The Clockwork OstrichA clockwork ostrich walked across the beach. Daniel was a strange guy, but clockwork ostriches were a different kind of strange.
Daniel knew that beach dates are reasonably normal. Unless they take place in the middle of the night, in the middle of winter ; if they do, they definitely are weird, especially when the tide is high and the six-foot surf is booming. But Wendolyn was a weird woman. She was rather enjoying the evening, in fact, as well as the company.
At first they could not see that it was clockwork, or even that it was an ostrich. They just saw a shadow moving across the sand.
They ignored it. Or maybe they didn't even notice it. They were rather concentrating on each other more than anything else, really. The date looked like it was heading in the right direction, reflected Daniel. He didn't need a clockwork ostrich to butt in and spoil the whole thing. Fortunately, clockwork ostriches don't exist – not, I suppose, that mere absence of existence ever stopped something from
PetalsThe rock was painted with broad expressionistic strokes of scarlet. Now, after eternity and a season of rain, all physical evidence is gone. Of course, Jessie has always known she would not survive in body, but in thoughts and words. Tonight they are gathering to express those thoughts and share those words. Jessie is the first to arrive, and she sits down on the rock, watching the sun set and waiting for the others.
After the sun goes down, she stands up. She expects to see the other two climbing – and she does – but what strikes her is the bay, far below: a tireless reminder that the cycles of the world – the crashing of waves, the ebbing and flowing of tides – ceases not even for the most celestially significant of prophets. But now Nina is arriving, and the other one is not far behind.
"Hello. How are you? I haven't seen you since the funeral."
"Has it really been a year? Yes, the 14th of September. Seems like just last week we were in her garden looking for four-leaf
ScissorsShe was like a pair of scissors. She came into my world and started cutting. She cut the strings that hold and the reins that control. She cut the bars that imprison and the leashes that pull.
She cut everything. It was all loose. Every particle of my soul was free to move, free to sing, free to run away. They mingled with each other, and found their friends, and were not held back in their universal dance of life.
All the gates were opened, and particles which had long been locked behind the doors other people's consciousness were free. When these doors swung back, and your soul danced with mine, I realised that any distinction between "you" and "me" and the universe was as meaningless as the distinction between of object and subject. When every particle of being has mixed into the mass of everything, how can they be separated again?
And then she cut my heart. She cut out a little piece, and took it away.
Paint A PictureI want to paint a picture
Paint a picture of nothing
Nothing to do
With anything new
Paint a picture of the past
Make a moment last
Paint a picture in blue
Won't have a clue
But it's a picture of red, purple, and you