In search of whimsy, a waif in velvety moss cap blithely caroled birdsong as she skipped from daybreak to nightfall, poking into cobwebs and nooks in search of oddities wherewith to adorn her slightness be it Xmas tinsel or a tender word flown free of torn paper. (74)
In a malfunctioning god’s landscape the air’s a kaleidoscope of toxic particulates & the life forms surreal: acrobatic trees, turf a mile high, & ant-sized humans w/o ant strength, and warlike. Pleased, he stretches a new canvas & fashions tiny demons. (59)
Often she’s tortured by the least sound, daylight thru the curtain, a whiff of coffee. At her dresser, she avoids her anguished reflection, swallows the migraine pill, and burrows into the aphotic cocoon of her bed. Thunder at the door. ‘Mom? You better yet?’
Whether from the planet’s toxicity or mutations in the human genome, engineering expertise was in grave decline. So much so, Corsairs initiated the vile deep-space navigation technique of fusing their ships AIs to the brains of kidnapped Lander magicians.
An effervescent soul repressed by censure, a sweet inquisitive consciousness burbling in her mind with no outlet but dreamscapes of love, supernova, & volcano–the inevitable fission of atomic detritus that finally sets the world ablaze.
Jasmine ladles its pungency over the dying susurrus of the meditation gong as nightjars suspend their song & moonshadow dances to his heartbeat. He waits for love to elope into the fullness of his life but still she lingers, unready, in the chrysalis of her own bliss.
In GAME OVER, an absurdist play, the characters appear in gossamer shrouds & lecture the audience about cleaving to hope. When the lights fall, the audience is startled awake as the actors, all out-of-work wait-staff, die in agony.
We’re all born with voice & capacity for language & self-consciousness, tho these manifest differently & can take shape in love or loathing. I am cursed with words that punch, a tone to shatter teeth, and tongue-twisters that kill.
It was a revolutionary if bloodless scheme to vacate the planet and allow the re-ascendancy of dragon-kind but feasible only if the illusion that Jack was his wizard twin lasted long enough for him to absorb every last shred of arcane dragon-rune lore.
A face ravaged by nature’s casual violence, crags & valleys seemingly carved in the brow bone, sagging cheeks, & runnels that once channeled hot tears from rheumy eyes. In a white room at death’s door,she knows she paid full price for admission.
In the vivid streak of sun down the slope of Dragonspire, the mythic tale of the Great War seemed but an infancy in dragon/human relations, a tantrum of inexpressible desires. O for beginning anew w/ heroes of diplomacy instead of flame and blade.