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The Umbrella

bows under pressure
when it’s windy or breaks
under heavy use.

—–

flutters cutely or
rebelliously rattles –
just a breath of air.

—–

sensible or not,
solemnly weapon-like, it
follows you around.

—–

take care though, else it
may make a bid for freedom
when you most need it.

 
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Posted by on August 2, 2015 in Poetry

 

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Enter August

Well, it’s August.

How the hell did that happen? I distinctly remember it was January about five minutes ago.

My inspiration’s dried up a bit – no, not dried but iced up. It’s deeply annoying. I think I’ve spent so much time this week mapping out where to go from last year’s NaNoWriMo project (three novels plus a handful of short stories, don’t ask) that I’ve lost ideas for something else. It is very strange to me that this happens. Inspiration isn’t something like nail polish, that runs out when you use too much, surely.

Or is it? I would’ve liked to update my Faux Landlords saga today, but I wasn’t sure where else I could take the story. I want it to be ongoing, I know that much. Maybe I’m adding on too many projects for myself, running up a list of projects like some people run up credit card bills.

I was about to dig into even more personal territory, but I think I’ll reserve that for paper. Anyway, welcome to August.

 
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Posted by on August 1, 2015 in Day-to-Day, Miscellaneous

 

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Unyielding

Response to this challenge.

I am water.

I am ever-changing, ever-evolving, twisting through life like you wish you could.

(you wish i would change because right now you can’t like me, i’m too unpredictable for you and oh, don’t you wish you could be the one to change me?)

I am unbending.

I am a ghost, a vapour, ageless. You wish you were a rock, or something solid and steady, sharp and calm and ever-there, but you are too worn away from years of trying to coax me into letting you have your way.

(ever-unchanging)

Rock, meet water; watch me as I slip away from you again and again because there’s just too many other reasons to do so. There’s no real reason to stay still, no reason to stay stagnant in the one place for years after years. There’s too much else to do and see and have in life, too little reason to stay stuck on you forever.

I am ice, frozen up for a day or two because I’m so cold, but you can’t understand being trapped – no, you don’t now but some day you will. Some day soon. I see it in the way you speak, the little slips of words that warp and burn your speech and paint your future five or ten or fifteen years ahead of time. They’re the shadows that are yet to be brought to life, the ones that will be illuminated in years to come like sunlight glittering through sparkling water.

I am a prophet.

I can see, am seeing who you are and who you will be – you are only seeing who I am now, overlooking the latter part of the lifespan. I am clarity, hiding everything and nothing all in the same instance.

(you always were short-sighted, ironic when i am the one who is truly near-sighted)

Unbending still, maybe it’s stubbornness or maybe it’s a sense of self – either way, it’s my rule. I’ll only change if I so choose, and you do not fit the criteria. Come no closer – I do not wish to evaporate, swept away by your careless action.

(you are too rough, too uncaring)

I am steam, escaping at will, unable to be caught, dancing through life. I’m warm, too warm and if you do insist on coming too close –

then you may well find yourself burned.

 
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Posted by on July 31, 2015 in Flash Fiction

 

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Outsmarted

Response to this challenge.

With you, time is clearer than ever.

I’m acutely aware, always watching the clock – always waiting for the minutes and seconds to lapse, elude us as we try to outsmart them. Hours pass before us and I’m the only one of us who notices. You never did like to keep track.

Time stays in its fluid state, swirling around us, vortex-like as we try to keep a grip on it. It refuses to bend to wills, fleeing the faster we try to control it. You try to grip onto it; it’s gone before we can blink, melting into shadow and retreating behind my eyelids.

When I’m on my own, time slips faster than ever, a riot of colour and noise and stimuli – a contrast to the quiet, measured peace that you wreak. Alone, I’d forget my name if given the chance – alone, I would spill time as if it were water, scrabbling to clean up what little remains. Alone, I forget to monitor my minutes, preferring instead to flick off the clocks and meet the world with a blank slate. You are incapable of doing this, preferring every minute be regimented and planned, ready for maximum usefulness. It doesn’t matter though, as time always leaves us behind.

