LIVING

My author pages have always had an adequate following on social media. Several thousand followers on my Facebook page and over a thousand on my Instagram. It took work to get it that way — inviting folks to follow, advertising through my pages each time I manage to get a new book published or have a poem appear in a publication, and the continual race to post good content and updates to grow and keep my readership, as well as to develop my author aesthetic and brand.

And, ladies and gentlemen, all of it makes me want to vomit.

…

Most of my writing lately has been for my day job as a journalist. It’s a completely different sort of beast than the poems I’m known for and the upcoming novel that has consumed the last two years of my life.

The writing you do for a newspaper is bare bones, unadorned, and unbiased— just a presentation of facts and quotes. Writing for a newspaper for a decade has really honed my writing down from what it was early in my writing career, made it more accessible, clear, and authentic. …

By Nicholas Trandahl

Jack was full and a little drunk from dinner. He’d just eaten at a little restaurant on Duval Street, and his meal had been a couple big conch tacos and a few bottles of citrus beer from a brewery right there in the Keys, up north in Islamorada. His dinner done, Jack strolled through the nighttime crowds along Duval.

The smiling faces that passed by on the sidewalk were fresh college-aged faces, withered old faces, and middle-aged faces like Jack’s own. The nocturnal people of Key West seemed to be made up of every sort of character…

By Nicholas Trandahl

Illinois Territory

November 1810

It was afternoon. The birch woods were white against the rust-colored landscape of fallen leaves of dead undergrowth. The few brown leaves left in the trees shivered against the cold overcast sky. A one-room cabin stood on a hill above a dark creek, and a stone chimney seeped a ribbon of woodsmoke into the chilled autumn air.

A figure which could have been mistaken for an Indian of the Fox tribe, or perhaps a bear walking on two legs, lumbered along the creek and turned to climb the hill towards the small cabin…

By Nicholas Trandahl

The snow fell in big ponderous flakes over the pine-cloaked mountains. Mabel watched the falling snow from the front porch of her small cabin. She took careful sips of hot black teas from a hardwood mug that had been carved by her late husband, John.

Before he passed two winters before, Mabel and her husband had liked to spend mornings together on the porch of their cabin. She would drink her hot tea, and he would take painful swallows of his scalding black coffee with sugar. He inevitably burnt his mouth each and every time.

Mabel didn’t…

By Nicholas Trandahl

The old man had lived a long life, and he had done and seen much in it. He had written about what he’d seen, and his books were read by many people, though they had become less popular in the last couple decades. He no longer wrote, however.

In the summer, the old man looked forward to growing a variety of tomatoes. In the autumn, he looked forward to the leaves changing and raking the little bit of fallen leaves in his yard into piles. In the winter, he looked forward to reading the Russians and smoking…

The shotgun belonged
to my grandfather.

When he died, it passed
on to me.

The other night, I had
a dream about it.

I dreamt that I was
loading it with shells,
but my hands were still
the hands of a child.

We’ll never be as big as
our grandfathers were.

A windy, cold, autumn dusk

between the Snowy Range and the

Laramie Range.

The bright lights of the stadium

shine over a writhing sea of

brown and gold.

It’s been a long time since I’ve

felt like I was a part of something —

a community optimistic for a

common purpose.

We stand with the crowd —

our own roars and applause

lost in the cacophony of

blessings and curses.

In the twilight, we are warmed

by brats, hot cocoa, and victory.