What I Write
from “Chiaroscuro”, a first draft:
When the apocalypse started, no one noticed. People’s shadows had been darkening around them for seven days, inking the ground and objects like something living. Or the people. Shadows are not known for their precision. They lap at whatever they encounter, loathe to merely echo the shape of the originator. But children noticed. They are like that, consumed by shadow play. So now, it was not just cracks that must be vaulted, but shadows whose ooze must be contorted past.
Apocrypha Just, AJ, at thirteen was caught between child and adult according to some, but was still child to his mother, and now, with this crisis, child even to himself. He sat in Shea Circle in Stirling Hall, the main building of the music school, watching a tidy woman with a golden-wove scarf wrapped around her head and draped over her shoulders answering questions, directing the lost (those willfully or sincerely so), keeping order.
Normally, AJ wouldn’t have to be one of the supplicants. He knew his way around the place, having come since a small child, smaller than the central desk’s height, when his father gleefully discovered his musical adeptness. In fact, he’d usually be one of those the woman’d be corralling into decorousness.
Keep it over there lady, he thought. The venom, the animus, that everyone had always carried was now externalized. And it was all his teacher’s doing.
“Branches”, first draft, week 6
It’ll not (dark circle, light) be me:
Why? This our bones might tick out,
I’ve had poems published in the anthology To Sing along the Way, and in magazines, including Dreams and Nightmares, Flyway, Tiger’s Eye.
My Write-a-thon Goals
Every three weeks: