tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-72054646169046138472024-03-05T07:21:06.709-08:00The Chambered HeartWriter, Mom, Traveler, Friend.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10178698606328643008noreply@blogger.comBlogger177125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7205464616904613847.post-56973000328489681812016-04-08T14:42:00.000-07:002016-04-08T14:42:36.075-07:00spiral - Day 6 of the 2016 PAD ChallengeTwo days behind but undaunted. I've spent this week preparing query letters for my Young Adult Fantasy novel,<i> Elsekind</i>. I intend to send it out to three places on Tuesday, so that's fairly exciting and slightly terrifying. <div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And today, I have a poem to share. Perhaps my favorite topic to explore in poetry is the connectedness between objects in the micro- and macroverse, particularly the Fibonnaci repetition of patterns. I love how patterns in nature replicate on the small and large scale. It's stunning and humbling, how a snail and a galaxy can contain the same atoms, the same shapes, once again proving that we all are more alike than we are different.<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCN4HUb7_FSuDFsfVN0yKH2UxjiO-gx44K2bWvs5MREljFczwWHD51OTTeCEkS3R6xv-6vU8ns4kCYOFO0FbyAm5c4RBlWekKHit2RtFd1xHMKlWp80vpGhJmeo03ik0eH8PDMo5jG5AL0/s1600/fibon.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="276" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCN4HUb7_FSuDFsfVN0yKH2UxjiO-gx44K2bWvs5MREljFczwWHD51OTTeCEkS3R6xv-6vU8ns4kCYOFO0FbyAm5c4RBlWekKHit2RtFd1xHMKlWp80vpGhJmeo03ik0eH8PDMo5jG5AL0/s320/fibon.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://hrexach.wordpress.com/2013/05/12/the-nautilus-shell-related-to-the-fibonacci-spiral/">Fibonnaci knows...</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
spiral</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
one shell</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
one tiny shell</div>
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one spinning spiral</div>
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like a floating iris</div>
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like the golden eye</div>
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of a great grey heron</div>
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poised on a riverbank</div>
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in a glimmering city</div>
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in a far away country</div>
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on a great continent</div>
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riddled with rivers and </div>
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crisscrossed with streams</div>
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on this blue, blue earth</div>
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swaddled in clouds</div>
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strung with twinkle lights</div>
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turning and turning</div>
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within an orbit,</div>
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within the wide-flung arms</div>
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of a galaxy</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
one among</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
billions.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
one shell.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
one tiny</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
shell.</div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10178698606328643008noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7205464616904613847.post-9829539873499133212016-04-06T11:27:00.002-07:002016-04-06T11:27:47.393-07:00Beware of Fairy Tales - Day 5 of the 2016 PAD Challenge<div class="MsoNormal">
Here is a twist on the twisted fairy tales. This is five linked haikus about a forest and a hapless adventurer.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Beware of Fairy Tales</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p> <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSc7bb4Yh_VQIl-8FVDi_koICCsddgj_vW3qDufyKqv0kehrWYmip6ovyfiFaOPNB2SVVfV0RywMGuHmgXq3go3U_4LUCnFpuU8sohZgozIvUdyrYJyVZfY67cl1mTD5Qt0vT_q3F8hwJ3/s1600/Along+the+Forest+Path.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSc7bb4Yh_VQIl-8FVDi_koICCsddgj_vW3qDufyKqv0kehrWYmip6ovyfiFaOPNB2SVVfV0RywMGuHmgXq3go3U_4LUCnFpuU8sohZgozIvUdyrYJyVZfY67cl1mTD5Qt0vT_q3F8hwJ3/s320/Along+the+Forest+Path.jpg" width="225" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: #f1f1f1; color: #888888; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 16px; text-align: left;">Along the Forest Path by Selina Fenech</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The sign outside reads:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Beware of the Fairy Tales</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They always return</div>
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<br /></div>
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In the tavern light</div>
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Her wings like snowflakes, shiver</div>
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prismatic daggers</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"Please, can you help me?"</div>
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Her voice is the falling leaves</div>
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You reach for her, and--</div>
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<br /></div>
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The path stands empty,</div>
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Stabbed by moonlight and silence</div>
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Moths brush at your face</div>
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<br /></div>
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Feet encased in stone,</div>
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Weapon useless at your side,</div>
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Words caught on your lips</div>
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<br /></div>
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Too late to scream now:</div>
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You are trapped within her snare.</div>
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She <i>always</i> returns.</div>
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<br /></div>
<br />
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<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10178698606328643008noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7205464616904613847.post-54926705103085119852016-04-05T09:24:00.000-07:002016-04-06T13:54:54.121-07:00One Doesn't Stop to Talk with Nightmares - Day 4 of the 2016 PAD Challenge<div class="MsoNormal">
Off-prompt, but from a line in a Guy Gavriel Kay story, provided by one of our writing group partners, Lori Krell. I think this one is about becoming our worst nightmares. </div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4r0Y7nLrjDmUGHFR97VoMznqa8spwgzDTFGZYti6zSSdYjc-Jdo_HMWm23AaJC6lr-hQzAVpfW4jLxkCEYcQgl1KVwCC3YmsJxKV_1H7lrSKJ-Ia8o5PLX-Lwg90hRs_tSTv9SwlkwiH3/s1600/Mirror_of_spirit_by_ispheria.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4r0Y7nLrjDmUGHFR97VoMznqa8spwgzDTFGZYti6zSSdYjc-Jdo_HMWm23AaJC6lr-hQzAVpfW4jLxkCEYcQgl1KVwCC3YmsJxKV_1H7lrSKJ-Ia8o5PLX-Lwg90hRs_tSTv9SwlkwiH3/s320/Mirror_of_spirit_by_ispheria.jpg" width="232" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mirror of the Soul by <a href="http://ispheria.deviantart.com/">ispheria</a>.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>One Doesn't Stop to Talk to Nightmares</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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Yes, I heard her warning</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
as I left the bar that night.</div>
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I heard her</div>
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but I refused to heed</div>
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the raving rantings</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
of a whore</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yes, she warned me of the dangers</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
of straying from the path</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
of staying too long</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
of listening</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
to the whispers.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I heard her</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
but I thought her</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
mad</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I thought</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>her<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
mad.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She said, One doesn't stop</div>
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to talk to nightmares.</div>
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I said, What do you know</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
of dreams?</div>
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Her cracked face</div>
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sagged:</div>
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fractures panes</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
in ruined casement.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Yes, I wondered what she lost</div>
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from lingering too long</div>
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from sipping too deeply</div>
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from keeping cozy company</div>
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with the demons</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
of her dreams</div>
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<br /></div>
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I wondered, but dismissed her</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A mad woman</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A transient</div>
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A fool</div>
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<br /></div>
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No, I did not see her</div>
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for what she is</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
for what she <i>was</i>:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Not a broken window</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
but a mirror.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A reflection</div>
of me.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10178698606328643008noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7205464616904613847.post-87534402463351319232016-04-05T08:39:00.001-07:002016-04-05T08:44:22.723-07:00Three - Day 3 of the 2016 Poem A Day Challenge<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "lucida sans" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px;">For today’s prompt, take the phrase “Three (blank),” replace the blank with a word or phrase, make the new phrase the title of your poem, and then, write your poem. Possible titles include: “Three Blind Hippos,” “Three Muskrats,” “Three’s Company,” “Three Movies Is Too Many for The Hobbit, Peter Jackson (just saying),” and so on.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "lucida sans" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span> <span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "lucida sans" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px;">Here is a strange little poem in round. It's a bit rough, but I'll take it for now.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "lucida sans" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px;"><b><br /></b></span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Three</b></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On the road,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
on the road</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
an old crone sang</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
with a stick</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
in her hand,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
with a crow</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
on her back</div>
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<br /></div>
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On her back,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
on her back</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
the old crow cawed</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
with a jewel</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
in her eye,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
with a ring</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
on her wing</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On her wing,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
on her wing</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
there slept a dream</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
with a wish</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
in her heart,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
with a song</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
on her lips.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On her lips,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
on her lips</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
there rested a kiss</div>
