Sweet BellDear Isabella,Sweet Bell
You have heard many times now how your mother died, so I would not like to speak to that. Instead I would like to tell you how she lived.
When I first met her, your mum didn't like me much. She thought I was a little too loud and a little to wicked, and she was of course entirely right. I used to tease your father an awful lot, and she loved your father an awful lot, so naturally we quarreled. After one particularly bad row, when I had left her in tears (remember, Sweet Bell, that I am a wicked man), your father made me rush after her to apologise. &nbs
The Dwarf KingThere were mountains (and then there were Mountains), but Midus Moleroon ever believed it was a matter of perspective. He'd always lived in the shadows of mountains, in forest coves where the light rarely shined on the underside of the leaf and the water slowed to pool in the Beaver's den, so he fancied himself an expert of sorts. Mountains were his Thing; he Understood mountains. It was (or were, as Midus would say to his wife), it was the mountain dwarves he did not rightly understand. One particular dwarf, an especially burly fellow, often gave him the gush (which is what his wife called the prickly-furred, twitchy-nosed rant that accoThe Dwarf King
Mayfly-Mayfly
When we were mayflies our wings were
worn from wire screens, but the tentative beats of your belly chimed like iron.
And it occurred to me that through the breeze of burning leaves our eyes were open to wasps and weeds.
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To Go FarWoman, you said you wouldn't leave the world behind. All the pieces, you had all the pieces in a line and you were measuring and drawing routes, bus trips back to where you think things start. This suitcase on the stoop, then, mustn't be yours.To Go Far
Woman, you said you'd got a ticket out and a ticket out for me, that we'd both be over the moon by now. But you live limpid in the city lights and I live the same nights and between us, we can't weave enough of a day.
There is no fading, love, and no saving.
This white-on-white hospital light you
A Carpenter's DaughterA Carpenter's DaughterA Carpenter's Daughter
This memory song is late in coming. The joiner was broken before his work was complete; the hammer is silent now. The saw and the rule are dusty with age, his workbench torn out two summers past, but I still remember the smell of pinesap and resin and roofing tar. I am a carpenter’s daughter.
My father created cavalries of wood, sawhorses to hold steady the workday load. These rigid chargers of lumber, emblazoned with chalk dust, like fierce warpainted steeds. His children rode reckless like savages on mounts of sticky white pine
Hello deviantART
Humor
Hope you find time to type up some more, I rather enjoyed the one story (or the one part of a story to be picky) you have up.
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Nobody ever committed suicide while reading a good book, but many have while trying to write one. - Robert Byrne
Remember: Make Every Word Count!
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darkness is the new light it hides what you don't want to see- if you want to see something badly enough you can see through the shadows
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