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I like to come back every six months or so and dump something into the pot. Behold: my foray into Bob Rossism for a commission from Scotland. Birds!

TURN

(My 100-word story for Write Club Atlanta)

He stood still on the sidewalk when the birds moved—swollen at first, then shocked and tight, as though bracing for an errant javelin or winged elephant. They swirled around him and he was a sun or some other stationary giant thing; less useful, though, less powerful. He stared and thought how, if he ever did get the notion to dance, it was always swiftly quashed because he’d only be stressed out again shortly thereafter. He thought of this and the birds flew away and he put his arms out and spun, in a slow, modest circle. It was enough.

Surface

You don’t need the feel to find the pound
When you can see it at thirty paces
Before I find the first stair
Before I see your face first in glass and
Leave my nerve on the road behind me
I washed away my hands when the door closed
The bets off, barefoot, and just
The sound of water down your back while I sat
And made every worry worth it

We were made of arms and sighs but
We keep these habits sewn to our sides and
Keep our heads at safe heights so they can
Stow their whispers in our ears

Write Club Atlanta graphic

The best photo of 2011. No context needed.

Soft Star Shoes Barefoot Runamoc Dash. Somebody buy me these.

Dad, as a baby engineer.

[Flash 10 is required to watch video]

Video I’m editing for The Other Sound, pre-green-screen removal.

» Washed Out

Washed Out covers Wicked Game, and well.

Homesick