Orphans at the circus

The elephants came to town and the nuns gathered up the lot of us. A generous donor had paid for tickets for the “orphans” to attend.

We really weren’t orphans as most of us had been seized from our families for whatever reasons, but that was a mere technicality. We were going to the circus!

One entire aisle was held as “reserved” and we felt rather proud to be so close to the action. I’ll admit it was lots of fun to see the stunned faces of many folks observing our parade. One nun led the pack as she walked the entire length of the row to sit as a bookend on the right.

Child after child filled one seat after another until the other nun was able to take her place as the bookend on the left.

Sitting nearest to the nun on the left I was first to be handed a frozen ice cream bar in exchange for passing the box down the row. I was audacious and asked the vendor who had bought us the treats. He pointed to a man way up in the seats behind us. I, along with other children and spectators surrounding us who’d heard my question turned to look at the man.

I stood on my seat and waved a thank you until my left side bookend nun grabbed me and sat me back in my seat scolding, “Have some respect. He didn’t come to be part of the circus.”

© Zora Zebic 2016


Musing of a beggar

Sitting on a ragged blanket, a white styrofoam coffee cup at my feet, I took a deep breath to compose myself and shield me from the daily struggle. It wasn’t easy being a panhandler and it sure as hell was not a life for a fifteen year old homeless girl.

I shook my head forcing the reality thoughts out. They wouldn’t do me any good, and would serve only to offset my attempts to reach a state of imperturbability. Once I reached the state of mind-quiet I was reaching for, the growls of the anti-panhandlers would fade away from me. The growls would not become part of my memories or a blight on my soul.

My legs felt as though they were wooden and, as I reached the highest state I could hear only the chirping sounds emitting from the crosswalk lights for the blind. I held this sound as I focused on a vision of heaven inside my mind, knowing my eyes had achieved a blank expression.

© Zora Zebic 2016

You ain’t no poet

He said, “Hey there I heard

Your poem. It was absurd.”

“How so man please tell me?”

“It didn’t rhyme you see.”

“Dear man it sometimes goes,

Poetry’s called in prose.

No structure, form or line,

Just picture words define.”

“Well you ain’t no poet,

Poems rhyme I know it.”

“I gift to you this time

A poem set in rhyme.”


Dedicated to a snarly bass player.

© Zora Zebic 2016


He looked up to look down on me

What put him where he could not see?

What spun his head that he’d believe

In his own lies to self-deceive?

I told his sullied soul truth hurts

One day he’d reap his just desserts

He’d plagiarised words for profit

My words to fill his money pit!

I said his flaw was in his head

A better man would just have read

Another could not get along

Her habit to squeeze toothpaste wrong

Why couldn’t he just bend it back?

What past grief caused his soul to lack?

© Zora Zebic 2016



Peace is the abandonment of memories of pain

As the seed left of the berry ravaged by the bird

Forgets the fate that brought it down to the earth and rain

To root, to sprout, to flower, to bear forth fruit again.

© Zora Zebic 2016


The title tells it. That’s me. I have discovered I am a literary renegade. At first this caused me grief until I was able to shake the condemnations out of my system. “Who” I asked myself, “is this man who reviles my writing style? Do these erudite souls confine themselves into a prison of conformity?”

I came to learn of my lack of following writing orthodoxy when I attended a writer’s conference. After the first session I felt like Edward Scissorhands had had his way with me. I felt shredded to the core of my being.

The reason I attended was to learn how to better my writing skills. I’d seriously believed immersing myself in the company of writers, agents and publishers would provide me the confidence and instructions I needed to set out on my goal to be read. Unfortunately that was not to be.

I have since concluded it may be best for me to go on without any further attempts to pay to gain education or accreditation. After all, it is in my best interest to remain faithful to myself.

The agent advised me my writing style was not “acceptable”. Apparently, there are rules to writing and I had the audacity to present a short story I had written the night before in a style I learned is unique to me!

After listening to me read my story the agent demanded I tell him if I was writing in the 1st person, 2nd person or 3rd person. I was befuddled by his question having never been taught these concepts.

(I should inject here that I have not fully attended or graduated from either primary or secondary schools and that is another story for another day!)

I like to tell a tale which exposes the thoughts and emotions of all or some of my characters. Apparently no publisher will ever consider putting my words to print for this breach of writing etiquette!

He further condemned my story because it started out like a typical romance to end suddenly with a shocking ending and he said to me, “People don’t like to get shocked.” “What?” I’d questioned silently, to then ask myself, “Has this guy never ridden a roller coaster?”

His final verdict was to tell me my style of writing was “old-fashioned”. Apparently he doesn’t have the social skills to know a lady a mere few months from turning 60 would probably be offended to be reminded of her elderlyness.

Elderlyness, I know I made the word up it is simply another of my literary faux pas!

I did shake the agent up a bit, I could tell by his expression when on the spot I created the theme for a story during an another authors idea asking session. The story will be called Memoirs of a Reaper. The story tells the tale of a renegade reaper who reminisces from the minds of the souls he collects. All of the deceased and the Reaper will speak in the 1st person!

I have concluded the literary rules are made to be broken! I compare it to the world of music. How dull a world we would live in if classical music was the only musical style allowed to be recorded.

I will move forward and embrace my style as a rock and roll writer!

© Zora Zebic 2016