Greetings everyone!

February comes and goes so quickly, I can’t believe it is March already!

Suggestions have been dwindling of late, please feel free to send them in! Otherwise we are left to pick our own and we all know that thorns will feature any poems about coconuts and neurotype-on-discord will find prose about cake!

What DD's stood out for you this month?

Here is the roundup for March:





the tease of Earl Greywhen leaves speak they rustle
but shan't talk of lost cattle
out of bags like cats lying
purring perhaps stirring
gainsaying the language
of pictures - much fewer
than one thousand words
whispered soft - softer
ours to read into
by catching a hint of
some spiciness brewed
a sugaring of love -
or upcoming danger
a giving or taking
from whom in this strange land
once was a stranger
by this chance assessed
through one's cup or glass
darkly lit yet it be
from wet leavings of tea
hopefully let it be
the sugaring of love -
llp - dA - jan2013
DD - feb1/2013 the eyepatch and the handcuffs     his hands have promised
     to wipe off every fingerprint
     your last lover left on you
     he has sworn he will
     wear gloves, when he needs to,
     and pay attention to the instructions on the boxes
     "this side up"
     and "fragile"
     and you have sworn
     you will try to let him
     i hear your bodies whispering these things to each other
     when you think i'm asleep
     and i've seen your nervous window-glances
     when he is mumbling oaths into your neck
     you still cherish the swirling bruises
     because you think they're all you deserve
   EurydiceHis voice enveloped me, and I became
Myself again--I heard it in the song:
A mordent on a note he held too long;
A stutter in his voice. I heard my name
In these and felt a happiness the same
As when I saw him first. Oh, I had longed
To hear him sing again, but this last song--
It was so beautiful. And it remains
The best of human works, though none shall hear
Its sorrowed notes; the lyre's meand'ring tune
Through vast arpeggios and Death's expanse
Except the dead. It will not disappear
'Till all the world's destroyed, and hell's exhumed--
Such music must be worth a backwards glance.

Mature Content

:thumb351633184: It Bit Me"And tomorrow we'll install the kitchen cabinets along this wall here," the man gestured into the adjacent room.
My mother nodded in agreement as the construction contractor spoke. All the while, I sat slouched in boredom against the unpainted drywall of my newly-constructed home, my eyes wandering around the unborn living room as I searched for something, anything, to pique my interest. I desperately prayed for any form of entertainment or distraction, but the room loomed in desolate quietness. The scruffy man with my mother turned and stretched his hand out towards the wall directly across from me, redressing the cryptically dull conversation into that of the addition of a new fireplace. I gave another sigh of boredom and rested my small chin on top of my crossed arms. But just then, salvation presented itself to me in the form of a slight glinting atop the nearby counter dividing the two rooms.
I returned my gaze to my mother, who still stood with her back to me, nodding on occasion:thumb297137781:

Mature Content

:thumb349883726: GolemWe remember when you dug us from the riverbank, but we forgive you. The water was cold and the people had need of us.
We remember when you divided and shaped us, but we forgive you. We were without form and the people had need of us.
We remember when you put us in flames, but we forgive you. We were soft and the people had need of us.
We recall the day when you sent us against swords. This we forgive. The people had need of us: we would not desert them when foes were near.
We remember when you broke us with hammers. Even this we forgive. The battle was won, and the people had no more need of us.
But though shattered, we remained on the hillside, for no people came to sweep the shards away. This too we forgive, for our eyes remained littering the ground and it allowed us to see.
We saw you crowned and we rejoiced though our own heads were shattered. We saw rings on your fingers and we applauded though our own hands were lost. We saw robes on your shoulders and we were glad, though our o

Mature Content

:thumb342136514: carouselwe laughed like children high on m&ms,
danced like we were carousel horses,
and jump-roped our way through obstacle courses.
I saved our footsteps in mason jars,
in case we ever needed to follow yellow brick roads
to get home.
home was an illusion:
honesty without truth,
apologies without forgiveness,
I kept home sandwiched between
"never" and "have to."
caroline, they'd say. caroline,
stop being such a dreamer. stop taking
us for granted.
I packed every apology possible
into my breath, left runaway plans lingering
in the silence between family.
when I found you dancing in the street,
I listened for merry-go-round music.
I tried to take you with me, I'm sorry.
instead I left you breathless,
left you safe, left without you.
I took our footsteps, just in case I
ever needed a way back home.
sometimes, I wonder if I left you
without a safety net.





