Eclecticism

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The Smell of Grief

The Smell of Grief: the text of the reading for Coffee and Grief: Coffee Talk #39 given on October 6, 2022

Why didn’t you tell me that grief has a smell? When you died, you bequeathed me your last breath. It was perched, cross-legged on a dark cloud of silence in your hospital room awaiting my return. You were asleep.  (more…) “”

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[fox-bright]

This meme is a MURDER ATTEMPT.

I am absolutely fucking serious. The original meme, without the big red denial, is someone's attempt to fucking kill people.

There is NO SAFE DOSAGE of pennyroyal oil. Even Mother Earth News says there's no reason to use pennyroyal essential oil for ANYTHING, even topically or as a fragrance, for fuckssake! That should give you some idea about how dangerous it is!

Pennyroyal tea, plant matter in hot water, is a traditional abortifacient. It is *incredibly* dangerous, induces abortion by bringing the body close to organ failure (and frequently pushing the system right over the edge, because dosage is impossible to meter), but I would drink a gallon of it before I took a half-teaspoon of pennyroyal essential oil.

Two teaspoons, taken across 48 hours, has successfully killed someone.

Three teaspoons taken as a single dosage killed the consumer within THREE HOURS.

There is NO SAFE DOSAGE! FOR PENNYROYAL OIL INTERNALLY! NONE!

The person who made this meme is PURPOSEFULLY, ACTIVELY, trying to get desperate people killed!

[fuckingconversations]

Pennyroyal oil contains pulegone, which is highly toxic, particularly to the liver. Ingestion can lead initially to gastrointestinal distress such as nausea, vomiting, and abdominal pain. Later on, it can lead to failure of the liver and kidneys, resulting in bleeding, seizures, multiple organ failure, and death.

There is no antidote for pennyroyal oil poisoning.

- straight from poison control

[neil-gaiman]

In the hope that this saves someone’s life one day.

[brimful-of]

On seeking joy through chance encounters

On seeking joy through chance encounters: there are hidden gems of living history everywhere around you. You just have to look for them.

I know I’ve said it before, but it bears repeating: dogs and babies are excellent conversation starters. This week I met a woman who’d lived in my neighbourhood since before one of the arterial roads was nothing more than a dirt track, since before the local primary school existed. (more…)

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[brimful-of]

On seeking joy through community

On seeking joy through community: as the global pandemic nestles in for its third year, as we throw around variant names like confetti, the need for community feels more important and urgent than ever before

When I was young, my parents built a community. We were strangers in a strange land, seeking a sense of belonging. They found others, from the same cultural background, with similar stories of feeling adrift in a new place, missing families and familiarities. They banded together. (more…)

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[brimful-of]

On seeking joy through spite

On seeking joy through spite - how spite can motivate healthy acts

CW: some description of bird death Floor Doritos and spite — it’s a party! It’s still early enough in the month/year to talk about motivation, resolutions and productive habits, right?  (more…)

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[brimful-of]

On seeking joy on your own

On seeking joy on your own

I never thought of myself as the kind of person who’d enjoy sitting in darkened rooms on my own. Actually, I never thought of myself as the kind of person who’d enjoy doing much of anything on my own. (more…)

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[brimful-of]

My Father's Hands

My Father’s Hands

In my memory, my father’s hands are large. His sturdy fingers, the columns that hold up the Parthenon roof, the pillars that secure the world on the turtle’s back, that hold me as I swing between him and my mother when we walk down the street together. His palms span wide enough to encompass mine, to welcome his new wife to a new country, to cradle each of his children, to hold together a family…

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[brimful-of]

Climbing trees

Mulberry trees stand in two corners of my mother’s garden. In summer, the garden becomes a minefield littered with incendiary devices waiting for a mistimed step, a careless footfall. Splatters of pink-purple cover the driveway, the outlines of shoes and bare feet silhouetted on the concrete. Though resplendent with their purple jewels every year, their branches are too spindly, too lithe and lean…

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[brimful-of]

The King's Ransom

The King’s Ransom

I hold him up at arm’s length, an offering to the gods, a tribute. He gurgles and squeals, wriggling in my arms. The sun kisses, then stings us. Beneath, his shadow wriggles along with him. I shudder, without a dark echo. That was the price for our freedom.

Image credit: Photo by Riccardo Farinazzo on Unsplash

This post was written for the YeahWrite #486 Microprose grid. Click the badge…

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[brimful-of]

Monday's Child

Monday’s Child

Monday is born into a full family. One Standard Issue Dad™, One slightly dented, but still good Mum, Two broken-limbed brothers, and one sullen but loving sister.

(more…)

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[keybladesoras]

Look, I don’t know if I’m going to have a career after this but fuck that! - John Boyega

[akiyty]

So even if his next project is him standing in an empty room reading the phone book, we’re all gonna buy multiple tickets, right?

[brimful-of]

✊🏾

[brimful-of]

Djeran

When the ants become active.

If you do not know, Ants are group insects; Workers, living as a collective.

Ice-winds prickle skin, raising gooseflesh; Ants are group insects, They form lines, queues, chains.

Fingers numb around leashes; Ants are group insects, They forage, return home, speak of good fortune.

Breath fogs, feet marinate in muddy puddles; Ants are group insects, They laugh and…

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[brimful-of]

Thirteen ways to count your chickens

Thirteen ways to count your chickens: written for the YeahWrite #472 Fiction|Poetry grid

I Five hens scurry around the yard, scratching and preening, dust baths and dust ups

(more…)

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[brimful-of]

Run through the jungle

Run through the jungle: Betrayal is a frightening jungle where monsters of self-doubt lurk. Written for the YeahWrite #471 Nonfiction grid.

Frying fish laden with turmeric and chilli and salt, aromas thick with memories of my childhood rise. With them rise waves of self doubt, of sadness that seeps from the marrow of my bones. I’m choked by what-ifs and sliding-door scenarios.

(more…)

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[brimful-of]

The Prophet

I take a left at the end of my street and turn down a barely used laneway. I’m trying to avoid people, trying to maintain social distance, or physical distance, or whatever the latest pandemic catchphrase is. Hardly anyone comes down this way. I know this from walking the dogs. In the daytime, the odd dog-walker ventures down this lane, but at dusk it’s just me and the homeless folks rifling…

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[brimful-of]

Roots

A golden thread runs between my mother’s garden and mine. Earth beneath fingernails carries legacy and heritage.

(more…)

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[brimful-of]

The conversion of cat people

The conversion of cat people

There hadn’t been a dog in our family in my living memory. When I was a baby, there was Johnny – a pure bred bitser[1], a beast of the most patchwork genealogy possible, a hotchpotch of canine genetics that tested the limits of hybrid vigour. But he was a myth, a legend, a story drawn from the mists of time. As far as I was concerned, we were devout cat people.

(more…)

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