a new shaft of illumination punches through this thick head, mine:
some words given great weight are but feathers on the winds of expediency
A rune poem, based on an Elder Futhark rune selected at random.
Today’s rune is sowilo, the sun. Sowilo is the source of enlightenment, for lighting the way and illumination. It is also called the “icebreaker” and gives power to an “attack”, ensuring success and/or prosperity. This rune also represents hope, the light at the end of a long darkness.
Please visit my Elder Futhark pages at sceadugenga.com for additional interpretations of the runes based on multiple references and personal reflection.
The scalding water of the club’s cast-iron shower felt like an exorcism. I stood under the sputtering spray until the hot water tank coughed its last, watching the black, sulfurous grime of the past eighteen hours… Had it only been eighteen hours? …swirl down the drain like a broken promise.
I stepped out into the humid, cramped bathroom and dried off with one of the thick, luxurious towels The Canary kept around — one of several small luxuries afforded the employees who worked the club. I winced, tracing the deep, clean glass cuts across my left hand, then carefully redid the bandages. A girl gets used to the sight of her own blood in this city.
Margot had left a dress hanging on the door. Midnight blue silk, the kind that whispered promises. It was cut on the bias to cling like a second, dangerous skin, but with a slit high enough to allow a full, unimpeded draw from a thigh holster. I strapped the heavy snub-nose to my leg, the cold steel a comforting anchor against the soft fabric, and slipped the silk over my head.
A sharp knock rattled the frosted glass of the door.
hollow reed at winter's retreat standing still, snow sentinel waiting for the thaw to slip below vernal washing waves
A rune poem, based on an Elder Futhark rune selected at random.
Today’s rune is gebo, which has a core meaning of “gift”. This relates to all forms of reciprocity: transaction, generosity, hospitality and sacrifice (in the sense of giving up something). It may also mean offering up a talent or skill; or gebo may suggest a synergistic, possibly romantic, relationship.
Please visit my Elder Futhark pages at sceadugenga.com for additional interpretations of the runes based on multiple references and personal reflection.
in my time of dying there will only be those phantom fingers pale spiders slipping over & between my own gentle ageless eyes matching ghost smiles leaving me haunted as the needles slip away into the fog of sweet oblivion
Another prompt from Jolene/Chico’s Mom. I’ve not participated in the last few because I was focused on Vivian Locke’s noir, but I thought I’d give this one a quick stab between my longer efforts.
Not quite clocking at 1000 words, I followed the prompt on her site which included four elements (and a wild card)
Vet
Ex-superhero
Lottery tickets
A door that won’t open
Wild card! Tell your story as a romance
The story was only lightly edited after it was written, so forgive me if there are any flaws.
Comments are always appreciated.
Jake’s Superette
Sad beep. Sigh.
Sad beep. Sigh.
Sad beep. S—
“Nuthin’?” asked the little shit at the register who couldn’t be more than fifteen, judging by the he sparse, fuzzy apology for a moustache boys his age favored.
unlocking worlds within with a turn of tumbler & key her light pours out sweet as honey
A rune poem, based on an Elder Futhark rune selected at random.
Today’s rune is wunjo, which is translated as “joy” and has been interpreted in both the earthly sense as well as in spiritual ecstasy. It has been associated with healing (emotional, mental and interpersonal) and some sources connect the rune to luck, the act of making a wish, or applied will. Wunjo can also be the inspiration for creativity.
Please visit my Elder Futhark pages at sceadugenga.com for additional interpretations of the runes based on multiple references and personal reflection.
I carefully wrapped the impossible token back into the velvet and shoved it deep into my coat pocket. The brimstone receded, swallowed by the scent of old fryer grease.
Leviathan’s Cross was the mark of the Meridian Club. They wouldn’t let a banged-up, worn-out gumshoe like me past the bouncers at the door of that upscale joint in a hundred years, let alone to the back room where I could suss out which of the fat cats was my likely Johnson and shake them down.
As many of you are already aware, I have been trying to create and add more prose content to the site after a very lengthy hiatus away from the habit. What many of you may not know is that Sunny Day Parasol Co.was going back to when I first started trying to post long fiction online around 2000. I had a small site I named after my spoken word salon in the Belltown neighborhood of Seattle in the mid-90s, “Sweet Immolation” and, at the time, I envisioned fiction in the age of the internet being an episodic or serialized thing.
