sheepfilms
DEAR READER
hello vonnie
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
art blog(derogatory)
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祝日 / Permanent Vacation
#extradirty
styofa doing anything
Sade Olutola
dirt enthusiast
JBB: An Artblog!
❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
tannertan36
todays bird
cherry valley forever
noise dept.
izzy's playlists!
ellievsbear
🪼
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@manic-pixie-dream-squirrel
Y’all, I didn’t know Mitch McConnell had it in him, but damn if he didn’t steal the show in A Muppet Christmas Carol. Impressed! #caresact #covidrelief #mitchmcconnell (at Akron, Ohio) https://www.instagram.com/p/CIE8tU_hNyW/?igshid=emeknbfbuj2k
I know this is my writing account but art inspires my writing a lot and especially this show at this moment in time, so im posting some things i drew a few days ago ! 💕
Transformation Prompt
She woke up to the smell of roses. She had heard of them, yet she wasn’t scared. She allowed herself to be lifted out of bed and drifted, tranced by their sickly-sweet perfume. It was as though she had no control over herself. She floated out of her house and all the way to the valley just out of town, leaving every nagging warning behind her. Down in the valley, she saw the other victims, the beautiful flowers of pinks, greens, blues— the lost children. She knew this was where she was meant to be; their new mother. As she settled down into the grass, her body changed, water streaming through her veins instead of blood, and she soon forgot everything she once knew, forever entombed in the beautiful garden.
Try This 7.11
Where are we? - On a bed, drifting to a bed of roses, in a valley full of flowers
When are we? - Not explicitly stated
Who are they? - Not specified, just some external force that is causing the character to be in a trance
How do things look? - beautiful, colorful, lush
What period, time of year, day or night is it? - The period is not stated; time of year can be assumed spring or summer, as there are flowers, but again, this is not explicitly stated; day or night is not stated either but can be assumed it is night, as she is awoken
What’s the weather? - Not explicitly stated
What’s happening? - The character is entranced by an unknown force to go to a valley full of flowers; she then herself becomes a flower, forever.
This was difficult, as this is a flash fiction piece and these answers are often intentionally left out; however, I was able to answer most of these!
Signs of Winter
Snow falling
Thicker jackets
Fireplaces
Hot cocoa
Knitted scarves
Fleece
Family gatherings
As the winds pick up and the temperature drops, one may as well stay inside. The snow angels and snowmen can wait ‘til another day, for now we relax in front of the fire. The logs burn and crackle, releasing a pop every now and then. The festivities have ended - family has left, the puzzles all fitted, the cocoa drank. Slowly the embers burn low. Night has fallen.
A white blanket being made
Fires burning
Sipping chocolate before bed
Keeping warm from the bitter air
And staying warm for a peaceful sleep
All surrounded by the ones you love
How to Enjoy Winter
Step 1: Wait. Yes, it’s the toughest step, I know! But we must wait for the snow to start falling.
Step 2: Once the snow starts, stay inside, and wait just a little longer. Optional - get some hot chocolate.
Step 3: Once the snow is easily building, sit cozily in front of a fireplace and watch out the window.
Step 4: As night falls, gather blankets, family, and some fun activities.
Step 5: Fall asleep in front of the fire.
Step 6: Wake up to a warm breakfast.
Step 7: Go out and enjoy the snow - make a snow angel, build a snowman, have a snowball fight.
Step 8: Repeat the past steps in preferred order!
And don’t forget - enjoy!
Three Incidents Involving Hair
The first incident that I have is the time that I cut my hair. When I was just a small infant, I got ahold of safety scissors and cut a big strand of hair out of my head. I had to go straight to the hair lady in order to get it fixed.
The second incident that I have is with a different spelling of hare. Hare, also known as a rabbit, I won at a fair once. I was going to the game where you throw the balls into the water and then if you hit the one right in the middle then you win the bunny and I won the bunny. I was so sad to have to settle for a stuffed animal.
The last incident I have with hair is when I had to give my dog a bath. I decided that it would be a wonderful idea to use a brand new towel to dry him off, and his hair went absolutely all over it. My mom was mad, but I was amused.
Hair is the central idea. Hair is the word I choose. A sentence a character might say is “Hair is my best feature.” I think that this does clear up my thinking because it adds a depth to the word hair that I wouldnt have thought before!
Try this 3.9
The center of my face. The big thing in the middle.
Passed down for generations.
