the bowl of life has spilled,
the cherries rotting
leaving bare the pits
which lie forgotten
one day to sprout

rusty nails flake red
onto my stained brain
chains grate and clank
against my old soul
rotting cherries
turn to fertile soil

I joined a writer’s blog, seems like a good group. I’ve been feeling the isolation over here in my little TICP world. They were calling for submissions to an anthology, and the timing seemed right to submit my latest creation–the February 100-words experiment, which I’ve decided to title “Maggie May I”.

I know, I know, it’s cute. Maybe too cute. But it called to me. And cute isn’t all bad, is it?

Slowly and tentatively, I extend my tendrils out into the blogosphere, which, while it seems like an abstraction to some part of my brain, is actually made of real people–actual flesh and blood human beings who type their words with real fingers. There is no abstraction. This is the real world, honey. Whoo-hoo…

I’m saddened to learn that one of my favourite writers, Octavia Butler, has died. She was only 58. Read her work. You won’t be sorry…

“I don’t care! Goddammit!” The heavy glass mug sailed through the air, crashed against the wall and rolled unbroken across the carpeted floor. “Why are you doing this, Stephen?” she demanded.

“Maggie, please don’t take it that way,” her husband begged. “It’s just…” he paused helplessly. “I didn’t mean to sound like–” he trailed off again.

“To sound like you are leaving me, you mean? What else would you call it?”

“I don’t want to leave you! I love you. But I love her too. I can’t help it!”

His last word was punctuated by the slamming of the door.

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