.

wyn sharp 19 September 2019

Fiction: Excerpt

Posted: December 24, 2015 in Uncategorized

It was then at the bleakest of my mental existence that a light filtered through, and out of the darkness of my insanity a sliver of hope spoke to me, as I slept like death enshrouded. In my captive and buried state; I was not mad at all, to the contrary.
Everything I had been coerced to believe about myself was all lies and a brandishing of my mental facilities. I had hope; where before there was none, I was sane!
I lay perfectly still thinking through closed eyelids, in silence, save for that voice; that sliver of hope. In my state of death that was not a death…I waited for more words for what I did not know, but a trickle of water from above began with a drip, drip, drip.
wyn sharp 24 Dec. 2015

I write a lot about being eighteen because it was one of my most memorable and active ages where impressions for reflection after entering the world of an adult. Many years were crammed into that one age.

Tonight, I was thinking of the first and only time in my life I was introduced to the art of being dumped in a relationship, at a young age.
Never mind that eighteen is somewhere between fantasy and reality–it is; it was, and it still is.

Now, I elaborate.

My small town had a population of about 3,000 people, at that time (six-thousand now) few businesses but the most attended business was Shackleford’s Funeral Home, which is still in operation since before the American Civil War, albeit it has expanded into counties all over Tennessee, in keeping with the times.

Nice of Shacklefords to always send right-on-time every three months a small booklet of sorts with pages and pages of names, dates, and locations where the deceased was listed for that period.

Ironically, the back page was filled with the best jokes a person had the liberty of reading. For instance: “A man goes to bed one night and has a horrible nightmare. He dreams of eating a giant marshmallow. To his dismay and search, his pillow was not to be found. He’d eaten it.” Jokes, a bit like that, were listed with the deceased’ names on the front pages. Think back; think front.I sure looked forward to that joke page.

There I was with my eldest brother waiting in his truck on me making a call in a real phone booth–the genuine article that keeps you dry while you make your calls with your pocketful of quarters, dimes, and even nickels, lined upon a silver-cornered counter of sorts.

Shacklefords has been there forever and will have no shortage of clients. But upon this particular day, a funeral was underway as I used the phone in the now extinct telephone booth. See the eighteen-year-old kid yelling into the receiver at the nineteen-year-old Yankee fiancé, from Iowa, who was choosing his family’s money over a Rebel kid.

I shouted; he shouted. The funeral procession continued through my louder-than-life vocal displeasure. My brother, the intelligent one, was embarrassed that his sister had the nerve to project foul language into the telephone receiver while Shackleford’s went formal in the honorable way they have always been known for. My brother lowered himself into the truck seat, so as not to be connected to me, but back then everyone knew everyone else, so he was already “made” when he parked the truck and I pounced into the extinct phone booth. It was not soundproof, by the way.

I’d glance every other sentence to view the procession emptied by the chapel and marching in perfect precision toward the waiting black hearse. Four-six pall-bearers carried the coffin and I hadn’t taken the time to ask who the deceased was.

Living in a small town in a scattered county of small towns, I was pretty much related to most people via my maternal grandfather who had two families over time and all sons except one daughter who married, moved to Texas, and was never seen again until someone sent the telegram that she was deceased. She was never sent home.

That’s not what I concentrated on, nor my brothers pleadings to respect the dead and “cut it out” he would tell me. “Can’t you see a funeral’s going on? Have some respect for the dead!” His words couldn’t penetrate an eighteen-year-old’s in the throes of experiencing the first time a male would ever cast her aside. Nor was I ever to be cast aside by poor boyfriends or any fiancés throughout my life. It was always I who did the dumping and I still don’t understand why I did that. It would have been so much kinder to let a person know you were just enjoying youth and life with nothing serious coming to pass.

I yelled; he yelled and told me he’d send all my “stuff” back because his parents wanted him to marry a daughter of some state representative in their Iowa world. I fought with words and debates that zipped through that phone cord all the way to New River Air Station Marine Base in Camp LeJune, NC.

The parents were “cutting him off” if he didn’t comply and he couldn’t live without money and the extras that were flourished upon him. I was too young to understand money over love.

It was a long funeral service, for I was in that phone booth for an hour, in the heat of summer. Across the street from Shacklefords was a cafe where high school kids ate lunch. I had done the same thing six months earlier. Never mind the other clientele while the funeral proceeded or the commotion I was causing–the service and business went on as did my proclamations of attempting to convince my soon-to-be former fiancé that we didn’t need his parents’ money and he didn’t love the state representative’s daughter anyway.

Finally he compromised and said he’d think about it and call me back. I put the receiver down, picked up my quarters and glanced to the procession of cars lined up headed for a nearby cemetery.

Lots of men in suits and women in veiled hats came out of Shacklefords, so I figured the subject was a popular person of the town; although, I never bothered to ask who the person was, in the heated conversation between my brother and myself on the way home. He had a habit of shaking his hands in all directions when trying to emphasize a point; he was right, and I was wrong, which ever, if I seldom had been. Chalk it up to one time when I was the dumped and not the dumper.

