By the sea shoreThere's a sound like the ocean when you put your ear to a conch shell. Or it's supposed to be the ocean. Lynn's always thought otherwise.By the sea shore by anapests-and-ink
It's the sound of pulling and pushing and sighing and rushing.
Feral, fierce echoes.
There's a bone in your ear that's shaped like a shell. Lynn thinks that's why the conch is so special; it’s a link, a familiarity that grasps as deep as your bones.
She found her conch on a trip to Cedar Key, with Tommy and Lizzie and Helen. They wandered along the sand, skipping in and out of waves, watching the water eat the shore. Lynn liked the way each wave flattened along the beach, grasping greedy at her toes. Tommy and Lizzie whooped war cries at seagulls. Helen chased a hermit crab from the tide line to a tidal pool. Lynn gathered driftwood and seaglass, searching for the perfect natural knicknack. The conch shell was half-buried in seaweed. She washed it, standing calf-deep in the body of the
Ezra and the ImagistesImagism was not created in a classroom, or in a gathering of academics. The Imagist movement was born in a Kensington tea-shop in the spring of 1912, at a meeting between three good friends: Ezra Pound, Hilda Doolittle (better known as H.D.), and Richard Aldington. “Like other American expatriates,” Richard Aldington later wrote, “Ezra and H.D. developed an almost insane relish for tea. Thus it came about that most of our meetings took place in the rather prissy milieu of some infernal bun-shop full of English Spinsters” (134). This particular meeting had been called by Ezra Pound, upon receiving copies of a handful of H.D.'s latest poems. “Ezra was so much worked up by these poems of H.D.'s that he removed his pince-nez and informed us that we were Imagists” (Aldington 135).Ezra and the Imagistes by anapests-and-ink
What exactly is an Imagist? Harold Monro, in his article "The Imagists Discussed," wrote
They have not at any time taken much trouble to
the Chandler's Around the WayThe hose slipped out again. Chan cursed, and shoved it back into the incision he'd made, adjusted his mask, and bent over the pump. He yanked the cord, and the pump started to life with a cough of biodiesel. It bounced on the sand as it grumbled away. Chan kept one hand on it and held the hose in place with the other.the Chandler's Around the Way by Memnalar
If fucking Fathers would spend the bone on a new one, I wouldn't be all night at this, Chan grumbled. He ached for a smoke, but didn't have the hands to spare. Plenty of hands here, he thought as he glanced at the riverbank. Some of them even had a pulse.
"Hey," he said to whoever was closest.
It was a sunbather. A walker who drew enough bone to slot time on the beach without having to fight for it. She had each arm draped around a man, both of them tattooed in the same place with the same sigil. Chan was jealous. Someday he'd have his own numbers, but they'd be women. All of them. He was old-fashioned like that.
The walker answered without raising her sungl
Romeo and Sergeant JulietShe takes my fingerprints.Romeo and Sergeant Juliet by SCFrankles
6WS Challenge, Week 35And revolutionaries are bringing Spring, early.6WS Challenge, Week 35 by DownwardsSaint
The TranslatorMalena was born on the third of April, a heady Aries and a talented translator. She only waited for so long before she put her foot down and took charge of her destiny, riding it like a child of the sea would a dolphin.The Translator by TheOtherSarshi
She began her job with diligent care from the moment she first awakened from the drowsiness of the very young and into the slow comprehension of children. She first translated her own simple thoughts to the world in an agonized cry - 'I'm hungry! I'm hungry!' - first in the Spanish words of her parents and then repeated in the strange, native Tupi dialect of her Mestizo nanny. The dark-skinned woman had gasped in fear and tried to cover the child's mouth before any of those of the house heard and fired her for teaching Malena to speak the wrong language. But before she could even reach out towards the tiny mouth, the great wooden doors of the child's room burst open to admit Malena's fiery, proud mother. 'She speaks! Oh, she speaks!' the Spanish lady cried, waving a whi
Stripes Are So Last Season"Where's Waldo?"Stripes Are So Last Season by SilverInkblot
Man as NovelHe is your unfinished novel.Man as Novel by Scarlettletters
chapter one -
a casino in Biarritz,
your mother's sapphire locket,
a beacon below your smile;
fingers cooly fanning out
a hand of baccarat
as he swears he would give up
his daughter's soul
sipping Kir Royale
at a garden party in Mayfair,
a spare husband or two
wondering how you would look
dressed only in his wife's pearls
or a strand of diamonds.
The eighth chapter,
a train in Morocco;
the wheels keeping time
with your stories.
You're Mata Hari
when a stranger invites you
to the dining car
to share a dry martini.
And the last twelve pages -
the streets of Curacao;
he steals oranges
from a merchant's boat
and calls you Katarina,
steel pan breaking down
the tourists smiles
and leaving the world
Writers of the Revolution, July 21Featured WRITERWriters of the Revolution, July 21 by theWrittenRevolution
Featured by SilverInkblot
Reading work from doughboycafe is a matter of investing your time – her pieces are often dense and long, but your investment will be returned tenfold. I, as a matter of personal taste, have never cared much for war stories, be it in my literature or my movies, yet the works below sucked me right in.
"He crawled on his belly through the thick jungle of the Argonne Forest and he covered himself in the gray French clay. His fingertips went black from cleaning his rifle. He tripped while running over a field and looked up just in time to see the rest of the squad mowed down by machine gun fire - they landed one by one on the hard ground, nothing but tatters and holes. He shot a boy in the head. He ran out of bullets and gored a man with his knife, and his fing
Imagism was not created in a classroom, or in a gathering of academics. The Imagist movement was born in a Kensington tea-shop in the spring of 1912, at a meeting between three good friends: Ezra Pound, Hilda Doolittle (better known as H.D.), and Richard Aldington. “Like other American expatriates,” Richard Aldington later wrote, “Ezra and H.D. developed an almost insane relish for tea. Thus it came about that most of our meetings took place in the rather prissy milieu of some infernal bun-shop full of English Spinsters” (Life 134). This particular meeting had been called by Ezra Pound, upon receiving copies of a handful of H.D.'s latest poems. “Ezra was so much worked up by these poems of H.D.'s that he removed his pince-nez and informed us that we were Imagists” (Aldington Life 135).
a Deconstructionist. It's my religion.
a writer and a reader. Both are equally important.
always willing to leave a comment. Just ask.