#Micropoetry Monday: Apocalypse


People became ashes,
buildings turned to dust,
& out of the rubble,
the remains of humanity emerged.
Rather than 2 of everything,
there was but 1 of every vocation,
& mankind began again.

They chose their babies from the AutoMat,
& all that could be wrong was wiped out,
though what was considered wrong,
was simply different.

When everything became automated,
humans had time enough to contemplate & create
even more things that would phase them out.

Creating art, writing with imagination,
& speaking from the heart,
were the skills of the non-automatons,
the year of our NewTech Millennials, 2100.

Their lives were lived through a screen,
& in the mypoic pursuit of chronicling them,
they missed out on what was going on
in their peripherals.


#Fiction Friday: #Micropoetry from the Book


David was like a real father,
Mother, an adopted parent,
& yet, I never tried to seek out
another mother,
Heavenly or otherwise,
for he was all.

Though Mother would marry David in the temple,
it would be for time only;
Patrick would get all eternity–
all because he had come first.

For years, I’d seen my mother as selflessly devoted to my father,
my father selfishly clinging to my mother from beyond the grave.

David had raised me from the time I was 5,
but Mother had been watching me since birth-
waiting for what would be,
a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Whatever touched Mother’s life,
touched ours,
for so entwined were we,
it was impossible
to disentangle ourselves
from the binds
of Mormonism.

Book Review: The Laws of Subtraction


To be fair, I didn’t finish this book (which is why it gets one star). I was only able to finish the Introduction (which was promising), and most of the first chapter. When Mr. May talked about design (and I’m not even a design major, much less an artist), I was engaged, but as soon as he started talking about cars, I could feel myself enter outer space.

I like to say that “Brevity is literary minimalism”; Mr. May broke his own rule by using the phrase “shrug our shoulders” (xii)–what else would one shrug?

I was actually looking for a book on minimalism (not the art, but the lifestyle), and this book just seemed to go on and on about other things. I must say, the title was clever, but the six simple rules he comes up with don’t make a lot of sense to me, such as “Doing something isn’t always better than doing nothing”. (One could replace “doing nothing” with “doing something else”.) That said, I did like his “better with less” (xiii) adage (in conjuction with, but not opposed to, “more with less”). Another quote I liked was “The ability to use patterns to create meaningful relationships from seemingly unrelated elements is a uniquely human attribute and the hallmark of creativity” (12). This has to be one of Glenn Beck’s favorite quotes.

However, he lost me when he said, “If I could figure out how to get this particular portfolio of insight and inspiration into your head with an affordable form of magic that removes the written word entirely, I would” (xv). A writer wishing the abolition of the written word? I don’t think so. Not enough people read now.

I do believe that “what isn’t there” is as important as “what is there”. We always talk about the need for plenty of white space in writing or “reading between the lines”.

I tried to read a few of the contributors, but couldn’t get into those either. This book might’ve made a good series of heavily truncated blog posts, but that’s about it.

#Micropoetry Monday: Love Comes Darkly


The curtains on the windows of their souls parted.
The bride didn’t run away with the groom,
but with the man who almost married them.

Her wedding had been a bright dot
on the timeline of her life,
her divorce a dark one,
the line connecting them turning clear,
for the ending blurred the happy memories.

He had the taste of love,
the smell of success,
the Midas touch,
until he saw & heard his past
catch up to him
in the form of a love-child
& back-child support.

He married her,
she converted,
& only because of her newfound faith,
was she willing stay,
when she otherwise
would have left.

If she wanted to keep anything,
she would have to keep it away from him.

#Fiction Friday: #Novelines from the Book


She turned to me, but I wasn’t prepared for the bombshell she was about to drop. “You see, I met David the day before I was to be married.”

“When your father moved us here, I thought we had lost David, but he found us. He always found us. I could never run away from his love.”

“I didn’t know David until it was too late,” Mother was saying, though I was only half-listening, uncomprehending, unprepared.

I ran to the sidewalk where Caitlin stood, the balmy breeze blowing her paisley skirt around her knees. It was finished.

I felt about Sundays like the servants of Polly Harrington’s had. I hated them, though instead of a sour stomach, they gave me a migraine.

Every Sunday was St. Patrick’s Day for us until the day Mother decided to give it back to God who had been, as David, waiting patiently for her.

Lancaster County—where we hadn’t been back since the day we’d left our Amish & Mennonite friends, never to hear from them again.

Mother canonized Patrick long ago, even as my sister prayed to him like a Saint. As for me, I had deified David, so I had no use for the dead.

David left us every Saturday evening, not to return till sundown Sunday; those hours were for mourning Patrick, or St. Patrick’s Sabbath Day.

Knowing that Mother had known David before she married my father made me wonder just when it was she fell in love with him.

Mother’s talk of betrothals & marrying my father out of honor seemed archaic & passionless to me.