When Winter Strikes

Roads close and windows freeze across our street with the frost of breaths matching the bus shelter as we huddle together, the seething snow blistering onto the glass as cars thrash through losing exhaust smoke into the atmosphere mixing with our clouds leering out from the horizon where we stare and then we see the bus crawling towards us and the crowd cheers, we look at each other with softened eyes and then the bus rolls by as it was already full.


Describing Anthropocene


In our: white flowers, purple petals, drifting spring cherry blossoms blooming by the birch bristling away at the wind with branches beneath the purple petals, poking from their broken limbs we see that the days have gotten a little longer.


There’s a grove by our home that’s now alone, surrounded by paved roads and the smog that flows around its brittle branches slowly dampen the soil in leaking exhaust. We spend our weekend afternoons doing recreational cleanup, the homeless gathering with stained rugs and cups of lukewarm coffee, stale bread from the bakery (given to shoo them away) and when they see a passing couple, or flash-stained tourists they tell us, and we thank them, and we pick up pieces of plastic, or forgotten ticket stubs, and when the wind blows with the grass we all stop to watch it all dance.


 I buried a time capsule under the oak tree in our yard, and when we had to leave that home I’d forgotten all about it. I’d only remembered when I saw a group of boys burying their own capsule by the park near our new home, years later. I asked my parents if they knew our old address, and they told me. But when I went to see if it was still there, the oak tree was cut down. Someone walked by and I asked if they lived in the area, and they said yes, and so I asked if they knew about the oak tree that used to brim in the sky. They told me it was probably because it seemed to take up too much space.

Last year it snowed, brightly, in shades of bristling shining white. This year, as well. It’ll snow with long nights, and we’ll all say how much we hate the snow, the cold. We’ll shiver when the strong breeze comes for us unexpectedly and we’ll all laugh at how much our teeth chatter and when we go out we’ll know it’s cold when our breaths form in short clouds and the ground follows us as well. Next year, as well.

12 Word Story Practice

Tiny drops pitter patter as the sun waits to raise its rays.

A brief wind blows warm brushes towards our dripping cones and hands.

The sound of zzzz and zzzz soon turn into buzzzz and buzzzz.

In the distance, snow falls, tiny whites littering the earth…a mirage.

Our skyline bleeds orange afterglows even after the crawling moon softly wanes.

Butterfly nets empty, hands wet in sweat that form tiny puddle splash.

Staccato steps fill the air in light flares of empty restful days.

Even so, even yet, even though, we haven’t yet found a way.

I woke up with winter gone, and spring had yet to bloom.


The theme around this patch of 12 word stories was “Summer Moments.”

Ebb and Flow

Ebb and Flow

You talk, I talk. You watch, I watch. You reach, I hold. You fall, I catch. You know, I know. You don’t, I do. You hum, I sing. You lose, I win. You crawl, I walk. You walk, I run. You close, I open. For we, are one. Except that’s only me my words my way of trying saying that we can be one in the same way that you don’t say a single thing in the same way that we are always going to be like a tide chasing after one another but that’s not the way we are either that’s the way I want us to be and so I’ll say that when you talk I talk and when you watch I’ll watch and when you fall I’ll catch so keep falling and I’ll always catch. That’s all I can do.

Tell Me When It Rains

Tell Me When It Rains

And if you do I’ll bring an umbrella.

And if you do I’ll drift my hands over the balcony, letting it drip onto my fingers.

And if you do I’ll make sure to open my windows and let the humidity linger, my plants soaking, no longer lounging in its hunger.

And if you do I’ll know when to throw up my wind chimes, singing with the rain, a ballet for a storm, ringing with a short shingle, dancing with the small drips that find its way onto the fading iron.

And if you do I’ll know when to watch for errant bolts of lightning that may cause forest fires or damage to property, living or not, and listen for the thunder, shaking my pulse pulling my blood blaring rumbles across my chest chaining my legs letting it all freeze.

And if you do I’ll make sure to have my blinds closed so that only the small glimmers of the droplets find their way as I listen to the pitter patter, pitter patter, pitter patter.

And if you do I’ll drift through my sleep, the soft songs luring its way into my weighted eyes.

And if you do I’ll bring an umbrella.


I like the rain, and the snow. The feelings that emerge from it, the stillness, the way things seem to change despite nothing really changing. So here, I wanted to do a little bit of an endeavor, a little bit of play on structure, and also to express some motions about rain. Just something short, and sweet, I think.

6 Word Story Practice

One night I had an urge to practice my short form, and how to get the most meaning in as few words as possible. These are the results. 

On a hill, warm, without you.

Today, tomorrow, yesterday, you and I.

Your hands are soft, let go.

Without you, I fly, then, fall.

With you, I fall, then fall.

Count with me: one, two, three.

You told me, “I love you.”

So I told you “not anymore”

The snow burns through my skin.

On the streets, the sewers snake.

At the station, warning, another knife.

Today the rain falls, yesterday too.

Tomorrow the sun rises, me too.

Tomorrow is unknown, so is today.

Dancing leaves sing with the storm.

I cannot, I know; your words.

There she is, glowing, incredible, mine.

Clear skies, dry bodies, drug money.

