Skip to main content

Poem: Silica

You say
that glass,
unbroken
never glitters,

that shorelines
would stand
empty,
wont for sand.

But my love
is brittle,
as pure as
soda-lime,

solid as
the breakers
that glisten
on the sea.



**************************************************

Now that the weather is sort of nice-ish again, I've been sneaking down to the beach whenever I can.  I don't know if I can even call it sneaking, since I'm carrying a bag of sand toys and cajoling two toddlers across a train-trestle/bridge thing (if you've been to Carkeek Park, you know what I'm talking about).  We actually ran into a traffic jam last time, with a row of twenty toddlers all trying to go down those see-through steps at once. 

I've started working on a sort of sequel to Egregious.  So if you enjoyed the original, or you like sci-fi/fantasy mash-ups with a dash of horse carriages, check it out.   I am really working on making my writing more focused, and not being concerned about word-count.  I'm not really sure if this is going to be a second mini-novel, or if it's just going to be a few chapters.  Whatever it is, it involves a group of people who speak a different language.  Instead of making up a brand new language, I decided to throw some Latin, Spanish, and a sprinkle of Italian into a blender and set it on puree.  After all, it doesn't need to really be a language, it just needs to look languagey.  

Popular posts from this blog

Short Story: Distraction

It was an office, not unlike any of the other offices around the city. There were windows, visible to the lucky few cubes on the ends of the rows. Then there was Vera's cube, situated next to the row of manager's offices. Today she was lucky, someone had left their door open and precious slant of sunlight escaped, warming her back and washing out half of her computer screen. "I never realized your hair was red," Tracy dumped a large stack of paper on her desk, "The florescent lights make everything look so soupy." "What is that?" she pointed at the stack of paper. Tracy only offered compliments when he wanted a favor. "I need this entered," he smiled, a dimple appearing in his cheek. "You have a secretary," Vera waved a freckled hand to her left, "Ask him." "He's sick," Tracy gave her puppy-dog eyes, batting his long dark eyelashes. Vera sighed and fought back a smile. Tracy was such a s...

Poetry and Stuff

Grief:Peripheral The flicker of bluish light filters out what is missing; there is only one set of boots by the door, an apple sits on the counter uneaten, and even if you donā€™t make a sound, the notch in your heart is nothing personal. ____________________________ Yeah, I know I said no poetry, but I lied. From The Culling, because what girl doesn't dream of  owning a library with a ladder?  I just posted the last chapter of The Bond, which I'm not 100% satisfied with.  It is the end of this novella, but the story continues in the next book of the series.  One of my biggest problems is I don't have a title for the next novella.  The working title was "The Break," which doesn't really work.  If you have an idea or two, throw 'em in the comments.  

Creative People and Pain

What's more, says Csikszentmihalyi, the openness and sensitivity of creative people can expose them to suffering and pain. As electrical engineer Jacob Rabinow told him, "Inventors have a low threshold of pain. Things bother them." And yet, few things in life bring more satisfaction and fulfillment than the process of creation. -From an article by Hara Estroff Marano