there once was a toad mushroom elf named Withersfur. she was a friendly & jumpy, hairy & grumpy little spittle of a hummersgun - all the spoons who would tune her at noon said she was wayland olliwall, completely spanderlunk when it came to conducting the tag shirts to tea...........
CONTINUED.......
Remembering Withersfur
there once was a toad mushroom elf named Withersfur. she was a friendly & jumpy, hairy & grumpy little spittle of a hummersgun - all the spoons who would tune her at noon said she was wayland olliwall, completely spanderlunk when it came to conducting the tag shirts to tea. I'm not one to disagree so I cut the vun out & walk her on over to the bakery like we do every time it rains afterteeth of wet fringe. Withersfur goes waskie in the rains and gloats about It. She sais - eye kin cort cher bummer into seven peaces and dissolve six, eye kin increase yir float by ten Texas style folds." oil scolds. moss. circulation to keep from molds. she does. and I go a little bit crazy because of It. and it's the same this time, only different - of course. - this time her mote was wadling wayward of three thousand tundrums of waves when wow is about the only thing you can think to say, sharpening her knives as she cut the dust and buttery bundled -up wamdrells... so we were where the autumn was drying bits of boughs late colors of hard squishy squashes & beautifonct brilliant orange pearl of persimmon some slight scent of mint, any misty mystery, just the night getting deeper into itself, fingering the hole to Nothing, polishing up moons in dark pockets, the floatsum & jetsum fading away. Suddenly Withersfur goes cratch style & says in her silvery wand-waving way "watch This!" and I watched as she slowly disappeared. It was the greatest most horrible thing I ever saw to think about. Then I understood about death. about night. about goodbye. Then I cried for being alive.
Portica
faulting the tin shingles & rain, Portica fed the heavy sound of water marbles falling into her most scientific music mantling machine. There was much of the magic mystery to be mixed into, minutated mental math to be computompt in what she shone. The wiring transfluxed into fluid fleshy robotics and so she cast a combination button pushing spell to soothe the rhythm into wind pulsing pirouettes, a vagabond's bag of bones rattling down the road. jetting the jaunt, she moved the twirling to subtler stalking wild cat legs & intermittent giants' gaits, gypsy hips jingling the joys of shaking smooth curves. It would be perfect music for her mother's medicine, she decided. and then thanked the original aggrivariance accordianly, offering a psong with her voice and her body expanding & contracting in the original void.
Ginderdon Gets Good News
Enough so that a celebration was in order. Finally, a hope on the horizon. A string of pearls of lucky & planned events unfolding fortunately, favorable winds of change blowing one's way. Potatoes in the pantry, fine weather on the walk to work, the moon glowing interest & curiosity anew. Clouds come to soften Ginderdon to Beauty. He leans back, relaxing body cusioned, mind dancing about - every step a fortalice first-step, old familiar wivern phasis, a banquet for Azrael's lover, Life: mild eureka miracle moments stretched out or piled one upon another. The cold growth & rhododendrons. watch the blossoms bloom hard, fade & grow leaves. Ginderdon gets good news second hand & feels happy, retires in It for a while, makes a mental map so as to receive more. Thanks anyone he can in any way but words.
Heather is an unknown artist in Portland, OR where she does photography, painting, music, writing, dance... she also cares for children and is working hard to Lighten Up while facing the World's Woes.
Last update : 28-02-2008 19:36
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