Category: Daily

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The Thing Is

“The dumbest fuckin’ thing is I should’ve known this was coming months ago.” The open window and the natural cadence of the truck’s engine didn’t drown the futility of Olsen’s hindsight. Mark Olsen’s parents gifted him with a common first name and a compelling to the point of use last name. When we were in the larger group, the one including Other Mark, I often forgot that Olsen could answer as well. Olsen adjusted the passenger’s mirror. Maybe he was looking for the older months before these newer ones.

Outside the truck, Oklahoma rolled by unabated. Red water creeks gouged deeply into the sandstone leaving green farmland so much growing room that farmers could afford to leave the Blackjack Oaks and thirsty Cottonwoods lining the creekways. South of us, hovering over north Oklahoma City bright purple clouds drowning in their own water-weight splashed onto Britton road. Maybe coming as far north as Hefner, but drying up abruptly well before getting to 122nd. Bone dry Stillwater lay a windy hour ahead.

I realized the 70 mile an hour barbwire fence had hypnotized Olsen into reticence. Or he purposefully required me to drag this inevitable conversation out of him.

“The dumbest fucking thing?” I asked.

“The thing is that it never occurred to me she’d leave me. I always thought I was the one putting up with her shit—staying with her. Not the other way ’round.” He punched open the glove box and slammed it shut. “But the dumbest fuckin’ thing—please don’t tell anyone else this—the dumbest fuckin’ thing is that I knew the minute I farted in bed and she didn’t react that it was over.”

Word count: 276
Day 212

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One Final Gather

ancient hallThe lighting, color, and texture sings dramatically so I’m tempted to do a concrete and descriptive info dump on this piece. The subject has a story built right in: bridges and a trail of people approaching nearly natural stone towers, arches, and gates. That would be fun I think—particularly because I’d like to roll back to yesterday’s line about ‘titan fists’.

Instead I’ll try to write about what’s happening here. I’m going to entirely disregard the artist’s text. Not that I don’t think they are fine (or technically correct), but I got a instinctive reaction to the piece before I read his words. I’d like to expand on that instead.

From yesterday and from here.  Specifically the figure highlighted in the picture.

Old hands with pale papery skin griped the worn rail of the bridge’s balustrade. Grainmaster Holan held tight to avoid collapsing onto the walkway not to avoid falling the great distance to the floor. His legs trembled with age. They did not tremble for fear of the height.

“Myan!” A mother’s voice and tone called out. The Grainmaster perked from his drifting thoughts to answer the command of his name. He smiled gently when he realized it was not his mother’s voice, but a coincidence of the vent’s shape that brought the sounds of far below directly to his ear. Myan was a name popular for boys as well as girls these days.

The Grainmaster snorted amusement softly and spoke to an audience of only himself, “No gratitude to you old Myan Holan. No gratitude whatsoever.”

Word count: 248
Day 211

This may not look like much right now, but it’s got legs in my head.

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The Eastern Bakarian Vent

Tonight’s inspiration comes from: Pilgrimage to the Ancient Halls

The Vorgh Mountains stacked up like [something really descriptive] was then battered down by titan fists. Nothing about the volcanic piles was regular or symmetrical.

In Spring we climbed the mud-slick slopes like newly born lambs hover near their dam. Each of us, wet from the mist with trembling tired legs, clung to the next for balance.

Ok – not gonna screw this up tonight. I like this painting too much to crap on it first go. See you in the morning.

Word count:
Day 211