(it’s the thief taking away youth but leaving the other unscathed)

And one day, time catches us up. It knocks you out, pushes you out of the way for several days. During, I spin through the days peaceful as ever, a newer cycle unfolding and collapsing. Time is collapsing around us, has already caught you and is beginning to shadow me.

(it’s the lines at the corner of my eye, the centimetre of silver at my scalp that isn’t a trick of the light. it’s the music that goes unlistened and the art that goes unseen)

I begin the photos. They’re a journal, an old habit forgotten in the effort of remembering on my own – now they freeze me where I am, before the centimetre becomes an inch and the lines deepen.

And after, after is when there’s just me, still incongruous in my surroundings and you’re no longer at my side. Stress, they called it, exhaustion is why you packed a case and left in the shadows. Alone, I still forget to monitor my minutes –

alone, I last longer.

 
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Posted by on July 30, 2015 in Flash Fiction

 

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Stellar and Lunar: Roundup 11

Hey everyone!

So I was going to keep this brief, but I came up with the prompts based on my workday and therefore I would like to tell you a story first. Okay?

Okay.

The day was a bit slow; make that really slow. When you think ‘call centre’ you think busy, you think phones ringing. (Well, I do anyway. Maybe you don’t) For some reason, it wasn’t like that. We started the day with a decent amount, but then the calls slowed. And they slowed. I came back from lunch and could tell precisely how many new calls had been through. After that, I calculated how many calls there had been to the hour. Then, I calculated how many that made per minute.

In case you didn’t know this, I am bad at maths.

I had the time to come up with an entire premise for two novels based on the thing I wrote in November, plus at least one short story. I meditated quietly on (in no particular order) psychology, law, money and value. At one point I did get a call and lost my train of thought, but that was no great concern. I likened the waiting process to something along these lines: you have a giant tin of golden syrup, and you want to funnel it into a bottle. The only way to do so is by puncturing the lid with one small gap.

Do you know how slow golden syrup moves?

chelsea_golden1

This is heavy. If you drop it, expect either bruises, breakage or dents. Photo credit http://bestawards.co.nz/entries/graphic/chelsea-golden-syrup-tin/

Very slowly, in case you wondered.

(I’d put in a Waiting For Godot meme here, but I can’t find any I like)

Hm, this is wordy now. I’ll wrap it up.

This week on Stellar and Lunar, Jessica of masterselftherapy.com brought us a few playful kitty doodlesThey’re cute, they’re friendly and they make me want to find a cat for cuddles.

Your new challenge (July 30) is Velocity OR Value. For bonus cookies, you could combine both.

 
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Posted by on July 30, 2015 in Short Stories

 

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Word Crush Wednesday: Thomas Edison

I’m back to the inspiration mode, because on the bus home I was daydreaming about hammering out ten thousand words of fiction tonight. Whether or not I will start writing remains to be seen, because right now there’s a headache creeping at my skull. Trying to, anyhow. I plan to try fending it off with tea shortly.

I’ve got piles of fictions to do – fanfiction to update, original stories that’ve been haunting me for what feels like several thousand years. It’s all self-assigned, which I now think is my subconscious method of reducing the feeling of having homework to do. I’m not sure when it reached the stage of having to do pretend-homework so I don’t go to work in the morning feeling like I’ve done nothing with my nighttime. Whatever is it, it’s strange. (Or is this a delayed reaction to the end of study, one year on?)

So, the quote:

If we did all the things we are capable of, we would literally astound ourselves.

 
 

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Poetry 101 Rehab: Connection

electricity is all that
connects us;
wires go unseen and
wi-fi is in the air.

(you know how easy
it is for me to
leave?)

take away the
wi-fi,
cut the cables and
the connection is
broken.

(linked by
invisibility)

and wi-fi usurps
blood,
usurps humanity.
interactions dwindle
to nothing.

(wi-fi runs through
veins.
don’t you know, we’re
all
connected?)

swipe off the wi-fi
power down a
smartphone:

i’m as good as
gone.

 
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Posted by on July 28, 2015 in Fiction, Poetry

 

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