:thumb280408057:

Mature Content

my howls are silentI, too, see the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness. We are decomposing too early, our souls dying before our bodies can catch up. We are silently ravenous, a quiet craze in our hearts, not quite the same as your generation, Ginsberg. We do not shriek "Holy! Holy! Holy!" as we burn. We drown soundlessly.
The overeducated, proud products of postmodernism dissolve in a lukewarm soup of ennui, bored balloons filled with hubris rather than helium. Fragile dolls with flaking bones and hair and skin like flowers wilting, weighed down by indomitable wills and insecurities... these plastic girls starve to death and diabetes in the car beside me, fantasizing about food in the passenger seat. Former nymphets gouge symbols into themselves, the bleeding crags physical outlets for the demonic depression, for the memories of beloved older brothers molesting them in the living room, while her mother sits at a hospital bedside beside a fading father.
I see the most remarkable minds crippl Never ToldHe thinks it's odd, sometimes, though he's not certain why.
A sense of dislocation, perhaps. Like cutting yourself on an unsharpened blade. He walks the immense aisles of the cathedral, footsteps echoing hollowly into the blue shadows of high vaulted ceilings and arches, stone figures watching him from above as he, in turn, watches dawn play across their carved and weathered faces. The grandeur of this place is oddly soothing in the solitude it affords him. A holy place, just hushed, here suspended in the silence after Mattins when most have shuffled out. It's a favorite moment of his, a favorite service to attend, and today it gives him pause—there is training, and paperwork, and a squire for him to wake and a council meeting and a king, but he lets himself linger nonetheless. Just for a heartbeat, just for a heartbeat.
Hal smoothes his fingers over the well-worn coolness of a granite pillar, and he passes it by for the window beyond it, so familiar. He tilts his head back to At the Turn of the Year
澄んだ空碧い湖深みけり
sunda sora aoi mizuumi fukami keri
clear sky
deepens
the blue lake.
日から日へ相対論の年終わる
hi kara hi e soutairon no toshi owaru
day after day about the theory of Relativity,
a year approaches its end.
バス停やどんどん廻る腕時計
basu tei ya dondon mawaｒu udedokei
the bus stop-
wrist watch whirls in a haste
人形のつやをかぶせるほこりかな
ningyou no tsuya wo kabuseru hokori kana
covering the gloss on the doll-
dust.
obscuring the glory of a puppet-
empty praises.
掃除機で埃も猫も駆けにけり
soujiki de hokori mo neko mo kake ni keri
the vacuum cleaner-
chased away the dust
Blind and Broken - a play(Lights up. The stage is dim except for a light center stage, where there is a single chair with the WOMAN sitting in it. She is sitting very seriously, if slightly solemn. Her eyes are closed and remain closed until otherwise stated.)
WOMAN: Noises. They were all that I could sense. There was nothing else but noises. Sounds, sirens, screams…laughter. Those were the only things registering in my mind, in my head. The smell of blood was long gone, though I knew it was still there; the feeling of warmth had vanished; and everything was dark. At least, that part can be explained—my eyes were shut tight. For what reason, I can only speculate…I was not a part of this, am not a part of this. I was an observer…a victim. Yet, somehow, I was an accomplice. I didn’t want to see it, in the end, though.
