Time is a Season



Time is a Season~

Time planted its feet in the soft ground at the edge of the road, near the long wooden bridge. It held the banks near the river with tendril fingers that became part of the mirage that invited passersby to step on its spine. The slow sway of the wooden slats could mesmerize a person if they stood still long enough to notice, but most were in a hurry, always in some kind of frenzied hurry. Their voices sputtered out catch phrases like popcorn from an air popper with no bowl to catch them.

“Time stands still for nobody.”

“Time flies.”

“Don’t waste your time.”

Time. A creation of man, for the purpose of counting immeasurable quantities of an intangible. We race against it, fight for it, work for it, play with it – time.

Turn the hands back and ignore the face of time. Let the slow sway of the bridge become our metronome as we cross this canyon together. Let us rest in the breath of the wind as it sweeps over our skin, unhurried. Let us build this memory together, unfettered.

© k~


Moving On


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Moving On

It happened today. Don’t be concerned that you didn’t know, or that you didn’t see it coming. How could I expect you to notice?

It rained last night, and through this afternoon it continues. Not a powerful rain, just enough to keep the ground wet and the skies grey. The rain makes the leaves on the trees glisten, as though they are keeping a bit of starlight alive during the day, starlight close enough to touch. It is appropriate that glistening drops might remind me that dreams continue past the grey showers of days like this, into other days where the sunshine pours out across our shoulders. It is important to remember that contrast drives the motion of a day, one to another, especially when it is difficult to remember.

Today, the rain makes me drowsy. My head feels like a weighted balloon, too heavy to float and to light to think clearly. Shuffled memories steal a look into a moment past, and then shift as quickly to another, while drops patter on the deck quietly. It seems appropriate for today, slightly wet and grey.

I’m not angry at her, how could I be? She stayed as long as she could, longer than most would have, given the same set of circumstances. They poked and prodded, cut and pasted until they had altered her, shaped her, prepared her for today. When I talked to her last week, the joking vibrancy in her voice was shadowed by a lack of energy, she was exhausted. It is no wonder. 

She was my sister in this lifetime, she was my friend.

Now she is gone.



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Windswept memories unclouded by countless years were stacked against the worn wood fence. A hint of honeysuckle circled in spaces between hay bales and cow pastures, pleasantly familiar. While birds tapped out a rhythm on the fence, the two talked of days gone by, and days to come. Urgency mingled with the longing to keep the moment alive.

Friendship measured and metered by memories that remind them both how good it is to be alive.

2013-06-15 © k~

Apples in Symbolism

Apples in Symbolism

The following information was retrieved from Dream Lover Incorporated:


This simple and basic fruit is a powerful symbol in religious writings, literature and in dreams. It fundamentally represents knowledge and the freedom that is associated with it. With knowledge and freedom we are in a position to make positive or negative choices. The apple should be interpreted with the consideration of all the other details in the dream. Is the apple a symbol of positive movement and spiritual and emotional liberation, or is it a symbol of runaway passions and the resulting negativity? Are you giving into temptation and making hurtful choices or are being wise and enjoying the fullness of life?


Retrieved November 25, 2008 from Dream Lover Incorporated <  http://www.dreamloverinc.com >


The apple symbolizes fertility, desire, temptation.  It is said to mean so many differing things that it might well end up as all knowing all things tucked inside thin walls of ripe skin in red.  The myths and traditions span centuries and continents with intrigue and mystery.  It is good to note that in days of old, the word apple, covered many fruits, not just the traditional visual granted to us by Walt Disney. 

It is one more example of the magic that is formed in the red shelled nectar of forbidden fruit.  The apple entices Snow White to take a bite; it makes for a tempting treat when hearts are not available to the Big Bad Wolf, and of course it is offered up to Eve in the fairy tale Garden of Eden. 

To me, the apple symbolizes the juicy, tender meat of a fresh thought sweetened with sunlight and warm to the touch. Both forbidden and delightful, it is truly an example of the yin yang of life’s forces at work.  So it captivates me, sometimes in a grocery store, but more often on the table or counter where it sits bathed in sunlight. 

Nothing quite like a good apple!


Coloured Dreams


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Dreams were surrealistic last night. The words swirled in front of me like they were being blended horizontally on an invisible screen. After a while, I noticed that they were colours, items whose association were automatically given colour when they were allowed to exist. Normally I dream in colour, but this dream was black and white, with only a brief reprieve of grays on a hit-n-run mission to taunt me. My feet were part of the black floor. At least I am assuming it was a floor, there were no tangible lines to touch, or see; perhaps it was not a floor at all, but some type of liquid plastic that held things in place, in this world of black and white. There were no other people, not real people, only those people whose parts were needed to make a point on the invisible screen in front of my face.

“Purple heart,” the system said, then showed me a picture of the medal we associate with it. “It is colourless on the soldier who wears it after death.”

I wanted to understand what the quintessential reason was for this system showing me these coloured, colourless items, but it would not respond to questions; it just continued to spit out coloured items, whose colour meant nothing.

