90 posts tagged “shelle”

I've got a very interesting writing idea and I am running with it. I actually know how to write it too, which is so different from the way I usually write. All I really have to figure out is the beginning. I mean, I know what I want to write but it actually involves a bit of research.

I'm combining quite a few things I tend to write about or use. Years ago, I wrote a comedy relief character and truly enjoyed it but it was just that, a side point in a more serious writing project. I remember the fun I had with that character and realized I could do something with it now.

I love science. While not a scientist, I find much of the research and the developments to amazing and intriguing. Always fascinated with how much things change as our knowledge evolves and our questions expand. Certainly, Science Fiction is as much a movement (Futurists) as it is a writing genre.

I love the old tales and myths of ancient times. How what was once considered magic can now be explained by science. Still some things don't fall neatly into theories or hypothesis. Just what is believable and what would be considered fantasy or myth? Yeh, that grabs my interest.

So, without telling you the story, you now have an idea of what I am going to try to do. The character perspective is going to be unusual and hopefully, interesting. I can hardly wait to see how this turns out.

on a side note, my youngest, when he realized I was writing today, promptly told the family to not bother me as I was in the right frame of mind and needed to "focus". LOL

Sleepy giggles, gentle cuddles.
Eyes too wide open.
A devouring intensity to remember,
before the moment of sleep claims him.

transfixed by light, startled into stillness
I am like the doe, hypnotized by the beam
knowing I should turn my head and leave
yet unable to move

Can you believe it? How did this happen? I was sick for a couple weeks,sorry I didn't get back sooner. I see I started a story and never finished it, will have to fix that.

I've had a busy month, what with cleaning house, being sick and being chauffeur, I've had very little brain time. The few times I've been on the computer, I wasn't online. Just a quick game or two of backgammon or word yahtzee. This week, the kids have off from school, many New England states have winter holidays in February. Mostly due to the fact that most of the snow storms usually hit this time of year. Over time, the schools and towns realized they could save a few dollars by closing a week in the winter.

Besides, all that snow is meant to be played with, it shouldn't just sit there and look pretty. It was meant for the creative minds of children. I moved to the east coast when I was twelve, I still remember the absolute feeling of awe when I went out into the snow for the first time. Granted, I was bundled up with hundreds of layers of clothes and jackets. I froze my ass off anyway.

It didn't matter though, the snow was a wonder to me. I think there was only an inch on the ground but I figured out how to pile it up and create balls. Only children would have the patience to move small balls of snow on the ground and slowly pack more snow into them until they grew to the appropriate size. My balls of snow were packed so hard, I had problems rolling or lifting them atop each other. Yet, somehow I did it. I used stones and sticks to create hands, face and even gave my snow dude legs. There it was, my first snow man.

The next year we had more snow. This is when I discovered I was one of only a handful of people in the world who actually enjoy shoveling snow. I made my first snow fortress with the piles I gathered from the streets and sidewalks. Even managed to create a number of tunnels for "team meetings and logistics" to fight the teams stuck with just a couple of snow laden bushes for shelter from our snow ball barrages.

We kicked ass.

Now a days, I can't shovel the snow into huge mounds anymore but my children don't seem to mind. They get enough snow from the snowplows, to make their forts and tunnels.

Today, the youngest is at the recreation center in town, skiing down slopes with friends, tie-dying some shirts and building snowball mounds of fun. The eldest just called to have me pick him up with some of his friends, they are going to play Guitar Hero and generally stay indoors (it's snowing! they should be outside.) as playing with snow is so very childish. They think they are so grown up but it hurts to see them putting aside something that should never be willingly ignored.

Come on boys, aren't you even the slightest bit interested in the snowing white goodness? Aren't your fingers itching to grab a handful of that magical white clay?

the amaryllis intruded
on my thoughts
the bulb had bloomed
the day after Christmas
blood red petals
lasting two weeks
elegant
on the verge of gaudy
strong in form
greening a greeting
dying at Easter
long broad
shiny leaves
standing like stems
gently curling
touching curtains
shading the gloxinia
not yet in bud

glancing down you would not know towns dwelt blew the sea of foam

it was sluggish refusing to leave its lover of the night

I walked in the clouds and thought of the sky

Tiny pieces all dissimilar, interlock.
Combining differently each time,
creating something new, diverse.

A puzzle of uniqueness, butterflies,
worms, boxes, bills. Ever altering
atoms in fields of space react, diverge.

Transform the novas, mutate stars.
Enigmas modify from star-stuff
to flesh, limb, stone, dust.

Revision after revision,
editing words, lines.
Collecting inches
of paper at a time.
New England frugality
comes into play.

I put the paper
through the shredder,
creating long strips
with black spots and curves,
(like strands of DNA
grown in a petri dish).

Shoved in plastic bags,
taken to the compost
and mixed into the
decomposing heap.

When the time is right
I'll mulch my garden,
plant my strips of letters
in thick rich soil  which will
with luck, grow.

In the winter it startles me.
The memory of pain,
sutures between my thighs.

Strings of utility lines,
in succession down
and down.

Scalpels bright sharp edges
cleaved a passage into light.
Leaving testimonial witness.

My body could create
and nurture life but
would not give it forth.

The violinist walked with grandeur
to the front of the podium,
bowed to the conductor,
placed a black padded cloth
on this shoulder, brought his violin
slowly, precisely, to its comfortable
home and rested his chin upon
the leather clad buttress.

The left hand held the bow, in exact
imitation of the conductor's baton,
moving with the rhythm and beat
until it magically found itself hovering
above the strings, like a hummingbird
sipping nectar.

Waiting for his moment, a monument
of stillness. Cued with a nod, the arm
moved and music flowed like a river.

The soft sway of a calm, lazy brook.

Quick white flash rapids, turbulence,
ascending the heights permitted by gravity,
the dizzying descent and splash
to earth.

Eddies of stillness and quiet.

The violinist became giver and lover.
The maker of dreams.
The music.