Nevertheless, time passed and the eighteen-year-old grew up to be quite cold hearted from being dumped and forever became the dumper.

No one ever questioned raucous actions in front of Shacklefords Funeral Home. Not even my cousin, who worked in the embalming room and all other parts of the home, ask me questions. I suppose their memories were cast aside; mine were not, and the nineteen-year-old only called back once after the official dumping from the confines of a phone booth, emphasis on the word official.

I feel as if I have lived an adventurous and questionable life with never a dull moment, but I guess I am likely the only one left who remembers being dumped by a fiancé by words plummeted through a metal shell and echoing from the receiver of an antique–Southern Bell phone booth as business went on as usual at Shacklefords Funeral Home.
Wyn Sharp 17 December 2015

Life: First Grade Started it all

Posted: December 12, 2015 in Uncategorized

First grade was a foreign land, to be sure. It introduced me to a limited and unsheltered climate of beings.

One desk behind me, a classmate assembled one of those spider toys, although it was much scarier than the one in the picture. I remember, I was immersed in drawing a house with crayon-blue smoke floating from its chimney. I turned around and saw a spider toy staring into my eyes and it looked worse than the real thing–hideous. I screamed and somehow the assembled pretend-plastic-spider skyrocketed throughout the room–disassembled within other students’ hair. No punishment was issued for the male student of seven.

Second grade, I have discussed the wet drawers flying on the flagpole, so will not repeat.  I did get two spankings during the duration of this particular grade for talking in the rest room. I’m referring to a “pull up the hem of your dress and watch the bruise appear” type of paddling. A wooden paddle was a normal thing since first grade.

Upon further reflection, I think it was a shock to be in a confined environment since I was raised in the hills. I didn’t understand why kids were not allowed to speak in the lunchroom line and therefore; I opened my mouth and spoke. Result was the usual paddling which I easily racked up several through third grade. It was a different world, one that I didn’t adjust very well to; nor did I understand.

Fast forward to sixth grade and it was end-of-elementary-school picnic at a public park not far from a nice creek. I proved then that I was still in the hills of curiosity and not fitting in when I talked three other classmates into exploring the creek. Mind you, the teacher had specifically forbid leaving the park area.

I was used to creeks and my classmates were not, so there again–I paid the price which had evolved into a somewhat civilized manner of punishment other than paddling; except, I didn’t get away with anything. Return to the classroom and the teacher instructed me to stand outside the patio–alone for about an hour, in silence. This was far worse to me than paddlings I had wracked up during the duration of earlier grades.

I was a bad influence on the other students, or so I was told by the principal of the school, on several occasions. But in my world my actions and reactions had been and were perfectly normal. It was a regular thing to talk out of order, without permission when you wanted.

Even revival meetings, where just about the whole congregation spoke at once, sometimes in tongues of the Holy Ghost that a child could not understand, was often witnessed and experienced. There was no confinement, no spider toys, and no paddlings in the hills; freedom reined, so I didn’t bide my time too well in elementary school. First grade started it all like opening a can of worms.

wyn sharp 12 December 2015

Poem: Hallucination

Posted: August 26, 2015 in Uncategorized


A bricked path led downward to a stone path that led to a grainy patch of sandy debris flanked by deep pools of black water–swirling beneath an ancient, deserted bridge–its portico lined with rows upon rows of hornets’ nests…waiting.
Wyn Sharp at Horse Creek
22 July 2015

Poem: Fated

Posted: August 15, 2015 in Uncategorized

She tarried
where storms whispered
her name and touched
the senses in
harmonious rhythm.

She followed
hills without paths
that meandered oblivion
and tears fell upon
withered leaves as she passed.

She listened
to gales and howls
of an instinctive wind
whisper her name,
but stopping
was not an option

She fated herself
to a barren wilderness
that led a trek into darkness
where luxuriant green lushes
of the wild abided.

And she never looked back.

Not even when the wolf
howled, then lost interest
to nuzzle with its mate.
Copyright © wyn sharp 2015

Writing and Revision

Posted: August 12, 2015 in Uncategorized

Is my work ever good enough after revision?
I have asked myself that question for many years. I can write a draft and revise it so many times that I feel it needs to be tossed. A few hours after sleep, I’m at it again and see my words in a different light. I guess you might say it is unreasonable or obsessive to want perfection, yet there is no perfection in writing. Don’t let anyone tell you different, because it’s just not true.
Each writer is different in his or her idea of the written word, but it is what it is and that will never change.
As a writer, I think that words strung together to form stories or any form of writing will never be 100%; although acceptable at best. Having said that, I will continue to revise, lest I blow a brain cell circuit and go–poof!

Poem: ere sunrise

Posted: August 6, 2015 in Uncategorized

series of dreams II

Through pith
of darkness
I slither,
through tunnels
and depths
of abyss
to encounter
a black hole
and seek light,
for it seeps
with eyes
of erratic rays
to be expunged
––ere sunrise

Copyright © wyn sharp 2015

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