Micah Park Biffle

 I Had Forgotten     Red smoke plumes in the air. A brilliant, yet daunting sky of clouded crimson thickens the sky in sheets of billowed cotton. It rises with no sense to stop. The atmosphere frightens, yet heightens the senses with a strange tingle of pleasure.  We are losing our homes to the natural order. Yet I am not taken by tears, but by an odd joy of entertainment. For too long have I adhered myself to these pieces of physical wealth. Yes, through struggle, persistence and consistent efforts I have dawned myself with such rewards.  But for too long now, I have forgotten the path I had been taken. I had forgotten the many beads of sweat I spewed from the exhaustion to gain such things. I had forgotten the lonely misery I had fought. I forgotten the friends that lifted me, the moments that tore me down only to bring me higher.   I had forgotten the delicacy of a flower. The aromas of nature the beauty within myself and the beauty so n...

An Unfortunate Story   His slumber is deep, his heart is light. But in the midst of a midnight hour, a knock reaches his door. He quickly wakes from the resounding sound of the knock. His eyes slowly adjust to the pitch black surroundings. He turns to the left side of his body, reaching into the darkness feeling for a candle. In his blind state upon the dark night, he finds the candle at the edge of his night stand. His steady but somewhat worrisome tact, he almost knocks the candle from its rightful place. But he catches it with the embrace of his index and thumb. He reels it in with slight struggle and sits up in bed.  Again, he hears the knock. His head promptly turns toward the noise. He stills himself as he listens for the knock once more. But it ceases, and as the silence coats his home in an eerie hold. He leans to his left once again and opens the drawer to his night stand. A distinct sound of old wood composes itself from the drawer.  Onc...

To Replenish With Words As I write each story, I feel a part of me captured within each line. I feel a sense of freedom for my soul, for my life. No longer held to the wills of my pain, holding to the miserable existence of my misery. I find a new path with each story, though they may never be more than words to others. They are a new seed for me to plant. And like any farmer would tell you, you plant more seeds than will grow. Keep planting seeds, eventually you will get crops. But at the cost of time, of work, and discipline. Nothing of strength, of lasting taste, is ever created in the burning of one candle. Much patience is equated to each growing moment for the seeds I plant. Hundreds, maybe even thousands will be planted before I see my words become something more. Become something other than a rain drop for my seeds. But rain for others seeds, words for others souls. A place where one can come rest their weary eyes and find themselves embedded into what pours from me,...