Occasional Sputterings

(ref: here ) Marcus pulled short before the edge of the cliff. Bits of rock and dust sailed off the edge; Marcus had never heard the rocks land. Popping off his bike, Marcus slowly kneeled, then crawled, moving to the edge. As dust slowly entered his nose, Marcus slowly made it a little over the edge. The view made him wince - a cliff face was clearly seen over the edge; below was only clouds. Smiling with determination, Marcus slowly backed away from the edge, stood, and walked his bike away from the edge. Pausing to refocus on his goal, Marcus dusted his shirt off and got back on his bicycle, and thought about his family, and continued backing up the bike. Memories of a wife, now passed away, gave him pause. Too, his children, now grown and living in other states, gave him pause. He thought well of them, and closed his mind to other distractions. Now focused, Marcus finished backing his bike to the top of the hill. Sitting on the seat, the wind seemed to pick

(ref: here ) Initials. The tree outside my house is covered in initials; some are clearly romantic, Joe and Mary, Alfred and Milly, and many, many others. My wife, too, drew our names on the side of the tree nearest the sidewalk. They used to say that if you cut your own couple's names onto the tree, it would guarantee fidelity and happiness. It seemed true for years ... and certainly, it appears to have been true for some of them. The other day I was looking at the tree and realized there was a kind of dividing line. Nobody used the east side of the tree; nor did they use the west. On either of those sides, the only visible names are from the north and south. And then I got to thinking ... maybe the old saying was true. The couples on the north side had all faced unusual hardships. Miscarriage of triplets House burning down while asleep Sinkholes under the house. Weird things. But the result of each of those hardships drew those couples closer. I know o

(ref: here ) They called her Spike. She stood two feet tall, mostly skin and bones, and strode into the orphanage all moxy and laughter. The other children took an instant liking to her, though few showed it; they had learned that over emotion could get you hurt. On the day-bed, all the other children simply hopped onto the shared mattress. Not the new girl; she would run and jump, as if spiking some invisible volleyball ... and fall, hard. She never got a blood nose ... but she never made it onto the bed unassisted either. The first time someone called her Spike, she didn't respond; nobody else had ever told her she was clumsy and she never asked; here, you got named quick, and once the name stuck, she loved it - it gave her a kind of home. Every one of us, no matter how jaded, warmed up to Spike within two months. She seemed to tap into that little bit of joy you never let go. And she wouldn't.

(ref: here ) They used to call them fossil fuels; the process was almost ancient before public computing went global: dig it out, convert it to a useable alternative energy through either burning or smashing. Repeat as the shareholders require. Now ... well, let's just say that Mother Nature ain't got nothing on the blue! The first year the blue came out, everyone laughed; they said you couldn't get blood from a rock and you couldn't get electricity from water. That was until the first inductive reaction process converted the water into more energy than the water itself had; something about flushed manifolds and twisted neurons. All I knew is that my cab ran on thirty gallons of good diesel a week and now all it needed was their special water and it was good for three months. 'course their water wasn't free ... but it was cheaper than gas. Matter of fact, I managed to find a way to take my exhaust and have it do a little conversion of the air into wa

(ref: here ) The word pounded under his skull like a newly-inked tattoo; sure everyone could see the label, everyone for two thousand miles, Jake left for the bus. Waiting at the stop felt the same; some part of him treasured and accepted the wait as part of the perpetual payment on the guilt that would not release him. Waiting allowed him to hide from himself; instead of being someone, he became just someone waiting for the bus. The bus came too soon. Pulling up and brakes squeaking, the door unfolded; the grizzled bus driver sneared boredly waiting for Jake to step. Grabbing the hand rails, Jake paid and picked one of the free seats near the back exit. At every stop, Jake looked away from the door, knowing that each person would stare at him, at his label, knowing that he could do nothing to remove the shame. Pulling away from each step, Jake was certain he saw the bus driver look at him from the rear-view mirror; in fact, he was even more certain he'd seen the driver

