The Aspiring Bard

Next Wave at harbor in Sciacca, Sicily Blue Sax notes drift Across N'Awlins square. Sciaccan 'alba': Dew- Wet mooring lines, The rocking motion Of a rain-bound ship. Your eyes that time,  When We just laughed  And laughed. The standout veins in Grandpa's Folded hands... Serenity My rhapsody in blue. Written in response to @artstew52 prompt: Blue

The following is a short story I wrote in collaboration with another member of Art Stew 52. If you're an Instagramer, head over there and give @sweet_little_wood_art a follow! Death Cap by @sweet_little_wood_art Eternus They were the survivors. Two ragged wanderers, made old before their time; Magda and her brother, The Raven. No-one would have suspected them. No-one, that is, except the old king’s Seer. And The Raven had taken care of him. It was the last thing he’d done, but he’d managed it. Magda smiled bitterly over this as she stirred a pot of broth - thin broth for an ailing man - smiled over the irony that she was the one left to finish the job.  “It’s boiled long enough, girl! Take it off the fire before it burns!” Cook was looking over Magda’s shoulder. Magda ducked her head to hide her tell-tale expression and reached with trembling hands to lift the pot. “Mind you don’t spill again!” Cook barked. Magda shuffled painfully, her whole

"He could list off the best coffee grinder brands in his sleep. He could talk origins and roasting times and temperatures. He could make the best cup of coffee you'd ever tasted in your whole life. But when you asked him what his favorite was, you know what he'd say?"  "What, Mom?"  "He'd say, 'oh, no, I don't drink coffee. Never really liked it all that much. Just learned how to make it on account of my wife. She's a real coffee nut.'"  "I guess that's the meaning of true love, then, huh?"  "I guess so. Behind every successful woman is a man who makes her coffee." Written in response to Art Stew 52 prompts: 'But First...' and 'Famous Duos' 

She wept, sometimes, when she thought of the library of Alexandria. She could not bear the thought of all that beauty and wisdom, the treasure of ages, destroyed through carelessness. The books surrounding her held the majority of her own small treasures. The dusty smell of old covers and disintegrating spines and the welcoming crinkle of turning pages spoke to her of riches. Things like the unimaginable blue of skies, and the painter's pallets of sunrise and sunset. Stars, sun, moon, and the wheeling planets. Clouds and mountains and grass. Smiles and flower fields. She traced these sights with delicate fingers, turning with care the fragile pages that she would never be able to see. Written in response to Art Stew 52 prompt: 'Vellichor'