riding the wave of a tilde by camelopardalisinblue, literature
Literature
riding the wave of a tilde
English was my strength, not yours-- you fumbled your clauses and paused, pen poised, ink drippings flowing instead of words floundering on the sea of white and I would dive in, toss apostrophes like flotation aids, pull sentences (their syllables and structures gasping for breath) into line between the flags. I was always the one who crafted prose into snorkels and air tanks, while you provided me the raw materials, you were the hull; you were *my* hull, but where I thought you held equations and answers-- a surfboard, an ocean buoy balanced on the palm of your outstretched hand-- there was only an emptiness, swelling, and the rip that tugged you, silently tumbled you over, and back again under, tossed you deeper and further than my small love could carry. I never could swim, but vocabulary and punctuation wove me a raft. Now, like a slack-jawed fish, riding the wave of a tilde, I gape, mute; in the pages of your story, I am torn away, an afterword, an unnecessary post-script
a dream of striplings by camelopardalisinblue, literature
Literature
a dream of striplings
stripped back, raw; the bark peeling, scarred knots and whorls so deeply etched i run out of layers before they are gone; above, a final cluster of leaves shiver where they grasp; a spindly twig, a withering branch, a goodbye that goes unnoticed until too late; the wind blows again, a heavy gust, and remnants of the last fruit, drop-- its seeds spill across concrete, split and shatter; scatter over shallow soil. stark against this bruised sky, i mourn alone; a barren tree.
i closed the gates
to this [mis]adventure park,
nailed boards solidly over three
shiny & carefully positioned
locks, and lamenting,
delivered twin ciphers
into the ocean. the third,
i carried home. traipsing
away, i vowed this was over, but
the consequence i kept
confined, encased in ice, called
my name too loudly. i de-boarded
the gates, unlocked the locks, slipped
back inside. later, i returned
the boards and re-fastened
the locks. i gave the key
to a passing magpie, then chased
it home to my freezer. i dug myself
a secret tunnel, and every
once in a while, i creep
along in the dark. if i must
allude to it, i call it my brief
sojourn, a l
Green grass and Funeral Blooms by camelopardalisinblue, literature
Literature
Green grass and Funeral Blooms
A woman births
a tortoise,
all hard shell, and a hare,
long life, and steps all softness, and
s o s l o w. fast legs, and life
in fast-forward.
Nobody sees the others’ epitaphs, mother of a child
with disability; no
money for his care. with disability no
money eases.
Each writes on the other̵
It was almost perfect. One or two more strokes were all that it would take, and as he finished preparing, the young King sighed with contentment and fatigue. He'd been at it for almost 12 hours this time, and his muscles were straining in protest, but he knew in his bones that it was worth it. Art, after all, was a skill that took time to master, and the King was determined to cultivate it in himself until he was the best in all the lands.
He stretched, his bones crackling along his spine and arms, then grasped the picture box provided by his Mage. "Hold still," he admonished his squirming models before giving the box its appropriate command
Clockwork Bond by camelopardalisinblue, literature
Literature
Clockwork Bond
The large silver serving platter functioned nicely as a makeshift shield. She was wielding it thoughtfully, a rolling pin in the other hand as she imagined herself fighting off hordes of villainous gizmos, when Cook re-entered the room. "Isabelle!" The paunch woman, voice raised over the hissing steam and pounding pistons of the kitchen, was not happy. "Get on with your work, girl."
The stern admonishment loosened Isabelle's grip, and the platter crashed to the floor, spinning across its expanse like a giant coin. The rolling pin followed, slipping into the shadows and knocking into a tiny figure that quickly moved away. Isabelle flushed and
In a house across town, an old man sits on the sofa. He is on leave, and though he used to love his job, this time, he hasn't even noticed its absence. The paper bag beside him spills a dark stain across the faded fabric and he doesn't notice that, either. His eyes stare into last week even as the stain grows larger, threatening the trousers he hasn't taken off since Sunday twice gone. Echoes of a german shepherd's bark catch his attention, momentarily, and a smile lights up his face, only to slide away again immediately. The kennel in the corner mocks the man -- a tain in the wood reminds him of the bullet, and the emptiness is a heartbreak
we don't play board games or
date, we simply rest, pressed
close, a back arched
softly into a stomach,
an inverted comma promising
compromise, company
always, she sleeps early,
my head rests, pressed
to the pillow; i breathe
everything she is, promising
compromise, company
small prices-- her hair
rests, pressed to the sheets,
my arms a circle she still
misunderstands, the flick
of her feet; promising
compromise, company
in his absence, the most devoted
lover; in his presence, the most
gracious friend, banished
to the edge of the bed; her head
still rests, pressed to us, promising
compromise, company.
it takes a village by camelopardalisinblue, literature
Literature
it takes a village
hathi struggles, the shaft
draws at her skin, swelling
with rainwater and sticky with mud.
hathi breathes, paddling
and scrambling, and nobody says
Darwinism, nobody says no.
we see only an infant.
we don't speak, we just move.
hathi tires and we are fist deep,
tunneling a new path,
an arrow to the jungle.
hathi breathes, heaves
herself aground, and nobody says
anything. we watch her leave.