elderly lesbians & bi women being in love & spending their lives together & becoming bickering old ladies who know everything about eachother & have loved eachother for 40 years who have wedding anniversaries and are known by the whole town as a duo and who can’t imagine living without eachother
And one day, she snapped. The tears began to flow, and they fell and fell and fell from her tired eyes as she turned away to run, to hide, to do anything to get away. To escape. It was cowardly, yes, but it was all she had left. Maybe she was running away from herself. Or, maybe running away had become who she was.
This is video of a microburst that happened over my home town yesterday.
I try to explain how rain works here in Tucson, and find it really hard to do so for anyone that lives anywhere else. Yes, YOU PERSONALLY can suddenly get 3″ of water in 15m while your buddy three streets over gets nothing.
i. SHE WANTED TO BE A
For her heart had been molded into thunder,
and the liquid in her veins had been
soaked up & spat out: until it was
not earthly anymore.
(Olympians all knew that Zeus does not forgive.)
ii. SHE WANTED TO BE A
for no one bid her be a canvas, so she became one herself.
She painted a castle with pomegranate juice and called herself
(Zeus takes the picture, and he frames it.)
iii. SHE WANTED TO BE
for her mother’s meadows
were her sole
place to hide whenever she heard
thunder in the distance.
Moons ago, the girl smothered with tall grass did not know how she would
come to withstand and defy them.
iv. (Zeus raises his glass, and says:
this is how you breed a goddess.)
(#21 off the Super Sappy Prompts list: “I’m better when I’m with you.”)
It’s an experiment based on a hypothesis based on a coincidence. They’re sharing a room on a roadie, and Nursey has been stuck in a dry spell for a week and a half now. The words just haven’t been coming the way he wants them to, and he’s starting to feel dried out, like all the creative juices have been wrung out of him by school stress and lack of sleep. Maybe it’ll never come back. Maybe he’s just done. All washed up by the tender age of twenty.
He’s not even trying to write as he watches Dex from across the room, tracking his fidgets and expressions as he sits hunched over his laptop frowning at the screen. It’s been a while since he and Dex have been in the same room for an extended period of time – a fortnight, about. Dex has been on a project, and Nursey started isolating himself about when the drought hit. But it was nice to sit with him on the bus today, and it’s nice to dump his bag near the bed and just relax, hands behind his head, and drink in his presence. It feels like something he’s been missing for far too long.
Nursey’s not sure what it is that makes the words start coming back, but it’s like a cloudburst on a hot day – a few lines, scattered drops against a parched sidewalk, then all at once he’s drowning.
He writes for four hours that night. His poems are full of microchips and anger, all about the gray morality of man against the rigidity of binary code, and by one a.m., when he should really be getting his beauty rest for tomorrow’s game, he’s starting to formulate a theory.
The theory is that maybe being in Dex’s proximity jumpstarts his creativity. In a phrase, Dex inspires him.