Brother Thoms’ Father’s Day Sunday sermon, which was supposed to be on the subject, “Supporting Father and Husband in their Priesthood Responsibilities,” wandered onto his hobby horse—women and the apocalypse. It was pretty vibrant and apocalyptic, and as usual, he rode it hard. A great amount of detail was put into length of skirts, wearing … Continue reading A Sermon on a Sermon
Here in the silence, the smoldering dark, breathing the smoke of smothering, the odor of smoke and grave earth mingling, he moves his ocher wand. The bull is earth and mind. His terror at what he makes is less than the joy, much less than who have just left mother above to find this bull … Continue reading The Shaman in the Cave
She prays: “the rainbow— It's the full promise of god!” He sniffs the wet earth. In response to the Ragtag Daily Prompt word: petrichor. And the Word of the Day Challenge kin .
This is a repost of yesterday's post. Writelee could not resist adding the word "grubby," which qualifies for the Ragtag word of the day. "Grubby" should have been put into the original. There are a few other edits. Writelee has a discomfort about this sketch and the whole series that began with "I Only go … Continue reading Feeding the Grubs at the Feed-the-Hungry Feast
Willow grove bows and nods articulating wind’s whim on which hawk rides, hunts Posted in response to both of the Ragtag Community Word of the Day: adulation, as well as, well, articulate. Thanks, guys and gals.
“I don’t suppose anyone here has ever heard of the Olicanucian Flyinitus,” said the person we knew as Robin. Her obsidian eyes glimmered and flickered with light from fireplace and the few dim bulbs hanging from a timber beams. Outside the wind moaned through the hemlock and tamarack. Wind whipped snow pelted and shook the … Continue reading Bird Woman Speaks
The silence was deafening. Except for the whir of the wind in the grasses and the clicking of grasshoppers in their yellow flight, except for the hiss and pop of the small fire on the rock, Eric couldn’t hear a sound. The sagebrush and sweet grass fire flickered in the wind, blue and yellow, on … Continue reading The Emptiest Empty is Silence
The link below resurrects the writelee.com post most appreciated by the readers. Even In Darkness
Orson Dwid had just about had it with the guy wearing the bright pink shirt and scintillating green jeans. Where the hell do they sell that kind of. . . . Orson could not think of an appropriate adjective to describe whatever the guy was wearing. He was going to say ‘shit’ but it was … Continue reading Orson Dwid Meets a Neighbor
The ground is an absolute, the air lets you down. The way you leave your bronc sustains a compromise with violence you embrace the way you mean an oath. Forever. Without fault forfeit or regret— a repossession of what you will never let go, even when you lose stirrup grip and (so finally) your life. … Continue reading Old Rodeo Man