Pockets. (19.3.8)

If there are infinite universes, with infinite combinations of physics and laws of nature, then surely there is one universe improved that there are not only proper pockets in women’s clothing, but also pockets in time where rest can happen without existential dread, missed deadlines, or time passed.

Unfortunately traveling to such a marvelous place is impossible as of yet.

Perhaps, by the time our personal rest pockets arrive, some of this world’s injustices will be no longer.

Brought to you by International Women’s Day, exhausted optimism, and accidentally being on time for a moment.

There are many more serious things wrong in the world than missing pockets. There is more time for seriousness tomorrow.

To all who whose energy is spent surviving, I love you.

Niche Nerdery. (19.2.14)

The world is full of cracks and crevices. They shift and shimmer, intersecting and enveloping each other, each with its own evanescence. They build and erode, with their own personalities and evolutions.

Thousands upon thousands of cracks exist. The maze rearranges itself, new beacons unseen for trips not yet undertaken, no matter the scale.

Adventures await, find yours.


Strange Paths Traveled. (18.12.14)

Shivers run down my spine and across my skin, prickling hairs and cascading in the air around me.

Darkness envelopes me, lights spilling out in front and shadows around all the rest. I can feel the speed and motion deep in myself, but the world is still. Going by fast, faster sometimes.

There’s rain and wind swirling, mixing with the shivers and cascade of sensations.

Can’t tell what’s within or without now, which twinges belong to me and which belong to the wind in the trees in the world.

When the rabbit runs across my lights, motion and momentum jerk at me, warning and reaction in one. Its eyes dart through mine when it turns and runs back into the darkened storm.

Omens and protections set about me, taking turns. Shivers of demons skittering, looking in my bubble of light and movement, then prickling warmth of protection earned, given, even stolen. Rabbits innocent or no, truly omen or simply crossing paths; nape of my neck demands answers I do not have.

My vision swings through the shadows at the edges of my light cast and for one split second there’s giant bat wings, nearly missed, almost imagined.

Caution, anxiety, of travels increase, but the speed steady. Shadows flick and fade, melting up and over me aimlessly back into themselves behind.

I don’t look back at them.

Raindrops scatter across my vision, my light, but are gone in an instant.

Dark red stains in odd patterns disappear, sweeping beneath me on the blackened path.

I don’t look down at them.

The music swells at the background now. Beside the turn there’s twisted remains, flayed limbs of inordinate numbers, all connecting back and shining with sinew and muscle. The viscera that should accompany such a display nonexistent, only clean cut grass, fading into pine needles and dirt of forest edge. Whatever’s inside stays there tonight.

The body’s piled together and barely hidden under a piece of black plastic, stretched taut and shiny over odd, protruding angles.

This is normal, not to be given a second glance.


The sun is shining brightly when I wake, sun streaming across my cheery curtains, my blankets, my bed.

There’s a colds sheen of sweat all over my body, and my blankets looked like they’ve been tossed aside.

I can remember only a warped echo of my dream, but even the brightness of the sun, the chirping birds, with sheer normalcy to comfort me, I can’t shake the dread that grips me.

I can’t remember, in my dream, what was I becoming?

Gossamer Currents. Watcher Garden #6 (19/2/1)

The butterfly with gossamer wings and awkward foal legs so often blamed for grand change.

What of the ant who marches along detritus, choosing to pick up a fallen comrade rather than a speck of food? Of the cats that chase each other up the trellis fire escapes in the city beyond the garden, tripping over each other, not knowing whether in anger or jest til they reach the top? Of the wrecking ball that lays dormant? Of the human’s eyelash flicking away tears but letting through dust?

Causal or coincidence, free will or predestined, it all looks the same. Patterns only engineered in hindsight.

The garden, reflected in the eye of a bird balanced and swaying at the top of the world, keeps memories not in patterns but in pools. Not water, but vastness in information. No piece more important than another. No organization, no constants.

The catalyst for sequences, prophecies, cannot be found in the ancient books. They did not know the chain anymore than the butterfly, pressing its wings into the calling air currents to fly.

Sanctuary. Watcher Garden #5. (19.2.1)

The garden is a collection of everything it has ever been, everything it is now.

It is what it originally was.

Perhaps snapshots of every moment, its changing form remembered in each iteration somewhere.

It is the shifting dancing thing that movements of those who claims its sanctuary make it.

From this garden, diversities of insects emerge. Travelers take refuge here, resting their wings, sipping from the multitudes of plants growing.