I don’t know how long I had been standing there, hands held behind me by what should had been cold metal cuffs, though I had no feeling of them :thumb348950738: The Last SongDo you think we'll get a last song?
I'm not sure.  This diary I'm writing in is full of holes.  It's sopping like a wet sponge.  It reeks, but what doesn't in the filth and the mess?
Storm's passing.  Not like I've ever seen here.  Even the explosive storms of my youth; running in the fields, the junkyards, the rust-ravaged train tracks of old wasn't quite like this.  
Something's exploded against the skyline.  Orange is reflecting off the glass; the spider-striped, near shattered glass I kicked two weeks ago while mowing the grass.
It might be the gas works.  Or the chemical sheds.  Weyrdstorms do this, you know.  That's what the warnings said.  Electricity and chaos and hellish atomic confusion mixed into an atmospheric slurry and let to rage.  I ask the question because music's the one thing I'm yearning for right now.  It settles me, helps me think.  Always has, though keeping my sister's sniveling furthest from my head might be an ulterior motive.
Do I think I'm escaping this plac open letter to my first holy communion teacherdear miss bond,
you may or may not remember me. you taught me religion at my local church, we called it First Holy Communion but i always secretly thought it was brainwashing. you were so passionate about it, you seemed to make it palatable. it is only in later years, seeing what religion is, that i have recanted my faith. but you - when i think of you, i still feel my fingers twitching to bless the Father, the Son, the Holy Ghost. i think of the lace squares that you would give us, your children; your flock, when we learnt a prayer. parrot this, child, and you shall be given pretty, clean edged doilies. white lace, it was rough on our fingertips. religion bought us and we shall have the steady thudding of Our Father in our minds from the rest of our lives. you made it a blessing to believe. the reality is; it is a curse. i hope you can never see that.
i have been thinking about the concept of sin. we are all born with original sin. i hear that purgatory is outdated, now? that's a sham Gourmet Novel RecipeRecipe for Writing a Novel
Serves: 1. If you’re J K Rowling, billions.
Ingredients
- 1 Tin standard cat food
- 1 Laptop/Computer
- 250g cat biscuits
- Paper
- 5 Pens, various colours.
- 1 stuffed cat toy with bell
- 1 pouch slightly fussier cat food
- 1 sachet gourmet cat food
- 1 bottle of wine, red or white
- 1 Wine glass (Large)
- 1 300g Tin of tuna
Cooking time: 2-5 years
Preparation
(Preparation time approximately 10-60 minutes depending on condition of desk and computer speed)
1. Clear space on desk. If you do not have respective space for junk, throw on floor. Place paper and pens in clear space.
2. Turn on computer and allow 10 minutes for slow loading time. Add 2-3 sighs as windows update informs to restart computer. Restart computer and allow a further 10 minutes.
3. Once computer is ready, open up new document.
  