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with a prince</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
in her bed,</div>
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with a crown</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
on his brow.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On his brow,</div>
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on his brow</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
there weighed a truth</div>
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with a price</div>
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in its words,</div>
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with a curse</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
on his grave</div>
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<br /></div>
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On his grave,</div>
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on his grave</div>
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the old crone wept</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
of a love</div>
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and a girl</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
and a boy</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p>and a bird</o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And the three</div>
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who fled</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
with the jewel</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
and a ring,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They sing</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
no more</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>No more</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>they sing.</i></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10178698606328643008noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7205464616904613847.post-73062532060852622322016-04-03T18:34:00.001-07:002016-04-05T08:18:22.985-07:00Actual Things He Said To Me - Day Two of the PAD Challenge<div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #333333; font-family: 'Lucida Sans', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 1.07143rem; padding: 0px;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC8_-dy7WUXAiALpbS4ZGk_O3UozynILvjNSDJENCxayHe8QJZg9p0xLupLFfxK_0oXhFTFM1bjoqVgs7ux0pttzTcL4YMI4JLaTZ9Rs8gGgWDbuqdjRm_jxBuICIez2Apeg7m7EAIEQMN/s1600/FB_IMG_1459865186927.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC8_-dy7WUXAiALpbS4ZGk_O3UozynILvjNSDJENCxayHe8QJZg9p0xLupLFfxK_0oXhFTFM1bjoqVgs7ux0pttzTcL4YMI4JLaTZ9Rs8gGgWDbuqdjRm_jxBuICIez2Apeg7m7EAIEQMN/s320/FB_IMG_1459865186927.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Unless you're actually just an asshole using<br />honesty as a shield for rude behavior.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The 2016 April PAD Challenge shuffles along to Day 2. Let’s unwrap today’s prompt.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #333333; font-family: 'Lucida Sans', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 1.07143rem; padding: 0px;">
For today’s prompt, write a what he said and/or what she said poem. Maybe he or she said a rumor; maybe he or she gave directions; or maybe he or she said something that made absolutely no sense at all. I don’t know what they said; rather, each poet is tasked with revealing that knowledge.<br />
<br />
Here is a poem close to my heart. These are actual things men have said to me - some in person, some via instant message, but all true.<br />
<b><br /></b>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Actual Things He Said to Me</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He said, "It's hot that you're a single Mom.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They're like the surest bet.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That's how it is where I come from:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You gotta take what you can get."</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He said, "You are smoking hot, but</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Petite chicks are all I date.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I would really like it a lot</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If you could just shed some weight."</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He said, "Why do you need feminism?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Isn't that for ugly girls?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That kind of sexual fascism</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
is what's ruining the world."</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He said, "Your book is too feminine.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You shouldn't quit your job.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Your sense of humor's asinine.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You think you're funny, but you're not." </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He said, "Hey princess, hey baby, hey doll</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I'm not like other dudes.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I'm looking for love, I'm looking to fall</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So PM me all your nudes."</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then he said, "I don't get it,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
how women can be so mad</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I just told you what I want.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So how can that be bad?"</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He said, "Women claim to want honesty.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But that just doesn't fly.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
'Cause when we tell them what we need,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They would rather hear a lie."</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But she said, "You misunderstand us.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We are but human beings</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Not a princess in a tower</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Not some puppet tied with strings."</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She said, "I'm not here to perform for you.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don't need what you have to say.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Someday I'll realize my own goals</div>
<span style="line-height: 1.5;">And that someday is today."</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10178698606328643008noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7205464616904613847.post-89217162030872786402016-04-01T09:32:00.001-07:002016-04-01T09:34:56.694-07:00Fools Rush In - Day One of 2016 Poem-A-Day<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "lucida sans" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; line-height: 18px;">Let Poem-A-Day begin!</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "lucida sans" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "lucida sans" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; line-height: 18px;">Every year for the past -- I don't know, decade? -- I have participated in Robert Lee Brewer's Poem-A-Day in April. Some years, I make it all the way to the end. Other years, I fall fabulously short. The point, though, is to write poems, and that I do. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "lucida sans" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "lucida sans" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; line-height: 18px;">Here is the link to Brewer's PAD Challenge site, where he posts his daily poetry prompts:</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "lucida sans" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; line-height: 18px;"><a href="http://www.writersdigest.com/whats-new/2016-april-pad-challenge-day-1">2016 Poem A Day Challenge</a> </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "lucida sans" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; line-height: 18px;">Join me, if you please and if you dare, in writing one poem each day in April. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "lucida sans" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; line-height: 18px;"><b>Day One:</b></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "lucida sans" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; line-height: 18px;">For today’s prompt, write a foolish poem. It’s April Fool’s Day, after all. Let’s loosen up today with a poem in which we’re </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "lucida sans" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; line-height: 18px;">fools, others are fools, or there’s some kind of prank or tomfoolery happening. Fool around with it a while.</span><br />
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<b>Fools Rush In <o:p></o:p></b></div>
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Foolish is a mockingbird</div>
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Who first dives from her nest</div>
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Foolish is the scientist</div>
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Who continues to try and test</div>
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Foolish is the playground child</div>
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Who finally raises her fist</div>
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Foolish is caterpillar </div>
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Who unwinds from her chrysalis</div>
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Foolish are those who push and push</div>
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Who refuse to give up their fight</div>
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Foolish are they, the believers</div>
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Who rally against the night</div>
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Foolish are those who continue</div>
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To live, to love, to dare.</div>
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And though they may be wounded,</div>
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they still have love to share.</div>
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Count me blissful among them:</div>
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This incautious band of fools</div>
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For if I let anguish guide me</div>
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I never would have you.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10178698606328643008noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7205464616904613847.post-12481440355001839922016-02-26T17:39:00.000-08:002016-02-26T17:39:52.461-08:00Fiction Friday: Mourning<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjebEwXKwIJOeuEkhBzI_77x79s0AWmNwp8LCr0Q_wWcKN-ZKhV2lXM9IhlUINx0bW-_dJsnvTe-GRqwWYYKd9EdCDv4rOYU5rRN0OkyZfOCnJYhmFvRPLSJzxo8Vhq8N9QFpy2vARn1GH/s1600/firstplusprojects-net+-+jgarnett+-+strange+weather.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="183" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjebEwXKwIJOeuEkhBzI_77x79s0AWmNwp8LCr0Q_wWcKN-ZKhV2lXM9IhlUINx0bW-_dJsnvTe-GRqwWYYKd9EdCDv4rOYU5rRN0OkyZfOCnJYhmFvRPLSJzxo8Vhq8N9QFpy2vARn1GH/s320/firstplusprojects-net+-+jgarnett+-+strange+weather.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Strange Weather - J. Garnett (<a href="http://firstplusprojects.net/">firstplusprojects.net</a>)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
For Fiction Friday this week, I borrowed a prompt from <b><i><a href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/3-am-epiphany-brian-kiteley/1100626989">3 AM Epiphany</a></i></b>, and then promptly ignored it.<br />
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The prompt, titled The City, asks the writer to write two short scenes in a cityscape of the author's choice - one at night, one in the daytime.<br />
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What came out is a fragment of an aftermath, when something catastrophic has occurred, and the citizens of the city are digging out to assess the damage.<br />
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This is called <b><i>Mourning</i></b>.<br />
Flash Fiction<br />
Word Count: 354<br />
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In the city, there fell a soft snow of petals, and each one helicoptered down into the sleeping street. There fell a scent, also, of ash and spiderwebs, of mothwings and death.</div>
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Those who survived the night clawed forth from the gutters to gaze out in wonder at the husk of their city. Breeze battered the lanterns on their strings, long tatters of them strewn from rooftops, across lorries, into windows, all shattered. The night that shook and ravaged had raged and passed. It cast up land, shaking blooms from the trees, raking stars from the sky, shifting plates of rock upways and sideways and down.</div>
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Gray people with lamplight eyes, taking hold of hands, drifted silently into crosswalks. Wordless, they stared at the fallen fragments. Fire had come. Flood had answered. Waste remained.</div>
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And life. Life clung in the sidewalk cracks, grassblades and dandelions, caked black, but alive. Pools collected in the low spaces, trapping fish and crabs in the cracks. They darted and flipped, a coruscation of scales and claws. In the high crumbling towers, redbirds dared to pierce the quiet with their songs.</div>
