A short story

Photo by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash

Jane. What a name. Plain Jane. Sweet Jane. Rolling Stones’ Lady Jane with colors in her hair like the rainbow. Jane is anything but plain in song.

How do you conjugate Jane? I Jane. I Janed. I am Janing.

I am a clever drunk. It’s too bad there aren’t cameras here — I would make a great reality star in my head.

Where is Richard today? Oh, he left on a business trip. No. Get with it, Jane. Richard wasn’t packing for one of his many trips. He was packing the rest of his things because he left you. He…

A Short Story

She lived forty years without ever seeing a fairy, so it was a surprise when one showed up at her weekly office meeting.

Maggie told herself it was an optical illusion. One blind was half open. The afternoon sun was coming in sideways and striking the corner where there must have been dust and cobwebs the cleaning crew missed. On top of that, her eyes were tired from looking at her computer screen all morning. Her contact lenses were dry; one felt like it was inside out. All day it had been shifting around like it wanted to do a…

Simultaneous Contrasts: Sun and Moon, Robert Delaunay (public domain)

A poem

The new — is it still Medium, what are those dots?

Medium logo. . . circa a long time ago now. Property of Medium. (Fair use)

My thoughts on the new Medium . . . web-version.

The New Profile Page

  1. All short pieces that are behind a monetized pay-wall are now freely available. That doesn’t make cents. . .

Even though the new payout formula has resulted in a 90% reduction in payment for me and a lot of other writers, taking that last bit away is frustrating. . .

2. Followers are now a number and I can no longer see who they are. . .

3. I can’t see who I’m following. . . Oh, wait, there’s a workaround or two. . . You can go to “Customize…

A poem

Paul Klee, Senecio-1922 (public domain)

Everything will be normal again
and I’ll lean on my horn
at the injustice of double
parkers on single-lane streets.

I’ll roll my eyes at the throngs
of tourists blocking
my way on cobblestone paths.

I’ll scream inwardly,
impatient with slow-moving
lines ahead of me
as I make my way
to my theater seat.

I’ll silently count to five
to avoid rudely pushing
through throngs
of out-of-towners
gawking at things for sale
at this week’s street festival —
all those couples and groups
so oblivious of others,
taking too many selfies,
talking too loud
all of us packed together,
a concentrated human mass…

A poem

Vasily Kandinsky, Small Worlds V, (public domain)

You want to take everything
and make it new
in your garage
repair shop.

I see myself spread out
on your work
bench —

my broken wings,
give them back
to me. They are
more aerodynamic
that way
than you think.

My heart,
these pieces
don’t need to be
soldered back together.

The glue and tape
are yellow, but I am
perfectly content
to keep the fallen off
pieces in an old
candy dish
on my nightstand.

I see you’ve made
a mess trying to smooth
over the rough edges
of my soul.

Give it back.
I want every bit,
the pieces

A poem

Paul Klee, “A Woman for Gods”, Public Domain


Alone in the dark with a mind
is a dangerous place to be.

I am full of thoughts turned inward,
in the softness of my bed.

Every vexation rises to the surface —
self-recriminations, doubts, worries.

Alone in the dark with memories I wish
were better, but too often I sold myself out
because it was easier.

Now I am full of frustrated
longing. I sleep alone with a mind-enemy
ready to do battle
with any semblance of peace.

Nightmares overtake me,
I awake unsettled.

My heartbeat pounds upside down
and my mind is on the downside
of half-awake.

Alone in the dark, I wish to be
without this mind for a few hours
and slip into the darkest reaches
of the deep sleep
I knew as a child.


© 2020, A. Breslin. All Rights Reserved

A poem

Paul Klee, Untitled, (public domain)


I am scattered
pieces of Europe;
a quilt of the scrap remains
of dozens of immigrants.

I am from nowhere
else, but I’m white,
so people ask
about the ancestors
I never knew.

I oblige and rattle
off my list of countries,
and they list theirs too.

Maybe we find
a few places where we have
never lived in common.

We wear our ancestors’
flags like our identity,
because apparently,
no one is just American,
not after one generation
or eight.

They boarded ships
more or less
of their own free will;
they wanted to live.

They came…

Anna Breslin

GenX writer. Old poems at medium.com/annapoetics Infrequently updated website — annabreslin.com Inquiries writeannab at gmail dot com

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