Cooking

1. Begin with your plot. Open internet to several pages, use pens and paper to mix r

Mature Content

Right Hand, Left HandI wish
being a lesbian were like
being left-handed.
Whenever someone notices
you writing a cheque
or doodling
or opening a door
And they exclaim:
"You're left-handed?"
I wish it were as simple as that.
When it's funny
and I laugh, panicking.
Such stuff punchlines are made on,
that such a casual,
integral,
part of myself
has the spotlight shone on it,
And revealed (they think)
their own ignorance,
(How wonderful it is to enlighten someone
by being.)
And yet I never hear the questions
that logically spring to mind:
"Won't you have trouble with the gearshift
on a car?"
"How do you use scissors?"
"Can you even write
with your right hand?"
I wish all comparisons
and metaphors
were true. Tight jeans and Theatrical boysI pull up in his dad's driveway
and the boy sitting on the stoop looks like
Saint Exupery's treasured little prince.
When he climbs inside my used Sentra,
I tell him about this quirky realization.
"You're both so cute and opinionated."
He grins and replies that it's his favorite book
to read when life is particularly rough.
Cappuccino sips and playful shoves
convert the evening into something
brilliantly unstable and devastatingly 'teenager'.
I want to kiss him violently, so we can stop this
annoying game of cat and mouse.
But instead, we discuss music
and other topics that make me feel childish.
He asks where I would go if I could
teleport myself anywhere at any desired time
and I confess that I'd like to visit
someplace up north with a lot of trees and
not enough people to criticize me.
He nods like he understands, but
I wonder if he secretly thinks I'm rude.
Propping himself up on the hood of the car,
he takes a long drink and I watch how his
throat works as he swallows
the caramel Mono.One morning a black pillar appeared in the center of town, within the boundaries of the park and right outside of the library.  It stood at least thirteen feet tall and was as wide as a mature oak.  They deduced it was made out of some kind of polished stone.  Some guessed it was obsidian; others argued it was too strong to be such a fragile stone.  It could have been granite, but when was the last time you saw black granite in that quantity, and in that shape?
"We should knock it down and drag it away!" someone shouted.
But they were too afraid to touch it.
"Why not just leave it here?" another suggested.
But they wondered what would happen if they didn't do anything at all.
Whoever put it there didn't do it alone.  They'd need a truck to transport the thing, and they'd need some way to get it off the flatbed and stand it up straight.  But why go to all of that trouble for a pillar of rock?  Or was it part of someth despondenti.
"are you sleepy today?"
"yes."
"but you were sleepy yesterday."
"i know."
ii.
she stirs her pomegranate green-tea until it turns from clear to purple
setting it on her bedside table and climbing back into bed again.
her fingers follow the bluer-than-usual constellation veins on her wrists and down
to the freckle on her forearm and then the scar on the inside of her elbow
crossing the tendon as if it were crux.
and then she remembered that God hasn't been with her lately.
iii.
today is long and sunny but when she steps outside the humidity creaks her bones
and her skin starts to inflame.
she assumes that if getting the mail is a struggle, having a child would be too.
iv.
often times when she sets her tea down she remembers that her Bible is in the drawer beneath
along with the crucifix necklace that her mother made her.
v.
her husband comes home late nowadays and she never questions why that may be
because she knows.
she would do the same too if she had a wife who took four different Lament of an AtheistI cut candles straight down their waxy center
just by looking into the flame. Slick peels of
honeycomb melt into my palm and blister skin.
Then the world ricochets forward.
I plummet back into my body and there's
a thick distortion in audio. A constant pulse at
the back of my eyes, tuned to the rhythm of your
heartbeat. I look for traces of you, but,
God, you're lost.
Leaves fall as paper lanterns from wooden fingers.
Spiraling upwards on the breath of cosmos, back
to Heaven, lit like the sun on a marvelous azure
backdrop. I needed your wisdom, but all is gone.
Christ, you're dead.
Atheists are not meant to love. Realists are not
meant for passion. Idealists are the dreamers
of their own demise; only they can make it
happen.
A man once told me that the astute make terrible
lovers, but I'll fight that to the bitter end. Maybe
the irrational are so hopeful in their wafts of
hallucination they cannot come to mindful conclusions
of their forsaken love.
There's a poet under my skin, itching Firebird           The radio was the last thing Gwen packed.
           It was an afterthought, an act of impulse. She’d been in the pantry, raiding every scrap of non-perishable food she could get her hands on. She shoved granola bars and bags of pretzels into the folds of the clothing that was already taking up the majority of the space in her beat-up purple backpack. She’d had the backpack since she started Kindergarten. Joel had never cared enough to buy her a new one.
           When her bag was bursting at the seams, Gwen jerked the zipper closed, using her knee and the side of the washing machine as a makeshift clamp to hold the bag shut. Just as she tugged the zipper into place, though, a blush of pink caught her eye from behind the dryer. She set the bag down quietly on the stained linoleum and tried to get a better look at the object. It was small, pink, and probably plastic, but tha a ribcage drenched in dusti have your ribcage, you said.