I’ve tried to find appreciation, but I’m not quite there.
I hate my profile, don’t look at me from my side.
If only I got my dad’s nose.
Would that really make me feel better?
Why can’t I be grateful?
My nose is just so big.
An aquiline nose is a human nose with a prominent bridge, giving it the appearance of being curved or slightly bent. The word aquiline comes
So I decided to look up and see what kind of nose I actually have. Turns out I have an aquiline nose or a hook nose. It comes from lots of different backgrounds. It used to be associated with intelligence, status, and personality. So that’s pretty cool. My nose doesn’t look exactly like that picture btw, but it looks like the more modern examples of a hook nose. I could use this to give more history and context about the type of nose I’m talking about.
Really love Twitter poems. This one’s by @paigebyerly: This Is Just To Say I have not responded / to your email/ that was in /my inbox
and which/ was probably/ pretty/ time sensitive
Forgive me/ I am very overwhelmed right now/ and it looked so complicated/ and so long. This poem is, of course, an homage to William Carlos William’s famous poem, “This Is Just to Say”–– which is a hilarious and shady af poem about eating someone else’s plum in the fridge.
Replacement Poem
"Fog" by Carl Sandburg
The fog comes
on little cat feet.
It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.
* * * * *
“Fascism”
A fire spreads
with angry man words.
We stopped listening
for truth or meaning
in breathless reports
and then moved on.
Soup for My Family
We can make the most of
non-perishable food donations
when you consider three things:
quality,
nutrition, and
usefulness.
____
They lay it on the ground,
the anarchists––
and they start throwing it
at our cops,
at our police.
And if it hits you, that’s worse
than a brick
because it’s got force––
it’s the perfect size.
It’s
like…
made
perfect.
In Every Girl There Is a Forest
This is a flash fiction story, by Jonathan Cardew, published in 100 Word Story. It’s just a hundred words: someone finds a bone in an ash pile… witchy shenanigans ensue.
I wasn’t sure I’d be able to do the inverted checkmark exercise–– but it turns out, you can do this on reallllly short pieces of flash fiction as well. Check it.
In Every Girl There Is a Forest
This is a flash fiction story, by Jonathan Cardew, published in 100 Word Story. It’s just a hundred words: someone finds a bone in an ash pile... witchy shenanigans ensue.
why i’m not a pharmacist
This story isn’t about how I poisoned Jackie Jemson in the fourth grade. This story isn’t about my fascination with an apothecary friar in the 1968 production of Romeo and Juliet. This story isn’t about how I meticulously peeled styrofoam labels off Very Fine Juice bottles, filled each with varying levels of well-water and Crayola watercolors, and placed them into the lacquered doll cupboard––as if each held a promise, a solution to my problems. This isn’t about Jackie’s mom calling at 3:45 PM on a summer Sunday to ask what I’d given her child. This isn’t about how she stayed on the line, the plastic yellow receiver swinging from its its cradle on the kitchen wall. This is about a child’s instinct to cower––thighs to chest, forehead to knees––as the hinges were ripped off the lacquered doll cupboard, as the glass jars exploded on impact and pastel water pooled across the laminate floor.
Uranus is the wildcard.
my wife
Rightsizing
Yes, there is a single shoe
waging its black canvas revolt
on the taupe jute rug
And, yes, there is a water stain
right behind your favorite work chair,
where your mild-mannered mastiff
unceremoniously puked,
during your gender studies class––
and yes, there are pens upon pens
cordoned off into tidy mugs,
their colors shouting to you of whimsey
And, yes, you have tried,
in your way, to appease this call––
with your pastel boundaries
their yellows and oranges and purples
their greens and blues and grays
reminding you
to eat
to walk the dog
to breathe in
to arrange your life
into tidy stacks
to clear the litter
of bubble gum wrappers
of breakfast toast
of note cards and note-taking
and the return slip for that pair of running shoes
that pinch your toes, just so,
every weekday at 2:30 PM,
when your haughty black planner
with its lists and lists and lists
tell you to
R U N
and so you do,
one pinched toe after another
until, freshly showered,
arranging a smile
you ready yourself
for your next class
and for the meetings after that
and for the emails after that
and for your phone screen
flashing an event
reminding you
that you’re
not done
yet.
