Guard Crow and #TheYearofPublishingWomen. (18.10.12)

Yesterday Not A Pipe Publishing posted my story Guard Crow as part of their #TheYearofPublishingWomen short stories series.

I’m thrilled and honored to be a part of their year. I was lucky enough to hear their presentation at Willamette Writers Conference a few months ago, and I can say that I’m really glad to see the work they’re doing and even prouder to be a part of it.

I hope you’ll take a moment to send them some love, check out what they’ve done for the Year of Publishing Women, and of course, read my story; Guard Crow.

Have a lovely weekend!

Silly Weekly Meta Momentum. (18.10.4)

When ya gotta write and all your head provides is song lyrics that already exist.

Starting lines and dramatic passages of fame.

Bits and pieces, ideas and scraps; deserve much better than this claptrap half exhausted gotta write something for the weekly brain.

Can’t loose momentum on the weekly.

Bits deserve flesh and strength.

Pieces of larger things that can’t, well shouldn’t, simply be removed.

To stand on their own.

Ideas take time.

Scraps need edited.

Sensations and scenes, imagery and vivid instants.

Those would be lovely.

Fully realized, perfect edits, easily.

While still asleep.

The lead weight cotton static in the mind drags on the hunt

To find a more or less decent post.

Maybe next time, it won’t be a weird and silly meta blob of bits and pieces.

Full News At Ten. (18.9.23)

A bloody rampage started earlier today after a warehouse employee of our local Palm Art department store failed to use absolutely as much tape as humanly possible, resulting in the newest batch of Resilient Bounce tupperware’s escape.

Ninety-two fatalities reported before authorities gave up on counting. Countless injuries. Damages to public and private property to be properly assessed once the tupperware have been contained, investigated, and reprogrammed.

In other news, make sure you don’t slip in the massive egg slick on your way to work today. A hundred twenty count box failed on the byway, due to a flaw in engineering caused by a lack of tape on the bottom flaps, leaving the structure unsound.

Full News at Ten.

Open Wind. (12.7.6)

Listen to the open wind

It speaks

As

A culture all its own

Open wind lives

Within

Everyone feels

Open wind

Within

It calls

Beckons

Cries

Begs

For your alliance

To find what you search for

In

On

With

The Open wind

Why do you trust

That it will take you

Where you want,

Where you belong,

When it

Changes.

When it only

Changes.

Write At Once. (18.9.14)

Bits and pieces jumble.

Perfect and whole in the mind.

Falling haphazard on the page.

 

Missing pieces, nibbled edges, colors slobbered off.

 

Process is the gauntlet.

Jumble perfectly formed ideas.

Tossed through the clumsy translation of fingers,

Stitching together til their nearest approximations.

 

Some pieces from another box.

They’re supposed to fit, but don’t.

But those that clearly don’t go together,

won’t let go.

 

Nearly there,

Or thread is lost.

Pride,

despair.

Lost and maybe found.

 

And a derpy puzzle metaphor

Amalgamation – abomination? – with sewing

Cause that’s just what happened and really,

the reasoning isn’t there

but why take the effort

to change it?

 

(change what it might become,

in the next pass.)

World or Wonder. (10.1.1)

Swaying so slightly,

Feeling the call.

 

A laughing smile,

A quiet teardrop.

 

Wind in the trees,

Brushing away the bees

 

See.

See.

 

What do you see?

 

Hear.

Hear.

 

What do you hear?

 

A sorrowful soul?

A laughing heart?

 

A pained moan?

A scream of laughter?

 

Who do you see?

See?

 

An old friend?

Perhaps a lover?

 

What do you hear?

Hear?

A long forgotten story?

Perhaps in an old language?

 

Swinging in time,

 

Truth,

or Dare?

 

World,

or Wonder?

 

Live,

or Die.

 

Truth is dying.

Dare’s no longer with us.

 

World is overrated.

Wonder is forgotten.

 

Living is a waste.

Dying even more so.

 

Clouds are leaving.

 

Goddesses’ crying.

 

And you.

 

The sky is gray,

The blue long gone,

 

The trees are black, no longer strong.

 

What will end all pain?

No one.

 

***

Everyone.

Postcard Perfect. (18.8.26)

This rarely used closet in an awkward corner of the converted attic bedroom was last on the list to pack. Seems like all it held was clothes of another era, dust, single shoes, and lost paperclips.

Hangers squeak on the old rod, and puffs of dust light up the sunbeams sneaking in through cracks like muted glitter. In the back corner, there’s a surprise. A dusty, worn shoe box with blue, green, and red stripes and a far too faded to read brand logo. It draws me like a magnet, and a moment later I’ve settled on the floor, and gently lifted the lid.

I don’t remember the box, nor have any suggestion as to what the contents are, but this feels important. Important enough to take time away from this difficult move, into a new, uncertain life that could lead us anywhere.

A postcard on top catches my eye, layered in fine dust, edges worn, a clear, gorgeous blue lake. My breath catches in my throat, and I know if I turn over the card, there will be a note to myself from the summer of my thirteenth year, telling myself all about my favorite crush, the deep water and my first bikini, scrawled in fading ball point pen. But all I can do is dive into the senses that surround me.

Smells of dust, heat, and abandoned clothes fade, replaced by thick pine perfume, campfire smoke, and damp lake water air. A little jetty sticks out into a deep blue lake, the expanse of water broken at the edges in ring of dark trees, with light sandy shore beneath them. Directly across from me, as I stand in the sand with bare feet and scratches on nearly every bit of my skin, is a cliff face of yellows, reds, and darker stains of the tougher plants clinging to its surface.

I knew if I crossed the water in the sometimes leaky metal rowboat, I’d find a huge old tunnel cutting through the cliff face, with some abandoned machinery that worked to create it in rubble at the bottom. I wasn’t allowed to go there, but sometimes I’d sneak out with older high school kids, following my crush, my face burning every second. Hoping to be noticed and yet stay invisible all the time I spent following them.

The sky above me is blue, covered in cloud whisps and dotted with birds flying high and slow, or darting low to play with each other in gusts.

Just as I’ve adjusted, amongst memory or reality or something else the muggy summer heat shifts before my eyes, instead bringing the smell of fog rolling across the lake in early morning stillness, a coffee mug steaming on the edge of the jetty, cool crispness of autumn, and sounds of shuffling leaves falling. A soft sweater wraps around goosebumped arms, and this time my feet are sinking into thick, dewy cold grass.

This isn’t memory. I hadn’t been back to the lake in years, and even then it was always summer. Tears stream down my face as shrieks of children’s laughter float to my ears, and my heart swells when the water breaks by the jetty and my love’s head surfaces. Before I can make out the face in the vision, I’m sitting back in the dusty attic room.

My face wet, my body trapped in stiff denim and a thin tank top pressed against sticky skin. My lover stands in the doorway, watching me, knuckles to door frame, worried. The faded post card in my hand, light and simple. Looking down it’s only paper and ink, no longer the journey to come.

My love kneels beside me, kissing the top of my head and pulling me into warm arms. I curl into those arms, tucking my nose against my lover’s throat, smelling faint tinges of earth and tree sap.

“I think I know where I want to go, to stay,” I say quietly, smiling.

A gentle hand wipes the tears from my cheek, a contented face returning my smile. “I can’t wait to find out.”