Wesley Slaughter

A huge part of my childhood was the annual Barbecue Festival. It was one claim to fame that my small town had. We didn’t have much. We had the bluegrass museum, a big river hotel named the Executive Inn, high levels of illiteracy, and the International Bar-B-Q Festival. It was one of my favorite times of the year. There would always be inflatables, always live music, and, of course, always good ole’ barbecue. For our little town there was an influx of vendors and, surprisingly, tourists seeking great food and fun times (however, they were probably folks from neighboring counties).  I remember as a kid wandering from stall to stall, looking through the wears of these traveling artisans, my eye ever drawn to the toy swords. I remember watching the Goldie’s Opry perform every year on Friday night. There was always seventeen different food vendors lined up beside each other, all essentially selling the same thing, each offering novelty cups to grab your business. Every Saturday our ch...

In this one you laugh. I recall the day. I hated wearing all white. There was that sweater vest with the itchy wool; I felt constrained by the collared shirt underneath. You told each grandchild their role, calling out my name to sit still. I could never sit still. We sat on a blanket in your giant yard. The scent of freshly cut nature lingered: that sour smell of crabgrass, the dead leaves, Woodbury. You laughed in this one because of the cooky cameraman who tried to grab our young attention. He wore a bandanna on his head and wore ripped, light washed jeans and a dirty white t-shirt. The dark circles around his eyes, gaunt face, and spindly structure revealed his sickness. You laughed at the absurdity of dangling grandchildren and their respective parents, being the strong matriarch everyone looked to for guidance. You exemplified beauty and grace which mixed so well with a calm strength and gentle control. That was why you could laugh. You knew everything was okay and that we woul...

Take and eat these words I prepared them for you butter and salt sprinkled with truth the spice and the sweet romance in this case this recipe requires infatuation and emotion for the taste Take and eat these words We found this one day We talked for a minute but now we’ve fallen astray I fear the end is near but I still have more to do we’ve walked in the darkness the light shines through you take and eat these words  for these words are my heart beginning in winter ending in part  of a misunderstanding oh how these words did spin a misdirection that  pointed us in the meal came in crashing the dessert laced with cyanide cornered and fractured the conclusion is verified these words are burnt no sugar no more I’ve taken and eaten your words they have rotted my core

Have you ever read about the famed Jesus Christ? Have you ever gone to church and listened to a preacher talk about Jesus? Maybe you come from a different religious back ground, still, chances are you've heard about this guy Christians are so crazy about called Jesus. Each person who comes into contact with the idea of Jesus creates a perception around who he might be. For some, that perception comes from the interactions with followers of "Jesus." For others it's a perception told to them by a authority figure: parent, preacher, teacher, or otherwise. Others would claim that their perception comes purely from the Bible. Even if those people had never experienced another person affecting how they view Christ directly, their perception of Christ is informed by their personal world view. To some degree, all of our perceptions of Christ are based on our preconceived notions about the world. So what does that mean?  Well, this creates a large variety of Christ figures...

It’s midnight  She evades my calls I worry  Sitting by the fish lamp In my rusty leather chair The light cast shadows That portray an eerie gloom That hide a empty room It’s midnight She should be home by now She should call She should let me know I knew she’d be out late She said her shift had gone long She knew I’d worry She would call It’s midnight The terror closes in Was it that one guy She said was “Just a friend” We had argued about the sock drawer And how the socks needed to be paired She knew my structure was correct But of course she wouldn’t say I loved her that way It’s midnight We would normally be in bed The cat curled at our feet I, reading my lesson plan She, scrolling through instagram A couple of drinks A little time fooling around Gentle kisses Peaceful glances Prolonged hands intertwined  I hope she will be here soon For it is midnight Headlights come up the driveway Thank God...