I write flash fiction, non-fiction, essays and novels. This month’s Tease is from a work in progress.
Rock stars want to be poets. Poets want to be writers. Writers want to be rock stars. The circle of strife. We can’t always have what we want. We rue the choices that have made it so.
Rue. Now that’s a word.
They would rue the day. He rued the day. He even rued the night, the intention to write, when he was blocked this bad, stuck like a porcupine on a cork board. There was only one way to break this ice-cube dam. Pour some vodka on it, over it, through it. Perhaps add some cranberry. Well, that was four ways, but he was stuck so it didn’t matter. No one was counting anyway.
A Menominee legend echoes my parent’s way.
In the Menominee legend explaining the origin of night and day, Owl and Rabbit have a contest to decide whether it will be perpetually dark or light. Owl repeats “night” and Rabbit repeats “light” until finally, Owl accidentally says “light” and Rabbit wins the contest. He has the right to make it only light, but for the sake of everyone, he allows some dark as well.
In my opinion, Owl messed up on purpose, to allow Rabbit to have his way.
I can picture my mom and dad having this contest. My father rarely lost a battle of wits. My mother, highly intelligent as well, might have given in a time or two, for the good of all. And she was known to read until one or two in the morning. A true night owl.
After my father’s memorial, we spotted a rabbit in the grass near my parents’ house. This was not unusual. Rabbits abound in the area. But two nights before my mother passed, we had an owl land in a tree behind our house. We had never spotted an owl in our backyard before.
What does this mean? Perhaps nothing, perhaps everything. But to blindly disregard such coincidence would be a mistake. The hardest lessons to learn in life are the ones we choose to ignore.
Learn more about Menominee legends.
young nebula glows
all births come after midnight –
Earth spins silently
view original prompt here
Let’s face it, August sucks. Dust-filled smoky skies, dying lawns and Hobo spiders. And it’s hot, hot, hot. I worship the sun in May, but by 08/01 I’m ready for frost and falling leaves. August is the only month without a holiday (okay, technically April sometimes doesn’t have a holiday either, but only on those years when the first Sunday following the second full moon following Ash Wednesday happens to fall in March).
Reason to celebrate.
The only saving grace of the eighth month, besides my wedding anniversary, is the Perseid meteor shower.
Not this type of fireworks.
Every August 12th, the Earth passes through a band of ancient exhaust from the comet Swift-Tuttle, providing a spectacular show for anyone willing to venture out in the early morning hours.
The Perseid meteor shower is an annual event, a time for enjoyment, reflection and taking measure of our minute stature in the cosmos. Why shouldn’t it be August’s holiday?
This year’s edition was excellent. Under less than ideal conditions, we were still able to spot meteors at a rate of 30 + an hour. The air was cool and clear and full of night sounds. There was even a brief cameo by the International Space Station.
The vices of August provide spectacular hues.
It was almost enough to make me look forward to next August. Almost.