27 05 2012

Once a woman who had lain naked and terrified in the house of her captor managed to escape. She ran away through the forest behind her prison, though her hands remained bound by the last, unbreakable, chain. At first the trees were wicked, perverted from their natural grace by the evil that emanated from the house. They reached out with thorns and branches to bar her way, ripping a thousand angry wounds in the woman’s tender flesh, but she would not be slowed nor turned aside. As she left the influence of her captor the forest mellowed and directed her to a stream which merged into a creek and then a river that flowed into the sea.

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Dream House

22 05 2012

Most houses reaching this point of decay await only the wrecking crew, though one I have seen resurrected as shrine to our patchwork, violated, seductive, wondrous bodies. I have come in search of my first crush, a relic of the times when familiarity was the only ingredient needed for backyard weddings, and the family cat stood in as witness, maid of honor, and priest. I find the one I seek by following the pointed instructions of cracks slashing across the ceiling like the hand of death come to claim this place. She is kissing another boy.

She was always quick to kiss the other boys.
She was even quicker to dump them.

I help her take out the trash and things are just as they should be: only her, and me, and the dusty jukebox that is the only evidence this house was ever fit for human inhabitants. We dance in the feeble glare of flickering neon lights. This, at last, is paradise.

But peace is fleeting and jealousy always lurking, and I am dogged by the kiss I walked in on – the kiss that wasn’t mine. Never mind that if it had been mine I would’ve been dumped as quick as he, for the touch of our lips would have pulled us forever out of childhood; I wanted her as I had always wanted her.
And as she, apparently, had wanted me, for quicker than thought we are sharing our first kiss, at once tender and hungry.

The cat chose this moment to tear through the room, hissing and spitting at the dog right on his tail, before flying out the door and down the stairs. My first crush and I are quick to give chase. We must rescue our priest if we are to ever have our wedding.

Jessie, tell me a story…

25 11 2011

The scene:

Breakfast at Portage Bay Cafe (where Michael and Heather and Jacquie work) with family: mom, sister, sister, adopted brothers. The place is full, and loud. I ask youngest sister to tell me a story, and she asks “about what?” This is what I say to her..

The Parameters:

I want zombies, and I want them to be the good guys. I want to root for them to eat all the brains. I want them to be so good that, when the story is over, I want to BE a zombie. This is the tale she told..

The Story:

Amanda Barbee is a zombie.

This makes Tom really upset, because he was starting to think he really liked her. He is not at all happy about having to kill her this early in the relationship. Furious, in fact. In order to blow off some steam before the mercy-killing he knows must come, Tom runs out into the streets of Seattle to slaughter some zombies. He bashes in heads by the Space Needle and squishes faces at Gas Works. He chops off legs at Golden Gardens just to watch them crawl through the sand–and laughs. Eventually he wears himself out, returns home, and collapses into bed.

Sometime in the wee hours of the morning Tom awakens to find Amanda looming over his bed. “Oh no,” he thinks, “now I really do have to kill her, or she’ll turn me too!”

“Wait!” Amanda cries. “Don’t you see, this is the next step in our evolution. We must become zombies to be freed from our chauvinistic ways!”

This makes perfect sense to Tom. Of course zombies would be freed from the scourges of kyriarchy! Is that not what we’ve been working toward all along? He reaches out to Amanda and she tenderly chews off a hunk of his flesh, infecting him with the virus that will bring equality to all of humanity.

The End.

He Who Walks Behind

8 11 2011

i enter in peaces

filled and emptied

filled and emptied

emptied and


with strength

she comes as

a child.



tall, dark, and


never seen

–always felt

His weight does

not bend her

but makes her


for a moment

i stand


my shoulder


the rents from

His wrath


Incongruence is

21 06 2011

Gout of the soul

jagged little crystals rubbing raw with every false deed

Life without cartilage

self grinding on self until the edges of desire are worn smooth


Compassion is a death


I think of the white dog turned jet-black

shamed by cowardice, he gained renown for his sacred suicides


When you have nothing to live for,

die for others?


What if I have something to live for

but I kill it every day

kill it even now as I glory in verdant zeal of blooming garden?


When you hit rock bottom there is freedom to start anew

as masks are ripped from grasping hands


But if you languish in the middle?


The phoenix rises from the ashes

not the charred

not the singed


Where there is fear there is desire

but fear is immediate

and valor yet so very far away


So I reach for the rose

caress its silken petals

and hope that life, like water, is passed on by osmosis


and in case you read this and wonder, Michael, yes this was inspired by your post on congruence earlier today.


31 05 2011

Seattle in spring bursts forth with a vibrancy of color I’ve not known anywhere else. Even on rainy gray days such as this one my walks are an exercise in ADD as my attention flits from red to blue to green to purple orange yellow green again pink and pause…breathe… With so much colorful splendor in my environs impressing itself upon me I’ve found myself compelled to attempt to create something, anything, with even the possibility of being as arresting as a simple flower. As soon as I move in July I will begin shaping my new space by planting and nurturing color (and food!), but until then I’m making do with watercolors and chalk–not the easiest media in the world to convince to play nice together, but two things that remind me of kindergarten and silliness for silliness’ sake.

I lean toward hiding these creative caperings from the world unless/until I feel I’ve crafted a masterpiece. It’s quite intimidating to even think about putting my amateur color blending skills on display where they can be critiqued and criticized and scoffed at. If I hadn’t just spent the holiday weekend alone in my room, becoming bored by my own company, I certainly wouldn’t be doing this. But I did, so I am, and together we’ll see what comes of it, eh?

I will make one allowance for my shame: you don’t get to see my creation unless you click on past the jump.

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Magic Mirror

21 05 2011

This is a writing prompt too apropos to my current work to ignore, from a blog I have lurked since my days in Texas.

This is a challenge. For you.

Stare into a mirror for a minute.

One full minute. (Use an egg timer/oven timer/your phone to time it.)

And when the minute is up, write whatever it inspires.

Fiction/non-fiction. A laundry list of things you like or don’t like. A modern re-telling of Cinderella where she’s trying to work her way up from the streets with nothing but her mad dance skillz and pluck.

It can be anything. In any format.

Just write it.

Then post it on your blog/tumblr/bathroom wall.

You can link back here, so others can read the instructions and join in too. You can leave a comment below with a link to your piece.

But you don’t have to.

Just write it.

One minute.

And go!

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