Marionette

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Throwback: Waltzing to the Tune of Rhetoric

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Written September 7, 2010 A dark series of squiggles make their way down and across the page, in that order. Cheap poetry and lame jokes are the order of the day. For once the silence has retreated and is content to watch from the top row of the bleachers. For once there's no raining on the court while the ball's in play. There's a rose that lies at the back of my locker, wilted and fading away. It's a rose I don't expect to see in bloom again. It's a rose I've put aside, but one I cannot bear to throw away. Perhaps I should consign it to the bonfire I've made in my backyard, out of all the relics from the past. Perhaps keeping it in my locker is dangerous, for it might bloom again. Roses such as this one have been known to bloom more beautiful than before, long long after they withered away into nothing more than thin brown sticks and faded and detached petals. And in my excitement, I might just reach out and grab it again, forgetting th
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Sweet Summer Child: A Love Letter

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Photo by  Petr Ovralov  on  Unsplash Written December 9, 2016 I am not a gifting person. Years ago, someone suggested I write them something about love as a gift instead. I made many starts, completed nothing. Perhaps happiness doesn't inspire me the way sorrow does. Then last year came the first and only love letter I've ever written. Does it mean more if you write letters? May I? Dearest. When I met you, the only taste I remembered any more was the taste of ashes in my mouth. When I met you, the sun had cracked open, and loss was everywhere.  When I met you, you were a shadow, hidden among shadows, a nervous joke whispered on the winds of my thoughts.  When I met you, I was looking for a friend.  Then I met you, and the sun rose again, whole and healthier than before.  I met you, and the joke turned to undying laughter on my lips.  I met you, and I knew longing again, my soul unable to bear its weight.  I did not know you existed, and in the wee hours o
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Book Review: State of Fear by Michael Crichton

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I don't usually have high hopes for action thrillers by white male authors. They're bound to involve super-efficient macho male protagonists, female leads whose greatest selling point is their attractiveness to the male leads, and the a plot that is basically all over the place. But, you know, you don't usually care because your flight is late by three hours and you need to kill time. I picked up State of Fear because I was chilling at my aunt's place and my phone was low on charge. I'd very wisely left my charger at my friend's place, so there wasn't anything else I could do except read. And the collection my uncle had left behind was mainly a bunch of atheist propaganda and also action thrillers by white males. *Snore* As I had recently had someone praise The Lost World  to me, I decided to give Michael Crichton a try. (I outgrew Jackie Collins by the time I was 13.) The book wasn't even engaging enough to prompt me to ask my aunt whether I cou
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