Eliza Daley ~ Wordcraft & Musing on Home & Hope
Thomas Bloom was a professor. Business. He was not remarkable looking, talking, feeling, or thinking. The only remarkableness about Tom was an enormous lack of remarkableness. Bored freshmen amused themselves by pretending this apparent unremarkability constituted a cover for a secret identity of intrigue. Only for amusement. Could they have entered his mind, they would… Continue reading A Love Story for Bloomsday
I’ve thought of something I can do with Wednesdays! I participate in various prompts and puzzles on Twitter. I find it helps to keep an old mind limber, being forced to think and create using some idea that is not native to my brain. It forces new perspective. It’s also great fun. And it is… Continue reading The Wednesday Word
They came for me as I was grinding the last of the roasted spelt. My sisters stood by with downcast eyes. I did not know who of them believed in my innocence. I found that I was troubled by this. I would go to my death willingly, but I was unwilling to let the ravenous… Continue reading Immolation
There is such a thing as honor. We denizens of a world much debased and disdainful often forget the word. But ought we? For it still thrives, thrives despite disregard. Honor impeached can stir even the most jaded heart to irrational revenge. Yes, even in this post-modern, ultra-civilized world. And we, voyeurs, stare gape-mouthed in… Continue reading Honor
This is something I've had around for a long time. I'd like it to be a picture book some day. As I have little else in my head right now (other than "ouch" — what with new gardens and box cutters and a number of other stressors) I thought I might share this with you.… Continue reading A Children’s Story
i remember. the smell of water on dust. the sound of birdsong in the soft morning light. the chiaroscuro texture of resin beads on juniper needles. i remember walking. walking. walking. mama at my side. i remember heat. and death. i remember the lost. i remember coming to this place. it’s been seven decades by… Continue reading Memory (Winifred Mumbles)
It might have gone this way. If we'd not burned up all the leftover dinosaurs and tree ferns, it might be about time for this inter-glacial period to end. Imagine climate change without fossil fuels. It began with a few cold summers. The early ones were written off to variously benign causes. Volcanic eruptions. Changing… Continue reading Collision: The Alternative
I am not going. Get that through your stubborn head! Deirdre closed the door — gently — turned her back to it and slid to the floor. She wished, not for the first time, that just once she’d have the pluck to speak her mind. Just once she’d like to not feel like a timid… Continue reading Collision: Some Are Chosen
This particular passage is why I decided to air out this WIP this particular week. Fintan stood on the front steps and drew a deep breath before going into his house. The mail carrier drove up behind him and dumped a pile of catalogs in their box. Now Fintan knew time was wonky. The mail… Continue reading Collision: On Home
This is from a work in progress. I feel like it's a good time to air it out a bit. The cave is always a place where worlds collided, a seam between This and Other. This cave was forged in collision — continents crashing together, volcanic spasms spewing molten rock, mountains thrust to the cold… Continue reading Collision: Prologue
By My Solitary Hearth 