what should i put in it?
i told you i'd always wanted a fire,
the kind that would fill my eyes with starlight
and pump my blood full of passion, but
you're made of wildflowers, you said.
a fire would burn you to ash.
you wanted to fill my chest with
the sound of a train, whistling
far away in the night;
with the sound of rain smacking leaves;
with the sound the wind makes
when it seems like it's trying to speak
and you wanted to throw in the
smell of midnight in august
and the feeling of sand being
sucked out from under your feet
when the ocean inhales,
and the strange little moment of
bittersweet joy you get when
someone else puts your soul into words
and you realize you're not as alone as you thought.
i told you that if i had all that inside me,
i'd ache all the time
and you smiled a sad little smile,
because you already knew that ache.
because you were a writer, and you ached all the time.
i've got it, i said.
tell A Name You Can Trust  Indignant? Disgruntled? Need an attorney who won't back down (no matter how many mafia hit men are on your trail)? Need to sue the smirk off that jerk who dared to diagnose you with anger issues? Tired of “justice” getting in the way of the benefits that you deserve? If you want passionate, aggressive, and ruthlessly persistent legal representation, it’s time you called Winier Trust, an attorney who will stop at nothing (nothing!) to insure you win your case.
           Winier Trust is more than just an attorney; he's your personal advocate. Trust works beside you not only as a legal representative, but as a close and caring friend.
           "When I first called Mr. Trust to handle my divorce case, I was in such a state,” says teacher Margery Williams. “Mr. Trust was a bastion of sage wisdom and compassion. He put me at ease from the moment he arrived. Panicked, I once called Mr. Trust in the middle of the night and asked him for his guidance. No more mutethings have been easier
without words &
we pretend neither of us care;
we stutter
splutter
laughing and choking
on puns &
when you bend me over nouns
i scream
louder
growl
more fluent.
the words are there waiting to be spoken
me . you . love
my dear, we've been mute
for so long
speak to me. I, BULBOUS: Page 1IT was a dark and stormy night.
Or rather: it is, at present, a dark and stormy night.
You open I, BULBOUS to page 1 and already, on page 1 of I, BULBOUS, you find yourself trapped in some sort of lair and, resisting your best readerly instincts to put the book down and do something better with your time, you keep reading, eyes scrolling across the page and down the paragraph, rolling like a twin pair of pinballs along the predetermined course of some great textual Rube Goldberg machine whose denouement, though as yet unimaginable to you, is - or so you imagine - crushingly unimpressive, and still you read, and the further you read, the lower your eyelids droop, and deeper and deeper you fall under the spell of The Author, and thus, less and less escapably - which is to say more and more inescapably - do you find yourself trapped in the aforementioned lair, which, little by little, is becoming more and more populated with detail.
The aforementioned lair, like th starspunwe inhale the romanticism
of hooded cemetery kids
smoking cigarettes pretending
they are not dead.
you were always so sure
about my uncertainty,
you watched
all my pick up lines
drop things
into open graves
meant for us.
your eyes always wandered
down thoughtful
leaf-strewn paths.
i wanted to ask you
if i could follow
but i came alone this time
i remember our innocence
in the static b e t w e e n
stars, think
about how youth without you is th-
awing out the lines in my whittled-out eyes
i look to the hooded
cemetery kids,
wonder what we'd have been like
if we grew up as nothings,
like them. teenage
nothings with chiseled
marble in our
voices
i settle for a star.
it's almost as luminous
as the afterglow of us,
almost as eerie as the cookie cutter continent
we pledged allegiance to
just because we were raised that way
i wanna know
what it's like to break the rules,
to be embodied by rebellion and (t)reason.
my voice trembles,
asks the hooded
cemetery kids
how
glances aside, grins A Product Label.Love. (Requited Edition)  
Directions:
Apply thoroughly all over body
Avoiding contact with delicate eye area
Repeat on a regular basis
For best results:
Use in conjunction with other products.
Keep stored in a cool place
Keep out of reach of children
Do not use if seal is broken or missing
Choking hazard
Do not swallow
For external use only.
If irritation occurs, discontinue use-
Rinse eyes immediately with water
If symptoms persist
Seek medical advice or see your doctor
Handle contents with care. the hungry look...the hungry look,
the wolves
weaving through
and around
  the gully of your throat like wraiths,
we can feel you rusting, lost one;
i know that drainpipes and fenders
begin to crackle after winter wet
and that there’s a touch of snow
in all of us,
but no one,
no one could hold you as tightly as you do,
your whole body, bloodless in this arrest,
and if you will not let your fetters show
i will show you
there’s a place for going, and you haven’t gone there yet;
where quantum particles, once in contact, can retain a connection
even when separated
where you
wander up to a stranger
with your shirt inside-out
and say ‘don’t mind me, i am just a deer come out to observe the world’
some strange magic, that once done, cannot let go