“Red herring,” the system continued “a fallacy that is not a fish, but rather a trick that Aristotle understood to be a distraction. It is colourless.”

I wanted to ask the woman’s robotic voice if it was a red herring, designed to distract me from the real purpose of this dream, but before I could speak, another image flashed upon the screen.

“Heart of gold,” the system said next, then an image of a human heart covered in gold was shown on the screen. I didn’t hear what the system said about the heart, only that it was another fallacy. It was pretty obvious to me (and probably anyone else who had ever seen an image of a real heart) that a gold covered heart would not function in the way a real heart could. It might make a decorative fountain in some odd location, but it wouldn’t pump the blood of life through a human body. I wondered if that was the message, to be alert for obvious, and ignored words that did not literally mean what they said. That made sense to me on some level, but why the colour focus?

I wrote it down while I was still half asleep, so pardon the incongruities that might be present. I wonder if you see the importance of colouring colourless items, and then displaying them to the subconscious mind in a black and white world. Do you dream in colour? Do you remember your dreams?



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“So, you want to get to know me.” she said, then shook her thick head of red hair.

“Well then, what is it you want to know?”

She wondered if she told him how the thoughts cluttered her mind on days when the sun hid from sight, if he would understand. She wished sometimes that she could blurt out the things she did know, so that someone else could share the journey with her.

“I’m a firecracker,” she said after a moment of silence. “At least that’s what people say after they get to know me. People are funny though, don’t you think? I mean really they come up with the image they have of you in their minds before they really even get to know you. It doesn’t happen as easily online, because they don’t see you, judge you, and size you up before they even get to know you. Still it happens though.”

There it was, the thoughts that kept returning as of late. Those indescribable remnants of times lived when everyone decided what she was, and nobody knew. Invisible moments when the world she lived in was chaos and the characters who played their parts all seemed to have the same script, a script she had never been privy to.

“How well can you get to know someone?” she asked. “Unless you can climb into their soul, there’s little hope of getting to know a person well enough to understand them. Though I do think we get lucky from time to time, and find those people we can relate to so well it feels like two souls that have connected, that share some kind of Venn diagram existence… maybe they always have.”

She shifted in her seat, mimicking the uncomfortable feeling that moved through her.

“People want to fit in with a tribe, or clan. It seems to be almost as important to them as their sexual conquests. Both have a tendency to minimize their potential in a world of their creation. Too much focus on fitting in and their individual beauty, wonder, and natural uniqueness is tossed aside in order to accomplish the feat.”

She thought about the poem they passed around in school, and decided to share it.

“I was pretty young the first time I saw this poem. It said the things I couldn’t say, in words I understood, related to, and kept folded in my pocket in case I found someone else who might understand them too. Maybe you are that person. Somewhere along the pathway of this life, I figured out that I wasn’t meant to ‘fit in’, I’m not sure any of us are. There is a kind of magick in the understanding that different is okay, and as a writer, it is even better than okay, it is fantastic, but before I could understand that, I had to get past the feeling of emptiness that covered all hope, to get past the desire to fit in with the tribe I was a part of, but not in. Anyway, here’s the poem:”

May Your Skies Always Be Yellow

He always wanted to explain things
But no one cared
So he drew
Sometimes he would draw and it wasn’t anything
He wanted to carve it in stone
Or write it in the sky
He would lie out on the grass
And look up at the sky
And it would be only the sky and him and the thing that needed saying
And it was after that
He drew the picture
It was a beautiful picture
He kept it under his pillow
And would let no one see it
And he would look at it every night
And think about it
And when it was dark
And his eyes were closed
He could still see it
And it was all of him
And he loved it
When he started school he brought it with him
Not to show anyone but just to have it with him
Like a friend
It was funny about school
He sat in a square brown desk
Like all the other square brown desks
And he thought it should be red
And his room was a square brown room
Like all the other rooms
And it was tight and close
And stiff
He hated to hold the pencil and chalk
With his arms stiff and his feet flat on the floor
With the teacher watching
And watching
The teacher came and smiled at him
She told him to wear a tie
Like all the other boys
He said he didn’t like them
And she said it didn’t matter
After that they drew
And he drew all yellow
And it was the way he felt about morning
And it was beautiful
The teacher came and smiled at him
“What’s this?” she said
“Why don’t you draw something like Ken’s drawing?”
“Isn’t that beautiful?”
After that his mother bought him a tie
And he always drew airplanes and rocket ships
Like everyone else
And he threw the old picture away
And when he lay out alone and looked out at the sky
It was big and blue and all of everything
But he wasn’t anymore
He was square inside and brown
And his hands were stiff
And he was like everyone else
And the things inside him that needed saying
Didn’t need it anymore
It had stopped pushing
It was crushed
Like everything else.

She decided to leave things right there. She really wasn’t all that complicated, it was their own internal wiring that made it seem that way. She just thought, a lot, and deeply, about everything.