(ref: here ) Waddling from shore to shore, the master penguin stood separate from the pack. Other, lesser penguins, stood back to watch the master at work. As shore met sky and crashing wave met beaten beach, the master waited for a particular moment. The crowd slowly grew until the entire beach was dotted with anticipatory wings. And then the moment arrived; triggered by an unknown catalyst, the master penguin ran toward the water; faster, faster, faster, the short little legs carried the master penguin to the edge, and he DOVE! Water came to reach his beak, and the moment before he was about to sink into the waves, the master penguin lifted his beak, his head, his neck, while his forward momentum continued unabated. He continued to glide forward, sometimes banking, sometimes jumping, always moving gracefully and always seeming to control the waves upon which he danced. And as quickly as he had begun his ascent, his landing seemed to suggest a painful completion was evide

(ref: here ) Softly, the sparrow rose and fell. Buffeted by torential rain, twisted air, and harsh heat, the sparrow seemed ill-suited for its task. Still, it flew. Through marsh, desert, forest, storm, the sparrow held true to its course. Multiple times it gave up; and, moments before some event would have caused it's demise, the sparrow found renewed resolve and rejoined the sky. Its only true solace was the clouds. Amidst danger, discomfort, and disillusionment, the clouds were quiet boxes of peace; where every corner appeared to hold a harsh beak or crisp death, the sparrow found the clouds were a home. A short home, to be sure - too small to simply soar as hawks and eagles, the sparrow could hold its course and hover for only moments ... but moments it cherished!

(ref: here [no oneword entry for Thursday, 24 June 2010) The story began its journey in the mind of a fellow with little in the way of inspiration. Taking elements of fairly mundane details and twisting their descripting so as to appear daring and new, or at least different, the story looked about and discovered it had no limbs. Taking days, weeks, and a fair number of months to craft a plot, to develop characters, and to add and rewrite dialogue saw the story discover a voice, several sets of discarded legs and a rickety pair of sticks standing atop feet with three toes between them. As the weeks went by, the story would wake to find it had changed its appearance ... and slowly it came to understand itself a bit better; this bit was a character involved in a sort of coming-of-age experience; this other bit was a character designed as a foil for a third character; this third bit was included as a plot device. None of the bits seemed to fit. It was nine months before the stor

(ref: here ) Sitting on the chair, waves of crisp water crash, gently assaulting your toes. It is hard to stay in the now ... memories of other beaches, other times, draw attention. Discussions of weird things with good friends fill your ears. You miss the coffee, the late-night discussions. You miss the warm embraces, the hints of scents as new friends greet old. You experience a montage of other beaches; and this beach - it ties them all together. You smile now, realizing that each had their moment to savor, their reason for resonation. And you accept and caress them; for they have drawn you to this now and this time. And you breathe.

(ref: here ) cadence, cadence, splashing waves simple droplets become waves crashing, splashing, on the reef, cadence, crisp and salty sweet cadence, cadence, eventide time, defined by water's ride crashing, craving, waves of life cadence of survival's knife cadence, cadence, crisp and sweet back and forth the waves all meet crashing, high and low, the tides cadence soothes and heat subsides cadence, cadence, short and long cacophany of creature song crashing, as the days go by cadence kept and ne'er dry

(ref: here ) The woodwork lay coated in tools, comfort, and use. Andrew walked toward the table and picked up every tool he could reach. "No matter how often I tell them," thought Andrew, "they simply forget to put things away." Placing the tools into their holders, Andrew noticed his hands changing color in splotches. "Why they wanted to paint the tools is simply beyond me," thought Andrew, "perhaps they wanted the tools to match the wall." As Andrew panned back, his eyes walked across the back of the garage wall. The same color that lay wetly upon the tools was evenly applied to the entire back wall. "Regardless, it simply wasn't considerate to at least put up a sign," sighed Andrew, as he picked up the last of the tools. Walking to the outer wall, Andrew thought "at least the sprinklers will hide some of the discoloring." Flipping the switch, walking briskly through the door, and closing it behind hi

(ref: here ) One, two, dancers unite, across the open expanse. Like detached lovers, each seems to float above the ground, focused on an inner voice. Trees swaying, away from the motion, enhance the flow; the leaves seem to fall in time with the rhythm of the motion. As the dancers move ever closer, small whirlwinds caress their toes and they rise, ever-so-gently, above the ground, literally walking on air. Flowers sway to the beat in compliment to the small collections of leaves about the trees. As the dust settles, and the pulsating needs to interweve motion with life subsides, the dancers land upon their toes, and smile. Three feet apart, they are as one, and the final landing of air-borne leaves is as clapping from an orchestral crowd.