:thumb347001603: for onceCold
blackempty
like the cavern where crimson vellum once resided
Drenched in reticence,
your empty blue eyes do nothing
but freeze the blood in these veins
surrounded by phantoms,
i lie in the dark next to your fading silhouette
between sheets that hold so many memories,
they are empty,
like the chestnut eyes that bore into yours
And as the rain              falls harder
as it falls faster
washing down the streets
through deep alleys,
down endless roads,
for
once
just
once
i pray it takes me with the back of your head against my washed pillowcaseI find it
disconcerting
that
you are the King
of my own Head
& that I am
subjugated
by my own
temptation
My bones, your
welcome mats,
cushioned
to your insatiable
satisfaction
--
I find this
discomforting,
your  constant
rebirths in my
libido, despite
three years of
silent therapy,
false recovery
& worshipping
     the wrong  gods
you are the best muse
for struggling artists
everywhere & worst
case of the bubonic plague
since the bubonic plague
--
I find you
disenchanted
in the middle
of any where,
peeling flesh,
lulling  sullen
sirensongs at
3AM
I shot a flock
of  phoenixes
& ate Adam's
poison apple
yet
I remain ignor
ant  and ignor
ed by you
--
I find Nothing-
decontaminate
your stovepipe
& leave me be.:thumb345731211: Worn Out Siren TalesI was once the moon-rippled, crystal clear
disturbance at shore
and you found hope, resting
on the borders of
sand and wave.
When I moved, you breathed,
It just isn't worth it,
and I
wish
I
had listened.
I was carved on ship hulls for a
reason,
and I was summoned from sleep to
drown myself in the clutches
of a sea that disowned me
for one too-
and I wrote on woody parchments
for more attention than
story-telling.
So when you moved, I stopped,
Tell me this is eternal,
And I
wish-
I really
wish
I had not. A+Pyou bare your muscles,
threaded in tight knots, bundled  
but beautiful, yours
like those fibrous eyes,
irises in maple coils
unwinding me, as
unkempt synapses.
a glance inside your lovely
skin, bones, nerves, I'd like
to press your pleasure
points, to scrape against your thighs,
my fingers trembling,
the dimples on your
shoulders, enzymes, waiting for
an induced fit, mine,
thumbs brushing your hips,
lips lain softly twixt your veins,
a complex of us,
your latticed, protein-
laden pulchritude, pleated,
folded into sheets,
await just one touch. Expunge    It starts like the bristling detachment of Velcro or the arrogant snap of a rubber band on your wrist. The cringing, ripping sound, the reflexive quick sting, ringing vibrantly on in the moments after. Like a bell that tolls a beat of hours that is overlooked in the passing, then counted by recalling rhythm afterwards. Instinctually, you want to keep going, keep climbing, over rubble and debris. The day has long since ended as you move through stark jagged blackness. You check the breast pocket of your jacket for a match. You strike the little brown line, once, twice, three times and light the now apparent hallway. The match burns down to your fingertips and dies. You let the remnants of stick and ash fall on the floor of the thick carpeted rug, decorated like elevator music, and see that your panoramic view of atmosphere stays alight, and right in front of you your eyes are beholding a door in your path.
    You can’t open the door by force. Your elongated appendages, unique plumbumshe has a heart of gold
and she, a heart of lead
and she, a heart of uranium.
and they go walking sometimes, the three of them.
gold is confident in her worth,
untarnishable
bought and sold and bought and sold
the virgin whore
and lead behind,
heart heavy in her chest
guilt from bullets
and pride from pipes
and anxiety from irreparable brain damage
and somewhere off to the side treads uranium,
tumors growing,
white skin glowing,