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So the people crept, wary at first, and then frantic, as the pebbles scrabbled, as the first murmurs rose up. People clambered to release those entombed.</div>
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Then noise bloomed out, cries of joy and shouts of despair. Then shifting stone. Hands clasped hands. Arms lifted and cradled. Heads tilted back, eyes to ashen sky, and tears fell.</div>
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More fires and more cairns, these set with more care than those of nature's random violence.</div>
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Daylight waned. Shadows deepened. A new landscape yawned into night. Those who remained gathered tight, hipbone to hipbone, shoulder to shoulder. Light subsided into smoke-skeined skies, and stars stared down, sharp and keen and unreachable.</div>
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Quiet descended, punctured by coughs and cries. The old ones waited, wary and watchful, but the bones of the earth lay still.</div>
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In the morning, there fell a soft rain, and each drop needled into the sleeping street. There fell a sorrow, also, of loss and exhaustion, of dust and death.</div>
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And those who survived the night strove forward, hoping, somehow, to rebuild. </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10178698606328643008noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7205464616904613847.post-32574254092078066342016-02-12T12:42:00.000-08:002016-02-12T12:53:31.300-08:00Fiction Friday: Waiting Room Blues<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
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For Fiction Friday, I am practicing <a href="http://www.writersdigest.com/writing-articles/by-writing-goal/improve-my-writing/flash-fiction-faqs">flash fiction</a> with this piece. Taking a prompt in <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/M-Epiphany-Uncommon-Exercises-Transform/dp/1582973512/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1455309233&sr=1-1&keywords=3+a.m.+epiphany">The 3 AM Epiphany</a>, </i>this is a fiction based on a personal memory. It incorporates details from my own life into a short story of fewer than 250 words. </div>
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<b><br /></b> <b>"Waiting Room Blues"</b></div>
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Flash Fiction</div>
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by Celeste Hollister</div>
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Word Count: 249 words</div>
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Cheerful to the point of ridiculous, the Christmas tree crouches in the corner. Cartoons blare on the waiting room TV. A man and his daughter play "I spy." Another guy peels an orange. The spray fans out, golden on the sterile air. He shares it with a woman. A cousin? A sister? His wife?</div>
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I check for rings; she's got a half dozen. He grins at her. She asks how he's been doing. He lies and says he's been okay.</div>
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Then the tinny announcement sounds: Visiting hours are over.</div>
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The scuffling of feet. The hush of voices. Parting hands slide away. The lobby empties as a counselor collects each patient. The visitors wave, smile, and evaporate.</div>
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I remain. Me, the tree, and <i>Shrek</i> on TV.</div>
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The desk clerk hisses out a sigh.</div>
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She knows me. She is long past sympathy.</div>
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I think, <i>Why do I keep showing up? Am I even on your list?</i>
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Then I wonder, <i>If not me, then who?</i> We long chased off all of our friends.</div>
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I collect my notebook, my phone, the stupid stocking stuffed with Snickers.</div>
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Yes, I still remember. So happy holidays, asshole. I guess I'll see you around.</div>
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Then I'm out in the snow and it soaks through my socks and I'm cold and I'm mad and I just want... Something.</div>
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Streetlights blur to banded halos. Cold sinks in like a demon's teeth. I go home, and I wonder, <i>When will I decide to just leave well enough alone?</i></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10178698606328643008noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7205464616904613847.post-45610991607599421852016-02-05T18:58:00.000-08:002016-02-05T18:58:42.043-08:00Fiction Friday: Shower Song<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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For Fiction Friday this week, I am sharing an excerpt from the YA Science Fiction novel Parker Dumas and I are co-writing, <b><i>The Boy Who Painted Stars</i></b>.<br />
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In the novel, the main character, Vinnie, lives on the Halo, a ring-shaped space station that orbits the earth. Specifically, Vinnie and his Gran work in the Scaff, which is the service quarters supporting the Halo. Everything in the Halo and the Scaff is carefully monitored and rationed, especially water.<br />
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In this excerpt, Vinnie, a trans-male, has his Shower Song. Twice a week, he gets to bathe, and his shower is limited to the length of his favorite song. After his shower, he tries on his new binder and finds out it's a little more restrictive than he first bargained for.<br />
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Here is the link for Vinnie's Shower Song: <i><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HKh6XxYbbIc">When You Wish Upon A Star</a></i><br />
<br />
"Shower Song"<br />
from <b><i>The Boy Who Painted Stars</i></b><br />
by Celeste Hollister<br />
Word Count: 1785<br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Part of the never-enough of the Scaff was the never-enough of water. Like everything else in the Halo, it had to be recycled over and over again. Once a month, the Halo toted fresh water from planetside in gigantic plastic drums. But most of the water they got from the filtration system was carefully monitored so that every drop could be reclaimed.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">. </span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"> Nothing in the Scaff was more regulated than water. Restaurants like Stiletto's received an allotment based on their average business per month. Scaff folk used their day-to-day rations to wash their personals, like dishes and clothes. Bathing, though, was set up on a schedule of weekly rotation. </span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"> Each person in the Scaff got two shower songs per week. Any water they didn't use got immediately reclaimed by the Halo, so if you missed your song, you'd be stink out of luck until your next rotation.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"> Like most people, Vinnie loved his shower song. You climbed into the shiny, clean shower tube, tapped up the pre-programmed list of songs, got your sponge all lathered up, and hit play. The lights dimmed to a soft, buttery glow. Then the water hissed on, heated to your exact preference, and you'd scrub scrub scrub while the music filled the scented air. </span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"> Vinnie had perfected his shower ritual. His favorite song was a Disney classic, <i>When You Wish Upon A Star</i>. The song rang in at a full three and a half minutes of lathery bliss. </span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"> Vinnie spent the first twenty second count of the song washing his pits and his bits. He spent another eight seconds scrubbing between his toes. That brought him to the lyrics portion of the song. He worked shampoo into his kinky curls, scrubbing deep to reach his scalp. He rinsed while the second verse trilled in a sonorous tenor: “Fate is kind. She brings to those love the sweet fulfillment of their secret longing.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"> Then came a coconut conditioner – one of the cherished rarities he'd saved for. This he let soak in his hair for twenty-four seconds before letting the water course through it. He always hummed along with the last refrain, eyes closed and reverent: “<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Like a bolt out of the blue, fate steps in and pulls you through. When you wish upon a star our dreams come true.” </span></span></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"> Vinnie twirled under the shower spray, letting the swells of violins and the chorus of voices sing through his skin and his bones. </span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"> Signaling the song's end, a soft chime sounded, followed by Mickey Mouse's tinny laugh. “Uh hello, there,” the mouse said. “Always remember: When you wish upon a star, your dreams really do come true!”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"> Tears pricked behind Vinnie's eyes as the water abruptly shut off. He squinched them closed and squeezed his hands into fists. </span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"> As always, he whispered his most sacred wishes. There were only two, and he never spoke them out loud. Except in his dreams.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"> His dream from last night spun up in him, his hands linked with Myra's, the paint on his lips, the taste of metal and sugar. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">He pulled the towel from its rung and wiped his mouth. Fans in the shower's ceiling and floor whirred to life, chasing stray drops from his skin for reclamation.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"> An airy voice sounded over the speakers: “You have one minute and eighteen seconds saved from previous songs. Please choose from the following menu items.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"> This was a HaloCorp trick. If you chose to end your shower early, you could save your water ration until you had enough time for a third shower song. Or, you could combine them for a spa package which included an extra long song, like <i>Ina Godda Da Vita</i>, and special things like aromatherapy and a colored light show. </span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"> Or, you could donate them back to the Scaff for people in need. The shower's OS helpfully provided a list of organizations to which your could donate your extra water: Halo General Hospital, The Angel's League Home for Children, elderly care facilities, that sort of thing.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"> Vinnie didn't trust it. He believed HaloCorp kept all the donated water in reserve. And yes, Myra had guessed it, he was stealing water, but it was for a good cause of his own choosing.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"> “Gen, run subprogram eighty-eight, please,” Vinnie said. </span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"> Gen fluttered into action, connecting to the shower's computer as the screen illuminated the final menu option. </span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"> “You have selected to donate – one minute and eighteen seconds – to Scaff ID number one-zero-five-two. Please say yes to confirm this donation.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"> “Yes,” Vinnie answered. </span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"> “Donation confirmed,” the shower computer intoned. “Have a blessed day.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"> Vinnie wrapped his body in the towel and stepped from the dry shower tube-icle. Gen returned to the Thread display on his wrist. “You have donated a total of four minutes and twenty-one seconds to Ava Beatrice Pero Lazarotti.”</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"> He smirked at his reflection in the mirror. “Gran can have a nice, long scrub today. She's earned it.”</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"> “Reminder,” Gen said. “Next shower song begins for Scaff ID 1052 in three minutes and thirteen seconds.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"> Vinnie slipped the plastic tube from his coat on the hook and unwound the bundle of cloth inside. It loosened with a kind of silken sighing between his fingers.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"> “Keep a countdown for me, will you, Gen? Every thirty seconds.”</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"> “Three minutes,” Gen confirmed. “And counting.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"> Vinnie turned from the mirror. He let the towel fall as he pulled the springy black binder over his head. He wriggled and tugged, snugging it over his shoulders. In his excitement, he'd forgotten to work the zip, and so the binder caught between his chin and chest. </span> </div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"> “Two minutes, thirty seconds,” Gen chirped. </span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"> “Freck,” Vinnie swore. He twisted his arm, catching the zipper hasp to inch it down. He squirmed and pinched the tight, cool, slippery fabric, pressing it over his breasts and then his ribs, his breath catching in both restriction and eagerness. </span> </div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"> “Two minutes,” Gen said. “The next shower is cycling up to the proper temperature and pressure.”