Some say they reign in fire
Some say in ice
From what I’ve seen of warm desire
I hold with those who fly with fire
But if I had to choose twice
I know enough of evolution
To say I’d follow ice
Though deepest yet is the intuition
That lightning must suffice
For from the moment we are born
There is no shelter from the storm
Inspired by Robert Frost and Pokemon Go.
I bow to you. How your hands take mine and pull me under your heavy embrace. How watery your bosom against my breast, your fingertips against my chest, your smile pressed into the gaze of my distracted eyes.
I bow to you.
For your blood is a bubbling brook of fresh water, your breath like a sea breeze that carries the brine, your heartbeat now the undertow that lulls me to sleep and tears me from bed, scrambling as though I’m drowning, drowning as you take me in and feed me.
I bow to you.
With your body entangled in mine, you are a whirlpool, and I am your spin. You are the current, and I am the sailor stranded in your open waters. You are the waves, and I am the thunder you bring to the shore. I am helpless, I am hopeless, I am hindered, and you carry me in your moist arms, your damp palms against my sagging spine.
or, The Beautiful Sameness of Normalcy
Original photograph by Fir0002/Flagstaffotos via Wikipedia, “Lightning”
Not like vinegar touches the tongue
or the futile efforts to mow down cement
make the sidewalk bloom with daffodils and daisies
let the summer unfold in whispers and sideways glances
let the heat undulate above the asphalt
paths that lead us to park benches draped in shade
and supernovas launched from baseball fields
Continue reading
My first two stories this month have stretched longer than anticipated, so I’m not sure if I’ll actually reach thirty stories…for now, I’m more focused upon writing good stories. (And if I must, I can reach thirty with a mad-dash of flash fiction at the end.)
This story was inspired by a dear friend who has given me prompts in the past: both prompts were serious in nature, but magic seeped into the stories nonetheless (inspiring “Sunday Sails Away” and “The Man Behind the Camera,” respectively).
This time, the prompt they gave me began with magic–and since they shared so many magical moments with me in the past, even more magic slipped in and the story found a place within my mythology–in fact, it tethered to this series of tales another story idea I’ve had for probably a decade or so, and in writing this, it has become my first contemporary tale in the mythos. (Yes, some of this mythology continues today, in this world.)
As promised, here’s the beginning and ending.
Ash sat at the edge of the post. A soft touch on the back of his hand turned his gaze downward: A small spider crawled across him.
Ash watched as the four winds rose into the air, no longer bound by the Sky God, no longer controlled by the key–completely free after millennia of imprisonment. And then, like waves of the auroras, they darted toward the horizon, each of them returning to their ancestral homes. Ash’s knees wavered and he fell to the ground. He had awakened the winds and defeated the Storm King–but at what cost?
Inspire my next story by clicking here.
Neil crouched with his camera tilted high, snapping pictures: puffy white clouds tumbled through the heavens, somersaulting in shades of pink and vermillion, silver linings curved around voluptuous breasts and fingers stretching through the sky to touch them.
In his dark room, Neil dipped blank pages into one solution after another, their liquid tombs undulating as they sank to the bottom, splashing along the sides of every bin. Soon he hung them on a taut piece of string strung from one side of the room to the other like a thread of lightning marrying the heavens to the earth. The saturated paper dripped, splashing like raindrops beneath him. Soon this wouldn’t be the only rain he could create.
Silent Soliloquy 
