Visiting the Past

Moving from one house to another prompts a flurry of decluttering and reorganizing.  As I continue to organize my new home office, I am unpacking and revisiting archived writing projects from school, work, or otherwise, spanning decades of writing pursuit.

I found an example of my third grade poetry skills. I received an A+ for the assignment, marked in black felt-tip ink that has now soaked through the yellowed notebook paper. I remember vividly being accused of being the teacher’s pet in Miss Allen’s classroom, a drama that brought the teacher to tears one morning in front of the class.  Miss Allen was a wonderful educator, creating a fun atmosphere for all of her students so that learning seemed more like play and exploration.

 

Like a caring mother,
the twinkling stars
watch over their sleeping children.
Do stars ever sleep?

*~*~*

Vividly,
Fleetly,
Aimlessly,
The lightningslices
the ebony night.
Bolt!

*~*~*

The seamstress
cuts the pattern,
threads the needle,
sews the fabric.
Clothing!
How soft new clothes feel!

*~*~*

Leaves
float, flitter, fall
from the trees,
on the wind
to the forest floor.
A golden Autumn.

*~*~*

The unstudied student
hears the teacher,
turns over his test,
fumbles his answers,
stares at the clock.
STRESS!
How stupid not to study!

 

The Artist in Me

This world overflows with visual magic, from the most astounding phenomena to the least significant mote of dust. Most of this occurs beyond us, unnoticed while we are distracted by the daily over-stimulation of our five senses. The world flashes by at 80 MPH or is kept at bay by constructed walls. Natural or man-made, the potential for art exists everywhere.

Ever since I was a child, I have possessed a desire to capture what I see and re-express it, whether visually in drawings or photographs, audibly in music, or in the written word. The skills haven’t always been present, leading to frustrations when the idea fails to appear as imagined. Driven by a need for perfection—whether this is innate or nurtured by environment is a subject of debate—I wallow in perceived failure more often than I revel in confidence of a work well-done.

The artist in me fails to give up completely. The artist in me compromises between perfection and illusion and allows the imperfection to speak for the visual wonder.

mother tree

Through a Window-#SALE #99c

Ebook on Sale for #99cents
December 28 – January 3

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Format: Kindle Edition Verified Purchase

In these five short stories, Elizabeth Love encapsulates the wonder of human (and humanoid) curiosity and strength. This compilation is reminiscent of Stephen King’s early Sci-Fi days, back when he wrote under a pen-name.

Her humanoid characters are fully distinct, their culture and context and well realized, and her imagery will bring you right into the book. Overall, I would highly recommend it!

 

Excerpt – Revenge of the Goddess

Here is a brief tidbit from (one of) my current WIP. With 26,000 words in the bank, I’m approximately half-way complete.

 

Three notes chimed randomly, triggered by the pull at the front door of the house. These three notes were chosen for their pleasing chordal harmony and their acoustic aesthetic to the ear of the home’s two residents.

Quinn answered the call, finding himself in closest proximity to the front entrance, having just raided the larger for an afternoon snack. Turnsday was a day for relaxing and enjoying the pleasures of being no one to anyone, dabbling in hobbies and dabbling in sweet creations left by the cook after a stressful week of scheduled meals. Wiping away a stray crumb of cake from his fingers on the thigh of his tweed pants, he reached for the brass latch and swung open the wide, polished wood door without even pausing to peek through the window.

Hugh’s robust form filled the frame of the door, donning the standard gray and gold uniform of the Elite. The guard stood the daily watch between the hours of 10 and 5. Towering at over two meters, Hugh stood at least half as wide as he was tall so that his shoulders nearly scraped each jamb of the door simultaneously.

“Yes?” Quinn prompted, knowing well that Hugh was not the reason for the chime to sound.

“A visitor requests an audience with the Protectress, Mr. Saugray.”

“On a Turnsday? Is it business?” Most visits were business for the Protectress of Bona Dea. Quinn could count on one hand the number of non-business visitors permitted to stop by on a whim.

“The man’s name is Jon Irons. He claims to be a friend of the Protectress, someone from Gammerton.”

Quinn reflexively stopped chewing. The cake quickly dissolved within his cheeks. “Gammerton. Um, very well. Wait here. I’ll see if she will accept…him.”

Closing the door as a barrier between Hugh and his sudden intense panic, Quinn gulped down the cake and scurried toward the main flight of stairs rising to the second floor of the house. With each step, he composed a half-dozen scenarios of how to inform his wife that her previous lover stood on their stoop and her imagined reaction, anything from a wistfully pleased smile to a hell-bent scowl. Engrossed in his thoughts, he nearly collided with Axandra on the staircase. She was on her way down.

The touch of her hand upon his chest soothed him, a side-effect of her remoter prowess. She possessed the ability to affect the emotions of an entire room of people. The ability was both reassuring and unnerving. In this case, Quinn understood she used the touch to return him to focus and prevent an accident.

“Dearheart, you have a visitor, if you don’t mind seeing him. It’s Jon.”

 

 

China Cupboard

In the cupboard there is china
It is precariously balanced
Blue saucers stacked
On Yellow cups stacked
On Green teapots stacked
Too near the top
With roses outlined in gold

On the other side of the china
Is another room like this one
With the sun diffused
Through the filmy curtains
A man is standing in the light
A peculiar shadow
I must not disturb
A single dish

 

~*~*~*~

Note: Based upon a stirring, lucid dream from many years ago, one I still remember clearly despite the passage of time, this poem wrestles with the fear of making mistakes and the consequences of being right or wrong.