Marcus flipped the switch. Nothing happened. Again. "Why?" asked Marcus, frustrated at the circuit. Bits of electronics, unnamed objects, and wires lay bare on the workbench. "It never works the first time and always the second," commented Marcus, wringing frustration into his towel. "... perhaps ... if I might make a suggestion," said Lem as he quietly swept the floor behind Marcus. "Yes, Lem?" said Marcus, turning slowly toward the voice. "Well, perhaps you need a voltage multiplier," suggested Lem. "You are using an off-the-shelf capacitor, which seems to store the voltage from the first run. Then, when you turn it on again, the initial voltage is added to the new voltage from the battery." "Hmm, perhaps you're right," responded Marcus.

(ref: here ) The old song rumbles through my heart; memories of loss and ache seem to color every movement. "I wish I'd said something different," he said, as the dreams filled his eyes. "I wish I'd held onto her a little longer." Rising from the bench, the flora and fauna around him seemed to grey at the edges. "I simply had not been paying attention," he lied, as he tried deceiving himself with the old lines. "Maybe, maybe it was really her fault," he considered, as he walked toward the nearest tree. Small winds blew dandelion parachutes near his ankles. "I suppose ... I suppose I was simply a fool," admitted the man; his steps drew him in grand circles around the small hill near the tree. "I spent too much time on other things," said the man. "She was truly what mattered." Begrudgingly, his shoes stopped walking, and the man forced his attention on the tombstone.

(ref: here ) It was, at first, a small step; the depression of footprint in sand was barely noticeable. The second and third were deeper; sand moved away from the boot; treads were visible. The fourth through tenth were deeper still and further apart; sand moved all about and between the prints. The eleventh and last was the deepest; sounds that had previously accommodated each step fell to a hush. Seconds that felt like hours dragged on as a temporary bird flew in parabolic flight. And LANDED!

(ref: here ) Mark and Alice walked, matches held high, as they made their way deeper into the forest. The animals had long since stopped their chirping; the two children had visited this quiet area in the forest often enough that they were no longer unnerved by the silence - it comforted them. As the path, comprised of tramplings and rocks of earlier visits, led to the clearing, the two looked at one another. With silent determination, they broke through the clearing. Seven torches lay evenly placed around a central depression. Bits of metal, twine, plastic, and a whole assortment of debris lay scattered outside of the torches; within the confines of the torches, evenly cut grass lay low and a small breeze blew the grass leaves back and forth. Halfway from the entrance to the clearing, Mark and Alice split; each walked toward a torch stand and lit their torch. The moment Alice finished lighting her torch the circle became complete; a gentle rumbling from beneath the depres

(ref: here ) Marine ranks in two by two formation jogged in semi-perambulatory style as Mason shot photographs of passing clouds. His photographs were cut quite short when the soldier in front of him stopped abruptly. As his camera dropped, his posture conveyed an ache to catch the device before it landed. And landed it did; film, plastic camera case, and lens split into smaller bits. Sergant Johnson, voice careening with dozens of years of recruit correction, proceeded to dress Mason up and down. The last Mason saw of the camera was bits of film under Johnson's boot.

(ref: here ) Lashing out, the frumius wallaby rode itself to death; finding only solace in the quiet calm of the forest, its dreams of hope and anger were swallowed up. Mason, simplest of the farmers, found the wallaby the following day; covered in bits of black insects and curiously blue frimbles; it had a disctive odor. Recognizing the odor, Mason, ran from the corpse. It was too late. His family, too recognizing the frothing and angry gesticulating, had only one recourse - and Mason was forever bound to live outside the confines of his village. Deeply saddened, Mason began his quest; head held high, Mason left off his family, his lineage, his culture, and began anew. And his children, ignoring the village rules, followed.

