Mark Reep has new art in the Moon Milk Review. I went over expecting to find his usual landscapes, which seem to be drawn straight from my dreams, and found instead art that excited both my scientific heart and my wandering, art-loving brain. Music by Joe Satriani beneath to accompany your viewing. Most cool.
I've come to the decision that two of my life goals are to own a piece by Mark Reep, and one by Paul Hunter. Very different artists, but they've enamored me both.
This has been a good news week in regards to writing, and some I will just have to keep to myself for the time being. It's funny, because two weeks ago, I was looking at some bad days. I was low, low, low. And not shorty-on-the-dancefloor low. Just plain ol', crying in your cereal low.
But things this week are looking good, and I'll just have to thank whatever it is inside me that causes me to persevere. Mostly, when I think of "persevering," I think of superheroes in capes, muscular chests thrust out, busting through brick walls. But the truth is that sometimes, persevering is just crawling through the mud, hoping you're headed in the right direction, and maybe you will find an abandoned tire to hold onto for a bit. In the mud.
On that note, let's fic.
Title: Minor Stars
Guin clawed through silty mud until her fingernails scraped bottom. She came up with a handful of diamonds, minor stars, setting in her palm with yellow heat amidst all that mud. Carefully, she licked the mud away, spitting the diamonds out into a tiny leather purse on a string around her neck. When the purse was full, she dropped the rest and got to her feet, knees red and brown, her calico dress soaked.
The rain was going to start up again. Looking up into the sky, she jingled her purse.
"I've got them. Your babies. If you want them, take me up."
And out of the black hole in which all stars are formed and all love is eaten up, there came a roar and a hiss and Guin was sucked up into the sky. And when it was through with her, that black hole spit her out like a diamond, made her into her own constellation, minor stars for her crown, no shoes for her feet. She looks down on that old mud pit, and the rest of them wait to be pulled up too.