Category: AI Art
-
15 July: Driftspire – The Liturgy
14 of 27 Driftspire – The Poem – The joy of being completely unknown 14 of 27 – The Liturgy of Driftspire I. The UnbuttoningNo name.No story.Just the hushof fog dissolving the edges of memory. Here, you shrug off the coat of who you wereand let it pool at your feet—a puddle of forgotten pronouns.Step…
-
The Old Woman With No Cat
A Trilogy of Feline Digital Disasters (Because cats—love chaos) I. TUTORIAL HELLScene: The cat is perched in front of a laptop, watching “Crunchy Tuna Unboxing” videos. CAT (squinting) “This is research.”OLD WOMAN “It’s been six hours.”CAT “Silence, woman. I’m cultivating my aesthetic.” (Off-screen, the crow livestreams the whole affair.) CROW (voiceover)“Day 1: ‘Artist’ has forgotten…
-
11 July: Ten Things of Thankful
In absolutely no numerical order: II. A very long, quiet walk in the forest with John, my youngest son, who’s visiting until Monday, and then back home to Bogotá. He knows the value of listening through silence. It’s possibly the most valuable lesson he learned from me. Well, that — and I taught him to…
-
The Old Woman With No Cat
The Old Woman and Pandora’s Cat (part 1) An ancient leather-bound box arrives — Pandora’s scrawled across the lid in ink. Inside: a tiny meow. Whiskers twitch, a kitten, ink-black, curled around hope as if a secret, and the old woman laughs, lifts it — all warm, trembling — and then the hissing begins. From…
-
9 July: A Six Sentence Story
13 of 27 – Stillrift: Peace Earned from Ruin Let It Become Weather It didn’t feel like peace when it came—just the absence of argument, like a room forgetting your name. That night, Felreil appeared as a crow on the footboard of Brigid’s bed, dropping black stones onto her feet—each one etched with a word…
-
7 July: Stillrift – The Liturgy
13 of 27: Stillrift — The Liturgy Poem: Peace Earned from Ruin Let It Become Weather I. The ArrivalNo trumpet. No epiphany.Just the click of a lock after the last word leaves—a silence so thick it tastes like blindness,as dust settles into somethinglike horizon.The wound scabs.Stillrift arrives when the itch fadesinto the patience of scars.…
-
5 July: Morning on the Lake
Morning on the Lake (memories from a child’s diary) The boat’s nose sniffs at sunrise—wet-bright and sweet, chasingits tail across a rising hush, and the oars dip and grin,spilling silver over minnowsthat taste of pepper and paper. I am queen of this nowhere kingdom.I am Amphitrite of dragonfly fleets.My hair is plaited in ropes of…
-
4 July: Ten Things of Thankful
In no particular order: I’m thankful for the Eurasian Jay with its three young ones who visited me in the garden on Tuesday. Such a beautiful bird. I’ve not seen one in West Sussex before today. They were busily sucking up the ants who were readying to fly. The ants are flying, which is called…
-
3 July: Marked
Marked (a reshuffled deck of marked cards) I. The Misfit GospelThey come unwashed. Overplayed.Rust in their lungs. Whiskey in their grief.The hymn starts low —a breath caught on glass —and still they kneel.Gamblers. Bruised palms openlike confession slips. II. Communion for SinnersThe bread’s dry.The wine tastes like railroad tracks.Take the body. Bite down.Blame’s baked in.Estranged…
-
2 July: Fireworks for 100WW
Fireworks Hotdogs. Mustard. Mum’s potato salad — she always brought it to family dos. It was thick with mayo, heavy on onion, chopped eggs, cubed potatoes, and crushed saltine crackers. “Saltines are a southern thing,” she explained to my aunt, who, in turn, huffed that Mum wasn’t southern; she was more northern than Alaska. While…
It's Still Life 