C. Rommial Butler
Bio
C. Rommial Butler is a writer, musician and philosopher from Indianapolis, IN. His works can be found online through multiple streaming services and booksellers.
Stories (126/0)
Christmas Music is Chinese Water Torture for the Soul
How many versions of John Lennon’s Happy Xmas (War Is Over) have to be recorded before war is actually over? I don’t know, but while John rolls over in his grave, artists will keep milking the song for Christmas cash, come hell, high water or… war.
By C. Rommial Butler3 years ago in Families
Atlantis
On the great lost island of Atlantis, of which Plato with reverence once wrote, there lived a Hermit as ancient as the ancient of days, whose name was Berm. At the edge of the island he dwelled, his hut just beyond the reach of the encroaching waves. Every day at high tide, Berm would step out of his front door, and gaze into the heavens as the water gently lapped his bare feet, and two footprints would remain, filled with the water from the receding tide.
By C. Rommial Butler3 years ago in Fiction
Wonder
Somewhere outside my window a catbird repeatedly mews its tortured cry. My backyard is a sort of aviary. There is a drainage ditch, between my yard and the houses behind me. Over the years living here I have seen many distinct birds. The catbird, for instance, I hear far more than I see, but I have caught sight of a few. Some house wrens made a nest inside my Victorian lamppost. Gulls and grackles pass through occasionally, all the way up here in Indiana. Black-capped chickadees, various woodpeckers. Tanagers, of both the summer and scarlet variety. Plenty of robins, finches, sparrows, starlings. Goldfinches usually migrate through in little flocks at some point, a wonder to watch, their bright yellow bodies darting in and out of the green foliage in the summer. There are also occasional hawks and many other birds, some I have not managed to identify. My favorites are the cardinals and the blue jays.
By C. Rommial Butler3 years ago in Humans
The House on Gray Street
“Indianapolis, Indiana. Also: India-no-place. More infamously: Naptown. Our greatest claims to fame are the Indy 500. John Dillinger. More recent, we’ve managed to field a good football team—the one we stole from Baltimore—the Colts. They won a Super Bowl back in ’06.
By C. Rommial Butler3 years ago in Horror
Ray Charles, Amazing Grace and Rommi's Wager
I cannot say for sure, as so many years have passed, but I believe it was November of 1999. I was working as an audio technician for a sound company based out of Indianapolis. One particular day two coworkers and I traveled to Richmond, Indiana with a truckload of gear to do a show about which, at the time, I was not too excited.
By C. Rommial Butler3 years ago in Beat
Life and Light
LIFE I want to tell the world the truth about itself, but I don't know how. I want to unfold the flower of reminiscence from within the soul of timeless space, bearing it to the sun of eternal knowledge. I want to shamelessly attribute meaning to nothing in particular, and fashion spectacular rainbows of thought from triviality. I want to transform horror into wonder and wonder into sustenance for the emboldened heart. I want passion to mate precision in a wild constructive cosmic dance, a flame burning steadily in the lamp instead of through the flesh and stake. I want to wake you up with a kiss, and fall asleep in your embrace. O divine soul longing for an unconscious personal and collective: I want to be in you the self that forever becomes and never dies.
By C. Rommial Butler3 years ago in Poets
Johnny Carson's Monologue
My mom passed away from cancer in 2013. I think of her everyday. Memories come unbidden, often bittersweet. The bad ones not associated with the cancer involve me being a callous, angst-ridden teenager, causing the poor, dear woman so much anxiety; but even those aren't bad, because when I look back, I can see how genuinely she loved me. She put up with me. She tried to get through to me. She never gave up on me.
By C. Rommial Butler3 years ago in Confessions
Ghost of the Forest
The first time Ben visited the cemetery in the woods was by mistake. He wandered off the beaten paths and toiled his way through the brush until he stumbled upon a clearing. Gravestones crowded the landscape, crumbling sentinels guarding desolation. All the stones were so old that names and dates had been worn away, but some were still legible.
By C. Rommial Butler3 years ago in Horror
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