Sir Top Hat walked in a few years ago – an honest and kind critter with a passion for memorizing the storied history of Abe Lincoln.
Sir Top Hat only surfaces above the earth during the month of October, and then, only when honesty is severely lacking.
am:)
These days I don’t get around to WP as often as I should, but it’s not for lack of desire. I’ve been spending the bulk of my creative time, offline, repurposing my cryptids and creatures. Additionally, I’ve been sketching, painting, barrelling through my menagerie of books and listening to history podcasts on my way to the gym. I’ve discovered, since reteaching myself history, not much has changed, yet everything has. And each day, after reading the news, I return to my quiet, non-territorial creatures who live, accept and love more honestly than mankind.
Art above – (Front of a blank card) I’ve been creating bookmarks, blank cards and good old-fashion postcards (remember those). Using the designer-light program, Canva, I merge my art with manipulated backgrounds then download the files for printing. I hope to bring these printed items to local shops, and I plan on selling them at the next enormous UFO Fair, June ’25.
I hope you’re all doing okay.
am
Danielle Imbo and Richard Petrone disappeared in 2005, in a time before cell phones and surveillance cameras. My brother, Vito, was the lead FBI agent on this case till retiring last year (mandatory retirement age — 57). This case remains the one case that troubles him still.
The brutal truth of Danielle and Richard’s disappearance remains buried within the tight-knit neighborhoods of Philadelphia. The Imbo and Petrone families continue to suffer with the open wounds of stolen goodbyes.
I do hope you listen to “There and Gone: Missing on South Street.”
The podcast is excellent, and all 10 episodes are now free-of-charge.
Thank you,
annmarie
Apple podcast “There and Gone: Missing on South Street”
iHeart podcast “There and Gone: Missing on South Street”
I leave my husband, daughter, homeland, and slip away in the dark shroud of night.
The orange-red glow of the moon is veiled with clouds, Artemis’ hand already at play in this.
My own hand wraps around Paris’ fingers, my heartbeat is the phantom of Menelaus’ footsteps behind me. The ship waits at Gythium, water lapping its sides, gentle like my fingers stroking Hermione’s face.
wind whispers
a crow caws
Apollo’s triumph
We board the ship, my feet numb like ice. My skin smells of the salt-spray of the sea, the night air,
the heavy-wine scent of the watching gods – I know they are there, have known since Paris sent that knife-gaze into my heart. His hand cups my face, the thief coveting his prize. We raise anchor, and sail with the dawn.
the sharp horizon
a knife across the sun
blood in the water
—Caroline Hron Weigle
This gorgeous poem was written by the lovely Caroline Hron Weigle. Remember her name – she is an up and coming historical romance writer.
I painted the piece above a few years ago. I’d never given much thought to her name before – now she has one.
I hope you’re all doing well.
annmarie:)
Pencil sketch done a few months ago of my dear talented artist/writer friend, Clayton Buchanan, with his son, Baird.
In the early 2000s, I saw a local newspaper ad soliciting 101 word stories. For some reason, I was drawn to the idea and submitted a few stories. I don’t remember if they got published.
The limitation concept stuck with me, and I started 101 Words in December 2005. In those early days, I only posted my own stories and a few from friends. I didn’t open it up to the public until 2007.
In November 2014, I decided to go all in and turn 101 Words into something special.
My vision for 101 Words is a comprehensive ecosystem and community that can support writers, editors, and readers. This vision is a work in progress, and I hope you stick around to watch it grow.
— Shannon”
Thank you for stopping by.
AnnMarie:)
blue grass blew up under there, landed there, over there
you see, look here bled blue on this over here
so they sang over there, banjo’d blues ‘round those mountains
got a banjo too, but no bluegrass livin’ in these olive eyes
listen here, do you hear the weary sky humming da blues
below her womb, flesh ‘n bone spawning bitter gods
swelling wellsprings of madness
manic rivers drying, warm water shattering man-walls
cause he be screwing the planet ‘n mother earth be pissed
don’t we know, going backwards ain’t how growing goes
great grandpapa’s mighty oak just felled by climbing fire
man ‘n his man-guns knocking things ‘neath blue-blue sky
no seed sown with lead, no gilded heart embraces love
listen here, do you hear the weary sky, how she hums da blues
she be blue, oh, so blue hummin’ above —
this mankind of ours screeching and scratching below
don’t we know, going backwards ain’t how growing goes
this piece inspired by a newly black-topped parking lot
here’s to looking up at the sky – still blue – still lovely
am:)
WE’RE NOT RUDE
WE’RE BUSY
PLEASE LET US DO OUR JOB
rubber-pink-finger points
cans, bottles—here
Gatorade empties rifled away—NO money for these
push the hair strands from your blue eyes
from your tee with the rainbow cat
rubber-pink-finger fires the final bottle
thank you, I smile
your lips don’t shift
more customers enter, I exit
with one 20—and two questions
do you own a rainbow cat?
do your blue eyes brighten when you smile?
hope you’re all managing the humidity
am:)
I am thrilled my CNF piece, “Missing Knuckles,” was selected to be part of the amazing anthology, Death Lifespan Vol. 12, published by PURE SLUSH, independent publishers since 2010.
“I was twelve the year I noticed her missing knuckles. My perfect mother was missing the section of her pinky where there would have been ligaments, bone and a knuckle. Her right pinky was noticeably shorter than its left counterpart. And the finger with the diamond I sometimes lost my eyes in, though normal in length, was also missing a knuckle. Mom’s ring finger could only bend using the knuckle closest to the palm of her hand.
What other secrets did my mother have? What else hadn’t I noticed? She laughed when I accused her of not coming clean sooner and was surprised I hadn’t noticed before.” —excerpt from Missing Knuckles
PURE SLUSH has put together an entire LIFEspan series. These remarkable anthologies are worth checking out, and it’s always wonderful to support our independent publishers.
Thank you,
am:)
I hope you’re all managing the heat.
decades through the doors
truckin’ up the steps
pushin’ at the walls
like floppin’ fishes
land-slappin’ the earth
swimmin’ up a universe
that in the end — always wins
drove by this shiny building with a sign that’s seen better pay periods –
an ironic image in the saddest way possible
after a brief photo moment, words rolled from my penny pencil
just stepped up the little stairs to reach his steering wheel. This vehicle is not required for his line of work. My studio, a converted porch, faces his yellow house, his big truck. My home, rising during the Great Depression, has withstood many assaults over time. Her old bones don’t deserve to be rattled.
The sky is bright, the birds are singing, and every morning the man across the street shatters this peaceful illusion. His truck’s reverb frazzles the neighborhood, echoes through my chest. Maybe the man across the street needs the sleepy world agitated at 5:45 AM, maybe tremors make his shadow grow.
If someday he should acknowledge the next phase of life, I pray he doesn’t buy a bigger truck. I don’t want to become another person in this burning world who adds more noise to the hate. I dislike the man across the street. I do not hate him. I will admit, however, to hating his fucking truck.
I painted this a few months ago. Reference taken from a photo of Chris Lee as Dracula. Thought this image was somewhat fitting for this piece:)
I hope you’re all keeping cool.
am:)
anntogether 