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untitled no.006

The sunlight is a meager glint upon the counter, revealing minute particles of dust that shift restlessly in the air. Surrounded by the grey morning, she resides in a gloom that promises to stretch into the afternoon.

The world shrinks to her immediate surroundings, and time becomes the movement of the light through the window above the sink. The kitchen is small, one of those straight-arrow shots from the back door to the living room. It possesses nothing worthy of remark; she knows this because she has visited the new homes being built down the street—-standing in silent awe and envy of the modern angles so filled with light that she has to squint to see.

The refrigerator is an exhausted shade of beige; rough around the edges, it’s experienced too many spoiled leftovers. The walls were once a shade of crisp, country blue. She had dreams of turning this galley of a kitchen into the heart of the home, but she had pinned her hopes too high upon the wall—-a common ailment for women in the bloom of youth. Now the walls are faded and stained. She thinks, perhaps all it needs is a fresh coat of paint.

The sink drips, an inconstant plop upon the scratched, stainless surface. Each one jerks her out of her thoughts. He comes home every evening, looks at his wife standing by the sink and promises that he’ll fix it tomorrow. But he never makes it further than the refrigerator, inevitably getting lost in the froth of a beer. She thinks, If only the sink was closer to the door.

She sighs and looks down at her hands. A slim, gold band sits heavy upon her finger. It encircles her life, binding her aspirations to this singular place.

Plop.

Yes, she thinks with a straightening of her spine, another coat of paint may be just what I need. She picks up a cloth and drags it across the counter, chasing the dust. Her hand slows, thoughts roaming beyond the confining walls. She wonders what would it be like to visit one of those faraway islands; to laugh as the warm sand fills her shoes, to revel in the sticky humidity and to find release in the cool waves. When she brings such an escape to his attention, he half-smiles and says, let’s discuss it tomorrow. He won’t leave his ambitions behind; he’s a company man and it’s there that his loyalty resides.

The cloth leaves a trail of dampness across the counter. She has lost count of how many meals she’s prepared on its faded surface. A decade-and-one’s worth. She remembers the day she picked out the pattern for her dishware: delicate vines traced the edge to converge in the center, where a yellow rose bloomed. A few glasses have been broken and there are nicks in the porcelain, but she cannot bear to part with any one piece. She holds the imperfections close, hoping that time will mend all things.

Plop.

She pulls out the broom to sweep away the dust that continues to swirl through the air. The motion merely stirs the particles, turning their placid motion into a churning mess. With a sigh she surrenders. The chair creaks as she settles her weight.

Plop. Plip-plop.

Rising, she strides to the sink. The light shifts, darkens. The dust fades from sight. Plop. Ever so slowly, she brings her hands together. Her fingers seem to be moving of their own accord as she pulls the gold band over her knuckle. It rests, alone, cupped in the palm of her hand. Plop. The light shifts again and the gold snags the sun. Her face flushes with a fleeting emotion and with a sharp twist removes the faulty washer and secures the delicate band under the faucet’s head.

Silence.

She steps back, surprise in the line of her posture. Her hand feels buoyant. A little more light seems to struggle through the gloom.

He returns home in the evening, loosens his tie and steps into the kitchen. He finds it empty, but in her place is a note, written in a hand his heart recognizes.

I will no longer wait for your tomorrow.





untitled no.005

// today i made //

a poem

it spilled out of me
as if it had been quietly waiting
for me to notice it

#bigmagic

… … … … … … … … … … 

her freckles 
are constellations
that no man has 
mapped

over time shifting
and expanding 
to fit a life stretched thin
until they no longer 
connect



untitled no.003

// today i made // 

a short story

i’ve been writing.
there, i said it.
i haven’t told anyone, so this is kinda scary.

i do it for myself, but maybe there is something in the words that will resonate with you, too.

I’ve lived here since the day I came howling into the world; screaming like I already knew the injustices it had in store for us. I never knew my mama, she died after pushing me feet-first into this world. The medics weren’t equipped to handle a pregnancy like hers; forced onto a strange world as they were, with meager supplies. A baby girl that was turned ‘round wrong wasn’t part of the plan. First one to be born here, first one to die here: that’s a family legacy if ever there was one.

An anemic breeze shifts the dirt outside the small farmhouse.

“It was once white, this house, but the wind is constantly shoving the sand against it and now it’s the color of old rust. You know the color, like when blood mixes with dirt and dries all cake-like. The shutters were green, a color never before seen on this planet before we came falling from the sky–a rock through our neighbor’s window.”

She pauses, staring at the gleam of sunlight on the institute’s roof, visible through the red haze.

“Nine long months in a metal box, just to move from one dead planet to another. My parents didn’t know I was coming. It was near three months before mama put the pieces together; one last bit of lovin’ on earth before heading to the stars, and I was the result.

My da named me Tera, a sloppy homage to the planet that birthed him. A planet that eventually killed eighty percent of us. But the history books will tell you all about that. If they ever get ‘round to writing them, that is. Not much time for history anymore. It’s all farming and modified genetics. Not exactly the most comfortable of bedfellows, but there you have it.”

A bit of wind touches her hair and moves past, collecting loose sand and hazing the carmine ridges in the distance.

“It’s the art I feel I should miss most. Not that I saw any of it, mind. But my da would tell me about visiting museums when he was young and able to travel from one country to the next. Before the borders all closed. He would talk about the shapes and textures of things, and of course the colors. I don’t know what purple looks like, or aqua. Green is the paint on the faded shutters that mama smuggled into her bag. Da said blue is maybe close to the color of the sky near to the sun as it sinks below the ridges. Kinda soothing-like. But red… red I know all too well. Every damn variation of the color, from burnt umber to the deepest ruby.

They say we’ll go back one day. That the damage will have run its course and we can re-colonize. Will we want to?

I don’t know. Maybe we’ll grow to love this rusted-out planet. I’ve been at war with it since birth, and it hasn’t beat me yet. And y’know what they say: love and hate are one half-step removed. Maybe in a few generations we’ll think of it as home. We’ll paint landscapes of undulating dunes, of cracked and wavering deserts, and call it fine art. The beginning of a red period maybe, since the blue period is forever lost to us.”


neither this nor that

// today i made //

a logo-ish thing

i love the concept of betwixt & between
meaning not fully or properly either of two things
and when applied to monograms –
which are composed of two or more letters, but are not truly those letters
rather somewhere in the middle –
it’s magical

wavy lines for days
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 



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