525 Cranberry Lane, Fleetwood
Few queers, I imagine, would willingly answer a Craigslist ad for a basement apartment in the mountains of Jeffersonville, NC––but here we were: driving our harassed Toyota Camry up the steep gravel drive of Cranberry Lane. Neither Mandy nor I could have fully anticipated our landlady, Joyce–– but we had an inkling of her chaotic energy soon after our first phone call. During what should have been a five-minute phone call to schedule an appointment, this sixty-something mountain grandma glossed right over my explanation that we were a queer couple and proceeded to tell me about her brother (on the other side of the holler) who tried to cheat her out of her inheritance, about her youngest daughter who’d married a decent but distant man (making a slapshot living digging up ginkgo biloba root in her woods), about her eldest daughter (who also lived on the property with her two kids and their golden lab), and about a fraught relationship with her middle-daughter (who sometimes helped her clean houses but who no longer lived with Joyce because she “simply will not stay on her meds”). We left the call with a Saturday afternoon appointment and few other details about the place, other than the fact that Cranberry Lane is easy to miss, unless you keep an eye out for the row of six mailboxes that doot the foot of the drive.
The road dead-ends into a freshly built country mansion with a wrap-around porch, surrounded by matching bungalows on all sides. Both my wife and I expected a petite, affluent lady who owned a cleaning service and a handful of rentals. Neither of us, I don’t think, expected the plump befreckled woman, towering over us at six-feet tall––whose dull gray roots peppered through a long since abandoned strawberry blonde dye job. Turns out we’d arrived at the property just minutes after Joyce, who had returned from a Saturday morning cleaning–– a shop vac and piles of cleaning supplies poured from her open Honda Civic hatchback onto the gravel driveway.
Abandoning her hatchback and its contents, Joyce took us around the back of her house, kicked off her ruddy Asics at the front door, and keyed into a dark two-bedroom apartment. She’d barely crossed the threshold when her juvenile golden doodle, Doc, muscled past us into the basement apartment, leaving a trail of mud and twigs in his wake. Joyce had given up on wrangling the dog and, instead, ushered us from room to room at breakneck speed–– then stopped, suddenly in the RV-style kitchen to sermonize on septic-safe cleaning products. We watched red splotches spread across her face and neck as she decried previous renters, who “cost her thousands of dollars” by failing to notify her when the sump pump failed after a storm. “Pardon my saying so but there was... shit all over the yard. Feces everywhere.”
And, with that, Joyce abruptly exited the apartment and began a wide-stride walking tour of her rental compound. Waving off the odd tenant as we passed, Joyce spun a story of a struggling single woman, whose husband left her right at “the change of life,” and who pulled herself up by her bootstraps with frugality (and, it seems, the hundreds of thousands of dollars it took to build a small housing complex on a remote mountain holler). All tenants must similarly value frugality, she explained, as all residents split the heating, water, electric, and internet bills. “I keep the thermostat at 68 degrees in the winter–– wear layers.” At that, Joyce abruptly returned to her husband (the catalyst for said frugality), who “had the gall to bring that woman into our home” this past Thanksgiving. Yes, ten years had passed, “but did he ever consider how his daughters would feel––no!” Standing on the hillside garden patch, our eyes darted to each other (and to our car), not thirty feet away. Surely, this tour had neared its end. Alas, no.
Joyce insisted that we also see the inside of her home (with its stacks of canned goods lining the walls, its pile of rolled up carpets in the entry, its two salt-water fish tanks in the living room, and its smell of cat urine and rotting compost). Offering us glasses of Crystal Lite and then quickly forgetting them in favor of a story about her “new truck driver beau,” Joyce began rifling through a kitchen cupboard filled not with drinking glasses but with stacks of lose paper. “My contracts,” she says, calling over her shoulder. Then, without ever checking our references or gauging our interest in the apartment, she retrieved her bifocals from behind a countertop compost bin, took a blue Bic from a coffee mug, and began to fill in our names onto a photocopied rental agreement–– taking this opportunity to share warn of the $525 penalty for breaking the year-long contract.
And this, dear reader, is how, without a word in edgewise, my wife and I found ourselves renting from a millionaire maid, whose penchant for hoarding had (by the time we broke the lease seven months later) expanded to include a flock of fifty-odd, free-range chickens who shit with reckless abandon on the property grounds. The month before we notified her of our intention to break the lease, we discovered that the flock also included several sets of chicks, sitting under a heat lamp in her master bathroom tub.
Confession: I frequently wonder why some poems are celebrated as exemplary while others aren’t—