</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"> “Thank you, Gen,” Vinnie bit out. The binder bunched under his shoulders, tangling against the friction of his still-damp skin. He bent his arms back, dancing a tight circle as he pulled and pulled to tug the binder in place. His shoulder cramped painfully and he let out a yelp. </span> </div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"> “Lara,” Gran called from the door. “The computer lady's telling me it's time, can I come in?”</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"> “Just a second, Gran,” Vinnie gasped.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"> “One minute and thirty seconds,” Gen corrected.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"> Vinnie's breaths panted in shallow gulps as he wrestled with the zip. It stuck fast between his breasts, leaving a full eight centimeters' gap at the top. He sucked in his breath and squeezed his elbows together, flattening his breasts against his chest as his sweaty fingers fussed with the hasp. </span> </div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"> “Sixty seconds,” Gen sang. </span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"> “Freck freck freck,” Vinnie spat. It was too tight, and he was too big. He'd wasted the 80 creds he'd snagged on something that wouldn't even work. He felt the double stab of greed and vanity as his mind raced over all the useful things he could have done with that money—like replacing Barbara's motivator circuit or buying new shoes for Mello. Hell, even saving it would be better than throwing it away on something no one but him would ever see.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"> Then, with a sproing, the zip raced up, snapping its snaggle-teeth in an even line over Vinnie's chest. </span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"> Breathless, he whirled to face the mirror. The binder snugged tight over Vinnie's curves. He turned in profile to confirm. Yep, flat and straight as... as a boy.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"> “Thirty seconds,” Gen said.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"> Gran tapped at the door again. “Lara, dear. Everything okay in there?”</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"> “Yes,” Vinnie said, spinning to see his body from every angle. “Yes, Gran. Everything is super-great.”</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"> The binder felt comfortingly restrictive against the cage of his ribs. He thought with delight how every breath would remind him of its presence. </span> </div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"> Of course, beneath the bulk of his work pants and his corded-knit sweater, no one could tell the difference. But Vinnie knew. He had things under control. And the binder was just a step in the process, a way to get used to how he would look once his top-surgery was done. </span> </div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"> “Fifteen seconds,” Gen counted. “Fourteen, thirteen, twelve...”</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"> “I'll take it from here, Gen. Thanks,” Vinnie said. He stepped to the door and used his Thread to spring the lock. </span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"> Grannye Gi stood in the doorway, eying him with a kind of bemused suspicion. She sniffed. “Coconut,” she said. </span> </div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"> “It's in the caddy,” Vinnie said, stepping around her. “Use some if you like.”</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"> She narrowed her eyes. They looked like the glittering buttons in an overstuffed cushion. “Oh, I will,” she said, muttering as she stepped into the bathroom stall. “Bananas and coconuts. What do I look like, the Queen of Tahiti?”</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"> Vinnie went past rows of emergency evac suits, to the diner beyond, where Myra waited at the counter.</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10178698606328643008noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7205464616904613847.post-70217894557951332932016-01-29T09:37:00.001-08:002016-01-29T16:38:47.550-08:00Fiction Friday: Limberjack<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijYGeciVewQbCtdQEbT2VuI1dFJ2eCEcrDp8ExPTG5Nt6SbyPQavtOJlhiAi8E3h5rBMEyH1I72BZ6bkzYX9f6uofnB83_Jlw7v6v_CgraNSZQv42F-Ppe95f1Bg_D-i6x6oD9tVadgt52/s1600/prairiewindtoyco_limberjack.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="246" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijYGeciVewQbCtdQEbT2VuI1dFJ2eCEcrDp8ExPTG5Nt6SbyPQavtOJlhiAi8E3h5rBMEyH1I72BZ6bkzYX9f6uofnB83_Jlw7v6v_CgraNSZQv42F-Ppe95f1Bg_D-i6x6oD9tVadgt52/s320/prairiewindtoyco_limberjack.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Limberjacks from <a href="http://www.prairiewindtoyco.com/">Prairie Wind Toy Co.</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
For <strike>Fiction</strike> Flashback Friday, I'm sharing a poem that I've been kicking around a while. I grew up around some clever bluegrass musicians, including my lovely Aunt Lerlie, who would sing and provide percussion to their songs with a <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v6WZodvgddI">Limberjack</a> doll.<br />
<br />
I've been thinking a lot about those days with our Papa's family, mostly about how I thought they would never end.<br />
<br />
So this little poem is about lost childhood and a generation that is slowly slipping away. Even so, we won't forget what they've given us.<br />
<br />
This poem is for Aunt Lerlie.<br />
<b><br /></b>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>Limberjack</b></div>
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<br /></div>
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Never again</div>
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Will the little wooden man</div>
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Dance as he did</div>
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Like he danced with you</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
And never again</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Will his jitterbug limbs</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Spin as they did</div>
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When he spun with you</div>
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<br /></div>
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In our childhood dreams</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
of watermelon teeth</div>
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and sweet gum trees,</div>
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He jigs and he jumps</div>
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To your knuckle-bump thumps</div>
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On the pine wood plank</div>
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where he danced</div>
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<br /></div>
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But never again</div>
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Will he swing and sway</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
As he did back then</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
In those huckleberry days</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
None of us learned</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
How to play the spoons</div>
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And the cuckoo clock springs</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Have sprung too soon</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
And never again</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Will they rewind</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
While the limberjack man</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Lies on his side</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10178698606328643008noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7205464616904613847.post-4006712066343910062016-01-22T13:24:00.000-08:002016-01-22T13:30:33.648-08:00Fiction Friday: Upper Batracia<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFNk_aAEhmVrwmUtweki4-63UEeD7T1lGkbhs_DOwGWUb_LupEILhF5y6-L-ZlQxzcUElyLeUtN8_fhepUIWxvh1E3B5XQE0yOs4IENeJdhwfJRZIi3B0pJG-F1KdwLkttCVwezCI8Am7t/s1600/1d3e99f008936f0e2a4b80ed35c61ca9.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="305" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFNk_aAEhmVrwmUtweki4-63UEeD7T1lGkbhs_DOwGWUb_LupEILhF5y6-L-ZlQxzcUElyLeUtN8_fhepUIWxvh1E3B5XQE0yOs4IENeJdhwfJRZIi3B0pJG-F1KdwLkttCVwezCI8Am7t/s400/1d3e99f008936f0e2a4b80ed35c61ca9.jpg" width="400" /></a><span style="line-height: 200%;">This week's <b>Fiction Friday </b>features world building and an amphibian princeling borrowed from my child, Parker Dumas. This is an excerpt from our novel in progress, <i>The Boy Who Painted Stars.</i><br /><b><br />Upper Batracia</b><br />by Celeste Hollister<br />Word Count: 1,150</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;">Y-Chien wound the parchment strip into a tight cylinder and tucked it into his belt. He went to the edge of the marble steps. He stood </span>beneath <span style="line-height: 200%;">the great pillars and beheld his city. The scent of winter-frost crept along roads and in between </span>crop-rows, w<span style="line-height: 200%;">ithering tender vines and snuffing blossoms like candle-flames. Soon the Lower </span>Batracians<span style="line-height: 200%;"> would line their warrens with </span>silk-leaves<span style="line-height: 200%;">. They would plug their </span>vents<span style="line-height: 200%;"> with </span>silt<span style="line-height: 200%;">. They would wrap their younglings in </span>tenebrous<span style="line-height: 200%;"> grass, and they would burrow for the Year's End sleep.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
He sighed, letting the melancholic ache of envy radiate through him.</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
A lilting voice came from the temple's recess. “It's as if I can read your thoughts, Chien-ai.”</div>
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Y-Chien's inner-eyelid narrowed. “And what are my thoughts, then?” he snapped.</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Yun-Hye moved in the temple like a capricious breeze. She said, “You wish for the simple peace of the Lowers, for the bliss that is their ignorance.”</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<i>Anyo</i>,” Y-Chien said. “You're wrong.”</div>
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She drifted to his side. Her long braid-skirts pooled and swayed around her lithe, lean legs. “Good, Chien-ai, for the Lowers lose half their lives to hibernation, whereas we have evolved to only need sleep—”</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“—when our bodies require rest,” Y-Chien finished. “<i>Deh, deh,</i> I know it. Just like the humans.”</div>
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Yun-Hye cupped his face with her hands. She caressed his jaw with her wide cheek-plate. “So we have risen from the slime to calculate, to travel to the stars, to play music, and to dance.”</div>
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“I hate dancing,” he sulked.</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
She arabesqued away in a tempest of skirt-braids. “Don't I know it,” she pouted. “You hate many human things.” She reclined on the stone pillar opposite him and trailed her thin arms above her head. The action drew attention to her new implants, which bounced unnaturally beneath the fabric of her robes.</div>
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Y-Chien refused to look at them. “I don't hate the humans,” he said. “I merely think we shouldn't try so hard to look like them.”</div>
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Yun-Hye chortled with delight. “You?” she sang. “This, from you?”</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Y-Chien leaned his back on his pillar and folded his arms across his chest. “I realize the contradiction,” he said. “But you know I did not choose this. It's the prophecy...”</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Yun-Hye straightened. “It's your destiny,” she hissed. “Your birthright. You would do well to remember that.”</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I know it's my destiny—”</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“—And soon it will be fulfilled,” Yun-Hye said. She glided along the polished marble, watching her reflection in the glossy stone, catching glimpses of her blue freckled legs beneath the swirling weight of her skirts. “You will save us all, Chien-ai, you will kill the Diminished One, and you will have your greatest wish.”</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
She looped her arms around his neck, and he did not resist as she pulled him close. “What is your greatest wish, Y-Chien? What is it you hope for?”</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>Nothing</i>. The whisper of his heart. He wanted nothing. He hoped for nothing. In his whole life, he had never needed to strive for anything. What he desired, the Batracians gave, from the smallest toy to the grandest palace.</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Soon there would be a ceremony. They would set him at the control panel of the finest ship in the galaxy. They would send him to the stars where he would seek out the Derelict God. And then Y-Chien would defeat him.</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
But what if the prophecy was wrong? What if Y-Chien was not the Designate? Yes, he was the most human-looking Batracian ever decanted (so far). And yes, he matched the description in the prophecy, a boy with dark eyes and dark hair.</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
