Sloth 7 Deadly Sins Vol. 4

By Pure Slush

Stories, poems & essays by A. R. Abbott, G. Beck, P. Beckman, H. Beedar, D. Berce, M. Berton, H. Brown, E. Buttimer, R. Carlton, S. Carr, G. Castillo Oriard, J. Chronister, R Cooperman, C. Cordon, M. Crimmins, J. E. Cricelli, T. Daly, S. DiFalco, M. Estabrook, T. Fegan, N. Ghosh, G. Gjomakaj, K. Gosse, A. Grenfell, S. Guthrie, R. Hillard, J. Hocking, L. Hofmeister, S. Hough, M. Hudson, C. Johnson, J. Khan, M. Kelly, J. Lambremont Sr., J. Lapekas, R. Lavalette, L. Lefkowitz, P. Lingard, JP Lundstrom, J. McBrearty, J. McCann, K. L. Merrifield, D. Miller, M. Mittman, C. Moyne, P. Nieuwland, E. O’Sullivan, C. P. Palmer, M. Quigley, C. Rammelkamp, L. Rhodes-Ryabchich, R. S. Rosenthal, E. Ruzicka, S. A. Sanders, J. Santosuosso, W. Scheer, T. Sheehan, L. Stice, L. Tyrrell, V. Wagner, A. Walowitz, M. Waseme, M. Webb, J. Weisman, D. Wiess, S. Willdin and G. Yatchisin

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pure Slush Books
• Release date: Nov 26, 2018
• ISBN: 9781925536676

Book preview

Sloth 7 Deadly Sins Vol. 4

Sloth: 7 Deadly Sins Vol. 4

stories, poems and essays

§

A Pure Slush E-book

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Copyright

*

First published as an eBook collection and in paperback November 2018

Content copyright © Pure Slush Books and individual authors

Edited by Matt Potter

All rights reserved by the author and publisher. Except for brief excerpts used for review or scholarly purposes, no part of this book may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without express written consent of the publisher or the author/s.

Pure Slush Books

32 Meredith Street

Sefton Park SA 5083

Australia

Email: [e-mail]

Website: https://pureslush.com/

Pure Slush Store: https://pureslush.com/store/

Cover design copyright © Matt Potter

Original coffee stain image copyright © magicmarie

ISBN: 978-1-925536-67-6

Also available in paperback / ISBN: 978-1-925536-66-9

A note on differences in punctuation and spelling

Pure Slush Books proudly features writers from all over the English-speaking world. Some speak and write English as their first language, while for others, it’s their second or third or even fourth language. Naturally, across all versions of English, there are differences in punctuation and spelling, and even in meaning. These differences are reflected in the work Pure Slush Books publishes, and they account for any differences in punctuation, spelling and meaning found within these pages.

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Pure Slush Books is a member of the Bequem Publishing collective  http://www.bequempublishing.com/

Poetry

Lazy

by Shawn Aveningo Sanders

*

Not your typical four-letter word

but it was the word I feared most—

Hearing it. Being labeled by it.

Inherent accusation I wasn’t worthy.

And yes,

I grew up in the Midwest.

Hard work is a badge of honor.

Exhaustion, the reward.

That, and the company of fellow Missourians

or should I say misery-ans.

Show-me. Show-me.

If I show you my calloused hands

blisters, my achy-breaky back,

will that make you proud?

Will you show me your love?

Time’s a wasting.

I have chores to finish.

The Slow Not

by George Yatchisin

*

That dream with the sloth

at the other end of the seesaw.

How slowly nothing happened.

With its clever toes it won’t

roll to you, gravity a kind

of impolite question. Let’s say

you were grounded, and that

is what you wanted with the wild

so in touch, so out of reach.

Sitting With My Feet On A Pumpkin

by Michael Estabrook

*

Indian summer

removed the fallen leaves

from the front gutter;

patched & painted

a leaking corner;

raked the lawn

& swept the steps

to the back deck;

now I’m sitting

with my bare feet propped up

on a big Halloween pumpkin,

listening to Carmen,

my Mozart T-shirt on

nervous as usual

when things

are going well.

Loathing

by Emily O’Sullivan

*

They think I’m lazy,

They think I’m idle,

I’m not.

I’m working.

They think I’m slow,

They think I’m slack,

I’m not.