thin frame for a dense core. The Finest Casket (Complete Story)The chandlers, grocers, butchers, clothiers, and every other merchant in Chantsville was yelling in the streets outside the shop where I was studiously working. Their ruckus combined with the bleats and squawks of livestock wandering underfoot, creating a bustling racket that would drive the unfamiliar ear to distraction.
I was used to the noise, however, and I was so engrossed in my work that I would have sworn the world was silent save for the sound of my chisel biting into the cedar box before me. Delicate curls fell from my worktable, collecting in small drifts upon the dirt floor.
I stopped to wipe sweat from my face. The pause gave me a moment to step back and survey my work.
Yes, the casket was coming along beautifully. I had mitered the joints meticulously. I had planed it smooth as glass before tracing out the panels on each side. I had spent days, chisel in hand, carving the scenes into the wood, and the entire workshop smelled strongly of cedar.
It was almost done, and the c Nonno's GardenIt’s strange to think that you’re not here anymore.
I remember when we were younger and we’d arrive to see you. The first place we’d go was to the window, pressing our faces against the glass to try and catch a glimpse of you. We’d look out, and you’d be there. Like you always were. In the garden.
Each trip was different, an adventure. There were rows of neatly sown lettuce seeds, bean stalks twice as tall as we were, ripe strawberries just waiting to be found by our greedy little fingers.  Tomatoes would be taken and made into sauce, lemons would be squeezed to create limoncello, grapes transformed into a sticky grape jelly which tasted of summer and childhood dreams.
I kneel down and gently touch the small weeds which are beginning to sprout. I can feel the soft, moist soil. I remember your weathered hands sifting through it, removing the weeds that now grow from the ground. It’s hard to believe that I’m now alone, in the place whe When Dragons Die"It's on the beach!"
It's on the beach.
Amy Dale fingered the pack of cigarettes in the baggy pocket of her jeans as she moved with the rush of the crowd towards the lake, her mind fuzzy with shock. Could it really have come to this? After all these years of hundreds of people searching, working, chasing, probing, trying to pin down the elusive Loch Ness 'monster' - after all her years of work, studying and scraping by and manuveuring with difficulty through her scanty network until she was part of the latest team sent searching for it - all of that ended like this?
It washed up on the shore?
Dead?
She left most of the crowd behind at the first ring of policemen trying to keep unnecessary people away from the 'monster.' Flashing her ID, she slipped through them and went forward more slowly, the wet ground squelching under her rubber boots. The bulk of the dead creature was perfectly visible now, rising in a steady curve above the heads of the people surrounding it, pointing and talking The Importance of Gold FlecksHereditary.   
        
        I learned the meaning of the word when I was young on a summer afternoon. Too hot to play outside, I was sitting with my dad on our blue couch with the small white polka dot fabric. In retrospect, it was probably a tacky piece of furniture, but love is unconditional when you are small, and I sure did love that couch. I remember my dad watching Winnie the Pooh with me every Saturday morning on its spotted cushions. That day, though, we had a conversation about eyes that I never forgot, and even then, its deeper meaning was not lost on me.
        
        "Daddy, your eyes are green like a cat's," I said.
He smiled, and told me that mine were also green, but unlike his, they changed colors. "Sometimes they are blue. Your eyes were so blue when you were a baby! Big and blue.... Someti

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