In 1937 the town corgi was crunching the feathers, while tight balls of knuckle rolled in the laned tables of the Packard house, and on the overlooked floors. A flip-flip fiery phone ad sang through the radios, inciting to strenuous contingency the woodlice, Dysdera crocata, sowbugs, gnats, sidereals, and other composite aerials. When the corgi swallowed and looked round, moons had triangulated the crest of the house, cusp and broom and rack.

Stones lay along the three and a half miles the lane parted through the scrub-land, where dwelt the experienced Rhiners, and in-hat wrights who issued the discourses in ferule. The square cross-section of every hair on the corgi’s back was felt by the rough, dimpled underside, the palate of the morning in 1937.

2023/01/26 (Catching up) #DailyWrittenOOM

I look up, to the left, and there is the crescent moon, a lidded amber eye, and a star, a symbol alone in power. The porch light, the twisting string lights, and the blue icicle lights shine on the battered snow, darkening to the pit that holds the moon and its star in its compass of black. Just out of distinct reach of the light, between it and the gulf of night space, is the hint of the form and ears of the nine foot snow totoro.

2023/01/25 #DailyWrittenOOM

(Delayed by internet outage.)

A cruse of shadowed oil fell from the far shelf. A closed chrysanthemum of grey stone on a pinwheel of string lights in green and white, the fifty foot pattern on the circular terrace, with the thousands gathered round. Many were the bald heads and the spectacles, the cats in laps, and the canes leaned against desks and armrests.

Wild hair took the part, and the quarter vinyl that got the racer’s cue. Without any slight of hand the crates of bottles of varying fullnesses went under the arched root in the factory, rattling like snakes and ladders. The smell that marked them all was no bitter label, but something the feet of the chute would not forget.

Wild hair burnt to the ground – another bald head filtering into the collection round the stone.

2023/01/24 #DailyWrittenOOM

A sprinkle pattered on the shallow footsteps, left by the broad feet. The light fell from a small window on the side, old, and making the light that passed through it look old, though it came from a very new light bulb.

They would have to do something about the crack in the night, letting the endless day through from the hidden world; secrets were turning people’s heads.

Crumbs under the pan would not burn; salt in the inlet kept the seabirds away; an empty spice-grinder left alone, far into the heart of the wilderness, the treasure of no wild creatures. A shooting star out of the heavens, a battered teapot which landed with a scorch, alighting and lying close by to keep the spice-grinder company.

2023/01/23 #DailyWrittenOOM

With its hand outstretched, the transverse Gregorian rhapsody took hold on the cornice of Hope Stadium. With the infernal fields as stretched blankets below, the crowing frown came upon the waiting, with long-nailed fingers, and a scratching among the thin metal. Shears and leverage took their toll on these draconian peoples, which the rhapsody hastened into the frames to the great Outside.

There is left a mark of the ruined stave in the bars of Eaton, now that the might of this entity has made address of the encounter. While the deescalated parties driven over the falls make their way down, the tendrils of order and understanding will reach out to hang from the class-natured lintels.

2023/01/22 #DailyWrittenOOM

Cyclones twisted like yarn, strung over the faded horizon with a handful of frayed pathways and drawn out roads which cross and tangle without noticing each other.

Four wheels arranged in a flat square, a bicycle mirrored upside-down above, drive a fifth wheel that circles them in a great hoop. It whistles and chirrups as it is pedalled through the wastes, a whirligig on its side like a cyclops’ coin, wandering the dry regions. Socotra trees spread bristling parasols, and a camera jams on a lantern when the animals step from the wallpaper, and begin the hunt in the upstairs parlour.

With a trumpet throat the mammal sirens for those on the roads to make way for the wandering train, veiled and shadowed in bristling dust and fractal spires.

2023/01/20 #DailyWrittenOOM

Instead of a moderately spacious building, as it appears on the outside, the door opens on a small antechamber of grey stonework. Across from the glossy glass outer door is a square arch, scored with possibly symbolic markings, which are so old one can no longer tell if they were put there originally or were the work of vandals.

On the walls on each side is a bracket holding an anciently burnt out torch. A smoke-stained painting is hung on each bracket, not by a cord, but by smashing the bracket through the painting where would be the nose of the portraited gentleman.

Beyond the arch inwards a narrow stone stairway screws sharply out of sight and downwards, into a prickling mass of suspiciously mobile and turbid shadow.

The light from outside the building does not make it many inches in from the outer threshold, before it dies and turns grey as the stone it falls on.

2023/01/19 #DailyWrittenOOM

This is a place in the world called “Tomebook”.

https://patrick-lauser.itch.io/tomebook

There were rows of Lombardy trees, combs of combs and trailing interstices, crossing each other pinwheel fashion, making in their midst the room, which Ginger had found at last.

A swaying bulb, still light washed over everything, turning the silvery clock golden some moments, so it crossed its eyes. Clapboard on the inner walls. The closet closed itself: it was done. Everything they did was about the centre now, the flower of the worlds, the song of bees errant.

Ginger stood, pouring water from her hand through the pale, cupping petals; smells of incense and skin arose continuously, crossing the clock’s eyes over and again. Trouble scurried in the corner at the end of the hall. Outside, the Creature, become one with ado and vaults, rained down from the sky, its endless claws running down the windows of the room.

Where Ginger stands, fingering the water over the found petals, and the scent.

2023/01/18 #DailyWrittenOOM