“Is it sad that I don’t trust people enough to let them love me? Love, what a word, I suppose I could do better than that with all the smithing that I do. Love means too many things, to too many people, to stand up to any one definition, and when I think about what it means to most people, I have to retract it from my vocabulary once again. Love to most people means “I need you,” or “If I promise this, you will give me that.” it’s a bargaining tool, or a possession of, which is a far cry from what my original thought about love was. Now I find it to be one of those words which has to be defined by both parties in order to even come close to understanding what it means… silly me.”

She wanted to keep talking, to keep sharing, but she knew she had said enough already. The clock reminded her that she had other things to do today, many other things to do today.

“Well, it looks like I better head out of here, I have a lot to accomplish in a short amount of time. Such is the life of a firecracker,” she laughed to herself, as she picked up and headed out the door.

“Have a great rest of the day!”

Breakfast ~


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This is a continuation of the story Margo Manning – You can find the story in its entirety here, you can find the last post here.

Margo was so hungry, that when they got to the restaurant she attempted to give the person seating them her order.

“Hold on a minute,” Grifton said. “This poor guy doesn’t even take orders, let alone at the door.”

Margo’s cheeks turned a soft shade of pink. “Sorry about that Grif, I am so hungry, I am not thinking straight,” she said as she slid over the smooth vinyl into the booth.

The rustic pine walls reminded Margo of her grandmother’s cabin. A large, stuffed Polar bear stood at the entryway; it had been standing in the same place for the last 50 years. She had practically grown up in the Nanook. The first time she came in, it was with her father. He liked to have a cup of coffee while he was reading, and on occasion he would take Margo with him. There were small jukeboxes on each of the tables back then, and for a few quarters, she could pretend she was a D.J.

“What are you thinking so hard about Margo?” Grifton asked.

“You mean besides breakfast?”

Her laugh made his face light up. “Yes, besides breakfast.”

“I was thinking about the first time I came into this place. I was with my father and probably about 4 years old. He used to bring me with him when he was reading something he didn’t want to put down. I would play the jukebox, and he would read for hours. I’m surprised he never turned into a coffee bean for all the coffee he drank while we were here!”

The name tag on the waiter’s shirt said Chris.

Grifton set the menus down on the edge of the table and said “We’ll have two of your number 8’s, one with sausage and the other with bacon.”

“And some coffee please,” Margo added.

Characters Nagging~


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“Where’d she go?” little b asked.

“Who the hell knows. She just left me here, hungry and with no words food to eat. Just wait til she gets her ass back in here. I’m going to…”

An eraser falls from the ceiling and lands on the last bit of Stormy’s words.

“You better not talk about her like that Stormy, you know if she gets really mad she can just write you out of here!” said little b.

“She can do whatever the…” Stormy pauses and looks up at the ceiling, pretends she is wiping the hair from her forehead and forces a saccharin smile. “I’ve got things to do little b, do you want to come with me?”

“Oh, no Stormy, your world scares the bejeebers outta me, I’m just going to stay right here until she gets back.” He picks his crayon up and starts drawing again.

Stormy walks by him and shuffles the hair on the top of his head with her fingers. “You’ll be alright in here little b. I’ll catch ya next time she leaves us hanging in the middle of a story like this.”

“Okay Stormy. Good bye,”

A plate of soft, frosted cookies appears next to little b’s colouring book.

“Thank you,” he says with a smile, as he takes a giant bite and continues to colour.

Skydiving (part three)



This is a continuing story, you can find the complete version here, and last week’s story here. Each Saturday I will add a bit more until we come to completion.

Margo pulled her knees up and tried not to close her eyes as the ground got closer. When they landed she tumbled over onto Grifton, not so gracefully. It was a few minutes before she realized they were on the ground. Grifton could feel the heat of her body close to him, so close he was finding it hard to think about anything but the way she smelled, and how much he wanted to kiss her.

“Oh, gawd Grif, I am so sorry. Did I squish you into the grass?” Margo asked as she tried to stand up. Her legs felt like rubber bands.

Grifton laughed. “Squished. That’s not a word I would have used, but squished it is. Squished. Squished. Squished.” he repeated.

Margo lowered her head and looked at him with daring eyes. “Are you making fun of my words Grif?”

“Me? Of course not! Would I do a thing like that to you after you just jumped from a plane?”

“You just did,” she said.

“Are you talking about when you ‘squished’ me Margo?” he teased.

Margo started walking away from him, and it wasn’t until she was a few feet away that Grif realized she had taken his favorite ball cap with her. When she came back around the corner she had it on her head.

“Trade you for breakfast,” she said, “Or would you rather I squish it?”

He raised his eyebrows, and gave her a serious squint. “There will be no ‘squishing’ of the hat.”

“Does that mean you’re taking me to breakfast?” She waved the hat in the air a couple of times, as Grifton was pulling the chute back into the covered area.

“Yeah, it means I’ll take you to breakfast. You know how to drive a hard bargain.”

“Can we go to that place that has really good bacon and hash browns?” She asked.

“Any where you want Margo, just as long as you don’t squish me or my hat.”

“No promises.” she said as she sashayed away.