A Weed on The Curb

  WordCrafters Prompt #2 Welcome to Crowland, Shoppers! The only bulbs are nuclear and whatever bounces light, Muzak whistles drear in sandy hollows dressed by night. Try on the wind, my fellows--fly or lift your bones,  wear the breath of motion or sing with fleshless moans. Come purchase this eternity, I've opened wide the door! You'll never want for finitude upon this sealess shore. WordCrafters Prompt #3 Forgo the Waves No more the drift, the sink, the crash. No more the shadows, no more the silver flash! No more the weedy fathoms, no more the glassy flanks, Run toward our freedom upon those grassy banks.

 WordCrafters Wednesday Prompt #1: Photo by  KoolShooters  from  Pexels Heat draws ghastly thirsts: Atlas sloshes a cold ocean  over a cut on his thigh; Coke bottle green flies descend. Two hollow flies bump; a whimsical note shivers, births a spiral heartbeat. Hurricane Flora wakes to see glass fall. Flora carries the roaring echo through our yard, patio, back door. Atlas tilts the trembling globe. He leans into the tinny horror, listens. He tunes his burden like a cathedral radio. His effort gleams, groans. He washes in a leaking, holy ocean. Flora dances in sodden skirts Calling us to mourn his cuts Flora dances in sodden skirts Calling us mourn his cuts

  I spent yesterday afternoon and this morning scouring my shelves for Crime and Poetry , the book pictured in this post. I'm still recovering from last week's bout of whatever food crime I committed and I'm still mostly off caffeine (and finally sleeping through the night) and one of the things that being sick does is make me miss seeing my family. And if I'm read to road trip, then I usually turn to books. Things I read as a kid (lots of Susan Cooper and Dorothy Sayers) or stories that I've discovered since (the October Daye series) and remind me of sitting on my bed, reading and relaxing and knowing that everything was getting better. Yesterday, however, what I wanted was a book that my dad had given me, because he thought I'd like it. That it looked like my thing.  But we rearranged the bookshelves last year. And despite the idea that "summer is a great time to do indoor things and a pandemic means we're both technically available to work on this&qu

  Where the water runs chasing wilder hunts, more slip there the dark dirt sits. Immediately confessing to being a twit. Last week was pretty much a washout thanks to a stomach bug and, yeah, just glad to be posting. Still, I'm a total twit.  -- Chrissa

 Sharing with The Sunday Muse #169 : It takes time for the quest to settle into your calves, to work through your soles and up to your shoulders, spreading through nerve and vessel until  you can't go home because you've already left something of yourself there. You can't be in two places at once. You remember vacations but now you think your family's plans probably resembled some supervillain's monologue:  we'll do this and then take them here. It'll be fun. When do you leave the house on time? Who's time? There's a collar of dead bushes at the lawn in front of the gas station, a tiny, grassy patch of the suburbs beyond, ruins of landscaping, bright, dead. Two years ago feels like twenty, feels loud, a power wash of wind through the window; roaring down the dry sewers that funnel a/c through the lawns and backwards, carrying dreams dry and sharp. At this speed, everything cuts as it passes. Appendix 1:  Chrissa is Full of Stuff and Nonsense Let'

I am in the glass store; the small storefront near the yoga studio and the eye doctor and... well, the gift store closed last month. I walked past the blank darkness earlier. It reminded me of sleeping and waking, a city beneath me, then swirling down into it, my eyes young enough to see every glint. Sleeping and waking into the university city; now my hair is wilder, wispier, and the dark glass shows a parking lot, a road, dust patterns. This familiar emptiness fills glass, this broad sky in which I've been sleeping and waking allows for breathing, when I'm already city-filled. Sharing with The Sunday Muse #168 .  -- Chrissa

  Sharing as part of The Sunday Muse #167  and in honor of old friends. We came to the riverside in high school Everything was laced in myth. We listened to our steps We found some remnant acorn We went home and thought about: The last time we'd find the boat The last time we'd laugh over pizza The last time we'd roll our eyes over Roger The last time we'd have a sleepover Or maybe we'd think about tomorrow Let the myths flow out, taking their lace On a tidal lurch strong enough to drag That old boat into heaven on the river That runs into every sea and port and planet; Night, herself, as all the waters there are dark. We came to the riverside in high school And walked until we found the boat And drifted on from there.   This is the month for Camp NaNo. If you're not familiar, Camp NaNo is a choose-your-own-writing-project-goal month associated with the National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) organization, which just means that--for me--this month is something

  Brains...brains... Here we are, first thing in the morning on the second day of Camp NaNo. What I'd like to do (and might still), is grab a cup of coffee and drive out to the park and write. It is  camp. And I did wake up to a bunkmate scraping his paws across the fan because he was sleeping with his nose practically pressed against the faceplate, so that feels very much like something you'd do in a cabin where the a/c is basically the breeze.  Camp is also  (after food, nature hikes, and camp cliques) about crafting. That means I need to update my bulletin board (pics to come), which functions as my idea board/inspiration and really should have been done earlier and plan out a bracelet (which means a trip to Home Depot for brass washers...there may be a post on this later) and  maybe a small zine for an outline. My primary goal for this month is to fill up the notebook pictured above and it might be nice to have an easy summary of what the story eventually becomes.  This is