Zyla and the Sorrow

A new project, barely proofed, WIP. Fantasy fiction.

 

Zyla and the Sorrow

 

Life had been getting too soft, anyway. Zyla woke by habit, first birds singing and no other exceptional noise in the deep breath of the day. Not thirsty or empty, she stretched the length of her limbs after leaving the covers of her bed.

Then the sharp rap against the door. Every alert instinct snapped, and Zyla knew the soft waiting would be over. She answered the door calmly.

“Port Protector summons you, Wallsman,” the youth had to step back and tip his head to look at her face. He was sweating and pale, sleepless bruises showing in the dim glow from the moon. Continue reading

A Leap Day

A diary style entry. Briefly. A leap day.

Another year, don’t really know how much time has passed. I created this blog in the first place to concentrate the exposure of my creative output. I must claim control of my life and writing in a new way. New for me, not strictly original. After all, I cannot be the first blogger, first dreamer, first failure, at this point. Continue reading

A Whack Dream About Pancakes

A Whack Dream About Pancakes

 

Pancakes have been on my mind for a couple of weeks, because I had eggs, but not a lot of eggs, and I’m really not a lover of cooking. There’s a process and clean-up that go hand in hand. Scrambled eggs are more protein, less carbs and way simpler process and clean-up than pancakes. Continue reading

A Year Later

Finished filling a journal today. Picked up another I knew had a few used pages. Found three scraps tucked in the back from last summer. A flight itinerary, a time sheet, a page of yellow legal pad.

Copyright note, there are some lyrics of Nahko and Medicine for the People slipped in the second part, “Wash It Away.”

 

Take a Walk

 

Take a walk on the beach
Take a walk at the cliff Continue reading

Charge: 2017

First blog of a New Year, new hopes, ambitions and intentions. First blog ever transcribed to my phone.

Title: Waxing

I’m laughing too hard to answer, as he takes in his left hand the leather journal I brought from Basel. He can see half of the five point star embossed in the center of the journal and framed by an intricacy of knotwork, bound shut by two leather strings. Continue reading

Riffs

As inspired one evening alternating reading Twyla Tharp and Joy Harjo.

Title: The first stack of trash

I walk into a white room. It is my first apartment in three years and four months. Mine. Everything is gray and harsh yellow between the January pissing sky and every light in the three rooms burning up my electric bill already. The walls were white, the carpets beige. My dog waited until the week before we moved out to pee and shit mark the rug. There went my pet deposit, after all. Continue reading

To Grieve

Wrote this while at work, following loosely connected ideas. There are blanks to be filled in as you read, implications that can’t be stated because the story is effectively a conversation through intimacy.

Title: Perfect Pinch

 

I don’t like to read, but I would sit and listen to you all day, telling stories. I like the one about the old raven who became a man and couldn’t remember how to change back. In my childhood, he never died. I liked the one about the girl who cried so hard, so much for the soldier who didn’t know he loved her. She became a stream, and when he came back, realized his loss, he sat on her banks until a witch took pity, turning him into an apple tree. Tales of transformation, you know? Continue reading