how will you know?

you are made of snowflakes, and i am two-thousand,
three hundred and forty seven degrees farenheit.
as if you'd live long enough to read the thermometer.

i can see the city below me, it's four hundred
thread count shimmering in the light of the
dawn's arrival.
no way will i let you win, no way will you stand to lose.

i am swimming through space, i am swimming through
space to reach your open hands.

when i wake up, love will still be there.

attn://

if you haven't noticed, i haven't changed the photo. it will be up for one more week, as it has not yet been written on. if it is still not written on by that friday, it will be business as usual and the photo will change.


-atticus, your ever so friendly blog-master.

Thirteen

Thirteen.
Click the thumbnail to see a larger version!
[more photos on the Behance Network.]

You have two weeks from today to write a piece of any kind about the photo. The rules are that simple-- literal, abstract, short story, poem, prose, etc. All styles are welcome, just use the photo as a starting point. After the new photo is posted, you may not post writing from previous weeks' photos.
Feel free to write multiple pieces if you feel that inspired, although you aren't required to write for every prompt. You won't be removed as an author unless you go four consecutive posts without writing or contacting me at all, or you ask to be removed.

Ebracing my Humanity.

“I’m going to be a fox” she said
“did you know they mate for life?”
I told her I knew. And she asked
“what animal do you want to be?”

I don’t want to be a fox.
I don’t want to be a lion.
I don’t even want to be a bird.
So I told her “human”

I want to be human,
with the choice
To be faithful,
To be strong,
And live free.

I want to be the best human I can be.

hunting.

slender necks, i think.

your fingers, black with soot, writhe at your sides. i know you are anticipating my next move, sizing me up.
you are no bigger than a breadbox!

but somehow i know better than to underestimate your razorwire wit, the poison in your tone. your teeth and claws are the least of my worry.

no fangs can lay into me the way that your words have.

oh, to love a monster. to love that which knows only destruction, which knows only the destruction that love brings. your best intentions have left me more scarred than your worst, i'll admit.
it's hard to love you, to endure this constant struggle, this teeth-bared-eyes-gleaming-muscles-twitching sort of affair.

but it's harder not to.

oh lumberjack, save me now.

Oh world,
What soft legs you have.

“The better to draw you in with
My dear”

Oh life,
What beautiful eyes you have.

“The better to trance you with
My dear”

Oh love,
What gorgeous smile you have.

“The better to gobble you up and
show you the true darkness with
My dear”

Twelve

Twelve.

You have two weeks from today to write a piece of any kind about the photo. The rules are that simple-- literal, abstract, short story, poem, prose, etc. All styles are welcome, just use the photo as a starting point. After the new photo is posted, you may not post writing from previous weeks' photos.
Feel free to write multiple pieces if you feel that inspired, although you aren't required to write for every prompt. You won't be removed as an author unless you go four consecutive posts without writing or contacting me at all, or you ask to be removed.

equinox.

sunshine, oh sunshine!
you flutter amongst these pages
and kiss me to the sound of laughter
on the green, green grass.

i cling to this parchment,
feel it's fibrous wrinkles against
my fingertips.
"i know you are in there,
oh sunshine!

i shall come in after you,"
i shout, as i watch this
burst of blueredorangeyellow sound
swirl around me.

i've been searching for months for
you and your
unapologetic rays, oh sunshine.

i shall journey into this
manuscript, careful not to
get ink on my hands
or scuff my knees on
the serifs you hide behind.

i shall hold your birds
until you return,
to cast shadows in the
forest and dance among
the cobblestone streets.

oh sunshine,
cast your light upon my face,
and i will wash my hands of avian blood.

puzzled.

Where does the brilliance come from?

Those who came before us
took their talents and made
something beautiful.

Yet,
I cant even produce the
very thought of something
worth noting.

No matter the sensation,
the motivation,
the stimulation,
the picture perfect
compilation just flutters
together in one big mess.

like fragments of
shattered glass,
taunting my mind
with their reflection.

Striking in their
own tragically flawed
way; Yet incomplete
and lost.

If only I could take
the jigsaw and
put something
together.

If only I could
mold the ideas,
and form something
collectively stunning.

Eleven

Eleven.

