Trifles light as air
Are to the jealous confirmations strong
As proofs of holy writ.
Othello, 3. 3
O ill-starred wench!
Pale as thy smock! when we shall meet at compt,
This look of thine will hurl my soul from heaven,
And fiends will snatch at it. Cold, cold, my girl!
Even like thy chastity.
Othello, 5. 2
Though this may be late in the coming, for those of you paying attention (you being singular, in this case), the short story previously posted, entitled “The Funeral Parlor” has won 2nd place in Purdue Calumet’s Stark-Tinkham Writing Contest. Not that this is a prestigious sort of award, but my own personal first bit of recognition. Perhaps there will be more to follow. On that note, “The Funeral Parlor” is by far one of my least favorite things I have written, but I suppose when you have an idea for whom you’re writing, you have an idea of what sort of material will receive the most acceptance and praise. If anyone is reading or has read it, comments are always appreciated. It can be found, unsurprisingly, under the Short Stories link.
The aged queen sat in her once-noble throne, staring at a marble wall lavishly inlaid with gold. The throne room had once been a marvelous place, in the days when the queen was young and vital. Now it seemed a sleepy memory of its former magnificence. Though the traffic brought by official royal business had never dwindled, the splendid fetes and balls and masquerades had diminished to practically nothing over the years. Oh, the queen still had her royal gatherings and celebrations on occasion, but nothing ever to rival the old days.
Can’t Breathe
I can’t breathe
Something’s in my throat
Darkness closing ‘round me…
Losing feeling in my limbs
Not quite thinking clearly
I can’t breathe Read the rest of this entry »
The Ancient Heroes
Rage—Goddess, sing the rage!
The rage of purest flesh condemned by tainted feather,
Of cities toppled by heavenly lust,
Of households destroyed by god-like deception!
Klytemnestra
Klytemnestra, you baleful broad!
What words have come out of your mouth?
Agamemnon is your wedded husband; loyalty is his due.
What dishonor ran through your mind when your thoughts headed south?
Your dear bridegroom fights nobly,
And with the gods favor will destroy
Every wall, every beast, every bower,
Every temple, every priest, every tower,
And each man, child and woman that is a scion of Troy.
Merge With the Wind
Caress me o my lover
Tease my hair
Kiss my lips
Raise the hair on my arms
Make me shiver
Make me cold
So you can warm me up again.
The Funeral Parlor
Elmer O’Rourke had been Director of O’Rourke’s Funeral Parlor for the last ten years, having inherited the business after his father Seamus had passed away. I say “passed away” now; before I worked for Elmer, I had always said “died” in ignorance of my own insensitivity. Apparently, people weren’t supposed to up and die anymore, instead everyone passes away. I never bothered to ask where exactly they pass to. Anyway, Elmer’d had the run of this place for the last ten years, and I’d worked for Elmer for the last three weeks. Read the rest of this entry »
Betraying Justice
I woke up in the early hours before dawn, in that eerie transition between darkness and light when the sky hasn’t yet begun to lighten but the birds are singing in merry anticipation. I stared blearily at my bedside candle that burned throughout the night; I never slept in the dark. It seemed to burn with an anticipation of its own, and altogether different from that of the birds. Day was coming and the flame would be extinguished. Would it ever be lit again? In a day’s time, perhaps less, I would know. I had planned this day for the last several months, and dreamt of it for years.
Today I would kill my husband. Read the rest of this entry »
 | Cupcake on Are You Ready, World? |
 | Stephanie Wiersma (P… on Yesterday |
 | Amy on My Prayer |
| Amy on The Earth Shakes, but Only for… |