But Y-Chien had seen countless vidscreens of humans. The race had reached homogeneity centuries ago. All of the ones still hovering around their homeworld matched that description: Dark eyes, dark hair.</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The thing was, Y-Chien possessed no secret, hidden longings. He was, to use ancient human slang, Wysiwyg – what you see is what you get.</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Oh, Chien-ai,” Yun-Hye mused, releasing him. He breathed in her scent, as familiar to him as his own skin – nectarus blooms and quill ink. “You've gone all pensive again. Can it be you will miss this place?”</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Y-Chien looked out of the temple, really looked this time. First Sun was setting, lighting the scale-ways to gleaming bronze. The city pools fell away in broad terraces of green and gold, with slender, spindling arches nimbly perched between state buildings and storefronts and reading-nodes. Ubie children splashed from the pool's edges, cutting the sunlit pools into rippling rings as they swam. Adult Ubies streamed from the buildings, heading home for the short span between First and Second Sun.</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The Ubie adults ambled along the arches, their monochromatic skins concealed beneath vibrant robes and weighted skirts. Brightly-freckled <span style="line-height: 200%;">Lowbies flanked their Ubie counterparts, trundling behind them with crates and parcels in their three-wheel carts. </span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;">Above all this, sky-skiffs sailed, threading the scarlet clouds with amberglow. And further, in the distance, heavy thunderheads pulsed with pink twists of lightning. But that was beyond the city-grid, out in the uptake land where the Ubies let the weather rage.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i> Did Y-Chien love any of it? Would he miss it at all?</i></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
He said, “What does it say if I have to think so long about my feelings?”</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Yun-Hye frowned. “Love should be immediate,” she said. “It should have nothing to do with thought.”</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Then I will not miss it,” Y-Chien said. “Because I do not love it.”</div>
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Yun-Hye's freckled skin blushed a pale crimson. If she could have seen herself, she would have been overjoyed at how human she looked. “You are spoiled, Chien-ai,”<span style="line-height: 200%;"> she said. </span>“<span style="line-height: 200%;">You always have been. A spoiled, selfish </span><i style="line-height: 200%;">bur-rim-bun-ai.</i><span style="line-height: 200%;">”</span></div>
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“Hey!” he shouted. “It's not my fault. You all have made me this way. You and Mother and Father and the Elders. I don't want anything, and I never have!”</div>
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He began to storm away, but it soon became plain that Yun-Hye did not intend to follow. He stopped and turned to see her standing at the edge of the steps, her long webbed fingers flexing.</div>
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“You will learn,” Yun-Hye said. “Oh yes, you will learn what you have and what may be lost, Chien-ai. You will learn it, whether you want to or not.”</div>
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Y-Chien hated when she spoke like this, in some kind of vague riddle that could be applied to any lesson and any person. Y-Chien whirled again, striking off into the cloisters, where he would pull up his vidscreens and fill up his emptiness with songs.</div>
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No one understood. And how could they? Everyone thought he was something special. And they were so very, completely wrong.</div>
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10178698606328643008noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7205464616904613847.post-33571775179804162622016-01-15T08:16:00.000-08:002016-01-15T17:10:23.413-08:00Fiction Friday: Prophecy Collector<br />
<i>Prophecy Collector</i> comes from last week's prompt, The Ironist, exercise 029 in <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/M-Epiphany-Uncommon-Exercises-Transform/dp/1582973512/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1452873825&sr=8-1&keywords=3+a.m.+epiphany">The 3 AM Epiphany</a></i>. This exercise encourages the author to play around with an unreliable narrator. The trick, however, is that this narrator knows more than she or he is letting on. The result is a twisted fairy tale told from the wry perspective of mantis bureaucrat Jacara Landfair Prentiss.<br />
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The image is from <a href="http://artofantasy.tumblr.com/">artofantasy.tumblr.com</a>. I am trying to find and thank the artist for inspiration. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFuXBX_3vWdGMMZbbEcQXZ4-RdzG_pT5XGiarAy5R0iZ52fCArSIgMVfcHUMCliv2yTRFNjf4VhIVV0LsMGu2L0uxuaVf7RdhbPURQzvtn0y6oDnUuB1JFoZB2Zr2f7H4DGo0lzWsHMk-M/s1600/tumblr_o02jyh2ouz1qhttpto4_500.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFuXBX_3vWdGMMZbbEcQXZ4-RdzG_pT5XGiarAy5R0iZ52fCArSIgMVfcHUMCliv2yTRFNjf4VhIVV0LsMGu2L0uxuaVf7RdhbPURQzvtn0y6oDnUuB1JFoZB2Zr2f7H4DGo0lzWsHMk-M/s320/tumblr_o02jyh2ouz1qhttpto4_500.jpg" width="233" /></a><b><i>Prophecy Collector</i></b><br />
by Celeste Hollister<br />
Word Count: 796<br />
Safe for work<br />
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My name is Jacara Landfair Prentiss. I sit at a desk, and I listen. That's my job. Listening. It's not up to me to interpret events.</div>
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Yes. Technically, my title is Prophecy Collector. I collect them and pass them Upstairs if they're worthy. Most of them are a bunch of 'woe-be-unto-earth' nonsense. Those I weed right out. On an average day, I'll hear half a dozen fuzzy forecasts from divining dragonflies and prognosticating pill bugs. But to receive a true revelation, an actual bonafide auguration, that is a rare thing.</div>
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In fact, in all my years at this desk, beneath the watchful compound eyes of Mother Moth, I have only seen it three times.</div>
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The first was the Prophecy of the Flood, and we all know how that turned out. Of course, that office is thirty meters beneath new sea level, so I suppose 'desk' in this case describes the job itself, and not the actual object. Haha, you catch my meaning, right? The juxtaposition of the desk as a symbol... Oh, right. Of course.</div>
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Would you like a morsel of mushroom while you're waiting? Tea leaf? No? Very well. Where was I?</div>
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Oh yes. The second. That was the Oracular Divination of the Bee Decimation. What a tizzy we were in over that one. I hear humankind went bonkers, but down here, we were more concerned with who would fill the niche. The moths lobbied for the job, but is was argued they were inadequately suited, given their nocturnal proclivities. Then the horseflies put in their bid, but can you imagine? Always playing about. Horseflies taking over for bees? Huh. I think not.</div>
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In the end, the contract went to the yellowjackets. Pity. Brutal blighters, the lot of them. Nonetheless, time went on and so did we. The insect kingdom adapts. It's what we do.</div>
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Maybe that's why I dismissed Miss Mouse. I don't go in for mammalians in general. Too hot-blooded for my taste.</div>
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And she was a pretty thing, too. Smooth and gray, with eyes like black water beetles. She wore a circlet of silver upon her nimble little head. Two pale pink ears poked up from beneath that delicate crown. I should have known, really...</div>
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Anyway, she fairly swept in, long whiskers twitching. “Please,” she said. “I must see the Weavers. It is a matter of life and death.”</div>
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I leaned upon my bent elbows and tsked. “My dear, you'll have to do better than that,” I said. “In this business, everything is a matter of life and death.”</div>
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Yes, I did say it exactly like that. As I told you, I dismissed her as a mouse. Well, you weren't here, were you. May I proceed?</div>
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Very well. She said, “I was not always a mouse. I was a girl, until two nights ago. I went to a wishing pool at midnight when the full moon reflected in its surface, and there I made a wish.”</div>
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I told her, “This is Prophecy Collection, Miss, not Wish Fulfillment. You'll find that department on the third floor.”</div>
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She went on as if she hadn't heard me. She said, “A fairy appeared and granted my wish. She gave me a flowing white gown and slippers made of snow.”</div>
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I know, I know. I thought glass as well, but she said snow.</div>
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The mouse went on. “The fairy told me I must return to the pool by midnight or I would return to my original form.”</div>
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She stared up at me then, her black eyes sparkling.</div>
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“You didn't make it back to the pool by midnight,” I said.</div>
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“No,” she said. “I did not.”</div>
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I leafed through the files on my desk. I thought wistfully of my home and my bed and the corpse of my last husband resting by the hearth.</div>
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I said, “If you don't have a prophecy, I'm afraid I cannot help you.”</div>
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She said, “Not a prophecy so much as a promise. For it is well-known that the Weavers serve the Fates and they should know, when I am restored, I am coming for them. Their curse made me their servant girl, and now I remember every vile thing they made me do.”</div>
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Yes, that is word for word what she said. I wrote it down. I stamped it. I sent it Upstairs.</div>
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No, I haven't a clue where she might have gone. She didn't exactly leave a forwarding address. My job is to sit at my desk and listen, which I've done. It's not up to me to interpret or judge. Now, pray excuse me. You've got your many hands full, and I've a new husband to behead.</div>
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Good day and good luck. You're going to need it.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10178698606328643008noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7205464616904613847.post-77685589834786008262016-01-08T07:08:00.000-08:002016-01-08T07:10:49.072-08:00Fiction Friday: UnrequitedI've decided to start a special section on this blog dedicated to Daily Writing Practice. Each week, I'll feature the best one (or an excerpt from a larger work) on my blog. For fun and stuff.<br />
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This one is a sci-fi piece, off-prompt, that explores an aspect of love. Hope you enjoy it. If you do, please feel free to comment and share. And if you don't like it, please let me know why. </div>
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<b>Unrequited</b></div>
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by Celeste Hollister</div>
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Word Count: 455</div>
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Safe for Work</div>
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In the end, we left empty-handed. We
boarded our ship and left everything behind.
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I dream about you, though. Such
breathtaking splendor, those ice-penciled peaks, the crystalline
pools, the star-spun cloth of midnight sky.
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When I wake, I smell the
cinnamon-fragrant reeds that waved at river's edge. I taste the
honey-cool springs that fed the lake beside which we once slept.
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It's easy, now, years hence.
Deceptively simple to recall your glory, to forget the heartache.
Even as I write these words, I feel the twinge in my fingers, once
twisted beyond recognition by the jaws of that snarling monster.
Though terror struck me blind at the moment of attack, I can look
back and understand. It felt threatened. It was afraid. Or maybe it
was hungry. Maybe I appeared like a tempting morsel as I paddled at
the water's edge. As insignificant as a worm on a hook.</div>
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Either way, it was not the only
creature to shed blood that afternoon. We killed it, and others. We
left a trail of bones in our wake. After all you gave us, we answered
with blood.</div>
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The doctor chides me. She says I
should not focus on the past, that I should turn my eyes to the
present moment, that I should live second to second, breath to
breath.</div>
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I did that. I tried.
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But every breath here is poison. Every
second a lie. How can I explain that my heart remains fixed on a
world light years away, beyond the reach of any of us? When people
talk of finding love, do they only mean humans, or can a person also
love a place?
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I have no pictures. I lost my ability
to sketch. I kept not a single stone, not a feather, nor a scale.
