Tag: a.i.Art
-
18 July: Microdosing Fiction
Unsolved “I’m home,” she calls to her husband upstairs, “I’ll just put the groceries away.” Milk in the door, grapes in the drawer, eggs top shelf…. Next morning, the warm scent of coffee’s brewing, sunlight slicing through the kitchen blinds. She puts a frying pan on the stove to warm, opens the fridge door, and…
-
17 July: Sonnet to a River
Songs the River Sings (A Sonnet to River Arun) The boat was small, the river calm—no storm to blame, no wrathful psalm. Just wood grown tired of being wood,just water doing what water should. Eleven men (their hands darkwith earth-turned songs), eight women(keepers of loom and flaxen thread),now seamstresses of this riverbed. May mountains spill…
-
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…
-
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…
-
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…
-
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…
-
1 July: The Old Woman With No Cat
The Cat Creates a YouTube Account(a masterclass in digital anonymity) The cat, draped across the old woman’s keyboard in repose,begins typing.Slowly.Deliberately.With one claw. First: the username.sardinesupremacist — taken. Probably by the crow.knittingwithclaws — too obvious.notacattrustme — suspiciously defensive.fibreartistformerlyknownascat — perfect. The drama, the mystery, the disdain. Next: the password.ilovefish123! — hacked in two seconds. Amateur…
It's Still Life 