Word-Smiths

Today prayer is a place that holds your voice until it can speak - palatoglossal arches above rows, the pulpit, and its oration - hymnals pulled from pockets behind pews with a mouth that barely moves - mumbles, a lump in the throat - the voice splitting. As the congregation leaves yesterday's prayers surge the candles in the wind still sounding in their Ss between rows of pews with those who'd still come between sermons - linger in the oratory, take our prayer into their breast. I can see them better than the ghosts of loved ones filling the pit of the entranceway, and I wonder if this is faith dying or coming to life as we come with palms ready, with pockets filled and fumbling with keepsakes to lay on the altar like loose threads unraveled from the heart, our mouths tired.

The bed awaited each morning with joy, For we let spring spill on the sheets— Just a tad whenever we woke up. Ours weren't playdates of note, Rather daffodils unencumbered with The expectations of prickless beauty. As the cradle looked in approval, Our happy chuckles gave it purpose, Then we bloomed, unbothered and true. We appear quiet in the vastness without— but our content faces speak volumes. For the bed, the covers, and the air around shelter all core memories in this room of ours.

A small library made to fill a sturdy tree— literary bliss

Your eyes are gems Set in the pommel Of a golden sword. You let the light in, Left me helpless, With nowhere to hide From your precision. There is Honey And Dragon Fire On your tongue. My laconic Love: I’d offer my ashes to be your priestess. The mystery you paint Hides the revelation on your lips - - A chalice I can’t sup from, Religious rites I’m not initiate to - - A Heaven barred against this heathen soul. If any words I leave have worth, Bury me in your heart, And I’ll know rest. —————————————————————

Another Dream. This one was different than The Dream. Horatia stood peering out the transparent clockface of The Grand Clocktower, sitting in the crook of someone’s arm. Surrounded by warmth and able to detect the soft, regular rhythms of a heartbeat when she leaned back against the chest behind her. The perspective revealed a vast, forested valley. “Look, Horatia,” a voice nearby said. She was unable to catch any other attributes aside from the words, except that they were comforting. “The Crystal Dragons have arrived.” And as if on cue, they did come, soaring through the skies in droves—serpentine forms that glistened in the early morning sunlight like radiant prisms, casting miniature rainbows on the woods below. They had grand butterfly wings and came in various sizes. “Why do they fly here, _____?” she asked. Her own voice seemed quite small and faltering in comparison to the one that belonged to the individual holding her, which itself was

Welcome to Book 2 of my 12+ years ongoing novel trilogy. Iteration meaning: the repetition of a mathematical or computational procedure applied to the result of a previous application, typically as a means of obtaining successfully closer approximations to the solution of a problem. Book 2: Iteration follows our heroes from the end of Book 1 as they realize that their own world is in danger from the scheming of the unexpected appearance of Ysadora and Abraham in their past; and must find a way to fight back an invasion closer to home than ever before. Meanwhile, a year after the Second Civil Uprising, the world faces an even more complex battle of paradigms and ideals as various players appear to take over from Randall Redspear and his own Shiakar Society faction; including one that becomes highly interested in the M.U.T. abilities of the siblings. All the while, Abraham and Ysadora follows the last plan of Randall Redspear to ensure a clock-perfect world for them to inherit, but

Walking down the sunny city street, Janet was the belle of her own little ball. She wore only the best sunhat and sunflower dress, which fluttered as she walked along the sidewalk in her six-inch Gucci Heels. Janet was born with a silver spoon in her mouth and wasn’t the kind of woman to let this fact go unnoticed. With her matching Gucci handbag, which went with her shoes and dress, she held her overpriced iPhone with her other hand, the light of the screen reflecting off her white-rim sunglasses. “Like, OMG, Courtney, I can’t believe Starbucks was out of my favorite drink! How can they run out of a Grande, Iced, Sugar-Free, Vanilla Latte With Soy Milk? America is SO becoming a third-world country!” Janet texted her absolute bestie, Courtney, on her phone. “OMG, you poor thing! What do we even pay these people for, girl?” Courtney replied back. “Like, for real!” Janet texted back with a look of condescending annoyance plastered all over her face. Yet Janet’s attention was

It’s the way he smells; like old cigarettes and that spicy, warm smell that is unique only to him. I could get lost in that smell, intoxicated and happy, could lose my mind and be forever trapped in it. It's the way he lights up, opening and closing the box of matches with a practiced impatience that drives me mad. I love the feeling of anticipation dotting my skin with goosebumps as he strikes the match. The sound of the match flaring and the glow on his skin from the dying light make me smile every time. It’s a visual feast as well as an auditory one as he closes his eyes, taking a drag deep enough to burn though half the cigarette, hollowing out his cheeks as he sighs his contentment out in the way of a dragon, puffing a poisonous smoke cloud that curls around him, adding a little more mystique to his deceptively fragile beauty. In that moment, he is Byronesque, all pale skin, dark hair, emerald eyes, sinfully sweet intent, and dangerous, intricately tattooed beauty. He could

Psalms to bloody Ecclesiastes; now Ephesians as I wait to know you. Where is my Paul for the Philippians? Where is my Batterson, within reason? I wait with the Bethlehem on fire that is cast in the flames of Men in fissure. Who's cast from the narrow, wrought iron gates, and damned and made to suffer forever. Now Matthew and ten thousand words on pagans; fruits of Galatians raving mad. And when you cannot see, or won’t see my heart, I only understand how to blame myself. Corinthians to your heavenly realm; enmity in your so graceful of hearts. Are your blessed Revelations witnessing second death? Something else more important than ethics or love? “For we live by faith, not by sight” For I was so faithful to ever play part in your diaspora of Brothers in Epistle performance, redemption and providence so greedy and perfect. Was I by nature deserving of wrath? So where is my Paul for Ephesus-sent? Epistemology as cover from flame- the Bethlehem, now crying your name. Yet silent in

I am not your little girl No pretty dresses and curls Anymore I am not that little child Who knew of nothing but smiles Evermore The years that have passed Left marks on the past And stained this clear glass Behind the storm blasts Now within a monster dwells Despite such attempts to quell This deluge Now inside there lives a fiend Whose sins cannot be redeemed No refuge The years on this path Have filled it with wrath Seeking a bloodbath Scorn all aftermath But maybe somewhere still That small girl holds the quill...

She saw him over the rim of her cup of coffee, the world whirling around his calm, she at the agonizing apogee, and was captivated. Having caught just a glimpse of partial profile, perfect posture and the set of his shoulders, she couldn’t help but to fill in all the blanks of his life and erase the question marks as she lay them down. Handsome? Definitely. Well read, well obviously. A musician, maybe. The man’s dark wavy hair and broad brow were visible above the evening paper he was reading across the shop where he sat by himself, occupying and owning all the space around him with his long legs stretched languidly beneath the table in a manner which said I am at home, in my element, and disinclined to move for a while. She contemplated his hands as they held and dexterously turned the pages, envious of each fortunate one. Those are the hands of a musician, she decided. Yes, she could see it now: large hands with strong tendons branching out