The weather is near sentient here. Winds scraping the planet’s arid surface carry the detritus of bitter salts & granular dust & slam it in the face of rock and living things alike; they give lift to dragon flight yet toy, cruel & catlike, with our spaceships. (92 DRAGON HARPIST)
He wears bargain-basement suits for work; she shops in consignment stores. His sole asset is an old Mustang, hers a real pearl earring she found in the park. His desire is a hurtling meteor, hers a blazing comet. When they kiss, stars migrate to their eyes.
Dickens had them all by their twisted metaphors: Oliver alone and hungry but posh enough to know a fish from a butter knife; the Artful Dodger wearing his craft over a heart of gold; and Fagin embellished with revulsion, rags, and false bonhomie.
Only navigation wizards have the acumen to parse the void, their inborn organs of magic absorbing its molecular communications and drifts of un-anchored time. For Jack, it’s not innate, nor even cerebral, more a wing-and -prayer anticipation of hazard. DRAGON HARPIST …
The ozone layers but fragile wisps, the sun killed most living creatures but triggered the human magic of wizardly-AI interface. At last humanity had hope of survival through engineering innovation and its corollary cruelties. Black despair flew them to the stars but magic grew fickle in alien climes. DRAGON HARPIST
I married foolishly and compensated for the tedium by gaslighting him into believing he’s a character in my Great American Novel, a sweeping saga of multiple lives. In the last chapter, he’s smashed beyond saving by a bomb. Now he rots and moans in the guest room.
I keep stolen wine in my cellar but my secrets are encased in amber & sold to tourists who delve deep into our bloody history then visit the gift store. The killings, the betrayals, they all go home with their new owners, and I can drink my wine without remorse.
She irons charisma on her husband’s shirts & shrewdness along his pants’ creases. She stands behind to keep the starch in him. When he’s elected mayor, she irons elegance into her gown and wrinkles from her cheeks. For his interns, she heats up a tire iron. DEVELOPED.
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.
The spaceships were Earth-constructions at a time human ingenuity & wizardry peaked, but no one foresaw the violence of the asteroid belt or the space beasts they called dragons. Even warded warships broke & burned like vintage matchsticks (200 plus). DRAGON HARPIST