Sax notes drift Across N'Awlins square.
Sciaccan 'alba': Dew- Wet mooring lines, The rocking motion Of a rain-bound ship.
Your eyes that time,  When We just laughed  And laughed.
The standout veins in Grandpa's Folded hands... Serenity My rhapsody in blue.

Written in response to @artstew52 prompt: Blue


The following is a short story I wrote in collaboration with another member of Art Stew 52. If you're an Instagramer, head over there and give @sweet_little_wood_art a follow!

They were the survivors. Two ragged wanderers, made old before their time; Magda and her brother, The Raven. No-one would have suspected them. No-one, that is, except the old king’s Seer. And The Raven had taken care of him. It was the last thing he’d done, but he’d managed it.
Magda smiled bitterly over this as she stirred a pot of broth - thin broth for an ailing man - smiled over the irony that she was the one left to finish the job. 
“It’s boiled long enough, girl! Take it off the fire before it burns!” Cook was looking over Magda’s shoulder.
Magda ducked her head to hide her tell-tale expression and reached with trembling hands to lift the pot.
“Mind you don’t spill again!” Cook barked.
Magda shuffled painfully, her whole body shaking with the effort of not spilling the broth.
A crippled avenger,



Coffee Lover

"He could list off the best coffee grinder brands in his sleep. He could talk origins and roasting times and temperatures. He could make the best cup of coffee you'd ever tasted in your whole life. But when you asked him what his favorite was, you know what he'd say?" 
"What, Mom?" 
"He'd say, 'oh, no, I don't drink coffee. Never really liked it all that much. Just learned how to make it on account of my wife. She's a real coffee nut.'" 
"I guess that's the meaning of true love, then, huh?" 
"I guess so. Behind every successful woman is a man who makes her coffee."

Written in response to Art Stew 52 prompts: 'But First...' and 'Famous Duos'


She wept, sometimes, when she thought of the library of Alexandria.
She could not bear the thought of all that beauty and wisdom, the treasure of ages, destroyed through carelessness.
The books surrounding her held the majority of her own small treasures. The dusty smell of old covers and disintegrating spines and the welcoming crinkle of turning pages spoke to her of riches. Things like the unimaginable blue of skies, and the painter's pallets of sunrise and sunset. Stars, sun, moon, and the wheeling planets. Clouds and mountains and grass. Smiles and flower fields.
She traced these sights with delicate fingers, turning with care the fragile pages that she would never be able to see.

Written in response to Art Stew 52 prompt: 'Vellichor'

The Boy and the Flying Machine; A Short Story

He fell from the sky, one rain-lashed night, slipping through the clouds on tattered wings.

He called himself Ashari.

He was long and lean and tawny-colored. He couldn't have been much older than I was, but he knew about things. In that soft, strong voice of his, he spoke of a world I'd never seen. Of mountains and waterfalls, and plains that stretched, like the sea, for as far as the eye could reach and rippled in shades of brown and green. 
His dialect was strange to me at first, but as I sat, hour after hour, and listened to his stories, I grew accustomed to hearing him. He spoke in pictures, sometimes, describing the words that held no meaning for me, drawing images in the air with grease-splattered hands. It was good to sit and hear about distant lands. It was good to forget, for a while, the troubles of my own small life and the dark memories of the nights.

But that, of course, was after.
When he arrived in the village, no-one dared approach the flying machine. There wa…