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|Thursday, February 19th, 2009|
The Child of Mjolnir
I watched as the angel crashed to earth, a puppet with its strings cut. The fall wasn't epic, just enough to shatter fragile wings.
I waited quietly as Father shook the snow from his furs when he returned home in the evening. Our cabin, since Mother had gone, was both too big and too small for the two of us. He was a giant of a man, but crumbling. Shards of him littered the corners, snapped off, careworn, not to be replaced, among the boots and pots and stockpiles we had against the long, dark, Northern winter.
"Help me with my legs, boy." His voice rumbled off the oaken planks and the iron kettle above the fire, and I bent to put his workbench across his great knees. He took his hammer to it, striking methodically, hardly appearing to strain to swing the mallet I could barely lift with both hands. The great, flat clamor of it filled the room, as if the titans themselves were knocking at God's door.
After a time, I drowsed lightly to the rhythm of it, still attentive to shifting the block of the workbench this way and that as Father worked it. The suddenness of the spall of metal shards when his right foot shattered caused me to leap back, before taking hold of his wooden shin and laying it across the floor in front of me. Solemnly, Father handed me the mallet, and with two strong, careful blows, I split it cleanly lengthwise, as he had shown me to do. I placed the work block back across his diminished lap, and gathered the shrapnel of his foot to place between the splinters.
It wasn't long before his right foot, bearing the brunt of the blows, joined its companion. Father looked up at me and finally removed his hat, bowing his head with finality now that his task was complete.
I did not falter with my swing. He fell to dust, leaving me with a hammer and an empty room and the glimmering shards of the god at my feet.
"Are you just about ready for the shot?" I was getting edgy as the sun dropped over the rooftops and towards the horizon, and my patience for these endless framing discussions was short. Julia looked up at me sharply from the huddle of directors, photgraphers, and assorted creative minions and shot me a warning glance.
Other than only having one chance to get the footage, I don't know what she was so upset about. She was just the cinematographer (and fucking the director); I was the show. We were like the old breakfast joke about the chicken being invested, but the pig being committed.
Well, she'd called me a pig often enough. I don't think she knew how committed I really was.
They finally set up, the sun glinting in crimson diagonals off the skyscrapers behind them. I took position, laid out on the scaffold, got my cue, and dropped the hammer towards my face.
The sunset caught a million motes and shards, and I glanced upward, into glowing wings and dark eyes.
|Saturday, February 9th, 2008|
Hello? Anyone home?
I thought that title made sense for both this post and this picture. I haven't seen any activity on the shortshort community for a while, so here's a picture to get us motivated. Current Mood: artistic
|Monday, September 17th, 2007|
|Monday, August 20th, 2007|
With the re-issue of one of the great horror classics (Invasion
, the third-generation retelling of Invasion of the Body Snatchers
), coupled with some lawnmower-accompanied free time, I thought I'd throw out a concept nugget in lieu of an inspirational photograph.
In a vein that both David Byrne and T.S. Eliot, not to mention Stephen King, could appreciate....Ominous Mundane - The Exquisite Horror of the Prosaic
My own work will follow (if I can capture the elusive lawn-mowing muse), but I missed this joint and wanted to stir things up first. :-)
|Tuesday, July 31st, 2007|
|Sunday, January 7th, 2007|
|Tuesday, October 17th, 2006|
Grand Prize Giveaway!
If I have offended the internet gnomes by posting this here, I am sorry.
You may eat this post if it offends you.
On my recent voyage into the united states of america I purchased a 1GB USB Key at Radio Shack. With my purchase came a mail-in rebate that is only valid for citizens of that great nation. If you are from this nation and would like to claim the spoils of my wretched consumerism, leave a comment describing the incredible plans you have for the $15 when you eventually get it.
The best idea wins this monumental monetary sum.
Be creative, my southern neighoUrs! Current Mood: relaxed
|Friday, October 6th, 2006|
Two Roads Converged
The dust settled much more languourously than it had been kicked up, but none of it clung to the hand-waxed carapace of the car, emblazoned with the tattoos of capitalism that were its stock in trade. The door had been slammed as a man leapt out, dashing inside on some urgent errand. He had been muttering to himself the whole drive, when he wasn't swearing at his cell phone or the other traffic on the road.
Ticking softly as its drivetrain cooled, the car peered around in wide-eyed wonder at the street.
"Nice shoes," the Clydesdale tethered nearby whispered.
"Thanks. Very comfortable."
[from the image originally shared here
|Monday, June 26th, 2006|
My fairy-tale story grew long, so here's a morsel
One upon a time three half-grown girls followed the forest road into the land of snow. Their names were Raven, Rose, and Faithful. They were all the daughters of the inn-wife Merrygail, though each had a different father, and each father had left them long ago.
The eldest sister was Raven, and, yes, her hair was dark, though hardly sleek as a bird's wing.
At Raven's birth, Marrygail decided that all her children would have the names of birds: Hawk, Jay, Dove. But Raven's father never saw her, nor ever returned from the war, and no news of his life of death could be had.
At the birth of Roses, who's hair, of course, curled red, Marrygail loudly declared that her children would be named for her new gardener-husband; Leaf, Daisy and Barley-John. But Rose's father left before Rose had her third birthday. He sought greener land.
But the father of gold-locked Fathful's, Marrygail was the would finally take care of her. She told him she would name their children for the virtues she saw in him; Strong, Handsome, and True.
Faithful's father lived in the inn for thirteen years, never working, gambling through his days and drinking through his nights.
Marrygail barbed him with bitter words, but he didn't change until one day, when mother and girls were at market, he packed the inn's meager fortune into a leather sachet. He left with Marrygails silver cups and half the guest's horses.
After a night of weeping, mother said she would have no more of children -- past or future. She forced the girls from their home and said that if they didn't leave the town, she'd tell the constable that they were the thieves.
For a month they had wandered, growing thin and finding little welcome anywhere, except from those who'd do them harm. Luckily Raven could quickly guess when harm was meant, and she kept her sisters as safe as she could...
... and after some hard adventures, they lived happily ever after.
|Monday, June 12th, 2006|
It's been a while since there was a short-short picture, so I thought I'd see if this one inspired anybody.( Below the cut to save on bandwidth for the modem users out there...Collapse )
Let me know if you like it. Also, if you know where it came from, I'd like to know. This was a random, unattributed internet find, and I'd like to give the photographer kudos, at the very least.
|Tuesday, May 30th, 2006|
I'm feeling fairy-tale-ish (must be that rerun of 'Joe vs The Volcano') so here's a challenge: write up something that starts 'Once upon a time,' and ends 'and they lived happily ever after. The End.'
Let's shake out the cobwebs!
|Sunday, April 9th, 2006|
|Thursday, March 2nd, 2006|
I've had this one for awhile, meaning to post it here and see if anyone found it inspiring. So here it is. (taken by someone else)
|Sunday, February 12th, 2006|
Love is in the air
Or someplace else.
Is anyone up for a Valentine's day challenge? Wonder if I can find a nifty pic that exemplifies valentine's day. It's Tuesday, btw. Current Mood: tummy ache
|Friday, December 30th, 2005|
|Sunday, December 11th, 2005|
Tis The Season
...for a Christmas story! Or a holiday story.
Or perhaps an anti-holiday story.
Anyone have a cool seasonal pic to post?
|Saturday, November 12th, 2005|
There's a fun exhibit
at the Met right now. Here's one of the more colorful photos: