Strike While The Iron Is Hot

Blown dry by the breeze, he waits by the board. His flat self fills with anticipation. He is not
alone.

She sits, coiled, on the board. The heat has yet to come. When the steam rises she will unleash her coil and strike. She will strike , while the iron is hot.

State Of Grace

Does the bottle contain chocolate milk, or white? Is it full or empty? I understand.

I am my bottle. My soul, contained, thrashes. Washed up on the shore of this strange place it does not rest, does not feel saved. Restless Soul will topple the bottle of me and we will slide back into the grace of the sea.

Hard To Swallow

She is at the bottom. It is still and silent and beautiful there. From her lips comes another of her , and another.

The boats come, with their lines and their hooks. Her small self waits, as the hook draws closer. SHE wonders, if she takes the bait, what she will find at the top.

Lucky Dog

The intent was always there. So it was not just chance, or luck. When she set out there was the one thing she had in mind, the one and only thing. She had to find the Dog.

She saw him, and went to him. She bent over him, and as he panted, her tongue darted out to him, welcoming this savoury union with her beloved--My beloved-- Lucky Dog.

My Dogs Are Killing Me

"My dogs are killing me." Pearl Bailey. MY dogs are killing me, too. They are in a state of discord, dissension. My dogs are at war, and I am at their mercy.

DOG watches with interest, and purpose. He holds the ball. Will he toss the ball into the melee?