Clear skies, cicadas die, without warning.

I lost you, I found me.

Together with you, an endless haze.

The sun shines for no one.

Chained to myself, without a key.

Learning how to breathe, I fail.

I smile, I live, not enough.

Perfect score again, no substance, again.

She smiles my way, behind me.

Flowers bloom in the sun, radiating.

For us, I wait in rain.

Bladed against my fingers it stings.

Rusted blades singe my tongue, ow.

Bullets rain the sky, our creation.



Hello once again and today we have something that I came up with literally on a whim the other day. I was just sitting and suddenly the idea popped into my head when I stretched up towards my ceiling. It all started with the first sentence of this piece  and I suddenly evolved it into a sort of small look into a distraught artist’s life. After realizing that the first sentence was something that would really work I immediately got to writing it down and decided to just roll with the idea. This one’s a bit short for what it is, but it’s still something that I found quite entertaining for it’s simplicity. Though I do have a bunch of back log, I’ll probably save those for another day, since today I also came up with something that’s a little more intuitive than what I’m usually used to posting here. I’ll be sure to have the wood works done and have that idea come to fruition in the next few days. It’ll be interesting, that’s for sure. Anyway, here you go, “Seaside”.

Reaching up into the stars feels like reaching up towards my dreams, they’re both unattainable. I woke up in a fit, my papers scattered all along my bed side. I scratched my head in wistful indignation, and laughed at the notion of artistic medium. I shuffled over to the other side of my bed, scrambling papers on the way and peeked out of my curtain windows. The early morning sun shone on me like a beacon to humanity, like a rope to my neck dragging me towards what is known as human existence. I sometimes wished that that rope would tighten around my neck and never break.

I got up from my bed and moved to the washroom. I flipped on the light switch, giving me a small headache in the process, but I was pleasantly jolted back upon the image of my own face in the mirror. My hair was getting a little too long for me, a little too cumbersome, but I didn’t care to cut it either way. I looked at my eyes, dark rings circling them, and even my fingers were tattered in ink. I washed my hands, brushed my teeth, and watched as another day of futile dismay began.

I walked over to my desk, where I had cleaned most of its contents onto my bed and floor the previous night. My foot dangled below, playing a balancing act on a glass bottle that laid just under my chair. I reached under to bring it to my face, and laughed at the contents. Empty.

I grabbed one of many pencils from my holder and took out a sheet of paper. I then dragged my hand across one side to another, and then again, and then made new strokes, and new shades, connecting them to form a picture. I then repeated that process, until those pictures made a scene. I kept creating lines, shades, and form, quietly being endowed in the sounds of graphite scratching across fresh paper. It made my mind so indolent that the only thing I could hear for the session was scratching. Scratch and scratch and scratch. I couldn’t hear the sounds of the clock I had in the room, the wind brushing against my windows or even the soft entourage of waves that nestled just outside my small apartment window. Scratch and scratch and scratch. It scratched my mind how much I had heard that sound. I wanted to scream, to break something in the room, to run out into the beach and let the waves sweep me up into a deep sleep. I didn’t know why I was here, nor why I decided to put pencil to paper, to put form into space. Perhaps I knew at one point in my life, but not anymore. Scratch and scratch and scratch. I finally finished my picture. I put my pencil down and looked away without giving it a second thought. I then stretched and got out of my chair. Every bone in my body was forcing me back down, but every bone in my body was also tired from ennui. Suddenly, my senses came back to me, everything rushed towards my head, and I felt the rampant nature of the world around me. I heard the waves call to me. The waves always called to me.

I left my home aptly, putting on sandals, and rushing down the stairs of my small two floor apartment. I didn’t want to bump into anyone else here, and so I made it a notion to be both quiet and fast. But, after reaching the bottom of the stairs I had an epiphany. There was no way that I could be both quiet and fast.

I made a bee line to the beach, and this time, I took my time. I allowed everything around me to draw me in and drag me into an existence far beyond what I wanted. I wanted to be away from the rope that the sun had brought around my neck, because the ocean always had the knife. And I yearned to have that knife every time I woke up. I yearned to be somewhere away from where I am, away from the pictures I drew, away from my life as a beggar.

When I arrived at the beach, I took off both my sandals and allowed the grainy sand below to cover my feet. I made my way to the horizon line of the waves, and stood for the low tides. Every time the water washed into my feet, I felt a surge of cold reach up into my spine, and then it dissipated when the tide resided. I stood at the horizon line, looking into the distance as the water reflected the sun and made for a scene that I could only imagine being fictitious. Without even realizing, my hands began tracing something in the air. Lines, then shades, then form, then picture, then scene. Scratching and scratching and scratching. They all resided in my head and it made me want to scream. I wanted to scream, to break something, but I couldn’t. I sighed in the cold air of the beach, and sighed out the rest of my days.  My favorite things to draw had always been of the night sky. I would stare into the sky through my balcony. I would let the low tides send me off into an abyss of deep water, and watch as the moon shone off the surface creating a scene that I could only imagine being fictitious. And the only thing I would think of when I draw the night sky is that reaching up into it was so evidently alluring and at the same time, too real for me to think about.