(ref: here ) Dreams of sidewalks, chalk-stained memories, child hood in rope and spindle. I walked the scattered moments of my youth and I hold things; a spotted owl, rifling through the trees, sees and ignores. Me. And, like so many almost-deja-vus, I am home again. And it is home. But I am different. And it's okay.

(ref: here ) they say the longest word in the english language is a pun and puns are a kind of evil, to be either avoided completely or languished within; i think puns are kind of riddle, where you get to share the punchline and the listener should feel the joke. its funny how often smiles and similies aren't like one another i guess that's what personifications get for bringing the emoticons.

(ref: here ) What is brave but another word for a dead soldier, a hospital doctor serving three twenty-hour days alertly? What is bravery but a simple word for a complex cacophany of caricatured frustrations? of lost opportunies and twisted chances? She was fourteen when she began to doubt what she had been told by her parents. It was four years before she was willing to consider they were right. It was another three before she realized they had been right all along. And it was one more day ... one more day of bravely clinging to one more false belief ... before she jumped, bravely believing in hope and destiny.

(ref: here ) A new dawn approached as Wilhelmina Aramanth Naomi Demina walked the lonely road to her new home. Bits of ancient tomes and disregarded rubble guided her weary feet as she warily approached the castle. "Is anyone there," she ventured to ask, as her legs gently shook. Silence filled the air, and she walked slowly toward the large, wooden door. Lifting the knocker solemnly, Aramanth firmly let the knocker ring. "I don't care if it is just past midnight," thought Aramanth to the wall. "I just hope I haven't woken the wrong person." Rock sliding upon rock drew Amaranth's attention and she scuddled back as quickly as she could. The large door slid open and a small woman peered out into the darkness. "Is that my sweet Wand," asked the woman. "Here I am, momma," replied Aramanth. "So here you are my child," cradled the woman, as tears filled closed eyes. The two stood, entranced, in one

(ref: here ) The buildings, exactly ten feet apart, were wide enough for any number of children. Thirty feet up, bits of twine and torn-apart bedsheets served as closelines, drawn between facing windows. The maidens took turns sharing the line. The first week, Mary's linens, socks, and shirts. The second week, Margaret's doilies, craft-projects, pants, and perhaps an unsightly undergarment. The third week, Mary would lay pillow case, glove, and carpet. Margaret would follow with quilt, curtain, and her new sofa cover. A story of new clothing, old stories, and opportunities to gently gossip about the neighbors provided Mary an outlet. But Margaret would always hang her clothes, never volunteering new information. One day, the beginning of a second week, no doilies appeared on the line. In addition, no pants, skirts, or other unsightly garments appeared. The next day, pants continued to lack appearance. Concerned, Mary attached a note to the line; working its

(ref: here ) "The bird-man cometh," she thought to herself, as the salesman pulled up to her store. A strange whisp of memories gone by, of unknown experiences, drifted from his horse as he popped to the ground. His strange helmet added to his general oddity, having been assembled from the petrified remains of an unusually large bird. "Milady," started the man, "I have such wonders to show you! Let me but begin to ...." "Stop it right now, Frank," asserted the woman. Standing on her porch with arms crossed, Mary challenged, "I dont know why you think I'll buy any of your stuff. I know you stole it from the Mercury Wallows." "You are quite mistaken, Mary! I've done nothing of the kind," defended Frank, standing by his steed. Pulling out the warrant for Frank's arrest, Mary read aloud "... wanted for damages in the amount of one million dollars." "This rather suggests otherwise,"

(ref: here ) It was all that it was touted to be; all the bells and whistles, bits and pieces, the very things that were often associated indirectly were actually contained within the product. It was, in a word: remarkable. Notwithstanding, the moment it hit the market, the bottom dropped out of the system. Nobody knew how far the bell would ring. Nobody knew how badly the sound would sting. But everyone realized that the moment they offered such a remarkable product, the moment the first sale went documented and then promulgated throughout the free-world ... the end of an era had commenced.

