Cosmic History

Rasping throats, flushed cheeks, burning tongues and weepy eyes share their secrets in putrid air and on slimy, smooth countertops. This kitchen buries its wretched hearts in wilted lettuce and stale cheeses hoping these juvenile tactics will bring a more mundane existence but this is a realm where ties are forged then severed with the ease of handing over a knife. Here I sit, mistress of flavors, running my eyes over each man’s shoulders like a hand over the flank of a trusty quarter horse.

“Such grotesque, calloused hands!” The dame cries every time she visits. Her words often fall like dust on ancient stone and bear no consequence on the day’s happenings but today is different. This morning’s portent borne me at the bottom of my teacup spelt out danger, fear, death and left me with a persistent chill in spite of the season’s warmth. My rattled nerves lack their usual resilience and buckle under her horrid voice.

Her nagging reaches my perch. Her berating, demeaning condescension grows in pitch and volume until I can no longer ignore it.

“Your opinion is a pulsing infestation upon my delight!” I lash out at her but she continues undeterred. The problem here is her misguided head creates opinions she regards as facts. I feel her torrent of critiques will never end when I am blessed by a cough crashing through her words. She stops her speech to make room for a hacking, shuddering fit of coughs, all blessed relief from her pointed tongue. Her coughing continues and the men stop to regard her, leaving the sopping, stringy strands of life limp in their fingers.

The small world hiccups. The earth shivers during this temporary lapse and all its small denizens pause in their lives to look at each other in fear, each wondering if this is the end.

As the foul bitch’s coughing continues I click my tongue and the men guide their eyes back to their hands and the work therein. The world’s spinning starts again, conversations resume and life carries on.

Still she coughs, each weaker than its predecessor. She is on her knees and growing faint, like a fog dissipating in the morning’s eager sun. I see her growing weak and realize now the message sent through my waking tea leaves spoke of her demise. I knit my fingers and wait while sending gratitude to the wilted mush at the bottom of my teacup. Each soul in this kitchen is an ancient force pushing life forward, pulling tulips up through the earth to greet the sun they set loose each morning only to corral each night. The bitter witch’s doom on the kitchen floor today has happened countless times before as she often forgets her feet are her undoing: she treads heavy and blunt over burning stars and cracked rock alike, the latter being her undoing. She created herself from nothing, and so, each footfall on broken ground brings her undoing and subsequent creation. A true goddess, her dance is immortal, her memory eternal.


This was written in response to the prompt: supernatural. It was a bit rushed and I’m sure is full of typos, but I managed to write a short bit before the deadline and that feels like a small success to me.


Last night at figur study we took turns modeling and experienced first hand the difficulty of sitting still while thinking of sitting still. My foot twitched and swayed, my head nodded, my back complained in sharp terms and I sat, as still as I could, for minutes.

Tortoise King

Tortoise King

She Waits

She Waits

Royal Fool

I sent this to an online creative community acquaintance along with some hand made soap. I hope she likes it!

The Sphinx Prince Watches

The Sphinx Prince Watches

The sphinx-prince kept watch over the infinite lily pads, his patience intact only through the generous antics of the foolish egret.

“Lilies and pads discourage me so! Ever content to rest on the threshold crushed between water and sky! So magnificent and humble are they I am ashamed to know my own ego!” The egret’s laughter rang across the liquid fields, a waltz to which the water-bugs danced.

Wednesday’s Child is Full of Woe

A monkey on my back, a vile specimen caught in my throat, a heavy heart offering peace only in storms and snow: my existence is weighty. It doesn’t strike me as odd until it batters a conversation into a sad, begging pulp, or until it changes my sternum into a lead brick. This is how I am. I imagine this is how many are. No, that’s a lie, I don’t imagine, I assume.

Can’t sleep so I decided to write. Not surprisingly, that’s not working well.

Collected artifacts of the once-living.


The second installment inspired by Tuesday’s outing.

Lurching gently up and down the block we danced around our options: too much grease or too little booze guiding our eyes from door to door. A mystery lurked behind the tinted windows of a restaurant which beckoned us in.

Of the three already seated we were fractions smaller than microns and treated so as the well-oiled waiters reluctantly greeted us. Freshly built steps and our love of heat carried us to the roof coated in splintering chairs and wafting curtains of white linen for fruity drinks. Here, in the high and abandoned warmth of the rooftop, we dallied with the bartender over our newly acquired potions and treats. Upon his departure the disappointment rallied in my companion’s eyes and rested heavy at the corners of her mouth turning down her words in gentle discernment: this was not magic. Inspiration fluted through the alleyways and chased the sun from the pavement as we descended to the street. Inspiration whispered in door hinges, oven exhaust and the weak pleas of homeless men.

The flame flickered with each inhale.

In Crept Magick

My friend and I are endeavoring to write more. In an attempt to inspire ourselves and each other we are undertaking “inspiration challenges” to local sites and attractions. This is the first installment of the first writing after our first challenge outing. Enjoy.

A mundane Tuesday greeted our cheeks with oppressive heat goaded forward by the low-hanging sun. Slowly we crawled forth from the hollow porch and dragged our heels across uneven slabs of cement, the drops of sweat matching our pace as they descended from our knees. With words belabored by summer air we busied our minds as the distance clicked beneath our heels: a wrong word, a giggling flow of carnal words, an awed word for trees. As we lost ourselves we found the entry to our destination. Favored by cats, the door rested slightly below the earth and complained of a faulty foundation as it scraped open against the ground.

We entered with a cat underfoot and basked in the pleasant greeting of the attending clerk. She was a friendly soul who floated throughout the shop tidying and assisting all while herding cats. Our senses delighted in the onslaught: walls covered floor to ceiling with goods, trinkets and magical accoutrement waited for our novice sight and touch. We searched, as though through a seed catalog, for things which called to us as strongly as we to them. Through candles, gemstones, oils, pendants, books, herbs, teas, incense and altars we delved hoping for a connection guided by something greater than our curiosity.

With a bag plump with periwinkle, honeysuckle, oils and sage I happily waited while my companion packed her bag with blessed candles. The promise of an impending ritual occupied our minds while our tongues wagged about skeletons and fake black cats.