Small Stone 1/30

The window is naked, no drapery, no shutters or blinds, and the light shining through is the only one on the block; it's stark, vulgar even, like an invasion in the otherwise solid darkness, and I keep wondering when my neighbors are going to turn it off.

Small Stone 1/29

Cigarette smoke and steaming breath mingle together as I exhale into the cold night.

Small Stone 1/28

A parade of blondes in mini skirts of silky and metallic fabrics walk by our table in Panera; a local sorority arriving for their luncheon.

Small Stone 1/27

I squeal as I plant my bare butt on the cold porcelain.

Small Stone 1/26

Slipping between layers of freshly laundered cotton, cool down molds to my body.

Small Stone 1/25

The cake, dense and gooey, sticks to my teeth; it's heavy on the cocoa and light on the sugar.

Small Stone 1/24

Sea foam, coral, aqua... rich hues that are bright, vibrant, almost alive in the wet paint, but as soon as the brush sets them on bone-dry ceramic, all moisture disappears, and the colors fade to a pale memory.

Small Stone 1/23

High-pitched, forced, and angry, it screeches through its escape from my sister's bowels, as though they're too inhospitable to host even a small amount of gas. It sounds the same every time, like a desperate scream to "Get me the hell outta here!" then it fills the room with the odor of a decomposing rodent.

Small Stone 1/22

Her black form sweeps from one end of the courtyard to the other with a dancer's grace, her fluted bill in search of the scarlet locusts that sometimes grow here. She pauses all but her rapidly buzzing wings, and in the briefest of moments, the hummingbird reveals her iridescent masque of amethyst, violet, and plum.

Small Stone 1/21

We look at each other in the filtered light of a gloomy day which has seeped into our room between wood shutters. It's only mid-day, but our kids are gone for the night, so we lie in our bed, basking in naked silence and love for one another.

Small Stone 1/20

I'm drunk on hammock-worthy sunshine that saturates me in heat, bone-deep, so when I have to open my eyes, it's like raising plutonium.



 

Small Stone 1/19

Telling me what she did at Grandma and Papa's:
"We played-ed!"

Small Stone 1/18

As I climb out of bed, stiff joints rebel, and it takes a few staggered steps to overpower the pain of another cold morning.

Small Stone 1/17

It didn't wither or turn brittle in it's death, like a leaf, or frond, or petal;  instead, the cactus decomposed from the inside out, leaving a hollow - but fully intact - spiny grey shell, ready to deflate at the slightest touch.

Small Stone 1/16

The washing machine rings like tinnitus, alerting me its cycle has ended.

Small Stone 1/15

Typing out the year, I pause halfway, to recalculate in my head, and all of a sudden '666' appears. 

I remind myself I'm using a touch screen keyboard. 

I tell myself that the keys react to even the slightest touch. 

I nearly make myself believe that a finger must have been hovering close enough above the number key, that it felt my warmth and reacted.

I'm almost convinced I don't believe in ridiculous, superstitious omens. 

Almost.

Small Stone 1/14

The baby, butt-naked in all her cherubic beauty, lies on a blanket of fur. It's sepia toned, but color has been added, to rose her lips, to blush her cheeks, and to accentuate the gold band around her chubby thigh. The portrait was taken in 1917, and is the prelude to a lifetime's worth of divalicious photos of my grandmother.

Small Stone 1/13

He's whistling a tune while he walks, like a character in a classic musical; maybe it would would be charming, were this strange man not seeming to follow me down every aisle, invading my body space, and staring at my daughter.

Small Stone 1/12

The morning clouds are

Platinum white flames,

Feather-painted

Across the silvered blue infinity.

Small Stone 1/11

You smell the bell pepper more than anything else, and it isn't the sweet crisp scent of a freshly cut red, but the sharp aroma of a bitter green. There is also a hint of sausage, or rather the pungent but not overpowering spice that gives the sausage it's distinct flavor, maybe fennel? Yet, when you bite into the dense slice, it's the BBQ sauce you taste first - a full-bodied blend heavy with molasses, and the sweetness cuts through the fragrant seasonings in the meat, tempering them to perfection. Though you don't notice the small amount of undrained fat that has coagulated through the ground beef and pork you're eating in a cold sandwich, by the time you finish the last bite of your Father-in-Law's gourmet meatloaf, a thin film coats the roof of your mouth.

Small Stone 1/10

Her too-long snout, the feature that defys her alleged Beagle pedigree, rests in my lap, wearing a hint of a beard; some terrier blood, maybe?

When I forget to stroke her lemon-colored fur, she climbs up to the back of the sofa, where she can nuzzle my neck. It astounds me, the depth of the love I have for this creature. It almost seems a betrayal to call her a dog; though definitely not human, she is, without a doubt, family.

Small Stone 1/9

"Mommy, my tooth is still here.. The tooth fairy didn't come."

Oh crap!

Small Stone 1/8

It takes a while for her to settle, for the wiggles to subside, but slowly she succumbs to the comforts of a hug and a heater blanket, and then she's asleep in my arms, like when she was a baby. Her warm breath fogs on my chin, and the faint smell of her Grandma's shampoo lingers on the silken threads of her hair that tickle my nose as I too nod off for a Sunday nap.

Small Stone 1/7

A delicate peach-skinned lobe glides between tongue and teeth.

Small Stone 1/6

An idiot in a white pick-up doesn’t realize I have the right of way.
He honks… and honks… and honks.
I remind myself my kids are in the car.
I swallow my pride and a mouthful of vulgarities,
and keep my middle finger on the steering wheel.

Small Stone 1/5

Without my glasses,

The moon is a splitting ovum

Swimming in cobalt vapors.

Small Stone 1/4

Early this evening, she yields her glory to the moon, yet even in the twilight you can see that this death-plagued wintering landscape is unworthy of her golden glow.

Small Stone 1/3

The grouping of reeds at the mouth of the stream has been chopped down to sloppy stubs, so it looks like a shoddy shave job left a five o'clock shadow on the surface of the water.

Small Stones Jan 1 & 2

1/2 - I begrudge them the time as though it were some tangible belonging of value they'd robbed me of, rather than mere minutes of thought.

1/1 - LED icicles dance in an easy breeze, casting miniature spotlights that chase each other across the stucco wall.


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