Yes, I damaged the records containing your coordinates. They called
it sabotage, but if we could not stay, then no one else would find
you, not so long as I was alive to prevent it.
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Now in the evening, I sit upon my
rooftop. Beneath me, the city boils under a blanket of smog. My
nostrils fill with the oily stink of cookfires and exhaust. My skin
roughens from yet another scrim of blisters. The tea I drink tastes
of sweat, and I long for a mouthful of your sparkling snow upon my
tongue.
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A creeping deluge slowly swallows
earth. We'll roast to death long before the waters claim us. There is
no hope that I will ever return. But if the ancients are right, that
we choose our fate upon our passing from this life to the next, then
I beg for us to be reunited.</div>
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Only then will I know peace.
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Only then, in the end. </div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10178698606328643008noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7205464616904613847.post-41120524439949724542016-01-06T09:58:00.001-08:002016-01-06T09:59:10.763-08:00New Year's Resolutions, 2016<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; white-space: nowrap;">2015 was the year that broke everything wide open. After years of sitting and waiting and <br soft="" />worrying and debating, I risked it all. I quit teaching. My tiny child and I moved to another <br soft="" />country. I published my novel, </span><a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/1519537549" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; white-space: nowrap;" target="_blank"><i><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">Reprieve</span></i></a><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; white-space: nowrap;">. I got my heart broken by a man who abandoned us in <br soft="" />Seoul. While that did suck, the rest turned out surprisingly well. And as Shakespeare says, “All's <br soft="" />well that ends well.”<br /><br />The really important part, though, is that this isn't the end. 2016 is just the beginning. There's a <br soft="" />great quote by Marilyn Monroe: “Sometimes good things fall apart so that better things can fall <br soft="" />together.” And Michael Ende says in </span><i style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; white-space: nowrap;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">The Neverending Story</span></i><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; white-space: nowrap;">, “Nothing ends... Everything <br soft="" />transforms.”<br /><br />I really like that idea.<br /><br />Each day, each year, we have the chance to change. And every year, I like to look back at who I <br soft="" />was and who I am becoming. If we don't stop once in a while to have a look around, we may miss <br soft="" />something. So this is me, having a look around.<br /><br />Traditionally, I make goals in four categories: Health, Travel, Career, and a Reading Goal.<br /><br />This year, I'd like to add an overall goal to be more generous. We try to give back in as many ways <br soft="" />as we can. This year, I want to explore even more ways to help people, specifically people in the <br soft="" />LGBTQ+ community.<br /></span><b style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; white-space: nowrap;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">Here are my goals for 2016. May everyone have a healthy, happy, and blessed year.</span></b><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; white-space: nowrap;"><br /></span><b style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; white-space: nowrap;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">Health Goals</span></b><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; white-space: nowrap;"> <br /><br />1. Continue the Paleo/low-carb diet<br />2. Running Rewards<br />3. Daily Meditation<br />4. Cut back on screen time<br /><br />When we moved back from Seoul, we moved in with my parents. My Mom's cooking is like some <br soft="" />kind of special witchcraft. Her secret ingredient is bacon grease. With it, she can transform <br soft="" />anything into an amazing southern comfort feast. Alas, it's about as healthy as eating mayonnaise <br soft="" />straight from the jar with a Dorito.<br /><br />So when we moved in, we made some changes to the menu. We're on a low-carb, mostly Paleo <br soft="" />diet. My Mom and Dad have both lost twenty pounds since last March. I lost about seven pounds, <br soft="" />but I gained it all back during the holidays (curse you Aunt Amy's asparagus casserole!)<br /><br />Therefore, the goal here is to continue Paleo eating. I have also been running, and I got us <br soft="" />memberships to the Activity Center. I've found that by rewarding myself after a set number of <br soft="" />runs/workouts is a very effective motivator. After every 12 runs/workouts, I get to buy myself <br soft="" />something nice – a nice book or some clothes. Total win-win!<br /><br />As this category also deals with mental health, I would also like to maintain a state of mindfulness <br soft="" />through the meditation techniques we learned in Intensive Outpatient Therapy (IOP) this fall.<br />One of my lifelong challenges is agoraphobia (which I'll expound upon in a later post), and I'm <br soft="" />learning that meditation helps me manage anxiety associated with that condition.<br /><br />With regret, I must admit, I suck at meditation. I seems like a simple thing, sitting still and <br soft="" />quieting your mind, but my mind likes to scamper off in multiple directions, which is fantastic <br soft="" />when I'm writing. Not so great when there's a battle of five armies raging in my head, and I'm <br soft="" />trying to find a sense of peace.<br /><br />I have three shiny new apps to help on this meditation journey: </span><a href="http://www.headspace.com/" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; white-space: nowrap;" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">HeadSpace</span></a><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; white-space: nowrap;">, </span><a href="http://www.calm.com/" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; white-space: nowrap;" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">Calm</span></a><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; white-space: nowrap;">, and </span><a href="http://www.stopbreathethink.org/" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; white-space: nowrap;" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">Stop-<br soft="" />Breathe & Think</span></a><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; white-space: nowrap;">. It is my hope that these apps will guide me on the meditative path.<br /><br />Bit of irony between the tools that will help achieve that goal and my final goal for this category. <br soft="" />Through our IOP, I discovered that I spend a lot of time on my phones. Plural. I have two phones <br soft="" />– one for business, one for games – and a third iPod device for books.<br /><br />I alternate between the three of them, trailing charger cords about the house like I'm the Flying <br soft="" />Spaghetti Monster. I use them for music, Facebook, Solitaire, Words With Friends, videos. The <br soft="" />phones double as alarm clocks, so I am on a device from the moment I awake to the late hours <br soft="" />when I wearily scroll through my Tumblr notifications one last time.<br /><br />One thing we picked up in IOP is the idea that we should focus on one activity at a time. My <br soft="" />brain loves to multitask, and the phones are perfect little enablers. I'm going to significantly cut <br soft="" />back on the screen time this year. One way to do that is an app called Forest. This app allows you <br soft="" />to put your phone into sleep mode. While its sleeping, a virtual forest grows. If you move to <br soft="" />check your Instagram or answer a text, you kill the forest. This kind of proxy empathy works on <br soft="" />me, so I'll use it.<br /><br />I'm also going to implement device-free times like 'at the dinner table' or 'during family time'. I <br soft="" />would never text while driving, so that's a given. I just want to be more present and mindful this <br soft="" />year. That means less time looking at a glowy blue screen, and more time looking at the real <br soft="" />world.</span><b style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; white-space: nowrap;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">Travel Goals</span></b><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; white-space: nowrap;"><br /><br />1. Plantation Tour<br />2. Road trip? Book signing tour?<br />3. Katrina: Hollywood or bust<br /><br />Definitely on the books for Spring 2016, we have booked a plantation tour in Louisiana. This will <br soft="" />include Katrina's first trip to New Orleans, a city which holds an odd allure for her. It could be in <br soft="" />the name? Not sure, but we'll find out this March.<br /><br />I also have a growing itch for another Epic Road Trip. This ERT would probably happen in the fall <br soft="" />and would hopefully take us up the East coast to Maine, stopping in North Carolina, <br soft="" />Pennsylvania, and New York along the way. Or, I may take us straight up through North Texas to <br soft="" />Montana and possibly into Canada. This will require more research, something I love to do.<br /><br />Katrina was invited to attend an acting/screenwriting workshop in Hollywood this July. We really <br soft="" />want to see this happen. Since I'll be working for the San Marcos Parks & Rec department again <br soft="" />this summer, I won't be able to ERT there with her. Nonetheless, it's an awesome opportunity <br soft="" />that she will most likely attend.</span><b style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; white-space: nowrap;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">Career Goals</span></b><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; white-space: nowrap;"><br /><br />1. Publish </span><i style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; white-space: nowrap;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">Elsekind</span></i><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; white-space: nowrap;"><br />2. Finish </span><i style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; white-space: nowrap;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">The Boy Who Painted Stars</span></i><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; white-space: nowrap;"><br /><br />This is one of the widest-openest parts of my life right now. Last year, I made the incredibly <br soft="" />difficult decision to quit teaching. While I loved teaching and I am now and will always be <br soft="" />devoted to my students, I realized last year that if I continue teaching, being an author would <br soft="" />never be a reality. Both paths require the whole of a person's heart. I was still trying to do both <br soft="" />and spinning in circles.<br /><br />I published </span><i style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; white-space: nowrap;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">Reprieve</span></i><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; white-space: nowrap;">, and people are reading it. Actually buying and reading it!<br /><br />So I'm going to continue writing for as long as I can. Hopefully until I'm 140 years old and I ascend <br soft="" />to a higher plane through some kind of virtual upload. That would be freakin' awesome.</span><b style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; white-space: nowrap;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">Reading Goal</span></b><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; white-space: nowrap;"><br /><br />I began keeping track of the books I've read after reading </span><i style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; white-space: nowrap;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">On Writing</span></i><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; white-space: nowrap;"> by Stephen King. He reads <br soft="" />in the neighborhood of 80 books each year, and at the time I was struggling to make time for <br soft="" />ten. The first year, my goal was 12 books – one a month – and I read 16.<br /><br />Last year, my goal was 52 books – one a week – and I read 56. Of course, my own book, </span><a href="http://https//www.goodreads.com/book/show/27803055-reprieve" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; white-space: nowrap;" target="_blank"><i><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">Reprieve</span></i></a><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; white-space: nowrap;">, <br soft="" />was on that list, but whatever, I read it. It counts.<br /><br />This year my goal is to read </span><b style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; white-space: nowrap;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">54 books</span></b><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; white-space: nowrap;">. Maybe I'll read 60! I cannot wait to dive in to all of these <br soft="" />wonderful worlds.<br /><br />I track all of my reading on</span><a href="http://www.goodreads.com/" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; white-space: nowrap;" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"> Goodreads</span></a><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; white-space: nowrap;">. Occasionally, I also post reviews.<br /><br />So that's it, my first look forward into the new year. May everyone have a terrific time as we <br soft="" />mark another passage around the sun. 2016, this is just the beginning.</span></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10178698606328643008noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7205464616904613847.post-33394237866264318702015-08-12T17:43:00.000-07:002015-08-12T17:43:06.103-07:00The Little Paris Bookshop - Book Review<a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/23278537-the-little-paris-bookshop" style="float: left; padding-right: 20px;"><img alt="The Little Paris Bookshop" border="0" src="https://d.gr-assets.com/books/1412462018m/23278537.jpg" /></a><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/23278537-the-little-paris-bookshop">The Little Paris Bookshop</a> by <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/695300.Nina_George">Nina George</a><br />
