Category: AI Art
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2704: A Different Six
Without Sense I am tired of men who grinwhile cities burn, of suitswho call it strategy, of flagsused as shrouds. I am tiredof the loud being mistakenfor strong, of crueltydressed as realism,of madnessgiven microphones while decent peoplecount coins,ration heat,and bury children. Do not ask mefor balance when the scale itselfis broken. Do not ask mefor…
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The Old Woman With No Cat (part 1)
The For Sale Sign (Part 1) (A Cat’s Crisis of Convenience) The cat sits on the Old Woman’s fence,tail twitching like rhythmic panic. “Do you see that?” he hisses, eyes wide as saucers.“A sign.A literal sign.Your neighbours are selling my secondary residence.” The Old Woman sips her tea.“It’s their house, cat.Not yours.” “Semantics!I have a…
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The Old Woman With No Cat (Part 2)
THE SEAGULL DEBACLE (Part 2)(A Lesson in Avian Betrayal & Feline Accounting) The seagull —whose name is Keithand whose morals are negotiable agrees to the terms: One dramatic dive,one defaced sign,one endless chip buffet. He swoops.He squawks.He… misses. The S in “FOR SALE” now bears a chalky, dubious streak.It reads: “FOR ALE.” The cat stares.“You…
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2504: Violet’s Phraseology
Elena found the letter tucked behind Dad’s war medal. “When you tell a lie, you steal someone’s right to the truth,” she read aloud. Inside was her mother’s handwriting …thin, slanting, frightened. To my beloved Elena,I did not leave you. There were pages after that: signatures, witnesses, the legal theft of a child. At the…
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2404: Liturgies of a 3rd Eye
Part 2: Liturgies for a Third Eye Liturgy for the Unpicking(for hands learning a new kind of sight) I. The Knot Does Not Know She Cannot SeeIt does not softenout of pity.It does not loosenits blind architecture. It waits,patient as stone,for her touchto learn its language. II. First ReckoningHer fingers fumble,a strangerin a darkened room.…
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Ten Things of Thankful
After a course of antibiotics, my cough has subsided; thankful for the relief — so I spent a morning enjoying birdsong, new growth pushing through the forest loam, beech leaves tinted sassafras-green, and felt renewed. I’m thankful for… I. Tuna casserole the way my mother used to make it — a thick layer of crushed…
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2304: Ekphrastic Poem
Boy and the Candle he bends above the hour as if darkness were something fragilethat could be opened by hand. the candle is not large, yet gathers the whole roomto itself — a small white throat of fire. and the boy, eyelid and cheekbone, leans close enoughto borrow its breathing. light climbs his facelike thought:…
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2204: Six Sentence Story
Part 9: Brigid’s Diary, The Market at Vienne To Bear Witness We stepped off the boat at Vienne, and the town met us with a quiet menace — uneven stones slick with thaw, my hems dragging through muck, Felreil’s boots slipping as if the ground itself had learned mistrust. Saturday market pulled us by the…
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2104: The Liturgy
Liturgy for Market Day at Vienne(where the living bargain and the dead witness) I. The Uneven WorldThe stone setts are uneven,not worn smooth by time,but accusing.Each misstep a reminder:you do not belong here.Your feet have not learnedthis city’s particular limp. Felreil’s boots slip in the persistent drizzle.My hems drag through muckthat smells of horses and…
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The Old Woman With No Cat
Where is the Old Woman?” …the cat demands,pacing the length of the kitchen,tail held high like a sceptre of injustice. “She is late.My bowl is half-empty.My sunbeam is un-warmed.This is negligence.” The crow, from the fence, offers:“Perhaps she’s writing poetry?”The cat scoffs.“Poetry doesn’t fill stomachs.” “No shit!” agrees the robin. Just then—the back door opens.There…
It's Still Life 