I just streamed an interesting folk-horror film, White Reindeer. By today’s standards most people who hesitate to call it horror, but it is no less horror than some of the Universal Monsters movies we grew up watching at Saturday matinees at the local theater for $1 an afternoon. Maybe we’ll just call it macabre.
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this every stone turned
hides another lie
buried in permafrost
look to the other
find your heart within
chase the chill away
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Seeing as now that I have more time to actually get on with doing actual writing instead of kvetching about bugs in my commenting system, I plan to fall into a bit more of a rhythm with this series of posts. The current plan is to post the “Towards the Within” series of musical discoveries on Wednesdays and Saturdays each week.
My current flavor of discovery is focused on trying to find international artists who record darkwave/coldwave/post-punk, or feel as if they might be inspired by that sound. As I listened, I started marking down bands and songs that caught my attention. I always have a handful other than my twice-weekly pick to choose from to write about. Lucky for me, I have been managing to find standout songs new to me that grab me and so that I give it a good couple of listens.
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flood homes we float
from staircase to stair
debris seeking alone
adrift, scattered words
waterstained india black
flowing as souls do wet
hands our fingers bite
sending words awry
breaking fountains
feathered
washing stone
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Part reminder that I have moved to the new site here, part flash fiction, I posted this over at sceadugenga this morning. I’m reposting the flash fiction section here in case you have already changed your followed site to this one and removed the old site. If you read it at the old site, you won’t find much of anything new here unless I end up mucking about and start playing editor. I hadn’t intended to write flash fiction when I started the post at the old site, but that’s how it ended up.
If you haven’t already noticed, the lights have gone up and the bartender is calling “last call” to make you get the message, as if the ambiance change was not indication enough.
“Last call! Last call!”
Someone nudges you and you look down at the resident drunk, Louie. “Hey man, can you buy me a drink, I’ll pay you back nex–“
“Last call!”
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Hey, just a quick shout out for my good friend out on the west coast, Bridgette Kay. She has just revealed the cover of her upcoming book, “Watering Words”, a collection of twenty-five short stories she wrote a few years back and has since revised and is set to self-publish.
I recall a number of these stories from back when she put the initial drafts on her site as part of a challenge to write one short story a week for fifty-two weeks. Since then, she’s gone through and given them each an overhaul and subjected them to extensive rewrites.
I’ve got my eye on picking up a preordered copy myself in the next day or so.
Like many of us who write, Bridgette admits she is feeling the imposter syndrome creep up on her as the publication date creeps closer. I recall that feeling when my own book came out — only it never went away… [cue canned audience laughter].
Hopefully she’ll get over that because you jumped at the chance to buy a copy and boosted her.
A portion of all sales goes to a local nonprofit, G.I.R.L.S. Rock Sacramento. As a father of three daughters myself, and as she notes on her announcement, we need more organizations to help young women find their voice more than ever these days.
Check it out and let me know if you buy a copy. Better yet, visit Bridgette on her site and tell her yourself.
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They walk in underways, mirrored in us while raven laughs of treetops wending and above for all our blind eyes, all our deaf ears stopped up with the cotton of tomorrows never known. They lived in us once, too, and ache at our immaturity.
People think me mad to stare at unseen campfires while my bed is burning, making mumbles at the slow folk gathering ’round as they warm their bones against the steel nights cold. At least the stars shine bright below on frigid nights, along with mother moon pale down in the skies.
The madness is in ignoring the folk, not in engagement. As they say, the stone would tell if you just gave them space to share the tales. Rushing, most people are enthralled with the ghostly glow pouring from their hands to succumb to the rocks’ demands. They cannot balance their earth and their rivers, everflowing faster and going nowhere fast.
As I said, raven laughs, raven is the watchman, amused as we move in circles and never going anyplace — least of all fast. Dead, blind and stupid.
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these shadows on the moon
cast a face of yours in pale
throwing stars numbered
sharp, cutting and fallen
will we remain the unforgiven?
in one year or three
we will see if you walk
down south lane dreams
see if knots truly bind or
if unkindly ones give tell
the ocean's scent carries
even here
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This morning I was able to identify the buggy element of the commenting system and now things seem to have settled down on the site in that respect. Or, rather, comments and WordPress.com integration have been behaving as expected all day and I’ll count that as a win.
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