Semi-Daily Scribbles

Carving out a corner to post random crap.

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  • Hue

    HueThe undeveloped parcel across the highway was a spooky place for us kids. The trees, cedars and hemlocks mostly, sighed and groaned a lot. They disapproved of everything we did, from our bike rides through their territory to the cone wars where we aimed for each other's head. Sometimes we'd find things, like a single red mitten, a busted transistor radio, or a sterno can in our creepy playground. We'd make up stories about a one-armed drifter living in our neighborhood, going through our garbage for useful stuff like shoelaces or HO HOS®. We found a bag of marbles once. They were every hue from yellow to blue, and we fought a protracted cone war over who'd take home that glorious bounty. That was the time the trees decided to speak, rather than make with their usual whispers and moans.

    Cry. Die. Time to fly. Ahhhh. Ooohhh. Fly. Cry. Time to die. Ooohhh. Ahhhh.

    The marbles lay scattered in that dark, dank woodland until one day, years later, our fears were chopped down to make way for a strip mall.

  • Tile

    TileSam's arms ached as she swam toward the rocky shore. She'd been out to sea for so long she forgot there was a whole other world, sharp and hardened, that had to be dealt with from time to time. That time had come back around. Seven years felt like a walk around the block. Sam would have to learn all over again how to use her legs in that way once she crawled onto the beach. A flash of long lost memory reminded Sam how she hated the feel of tile against her skin, standing in an open room under an icy jet of chlorinated water. And the cloth the sisters made her wear was coarse and heavy. But this was the trade-off for absolute freedom every seven years. Sam's shift from sprite to obedient servant kept her family safe from the gatekeeper's vengeance. She broke the rules and learned to swim, and fly, and dance among the stars. Such knowledge came with a price, and Sam would pay the penalty over and over again by being ripped from heaven as soon as she got used to it.

  • Opposite

    OppositeHolding out for something a grade or two above middling. Now those are aspirations to keep you up at night! How can you be sure opportunity did not come knocking when you were flat on your back counting logs and sawing sheep?

    My point exactly. Enough is enough until you cross the finish line. Success is a rainbow, you know. There are many shades of competency.

    Luck. Chance.
    A busted romance.
    A fluke. A flavor.
    We all fall out of favor.

    Are we waiting for the right time to realize so little of it remains? Best to miss out on everything and hide all reminders of the opposite.

  • window box

    Window Box

     

    magic window box

    spectres thrive unattended

    blue ribbon nightmares

  • Sticky

    StickyI always knew my imagination would save our lives one day.

    So began Cheryl Jessup's latest project. She read the sentence a couple of times, then paused as she flexed her fingers above the keyboard. Cheryl planned to alter a few details so her book would read like a work of fiction rather than the harrowing memoir she intended it to be. Cheryl shivered as she took a sip of brandy. She never liked Ms. Vincent, even though she was Buddy's favorite teacher. There was something about the way she smelled. For such a young, pretty, well-groomed woman, Cheryl always smelled peat and wood smoke coming off of Ms. Vincent's skin. Maybe the light had caught Ms. Vincent at the right angle so it just looked like bits of straw were tucked in the strands of her light brown hair. And maybe Ms. Vincent always had mishaps with the Elmer's. What other explanation was there for her sticky handshakes? Cheryl had one hell of a story to tell. Names definitely needed to be changed to protect the innocent which, in all of Townsend Cove, included two people: the writer and her son, Buddy.

  • Grip

     

    Grip

     

    We lost our grip before we even knew there was a handle to grab onto.
    Should have known better.
    Tsk.
    Tsk.
    Triple check that non-existent list.
    Cluster incompetence and a quick flight home.

  • Rolled Up

    Rolled UpRolled up like a cigar in the sweet, damp grass or stretched across the attic rafters, there's no waking up from this crazy dream. Everyone is upside down, gasping, groaning. All guts and no grace. Lessons catch in my throat and never make their way into my marrow. All is lost. All is forgotten. The ground is littered with false hope and afterthoughts.

    Another ball rolls out into traffic.

  • Shard

    ShardOne syllable to describe what is left of compassion. Humility. A thin-sliced memory. Bloody shreds of decency left scattered for the crows' feast. Monuments eventually crumble into pocket-sized souvenirs. Hold that shard of humanity close to the chest. Protect it with your last breath. The line forms to the left. Single file we head for the exit. Let this be our shared experience.

  • Mold

    MoldBlight ruined a select-a-gourd-Sunday down at the old pumpkin patch. Ugly and bumpy, white and turban-like, and smooth orangey orbs were on display for the picking. The pumpkin that screamed "Take me home with you!" was infected with splotches of spongy mold. Poor thing. I can understand, but I couldn't get the image of pie topped with an extra dollop of fungal colony out of my head. Spoiled the whole Pumpkin Spice-Flavored season for me. Went home with a bag of apples instead.

  • dependable

    Dependablehope is placed where it is kept safe

    pressed between the pages of a book
    on the heels of dreams
    at the end of a selfless act
    as the fixed point in a luminous sky

    hope is a dependable ward against losing one's footing to slip unawares into darkness