where monsters lie

Amy, (my wife), came into the living room yesterday, photocopies in hand, "See what pretties you used to make -- see the colors and swirls and gentle natures -- don't you want to make pretties again?"

Your heroes cannot even make a living with the stuff you work on.
See - no scratches on the DVDs you rent, no knocks on the door.

The photocopied jewelry is so serene.

It's inspiration came from a drive to the coast; a short stretch of road along the way, to be exact. As you drive down the hot summer road, nearly to the coastline, you run into a wall of cool sea air; a tiny haven between the oppressive summer heat, and the harsh wind from the ocean. Alongside the road, a bog condenses the atmosphere into a pool of half-solid, half-liquid, surreal green pleasure: exotic plants adorn decaying logs, and frogs consort with mermaids that expel sweet, chilled air in long breaths.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

...I am still concerned Dr. Bard will die in the land of no-where. No trips to the coast, or walks in the park--surrounded by gentle swirls--can pull him from the lost land of his making. I cannot help him.

Gregor Samsa's insect body will probably not morph into the butterfly pendant, lying gracefully on the throat of the girl working in the coffee shop. Laika will not return peacefully from space. And re-animated mindworms will soon disgust all but the most stolid of patrons.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Amy is my lighthouse, if not my anchor, but monsters lie in the cold dark waters beyond the continental shelf, and their grip is unrelenting.