Tuesday, September 25, 2012

Jezebel of Gliese 581g

Her marmalade skin and raspberry bones disguised the monster beneath.

Too big, too faithless, too gnarly, scattered and blind, was the ever mercurial mad hatter of she. 
Though, beneath her fragile-faced bone was a concretion formed long ago.  And even now it carries the burden of her daunting lusus naturae like a porcelain doll.

…. and she remembered, “No one but I can carry me.” 

Yet, she felt the eye of an exiled king, a burning wanderer without his crown, and in it she saw his storm.  A dust devil of dreams whirling to and fro, searching for his land of legend.  The one foretold by the man he used to be. 

Through his eye, she saw the world within his concertina, bare skin at the masquerade ball, a rider far beyond the wayworn trails, their two worlds dancing beneath a shared sky.

She watched him on his quest from her cave beneath a rock, taking still-frames to patch a collage of leathered truth.  She stood back then and admired her work from afar, seeing a vision of esprit that melted into her lungs with breath of fire.

A map.  A compass rose.  An X to mark the spot of the king’s lost land.

The path was narrow; she must walk alone. 

She knew not if the moat teemed vicious, knew not if the drawbridge was closed, knew not if the king had a map of his own, crown of stone, empty throne, whether he be guarded or stood in his armor alone.

But she was brave, her bones stronger for the monster that built them, the road brighter for la magie de la vie. And though so many thinks writhed athirst to be thought, and dances trembled hot to be learned,

She knew the way held but one abreast.

She knew she must walk alone. 

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3.) A: having no regard to rational discrimination, guidance, or restriction <blind choice> B:Lacking a directing or controlling consciousness <blindchance> C: Drunk 
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Thursday, September 20, 2012

Army of One

      She and her war-torn undergirl
wriggled restless-
intrepid, the way
'round the battlefield.
In the flushing aftertide,
sizzle, said the grass before the gloam.
In her feet, she stood
her calico feet
on her argyle legs
with a straight-brimmed hand
to shade the slipping sun.
But the way was fraught with battle scars
itching for an arm.
She swizzled her stirring stick
with sweaty fingers, 
antsy hands.
The scourge of sweet baby skins
be damned.
With her stomping boots and stick
skull-n-crossbones shells and shot
a lone patrol, she marches on.
The Hills of Hymenoptera
shall burn this night.  

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dVerse Poet's Pub-
MeetingTheBar- Beautiful Solitude
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Wednesday, September 19, 2012

Now


Have you seen the dust of creation? The thunderous exhales from the mouths of nebulae; grievous machinations of molecular clouds; smattering dark matter oozing into the corners of ubiquity?   Of course you have not.  Though, I have. 

Do you know what awaits man?   Nothing.  Nothing awaits you.  In a future counted in ages and aeons which surpass your reckoning, stars will be born and will die.  Galaxies will collide.  The fabric of ever-and-all will stretch until matter becomes naught but liquored threads, stumbling hand over fist as the vacuum of space reclaims itself.  And you- man and all who are like you- with your ample guts and slovenly mouths, will be no more and no less than you are at this very moment, on this grain of sand you uphold as a hallowed Zion for a chosen race.  

You are one of trillions before you.  You will be one of trillions ahead.  Now is all that is within you, all that your outstretched arms can plunder, all the fury of your voice can command.  Should your heart fancy a thing in the stellar breath that is now, I beseech you, do take it; for now is all you have.  

* (This is an excerpt from my first foray into speculative fiction.  Which is a cool way of saying Sci-Fi.  Oh, who am I kidding.  It's utter geekness to the max.)
 
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3: buxom, portly <an ample figure>
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Friday, September 7, 2012

Point Of View


 "The last strains of sunlight lingered in the corners, grasping every available point of refraction.  She slid her fingertips along the glass wondering if this was all there ever was. Or could be......"

He sighed.  Crumpled the looseleaf.  Began again.
  
“Night gnawed the last slice of dusk where it fell.  Hem in hand, she stepped barefoot through the glass, knowing languor is the mother of perdition."

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Trifextra Week Thirty-Two -

For this weekend's challenge, we'd like you to read the 33 words below and then add 33 of your own words to move the story along.
   
"The last strains of sunlight lingered in the corners, grasping every available point of refraction.  She slid her fingertips along the glass wondering if this was all there ever was. Or could be......"
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