(ref: here ) Evolution seems to be at the heart of the modern-day textbook. Moments originally associated with God and a creation perspective have been reworded and rewritten to accommodate an entirely different paradigm. But, regardless of your paradigm, you are working with assumptions. Creationists assume the Bible to be true. Evolutions assume the Bible to NOT be true. The result seems to be a calm apathy on behalf of the Christians. And a wild need to validate from the evolutionists. At least, initially. Then it was the Christians who began questioning their own beliefs. And the evolutionists who mostly continued on their passionate need to know. Modern-day versions of each seem rather distinct from the first. A modern-day Christian will rarely ignore evolutionists, instead feeling the need to defend. A modern-day evolutionist will often be the assumed position. And nobody talks about presumptions and faith anymore. But they're just as valid. And if

(ref: here ) Andrew had a problem; learning to write had been a joy but learning to spell had been a bother. It began when his mother taught him to extemporeanously speak on subjects. This practice turned to highly-structured presentations; eventually Andrew was able to speak quite succinctly on any number of topics; but he could not spell. When Andrew was ten, he entered a writing contest. Hundreds of entries later, Andrew's essay on the harmonious interaction of bees won the engagement, and Andrew was given the opportunity to speak in front of an audience; having trained for this for the better part of his life he was completely prepared. He was not prepared for his sister. One year his senior, but already a world-chamption speller, Margaret had always envied Andrew his ability to spontenously speak on any topic. More to torture Andrew than anything else, Margaret always prefaced their discussions with a simple word to spell; Andrew would stumble and Margaret would tak

(ref: here ) It was long, lanky, and green from abandonment.  Sitting astride the boulevard, the mongrel pupply warbled, looking for food, attention, its next engagement.  Bits of attention, echos of hope and love filled his eyes and thoughts, as he pounded pavement, looking for a friendly scent. That's when the corner loomed; a brick-lain edge of hope and curiosity, smells came and drifted here. And it was here that he found a clue.  Home!

(ref: here ) Memphis Mallory III stepped off the sound stage; since her record deal, Mallory had become something of a celebrity. Like so many celebrities before her, she was unable to shop for groceries, and was immensely thankful for the plethora of options available to her online. One site in particular offered clothing with the ability to convert motion to selective aspects of the electromagnetic spectrum; in a word, the clothes gave off visible light when turned on. Fascinated by the potential for an immediate improvement to her stage performance, Memphis contacted her stage manager, Harvey Wallace. Harvey thanks Memphis and sent his research staff to look at what options, alternatives, and pricing were available. The following week, Memphis was shipped a package. After signing the slip and closing the front door, Memphis opened the package to reveal a dark, black dress and a note from Harvey asking her to try on the dress. Immediately charmed by the idea, Memphis walk

(ref: here ) Robert was the last; oldest of his station, Robert had held the title and the responsibility. Dressing up for his last day of duty, Robert mentally surveyed his life's work. The jousts, the fights, the transition between stations, training his replacement - all were clear. His clearest memory was eating the dark fruit. It had been part of his initiation on the first day of his training. He had promised to hold the role, to be the guardian, the centurian, and to do his duty. And he had. For a century. Today was his last day. His replacement had died in some skirmish; none had shown themselves qualified. And the fruit would wear off at midnight tonight. There would be none to stand in the gap. But he would finally rest.

(ref: here ) The bell sounded. "The ringer must be new," thought Matthew, as he slowly set his cup on its saucer. Motioning to the servant to answer the door, Matthew thought, "I wonder who they sent this time." Gentle scurrying was replaced with firm boots; the accompanying breeze hinted at cinnamon and saffron. "The King sends his blessings," stated the messenger. Dust from various climbs left marks on the floor. The messenger remained on the other side of the silk curtain. "I see they still haven't taught you common courtesies," replied Lord Matthew. "Or are you truly from the King?" The breeze that had accompanied the messenger remained, slowly swaying the silk curtains separating walkway from room. "Of course I'm from the king," said the messenger, pulling out his stiletto. "He sent his best trained messenger to deliver the one message you would be sure to comprehend." A quick slic