Saturday, September 30, 2006

Crime story, < 300 words

Time enough

The cell would do, she thought.

A spider in the corner for company, a cot and thin wool blanket, two pots—she supposed one for bathing and one for the toilet. The smell of urine. Nothing to write with, of course—she was a dangerous old woman (or so the verdict implied.) It was writing that landed her here, led to that verdict read out as she sat hooded—one of many, judging by the scattered, muffled weeping.

The authorities were kind, in their way. The prison no worse than some nursing homes she’d seen, people within fading like spent flowers. Friends, family now as unreal as a dream dissolving—once martial law had been declared, the effort to connect grew risky and finally unsustainable.

“…for the crime of seditious speech…”

Ah. That was the nugget. It didn’t surprise her, given the “long tail” of the Net. No matter which side one was on, all political discourse, overt or oblique, now considered destabilizing, seditious. Since the riots of ’17, the statutes of limitation related to erstwhile freedoms of speech were all rescinded. And then the search for latent enemies…it was wit that gave her up, her wry comments and droll anti-establishment satires back before the war spread.

“…sentence to be determined, remand immediately…”

Linoleum-muted footsteps. Perhaps a guard walking the halls? Her town no exception to the closure of libraries, the frighteningly quick retrofit for prison overflow. And now she was one of those hidden away. She thought of old detective novels, their hard-boiled patter, that marvelous phrase “doing time.”

She was old, time passing like wind now, her life having disappeared into that place whose most expansive space was time…time enough to tell all her stories to a spider.

Wednesday, September 27, 2006


Off on business travel, so tomorrow's post will be a bit late.
Click to see more shiny swirly detail...

Tuesday, September 26, 2006

Monday, September 25, 2006

Wednesday, September 20, 2006


As always, better click.


Visit the always-surprising writing, art, and poetry in Qarrtsiluni.

The word "qarrtsiluni"? It's Inuit for sitting together in the darkness, waiting for something to burst.

I have a fresh poem posted there -- go see.

Sunday, September 17, 2006

Refugee started it with his poem

Medusa’s Gift

They whisper, those snakes, give her
strength, tell her deep-rooted fables
as she sleeps. Athena’s gift: sharp burr
to rasp her brittle pride down enables
our new Gorgon to hear older stories,
older than waves or men weeping.

Snake-wreathed Athena caught her sleeping
in a briny pool, altars like orreries
set around her. “Child, your sable
hair becomes you, but not your slur.”
Medusa blinks awake at the touch, unable
to speak. A dark light, an invert blur –

and it’s done. The Goddess smiles,
the Gorgon shrieks, the snakes writhe
at the disturbance they crown. Piles
of black snakes tangle and scythe
the air as Medusa screams for Poseidon,
for her father, for any power to undo

the nightmare she’s become. But few
have courage to draw near, all brawn
unmanned and struck to stone. The tithe
steep, girl-now-monster’s former wiles
no longer a gift, she hides. Lithe
enough to wriggle out, away, old guiles

lost, new found in snake-tongued truth.

If you want to see what started this, go here.


Something fast in acid green.

Saturday, September 16, 2006

Thursday, September 07, 2006

Premium Plus Grey

By popular request...something a little less colorful. Click on the pic to read the label and see more detail.

Tuesday, September 05, 2006

Moody Monday: Embracing

It's twine time...


For some reason, I'm losing color density on this one. Photoshop (where I do my color balance and clean) gives a richer range of greens than I'm seeing here.

Or perhaps I just need some coffee.
Anyway, found this relentlessly twining at the edge of an alley this weekend.

Monday, September 04, 2006

At the edge of the petal

From William Carlos Williams' poem, Rose:

" ... It is at the edge of the
petal that love waits ..."

The rest of the poem is worth reading.
You can find it here.

Sunday, September 03, 2006

Walking along a low-water mark


Little bones (some bird’s) sun-bleached: the world
overexposed, sun-rotted. That shadow inside me an
inverse mirror where dazzled dim blindness pools.

Stagnant puddle: cyclopean eye lying in the mudflat,
lying about the cyan sky. I’d give back my share of
light-and-dark to quiet the flies buzzing around its edge.

Chalk dust: powdered graves, ancient diatom sea-drift
compacted drought on drought now talc exhaled by the
last hot breath of summer, and I whisper again for rain.


Friday, September 01, 2006

Photo Friday: Silver

Now home, and now (having repaired my laptop) able to post something silvery. Thanks to everyone who stopped by earlier for your patience.

Per MB, you can find the newest Festival of the Trees here, with some links to supplement my Photo Friday focus on foliage: