scribblings

may 1

the writing

this house: a sighing 
thing, even the ghosts slumber 
moth-eaten, dusty 

~

Once upon a time she was a princess. Now, she walks through the dark, rotting, hungry forest—crown-less, blindfolded. Speaking not a word—holding a name in her mouth, under her tongue, like a pearl or a key. A silver chain twists through her fingers, counting links, counting steps…

~

little sister lags 
behind…light on the water 
the summer day sighs

the reading

Poem: “The Passionate Shepherd to His Love” by Christopher Marlowe (from A Poem to Read Aloud Every Day of the Year)

“And we will sit upon the Rocks, 
Seeing the Shepherds feed their flocks, 
By shallow Rivers to whose falls 
Melodious birds sing Madrigals. 

And I will make thee beds of Roses 
And a thousand fragrant posies, 
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle 
Embroidered all with leaves of Myrtle;”

Short Story: “A Recipe for Corpse Oil (Beasty Cycle)” by Siobhan Gallagher

“[…]Admittedly, the rate of successful pickpocketing by day was rather poor. But it was either by day, or compete with the will-o-wisps after nightfall, and those wisps were a good deal more skilled than him. Maybe he’d try his hand at one of the shops, where customers would be too busy browsing to notice their pockets were getting lighter.
Extravagant Oils of the Arcane sounded promising, and pricey. Tavin struggled to the shop’s entrance, which was nothing more than a gaping hole in a brick wall with a rag of gauze draped across it. The shop smelled marginally better than the crowd outside. Its shelves were stacked with odd-shaped bottles, from swan necks to spirals to multi-pointed stars. They weren’t the typical oils like olive or puffertoad: some bottles read Cat’s Eye, Tick’s Blood, Tumbleweed-Roe, Eckle-Feckle . . . What in all the dark regions was Eckle-Feckle?”