I’m moving.

They think I’m apathetic,

They think I’m affectless,

I’m not.

I’m listening.

They think I’m careless,

They think I’m useless,

I’m not.

I’m trying.

They think I’m lethargic,

They think I’m indolent,

I am.

I’m dying.

Sloth Am I

by Tony Daly

*

Slumped on the street corner she begs

But too much work to extricate my wallet

So I walk on by with only a twinge of guilt

Sloth am I, for I neglect your plight for my comfort.

Slumped on the couch, eyes glazed

But too much work to hit the power button

So I sit, ignore life, and do not read to you

Sloth am I, for I neglect your education for my comfort.

Slumped on the floor, whining for food

But too much work it is to toss you a bone

So I eat and yell for you to be quiet

Sloth am I, for I neglect your health for my comfort.

Slumped in a hospital bed, awakening from a diabetic coma

But too much work it is to change my vices,

So I suck on the candy and go into shock,

Sloth am I, for I neglect myself for my own comfort.

Conservation Of Energy

by Ron. Lavalette

*

I meant to start mopping up

the last of that spilled and

spoiled milk a month ago

last week. I meant to start,

at least, to scrub those fugly

upstairs bathroom tiles

and—while I was at it—maybe

try to unclog the toilet or

open up one of the windows,

let in a breath or two of that

less fetid outside air.

I meant to. I really did.

I know I made a pledge

on New Year’s Eve, a pledge

to change my ways, a pledge

to do the things that anyone

else—anyone with gumption—

would do in a heartbeat, do

without a second’s thought;

but that was then, and this is

now. I’ll get to it later. Maybe.

The way I see it’s like this:

parked here on the couch,

I’m saving a bundle of cash

at the hardware store and the

laundromat; I’m not likely to

injure myself or wear out all

my shoe leather waiting for

take-out I don’t have to cook.

Depressed Weight

by Shane Guthrie

*

Faucet dripping water on unwashed dishes

I’ve tried turning it tightly

It drips anyway

I could fix it

Probably

It is too hard to rise

And every day it gets

Harder

The ceiling has a crack running through it

Maybe I could plaster it

Maybe the house is cracking in half

And the ceiling will open up

And fall on me

Kill me

That

Would

Be

Nice

Sloth In Texas

by Janet McCann

*

Sitting in the abandoned

front garden, dogs investigating

the underbrush for possible

rats.  The jasmine has

crawled across the pebbled walk

and the privet is grappling the eaves.

I think, listening to cars sigh past

this August morning, if I clipped,

if I cut back the branches and

peeled away the jasmine from the

stucco, if I planted pansies and

marigolds and heirloom roses,

then could I write?  If I could only

clip away the berries on black

branches and the yellow nameless

star-like flowers that have invaded

from the unmowed yard?  If I

replaced them with growing things

I knew by name, freesias, peonies,

then would I have order?

Then could I write?

The Man On The Porch

by Howard Brown

*

Picture a man,

if you will, sitting

at high noon on

the porch of a

ramshackle house,

a structure in

such advanced 

decay it seems

poised to implode.

A faint smile creases

his unshaved face;

otherwise he is

motionless and silent,

his gaze distant and

without focus, evincing

no sign he is aware of

his scolding wife, or the

gaggle of children who

boil about his weed-

choked yard.

Tell me, has he found

nirvana, or simply fallen

prey to the sin of sloth?

Summer Morning

by Ed Ruzicka

*

We don’t get many mornings this soft.

It is August and there is nothing to do.

I have eaten, have drunk, traveled,

sweated, played, raced, wrenched,

prayed for almost seventy years.

I have raised children


that are almost ready


to raise children of their own

so that I can sometimes

know what it is to breathe

inside of a jewel.

The Art Store

by Mark Hudson

*

I recently entered a 12 by 12 art show in

my hometown at the local art store. First place

winner got a one hundred dollar certificate

for the store, two runners up got fifty dollar

certificates.

They said on the flyer, "Extra points

if your art piece contains a sloth, because

there is going to be a sloth there that night."

I thought that meant there would

be a man dressed up in a sloth costume,

which still sounded childish!

I went with my camera, but when

I got there, I realized the batteries on my

digital camera had just run out. So

tomorrow, I’ll