My rating: <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/1347850916">3 of 5 stars</a><br /><br />
The title is too narrow for all that this book encompasses. Though it begins with the quaint bookshop on a barge in the Seine, it rapidly expands beyond it, to the charming setting of the French canals, and then further south to Marseilles and Provence.<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>My critique of the book, however, does not stop with the title. Thought the writing is exquisite – truly masterful and lovely in some places – my frustration stems more from annoyance with the outdated notion that a man must complete a woman, or vice versa, in order to find happiness. In fact, the number of outmoded, non-progressive sex roles disheartened me, leading me to wonder if it is, perhaps, a cultural phenomenon. Do the French actually, readily embrace the Nina George's notion that, to paraphrase, 'women are horses that must be tamed by men, who must likewise use the rider's crop of their words and actions to soothe and cajole a woman's emotions?'<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>These narrow ideas about women and men triggered my involuntary gag reflex. That said and aside, the central relationship of the novel is surprisingly liberal. The author flirts with polyamory as a panacea of the romantic ills of the three main characters. Even at the end of the book, there is the suggestion of unfulfilled hopes and compatibility, so that in spite of its lock-step with present social roles and relationship dogmas, the author hints that there is a potential better way – more open, more accepting, and more forgiving. <br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>There was nothing wrong with this book. It's a fine book with a fine plot. The characters live, love, and breathe within the boundaries of its pages. The only thing I disliked, apart from the vaguely misleading title, was the somewhat cliched romance of its central plot.<br />
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<a href="https://www.goodreads.com/review/list/1299020-celeste">View all my reviews</a><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10178698606328643008noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7205464616904613847.post-35477987244743808572015-07-05T14:26:00.001-07:002015-07-05T14:26:32.607-07:00My Parents' Patio Re-Design, FinaleMy parents came home this afternoon, and we had almost finished the patio project. All we need now is lighting, mounting fixtures for the wall art, and wind chimes (must have wind chimes).<br />
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Here are the pictures of the finished project:<br />
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Dexter approves.</div>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10178698606328643008noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7205464616904613847.post-1485776787981224062015-07-05T14:12:00.002-07:002015-07-05T15:19:52.709-07:00My Parents' Patio Re-Design, Part ThreeYesterday, my parents went out of town for a sort of family reunion. The moment they were out the door, we did this:<br>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1m-K2fPwi5fXfRLlOMynlG-V0KvVPKny0UHe7CRRG27ye178wZ42-5nkm0Tt6PsEHzjd1PLzyDtraHUUKpC4D0GIGLV628uOfIlJYJbevo_z3Dvgj_vaDDEgHDS_0gU-fwJykhODnat5c/s1600/IMG_20150704_070300152.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="111" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1m-K2fPwi5fXfRLlOMynlG-V0KvVPKny0UHe7CRRG27ye178wZ42-5nkm0Tt6PsEHzjd1PLzyDtraHUUKpC4D0GIGLV628uOfIlJYJbevo_z3Dvgj_vaDDEgHDS_0gU-fwJykhODnat5c/s200/IMG_20150704_070300152.jpg" width="200"></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic36K1r-I_5gT9xH0IWCmCGveLgoXLf4pMdaL_EUA-10Cms5rB_yXc3I1GVGo237yK7hs-VI7sUx9Vf_pAe9gdEPZJmecOjdIW2ryrUzq2utxb96A8mKU7x23nyDn7cWWwmh_oiFU6EnBV/s1600/IMG_20150704_070252816.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="222" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic36K1r-I_5gT9xH0IWCmCGveLgoXLf4pMdaL_EUA-10Cms5rB_yXc3I1GVGo237yK7hs-VI7sUx9Vf_pAe9gdEPZJmecOjdIW2ryrUzq2utxb96A8mKU7x23nyDn7cWWwmh_oiFU6EnBV/s400/IMG_20150704_070252816.jpg" width="400"></a></div>
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We cleared away the furniture and swept the concrete. We then scrubbed with our old favorite: bleach and water. </div>
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We painted the couch and ladderback chair. All of this furniture my Mom bought at various garage sales over the years, with the exception of my Dad's rocking chair, which I bought with my first paycheck from Walgreen's in 1991. It's actually my Mom's rocking chair, but my Dad sits in it. I used custom-mixed Olympic exterior paint for the blue and Valspar Cherry for the red chairs. </div>
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For the metal accessories, I decided to use spray paint. I took apart the little glass-and-metal table to repaint, only to find that the glass wouldn't come out of the metal frame. </div>
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Not a problem. I cut out a mat of wrapping paper, taped it over the glass, and painted the metal frame with the exterior paint. </div>
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In the next post, I'll include the photos from the completed patio project. Click<a href="http://thechamberedheart.blogspot.com/2015/07/my-parents-patio-re-design-finale.html"> here</a> to see them!</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10178698606328643008noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7205464616904613847.post-36988525110755675072015-07-05T13:44:00.001-07:002015-07-05T14:14:44.886-07:00My Parents' Patio Redesign, Part TwoMy Mom's Love Language is Acts of Service. My Dad's Love Language is Quality Time. When we decided to re-decorate my parents' patio, we realized that it was a way to show them love through both of their Love Languages.<br />
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We started by cleaning all of the wooden patio furniture. I used a bleach/water solution in a spray bottle. Fortunately, the weather had done a good job of smoothing all the edges, leaving the surfaces soft and porous enough for painting.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidKvEKPR0d3HOgRxsMn5oHo56XH-fepfKNZDUVl0NmPnnEGS8cvULaas0uavfo-yEel-PiEakvFi6e8hdjqb6C_H9mxwcbIiQHe6LbzQqZ_SGC7u_INXBaoiYXvHdPQMVi6adobTlksC22/s1600/IMG_20150603_173318701.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidKvEKPR0d3HOgRxsMn5oHo56XH-fepfKNZDUVl0NmPnnEGS8cvULaas0uavfo-yEel-PiEakvFi6e8hdjqb6C_H9mxwcbIiQHe6LbzQqZ_SGC7u_INXBaoiYXvHdPQMVi6adobTlksC22/s320/IMG_20150603_173318701.jpg" width="180" /></a></div>
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My Mom said she liked these cushions on a random shopping trip, so I went back and bought them:<br />
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And we used these cushions as the basis of our color scheme. We wanted something bright and lively, that would also incorporate my parents' favorite colors: red for my Mom, yellow for my Dad (and blue for me, just because).<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibsK8bSWB4zQT71GmuD-sZfPdAzT13o2JsCcp0dsGNdPFdoZy8hsAPL3K8ThIG0Hb18kosxHh1cmb6knkhB8GIpqUrrE6WXZjaQaw_6N-YxsEuXgg_S-WOQDu-eWmsA4DNnj9z_Slp-bnU/s1600/red+chairs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="178" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibsK8bSWB4zQT71GmuD-sZfPdAzT13o2JsCcp0dsGNdPFdoZy8hsAPL3K8ThIG0Hb18kosxHh1cmb6knkhB8GIpqUrrE6WXZjaQaw_6N-YxsEuXgg_S-WOQDu-eWmsA4DNnj9z_Slp-bnU/s320/red+chairs.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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(Painted with the blood of our enemies)</div>
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After painting these chairs, it proceeded to rain every day for three weeks. Oh yeah, welcome back to Texas, where the weather does whatever the heck it pleases.</div>
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To see the next step on our patio re-do, <a href="http://thechamberedheart.blogspot.com/2015/07/my-parents-patio-re-design-part-three.html">click here</a>. </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10178698606328643008noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7205464616904613847.post-77701941235124405032015-07-05T12:08:00.001-07:002015-07-05T12:10:30.056-07:00My Parents' Patio Re-design, Part OneWhen my daughter and I moved to Korea last fall, I thought that my parents would be fine. Sure, yes, we have a very close relationship with my Mom and Dad. They are good people, and everyone who knows them adores them.<br />
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But when my Grannye got sick and we came home, we moved into my parents home, ostensibly until we could find another place. It became clear, though, that both of my parents were suffering from degrees of depression -- my Mom due to the grief of losing her mother, and my Dad just continuing with his life-long battle.<br />
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Mom and Dad asked us to stay with them, to help take care of them. Generously, they have given us a place to live for the last four months. Even more generously, they refuse to accept money for rent.<br />
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Back in 2004, when my parents built this house, they spent a lot of time on the back patio, drinking coffee and smoking with my Mom's sisters, the Aunts. Mom has since given up smoking (yay!!) and the patio's popularity has sadly waned. But it is a lovely space, full of good energy with a view of the trees and the neighborhood park. We wanted to give back to my parents, and quickly decided that re-vamping the patio (in secret) would be a good way to do it.<br />
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Here's a before video of the patio, taken about a month ago:<br />
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Before link, click <b><a href="https://youtu.be/bXXEMk3NxZ8">here</a></b>.<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10178698606328643008noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7205464616904613847.post-71314312668387004632015-04-30T21:59:00.002-07:002015-04-30T21:59:35.832-07:002015 Poem A Day, Day Thirty<a href="http://www.writersdigest.com/whats-new/2015-april-pad-challenge-day-30">Prompt for Day Thirty</a>:<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'Lucida Sans', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px;">For today’s prompt, take the phrase “Bury the (blank),” replace the blank with a word or phrase, make the new phrase the title of your poem, and then, write your poem. Some possible titles include: “Bury the Hatchet,” “Bury the Body,” “Bury the Past,” “Bury the Hate,” and “Bury the Acorns.”</span></blockquote>
This is the last day<br />
I have written my poems<br />
Now I get to sleepAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10178698606328643008noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7205464616904613847.post-10432167957922675312015-04-30T21:57:00.000-07:002015-04-30T21:57:08.143-07:002015 Poem A Day, Day Twenty Nine<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="http://www.writersdigest.com/whats-new/2015-april-pad-challenge-day-29">Prompt for Day Twenty Nine:</a></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
For today’s prompt, write a what
nobody knows poem. It’s easy to write a poem about what everybody
already knows, though it may be difficult to write an interesting
poem about such things. Still, use today’s prompt to explore things
people may not know–secret stories, locations, and so on.