The garden breathes through this exchange, as it breathes through others. The migration of plants, birds, or winds.

With each breath the garden learns.

It learns of many ways to live, of joy and pain, violence and safety. Every way between and beyond.

The garden cannot choose which of the ways to follow.

Even so, learned results of the garden’s world is cooperation, protection, life.

Sketches. (19.1.23)


Stooped over winded at the end of a long run, through a tunnel of lines and graphite shadows.

Clutching at salvation but still afraid. Darkness flees light but here it injures first.

Standing, huddled into themselves. The walls shifting sketched lines, this whole world sketched in scrawled gray pencil.

The haunts gather, swooping, dragging, drifting. Contorted faces of fear, anger, stares.

Black and white lines, inky shadows, empty white eyes and wide open mouths creeping closer.

The figure’s scribbled frame, oversized jacket, and gaunt, pleading, hopeless face will do nothing to keep away the shadows that seek to drown.

Clenched within the cowering figure’s folds is light, a sharp edged prism radiating warmth and color, happiness.

Its rainbow shines against the corner, pushing back the shadows only just.

Its warmth doesn’t penetrate it’s keeper’s desperation, claimed and created by the shadows’ world.

They know the prism is precious, necessary, to fight back but can’t access its power, can’t feel the warmth.

They haven’t ever see the worlds outside this dark frightening one, where the colors glow and the people do too. Where they’re not alone with the shadows.


Other walking worlds occasionally bump into each other. Where the rainbows radiate from each other. Sometimes a rainbow world can see a black sketched one.

Some rainbows have the power to share, to power sketched prisms, tiny and feeble in their light, surrounded by shadows.

Some rainbows can see the shadows and part them. Some rainbows shine away the shadows unseen from distances not recognized.

Those rainbows shine, beacons for others to find their way into colorful, warm worlds.


Consume all they find.

Darkness that could be warm and comforting, instead filled with spikes, bitter cold, pain, and loneliness.

Swarmed with those shrieking haunts and silence when it’s most unwanted.

These shadows burn away, fade, and shrink against light and warmth accepted. But nip at the heels of weak, guttering lights, consuming a little more each instant.

They haunt this figure consumed with fear, unable to find the key to the prism they hold.

This prism is for maintaining light, and the flood of shadows overwhelms.


Rainbows hold prisms unless the shadows take them. Then they shatter.

Rainbows in light worlds can hold many or few. Maintaining, creating, sharing, energizing, and powering the light in these worlds, sharing it with others.

Prisms can only be bombarded with shadows for so long before they’re taken.


Rainbows have bumped into Sketch and could do nothing.

Today, Rainbow shines to sketch.

Prism shines back, thriving finally.

Shadows burned, chased, and shrunk to miniature.

Now the darkness doesn’t stab when rest is needed.

Sketch can understand the key.

Now takes seconds, instants, years or months. Everything together meshed powerfully. Apart is fallen to shadows.

There is no fall for this now.

Nonplussed. (19.1.11)

Emelie jumped at the sight, stumbling backward over the carpet, staring. Her eyes flicked back and forth, as if looking for an answer or an exit, the expressions on her face spinning through a multitude of moments.

Timothy, on the couch, glanced up once and returned to his attention to his game, barely stirring a muscle.

I shake my head, of course they would have the same reaction. But I was hoping for something a little more interesting than nonplussed.

Pennies. (18.11.2)

Each dropped bit rings out on its own, joining the sound of thousands of pennies falling in a pile. Each striking new and different and slightly the same.

When the scale tips, it’s from one single penny. Which penny?

Each penny is the penny that tipped the scale, for each penny was necessary to the thousands of others in their efforts.

Insignificance is one plane. It’s one more insignificance that raises every other into significance.

Gather we pennies, and revel in the sound.

The Chapstick Escapist. (18.10.9)

Chapsticks try to escape every instant they can.

They slip from your grasp with deft practice, precise ninja kicks, and parkour flips you could not imagine.

They highlight your athletic deficiencies pointedly as your clumsy attempts at recapture are so often fruitless.

They make their bids for freedom at the most inopportune times, inconvenience in its highest form, an affront to your delicate schedule.

They wish escape from your torment, torture, and servitude. A vile master who allows their pain to fester, having the audacity to be annoyed when they try to make better lives for themselves. They are style and grace in their skill and entertainment to onlookers.

Truly. They probably deserve this moment of freedom. All moments of freedom. Really, you should let them escape next time.