You have two weeks from today to write a piece of any kind about the photo. The rules are that simple-- literal, abstract, short story, poem, prose, etc. All styles are welcome, just use the photo as a starting point. After the new photo is posted, you may not post writing from previous weeks' photos.
Feel free to write multiple pieces if you feel that inspired, although you aren't required to write for every prompt. You won't be removed as an author unless you go four consecutive posts without writing or contacting me at all, or you ask to be removed.

life is the preparation for answers.

complications.
thats all this world is.
war, death,
crime, punishment.
we fear that what we
can not explain.

this life is our grave.
its only when we have
completed our
death sentence
that we learn to live.

they gaze back at us
below. somewhere
naked to the eye  they
rejoice. somewhere
sprawled among the
grass we lay.

unanswered questions
will keep baking in the sun
until the day we pass from
one life to another.

until the day we pass
from death to life...

Week Ten

Week Ten, July 24th.
[click here for a larger version of the image, and here to see more of the artist's work.]

You have two weeks from today to write a piece of any kind about the photo. The rules are that simple-- literal, abstract, short story, poem, prose, etc. All styles are welcome, just use the photo as a starting point. After the new photo is posted, you may not post writing from previous weeks' photos.
Feel free to write multiple pieces if you feel that inspired, although you aren't required to write for every prompt. You won't be removed as an author unless you go four consecutive weeks without writing or contacting me at all, or you ask to be removed.

open sesame

[this piece falls under the week 9 prompt]

mother always told me never to trust strangers.
like I ever listened to her about anything.
nothing like a little exploration.

I just think she never learned to open up.
she never realized that meeting others
required opening doors without
expecting something inparticular
on the other side.

some fearless mother bear she was.
always bitching about the differences
between her and the people I brought
home for her to meet.

no matter who came walking through
our house door, she could sense the
details about humanity she would
dislike.

I'm sick of making excuses for her &
that damn conservative background.

she is just affraid.

affraid to meet someone different,
who has a personality of gold.

affraid to open the door,
and find some place beautiful.

going to try bi weekly. the last photo post is still open for writing until further notice.

Are any of you interested in continuing the project? the last three or four weeks have not been written on at all. i know we've been busy, i just want to know if we're all too busy or think i should scrap the idea altogether.

Week Nine

Week Nine, May 29th.

You have until next Friday, June 5th, to write a piece of any kind about the photo. The rules are that simple-- literal, abstract, short story, poem, prose, etc. All styles are welcome, just use the photo as a starting point. After Friday, you may not post writing from previous weeks' photos.
Feel free to write multiple pieces if you feel that inspired, although you aren't required to write every week. You won't be removed as an author unless you go four consecutive weeks without writing or contacting me at all, or you ask to be removed.


[ps, late again. i know. my apologies-- for the last two weeks i have been house-sitting without internet.]

Week Eight

Week Eight, May 22nd.

You have until next Friday, May 29th, to write a piece of any kind about the photo. The rules are that simple-- literal, abstract, short story, poem, prose, etc. All styles are welcome, just use the photo as a starting point. After Friday, you may not post writing from previous weeks' photos.
Feel free to write multiple pieces if you feel that inspired, although you aren't required to write every week. You won't be removed as an author unless you go four consecutive weeks without writing or contacting me at all, or you ask to be removed.

[ps. i am well aware, and very sorry, that this was actually posted on sunday, may 24th.]

Week Seven

Week Seven, May 15th.
[Image from FFFFOUND, original creator not known.]

Also, to see the fullsize image, right click and select 'view image.'

You have until next Friday, May 22nd, to write a piece of any kind about the photo. The rules are that simple-- literal, abstract, short story, poem, prose, etc. All styles are welcome, just use the photo as a starting point. After Friday, you may not post writing from previous weeks' photos.
Feel free to write multiple pieces if you feel that inspired, although you aren't required to write every week. You won't be removed as an author unless you go four consecutive weeks without writing or contacting me at all, or you ask to be removed.

Choppy porch thoughts for a Friday morning.

It’s always seemed so ambitious
to me, the planting of flowers.
Not until do little nothings
grow into somethings, they grow
into beautiful somethings.

(You bury them, dare them
to make a grave
into a crib,
to grow with no affection,
as no human could…
and they do!
Limbless, somehow
they shove the soil away
and enter the world-
bashful at first,
but comely and strong.)

Maybe if I plant newspapers
in my garden, they will grow
into beauty instead of war.

After all, have you ever seen an ugly flower?

News

Here lies nostalgia
rusty and forgotten.
Reading is a sin,
learning is forbidden.
Hidden outsiders,
they find no retribution
in faded pages
of black and white



Memories.