</blockquote>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>Little Lies</b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
small</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
truths hide</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
in small places,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
like beneath a sink</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
where he slept at night</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
what no one knows</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
is that he</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
did not</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
sleep.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
lies</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
hide, too,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
in the open</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
where we can see</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
bites marks on his fingers</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
but he said he</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
bit his nails</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
and we</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
believed</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
bigger</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
lies leapt</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
in flying fire</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
like tempers tossed, hot:</div>
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it was the rats biting</div>
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and so he hid</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
his tiny hands</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
from us,
</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
too.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10178698606328643008noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7205464616904613847.post-7557960666719551932015-04-30T21:36:00.001-07:002015-04-30T21:36:50.560-07:002015 Poem A Day, Day Twenty Eight<a href="http://www.writersdigest.com/whats-new/2015-april-pad-challenge-day-28">Prompt for Day Twenty Eight</a>:<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Here’s the final “Two for
Tuesday” prompt of the month:<br />1. Write a matter poem. Matter is
what things are made of.<br />2. Write an anti-matter poem. The
opposite of a matter poem.</blockquote>
<div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>Matter</b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Wide are the skies</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
within your eyes.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Endless, the world</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
in your mind.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Medians and means</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
and in betweens,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Of mosts and leasts</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
and obsoletes</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
You are above and</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
beyond these things.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Nothing the while</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
can reconcile</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
with the honesty</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
inside your smile</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>for my Dad</i></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10178698606328643008noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7205464616904613847.post-91799085868612507322015-04-27T16:26:00.004-07:002015-04-27T16:26:35.638-07:002015 Poem A Day, Day Twenty:<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="http://www.writersdigest.com/whats-new/2015-april-pad-challenge-day-20">Prompt for Day Twenty</a>:</div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
For today’s prompt, take the phrase
“My (blank), the (blank),” replace the blanks with a word or
phrase, make the new phrase the title of your poem, and then, write
your poem. Possible titles include: “My Dentist, the Torture
Expert,” “My Lunch, the Thing I Got Out of the Vending Machine,”
“My Father, the Comedian,” or “My Life, the Punchline.”</blockquote>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I am playing catch-up, so this one of the two poems I wrote on Day Twenty One. It wasn't finished on the day, so I'm posting it for Day Twenty, because I couldn't feel that prompt.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
This was inspired by a conversation with a friend with whom I'd stayed up way too late.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>I Am Not</b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I am not your princess</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I am not your muse</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I was not put upon the earth</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
to aid and comfort you</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I am a human being</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I have got my plans</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
They have nothing to do</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
with your boring, idle hands</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I don't care if you are listening</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I'm not worried if you care</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I'm a woman, goddammit,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Walk beside me if you dare.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10178698606328643008noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7205464616904613847.post-2633272856154503852015-04-27T13:56:00.002-07:002015-04-27T13:56:59.031-07:002015 Poem A Day, Day Twenty Seven<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="http://www.writersdigest.com/whats-new/2015-april-pad-challenge-day-27">Prompt for Day Twenty Seven</a>:</div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
For today’s prompt, write a looking
back poem. Of course, some people just glance over their shoulders,
and others stop and turn all the way around. Some look back in time
and weigh their successes and failures, evaluate things they could do
better. Some claim they never look back. Whatever your stance on
looking back, capture it in a poem today.
</blockquote>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
This is for my parents, who have been married for forty years. I'm trying to reflect how their love has grown and changed over time. I hope I hit somewhere close to the mark.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>A Year, A Life
</b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
our love, in barefoot splendor,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
traipsing through thick viny trails</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
cut off shorts and halter tops</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
dandelion born on gales</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
our love in springtime formals,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
reveling in orchid blooms </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
a rich and gauzy fabric </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
full of softly fragrant plumes
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
our love, dressed in winter's clothes,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
bundled tight against the cold,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
a woolly warmth protects us,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
never let the chill take hold</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
now our love is autumn's cloak </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
gathered across our shoulders
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
at campfire's side, side by side,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
while life's long ember smolders</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10178698606328643008noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7205464616904613847.post-87577398508985803522015-04-26T13:31:00.001-07:002015-04-26T13:31:50.910-07:00DIY Recycle Project<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvvG-OhlM7T1qYXLFsLu1VPivNxYniRuT6RZ6L2C7DG6ADvwNlp1DtIn9H6AF3lpFA6X2trraAOzIMUDBg2zRNpG-Nbcw-zdOnXGM0jf20tDCp545aKU4cJ0n3zMdN0rAI2m4RxdySY1hX/s1600/IMG_20150426_145047123.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvvG-OhlM7T1qYXLFsLu1VPivNxYniRuT6RZ6L2C7DG6ADvwNlp1DtIn9H6AF3lpFA6X2trraAOzIMUDBg2zRNpG-Nbcw-zdOnXGM0jf20tDCp545aKU4cJ0n3zMdN0rAI2m4RxdySY1hX/s1600/IMG_20150426_145047123.jpg" height="320" width="180" /></a></div>
One old pillow.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5VQGYFtP31ZfiK4kfFf6y4MYky5-UxBpYpDaSHRiJ2VWd-PgNIewvKzgRolYCXKORHAnDbe-CzFpZT1XGEpQrx1ALalf0nOFeI26JjKL-18BkQkBVyVjeVSr3P3LSawrLZ7Ahe2y94Olw/s1600/IMG_20150426_145106950.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5VQGYFtP31ZfiK4kfFf6y4MYky5-UxBpYpDaSHRiJ2VWd-PgNIewvKzgRolYCXKORHAnDbe-CzFpZT1XGEpQrx1ALalf0nOFeI26JjKL-18BkQkBVyVjeVSr3P3LSawrLZ7Ahe2y94Olw/s1600/IMG_20150426_145106950.jpg" height="320" width="180" /></a></div>
<br />
One adorable thrift store skirt daughter still loves but can no longer wear.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFrQo4fRplAxbOMjaurudMPm65u3k2W9k6fAt3CW71u5naB-8kpkhWgluJj94sVCzO0n2PDJfSqxuerNq8Arh9ObeJhNvncEM8J_HmD5ADummUDiXIzTZ6Q3ilwY70CkKD7Frad5SdiECq/s1600/IMG_20150426_145219578.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFrQo4fRplAxbOMjaurudMPm65u3k2W9k6fAt3CW71u5naB-8kpkhWgluJj94sVCzO0n2PDJfSqxuerNq8Arh9ObeJhNvncEM8J_HmD5ADummUDiXIzTZ6Q3ilwY70CkKD7Frad5SdiECq/s1600/IMG_20150426_145219578.jpg" height="180" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
One very helpful cat.<br />
<br />
A roll of thread and a whip-stitch later:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9upktSo3YRUha2pJZYE34JrJAvPERPY_dhZTh09tFrYj17oBWqKHjWNSRc3vh90X5NnJBDM_osaZbObUWOkBz5DXSFHWWp2sa5mPLR1Tke_TdoKFSZ79r3fCm7vM0zOcA2NwnRYpe90e0/s1600/IMG_20150426_150943114.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9upktSo3YRUha2pJZYE34JrJAvPERPY_dhZTh09tFrYj17oBWqKHjWNSRc3vh90X5NnJBDM_osaZbObUWOkBz5DXSFHWWp2sa5mPLR1Tke_TdoKFSZ79r3fCm7vM0zOcA2NwnRYpe90e0/s1600/IMG_20150426_150943114.jpg" height="180" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
Cute bohemian throw pillow!Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10178698606328643008noreply@blogger.com0