Stacy sat in the driver's seat of the large SUV on her breaks. Mr. Simmons, the man that paid her to clean up around the house, had said it was OK, even though he seemed to think it was a strange request. Stacy was used to people staring at her in that funny way. 'Things just sound stranger when I say them', she often thought.

Sitting in the large, powerful vehicle with all the controls within reach made her feel special -- even though she did not know how to use most of them. Nor were they likely to work without keys or special instructions. Nor did she have permission to fidget with anything, just to sit.

Stacy had given herself the nickname Thimble-Sized Stacy. (...add here...)  When Stacy was in the car, she did not feel thimble-sized.

Titmouse sat in front of her dressing mirror staring at her feet. "They are so tiny. Such terribly, terribly tiny, feet. I will never be able to accomplish anything significant -- nothing even adequate -- with such frighteningly worthless, tiny, tiny, clawed, scaly feet."

Dustbunny, sitting behind her on the bed blurted out, "I've always liked your feet. The size of your feet. I like the way they feel too."

"Ughhh. That is so disgusting," replied Titmouse quickly hiding her feet under her chair, "How can you even say that?" She began to cry silently.

Dustbunny went out to make Titmouse a sandwich.

When we set foot upon the Strangeland, a steady rain fell from the blackened sky, artificial lights illuminated the innermost area. The surreal lawn we stood upon stretched in all directions into the gloomy darkness, white lines approximately 10 meters apart laid the lawn out in a checkerboard-like grid. The lawn was made of a material, resembling ordinary grass near our entry, but displaying increasing levels of artificiality towards the center. At some point the grass seemed to even lose its smell and organic texture -- a flexible non-material.

A two-dimensional man stood guard, halfway between where we stood and the entrance to a central, innermost area. From our original entry point circling forward, he seemed to become thinner and thinner, even disappearing for a moment when he became infinitely thin from our viewpoint.

Groups of armor-plated creatures knelt together within the fenced-in innermost area, as if silently praying before an armor-less creature holding texts of some sort. A larger, three meter tall creature resembling a stork kept watch just within fence's gate. None of these creatures seem to give warning or even notice our arrival upon the scene. In fact, the only sounds we heard within the Strangeland was our own bewildered mumbling, our dog's frightened barking -- especially at the two-dimensional being -- and the steady rain falling on our rain gear.

We circled around the entire field, discovering an exit on this far side. Before we could reach this exit, our poor dog became temporarily insane from the strangeness of it all: he began yipping in a deranged way, running fierce circles around us until he misstepped and took a hard fall in the wet, slippery grass. This seemed to sufficiently break his crazed fit, enabling us to take our exit while we collectively had the wits to do so.

"This abundance will not last forever", said the half-grown garden snail when I pushed its viney perch aside, "even the younger beans are starting to taste of hibernation and death."

---------------------------------------------------


The snail held its tongue for as long as it could, then abruptly, "Fear is the enemy of creation, it inclines us to well worn paths, softens steps past strange doors, favors the base and begs smiles from well-wishers."

For a moment,
the sun loses its dominion,
and the trees remember their true song.
The hillsides ring sweetly,
bright voices joined as one,
echoing across still waters
- for a moment -
before the shrill cries
of winter's cold winds
bring darkness and silence.

When I walked into the cafe, she was sitting, half-reading a brochure she picked up from the the travel agency next door. At first glance, and in a word, she was asymmetrical. Her shoulders sat at odd, uneven angles. Her head cocked to one side, one lanky knee jutting up, braced on a side chair. The bold freckles on her light-skinned face and arms seemed to be randomized in an effort to confuse and disorient. When she looked up, however, with her pale blue eyes and wide smile it was if all the stars had aligned themselves.

what a strange and wonderful thing,
september's rain

familiar and forgotten
pushing and pushing
begging an audience
from the parched ground

a dark, comforting lover
offering a final flourish
before winter's true shadow

"She was tiny and boyish and my most measures, quite plain. Her hair was long and spiderweb-thin, her skin an impoverished yellow left thin and smooth by life. Eyes the color of roiled water were much too large for the narrow, sharp-boned face, while her mouth was a thin, inexpressive line almost lost beneath the simple long nose. Yet those big eyes had a watchful quality and an obvious intelligence, the slight body possessed a surprising strength, and on those rare occasions when she spoke, she had a musical and memorable if somewhat sad little voice."

r reed
the well of stars