The Bubble

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On an oppressively humid night, the air gave up. It was too much. The heat raged through, leaving little in its way. Grass baked bald, leaving green streaks stripped to brown. Life choked. The ground caved forward, folding over and over before giving way. Air took its last breath.

The fish survived. Their universe expanded with flowing oceans that sunk the earth. Never a gasp, word, or song passed their tight-lipped assurance. The world was new. The world was theirs. By the grace of slow gliding fins, the world was silent.

At the very bottom, a woman stared up. I read her thoughts like a book.

“How will we ever survive this?” Her thought was a bubble on a down turned page. I would have gasped, but the air had grown distant.

http://www.nytimes.com/aponline/2015/10/16/world/europe/ap-eu-iceland-arctic-summit.html

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The Plant

 

greer

Photograph by Greer Oharah

Http://ordinaryepiphanies.wordpress.com

I used to live underground. Disconnected from sunlight like a used up pre-paid cell phone. I tried to call out, but no one could hear me. I panicked. I stretched. I clawed my way out. When there was rain, I was pushed back. When there were beasts, I protested. When I sprouted, I kissed the sun. Forever warming to her love that I needed so badly and yet couldn’t help resent, I flooded her with questions.

“Where have you been?” I gasped. “You couldn’t find me in my darkest corner.”

“I always knew where you were,” the sun said. “I just couldn’t get to you.”

“But why?”

“Because,” said the sun. “You had to come to me.”

The Curtains

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My curtains are worn out, but they keep dancing. A full blooming yellow, they are optimistic.  Light and soft. Old, but alive.  I open my window and they breathe, expanding material outward. Their shadows scatter for the corners.  Gray is a wall flower that’s never painted on fabric.


  • A Word Of Substance is currently accepting submissions of photography. Your photograph must be of an object to be published on the blog. If interested, please submit your photograph and the name in which you’d like to have appear on the blog to: Alicealgood@gmail.com

Mirror

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Cracked up mirror crunches time on a street corner. Whose mirror is it? When I look for the answer I only see myself – fragmented. Jagged elbows collide with eye brows and a stray knee cap. Parts of a whole spaced wide enough to stretch across one block wide.

I wonder what it was when it was still a working body. A diner mirror or a full length? Did it know it was complete or did it always have that nagging sense of space with sharp edges?

I was standing on the corner looking at these pieces for at least one minute too long before I picked out a shard. An eye. I could see what only pieces of snip-its might recall. In that shard there were a million conversations half cut off, cut up, and sticking. Straight out.

“This neighborhood is getting better all the time.” Bright eyes. Bright teeth. “In just a few years all this will be gentrified.” But that’s only half the conversation.

A rooming house, big old and paint peeled to perfection sits slumped below the hill. A large woman in a floral house dress sits on her plastic lawn chair. Smoking. She looks straight through the conversational shards and into the street corner.

Does she see me or only my back? A chunk is left by the house. Scraps of reflection scattering in the sun.   

Hat

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A head full of thoughts can lead to a leakage, where thinking becomes air and air becomes tangible. If hats held heads together, fabric could become a fortress. Stuck in the gums of brain fog, ideas crank through a system of lines lost in linen. Black threaded jutting bears a force that dislodges them from somewhere in between. They unravel quickly. Clawing, biting, and rotted through strands of stick strutted anorexia, the brain becomes skinny when stray thoughts are purged. Out through the brain and into the air, they are gone like yesterday’s intentions.

Slippers

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Flat feet as flat as slippers sitting not standing, following the floor. Edging around the purple velvet of soft shoes for soft people. Voices as quiet as doves.

If lavender had feelings it would feel like my shoes. Weak in the sole and strong in the body. Its issues are no more complicated than the gray sound of white noise. Echoing in between ears, it’s hushed like the ocean. An ocean of static thoughts. I can barely feel their sharper points edging around their themes. Situations. Dire elations. Concepts and provocative cornered conversations. Instead thoughts are soft and round, fuzzy with a calm knowledge that this could continue forever.

Flat feet as flat as slippers, saving not sharing, their voices seep into the carpet. Slippers don’t pronounce the thoughts they think in color. Instead they are darters and martyrs to their uncomplicated shape.

The Guitar

 L anthony

Photo by L. Anthony and Lance Heard

Sweet swallowing eye lids of coal, why won’t you unstick? Switching memories for dreams, you take me on a ride where objects are particles of brain dust puffed up into imaginary ‘things.’ The kind that people don’t want to look at. An abandoned guitar. A torn out sheet of paper. A photograph too bright from exposure. What things are left burning from memory to sight? When will eye lids lift their vision to the light? I can’t tell what’s there when everything is white. A shine shifts in practice. 

Neon Light

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The hum of light is so steady that it’s hard to hear the vibrations. You can only feel them. Ricocheting off every illuminated presence in the room; this place is electric. Hard white and fast, the blinking is that of a scared mouse. It’s as if it doesn’t want to miss a thing, yet it’s always dodging in between open and closed. If I stare hard enough, I can see the light shaking. Quaking. With it’s indecisiveness to stay in two places at once. Like all things that flicker, it can only hit so hard before it’s all shot to shard.

Broken pieces of vision stream throughout the store front window, creeping under doorways. Slide to slot, they dodge the shock. Of electricity that sparks up when there’s too much darting. It skitters past the sidewalk landing square on a red tiled floor. It sinks at last. Darkly frank with a mind that is now made up. It seeps into the color like the red of roses ripping. Seemlessly. Cut together until it fits perfectly.

The colors come alive. 

The Sheets

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Sheets smeared against shoulder blades. They cut like a knife. Feathers flying everywhere, they call it the night life. They slide over dreams and brush against the subconscious.  Slithering across bodies, they are coming un-done. Almost threadless, there is a hole big enough to climb through. It started off small – the bite of a mouse, but with one toe through the edge it becomes like a house. Smooth rustling reaches quiet places where there are only glimpses of parts to a whole.

  • A Word Of Substance is currently accepting submissions of photography. Your photograph must be of an object to be published on the blog. If interested, please submit your photograph and the name in which you’d like to have appear on the blog to: Alicealgood@gmail.com

The Nail Clippers

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The nail clippers were born from an unlikely pair.  His mother was a silver earring and his father was a stapler. The stapler was a bulky mass of danger just waiting to spit metal at the first person who denied him while his mother was a delicate sliver of silver sculpture that hung gracefully off a rich earlobe.

From the very beginning the nail clippers felt different. He was just handsome enough to get into the bathroom mirror cabinet, but just bulky enough to sit on the edge of the shelf. He watched as all the out of reach pieces of jewelry would scoot away from him nervously. They took one look at his piercing mouth and scattered.

“You’re too old to be of any value anymore anyway,” the nail clippers snapped against an antique ring’s very core. Her diamond shuttered from his words.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about!” She shouted back, but her words were lost in a swirl of panic. The nail clippers could do that to anyone. In his late years he had begun to grow sharper with time and pretty soon he would be as slick as the razor that sat on edge.

The nail clippers would never be too old to be of any value. Once a week, the woman of the house would hold him up to her scraggly, but finely polished finger nails for him to work on. It was the one time when his bite was truly founded. With a brutal kiss, the nail clippers held onto the polished nail, feeling its elegance before completely disregarding it. He was never much for hanging on to what wasn’t useful.

  • A Word Of Substance is currently accepting submissions of photography. Your photograph must be of an object to be published on the blog. If interested, please submit your photograph and the name in which you’d like to have appear on the blog to: Alicealgood@gmail.com