#c.sck

Existing in a parallel reality, stepping in and out unconsciously. It’s always good when there’s a word, a word that’s not too, too absurd. ~ Something descriptive for something unknown. Letters arranged so there are none left alone. Horizons abound, three-sixty and more. Infinite options with only one door. ~ In and out realities converge, yet this moment’s word yet to emerge. Thoughts divided twixt hither and yon, Yin and Yang got up and gone. ~ The quest getting long, parallels evade, as does reality, mind’s left unmade. My word yet forthcoming, my tongue tip awaits. Desire’s strong, my hook salivates.

~*~ SCK012726

*Spit∙tle∙ic∙tion

The process and/or result of an individual and/or individuals leaning into a laptop and/or computer monitor seeking a specific word when writing fiction that may or may not exist for a specific and/or generic; object, person, other living thing, random things, places, time and/or events that may or may not exist or have existed, thusly causing the aforementioned individual and/or individuals to drool slightly on associated keyboard(s) and/or each other.

Ice moon full, clouds float by. Snow aglow, one with our sky. Numberless air, frozen in wait. Thaws to feel by degree or date.

If perfection could be found, is it in or above the ground. Or in the air or in the sea, it could be you, not likely me. ~ Does it make a sound, or does it smell? If found, might I say, “Oh well.” Is it the same for one and all, is it big or is it small? ~ Question’s many, quests never end. Clues abound but truth can bend. Eyes perceive a painter’s stroke, meaning safe in a canvas cloak. ~ Circles run in boxes made, glasses worn throwing shade. Seekers sought surely stun. Perfection is: never done.

Around the bend from the church on main, lies a quaint little street, called Skipper’s Lane. T’was on this path a young lad dwelled, before the streets’ name or the lad propelled. ~ The tale goes: At the head of a cove the sandbar’s long. The water’s choppy and the currents strong. A young lad fished, he netted all day. At sunset he rowed to the town up the bay. ~ He traded his catch for supplies and some cash. He then rowed back home and buried his stash. Years soon passed and the lad’s now a man. The time was now to dig up an old can. ~ The cans held his savings, he’s more than a few. The man, now called Netty, had something to do. Netty rowed into town, to buy but not sell. He bought a new boat with a bright shiny bell. ~ He towed the boat home not knowing how to sail. A year’s practice behind then caught in a gale. Netty stayed calm, his life, spent afloat. Home was in sight when he saw a tossed boat. ~ The boat missed the inlet, now blowing out to sea. Though Netty unsure, he could not leave them be. Adjusting his sails Netty raced to give aid. Soaked and battered he could not be afraid. ~ Lost memories filled young Netty’s head. Recalling the night, he was almost dead. The sky was black and the water cold. The ship sat heavy, filled with gold. ~ Remembering screams and cracking wood, the ship’s bell rang, gone childhood. The boy hit the water and woke on the shore. The life he once knew was no more ~ A crashing wave broke Netty’s trance, one second more he’d lose his chance. He leaned on his tiller to bring his boat near. The boats colliding mustered everyone’s fear. ~ Netty thought quickly and dropped his sheet, then heaved his net around a cleat. He pulled and pulled with all his might. His biggest catch was that stormy night. ~ All returned safely before the sun rose. Netty now a hero was gifted new clothes. New friends were made, now one’s Netty’s wife. Recounting his memories he bought a new life. ~ The gold recovered, Netty bought lots of land. He built a grand home well away from the sand. The harbor in view he watches over his fleet. The town, now prosperous, gave Netty a street.

I need a bigger clock, my watch seems to lie. The spaces are too small, and the hands seem to fly. ~ I need to see where time goes. I can’t believe it’s me. I only scroll a little. And only when time’s free. ~ But that little watch keeps lying. It tells me hours have flown past. The stupid phone agrees. I think the problems vast. ~ It must be a conspiracy, drawing people to their laps. Our future’s passing by, and we’re now hunched like saps. ~ I’m going to go cold turkey. When I’m done, we’ll share a toast. But that I’ll start tomorrow. Today I need to post.

Days of peace. Nights of rest. Sleep of dreams. Awaiting quest. ~ Mind alert. Body strong. Soul awakened. Trials long. ~ Head high. Vision clear. Onward thrust. Purpose near.

Chachingalingering

In the USA it’s dollars first and sense an afterthought. ~

Sensational

The golden hour calls warmly glowing, beckoning all who will listen ~

Painter’s Block

My porch awaits paint, mind awaits motivation, body weighs on chair. ~*~