Wordgrove Post & Review

Quoted in the Grove:
The future influences the present just as much as the past.
~Friedrich Nietzsche

There is no distance on this earth as far away as yesterday.
~Robert Nathan

Your life is not lying in wait in the future like a wild animal or some ominous destiny. Nor is it hidden in the heavens, like a paradise or promise. Nor is it shut up in the cave or the prison of your past. It is here and now; it is what you live and what you do.
~Andre Comte-Sponville

End Quote:
Remember tonight … for it is the beginning of always.
~Dante

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Posted from the Grove:
From the NY Times online, this 22 second speeded up video of the Perseids meteor shower. It is the sky over Wales itself that mesmerizes.
.http://vp.nyt.com/video/2015/08/13/34947_1_perseids_wg_480p.mp4

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Prewritten for Thurs (08/20) @6pm PT/9 ET is: He woke to the smell of baking cookies

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@Writers Platform
Glass Table:

~whitefeather: Whitefeather is currently voiceless
😦 it’s true, I am currently a voiceless bunch of pixels… my bank account debit card got hacked, and therefore it was shut off ….
So, until it gets resolved, and/or my new card arrives, I am silenced! Well almost…

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Prewritten: radiance, orbit

~Greymane: Stardust Stew

Created from stardust and magic
Our radiance bright as the sun
A story so beautifully tragic
that fatefully can’t be undone
The recipe called for awareness
carefully stirred in the sea
A pinch of some comic unfairness
with a dash of celestial debris
Seasoned with delicate charity
Sprinkled with darkness and fear
Some lust and indulgent vulgarity
with drizzled intentions sincere
We added a sense of adventure
to promises left unfulfilled
Our faith a required indenture
with obstinance served slightly chilled
A murky concoction confusing
Premiering our shining debut
delectably altered amusing
when man added time to the stew
Each moment a piece of tomorrow
A journey to immortal rest
We follow our light through the sorrow
Our orbit ecliptic at best

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~BarTalk: Constancy

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Impromptu: The odor of wilted chrysanthemums wafted toward us on a hot summer breeze…

~Greymane: Wilted

It was hot the day I came back home, too many years away
The memories that rode the breeze still haunt me to this day
The fragrance of the wilted blooms that simmered in the sun
Now danced within my moments lost with nowhere left to run
A distant train calls mournfully from long deserted rails
It’s lonesome cry a lullaby to passion that prevails
Country winds that carry sins can leave your senses numb
When memories reside inside a dead chrysanthemum

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~MissMerry: The Odor of Wilted Chrysanthemums

The odor of wilted chrysanthemums wafted toward us on the hot summer breeze. Rick grimaced and pushed open the door of his neglected summer cottage. The rental company had not sent the cleaners as promised.
Throughout the living room were the scattered remains of a party. Half-filled glasses, plates with bits of cake and icing with plastic forks, some boxes, some wrapping paper.
“It looks like a wedding shower” I said, pointing at the table to one side that still held unopened presents.
“Oh God…” Rick moaned as he looked into a bedroom.
“It was a wedding party that turned into a funeral.”
On the bed was a macabre scene… two well-dressed corpses embracing, both with bullet holes in their heads.
“Holy crap… ” I gagged as I back pedaled into the kitchen.
On the counter was a picture of the happy couple, her blond curls blowing across her face as they rode on a motorcycle. He smiled at the camera and waved, his reddish brown beard sliding off to one side in the wind.
“We really should get out of here.” I walked toward the door, hoping Rick would follow. Silly me.
“Oh Hell no.. someone has turned my beach cabin into a ghost house! I damn sure want to know what happened!”
“We at least need to call the police…” I dialed 911, but I knew it would be at least 45 minutes before the small town police would make it this far out onto the island.
“At least don’t touch anything!”
“I’m pissed, but not stupid, love of mine…” he muttered as he walked back into the bedroom.
The bride-to-be’s pretty blond curls were soaked in black, congealed clots of blood. The other corpse’s head also lay with dark hair in a black puddle, his green eyes glazed over and staring open. He was clean shaven, but blood trailed across his face.
Rick walked into the other bedroom, using his jacket pocket as a glove to push open the door.
On the bed was another corpse. Beside the body was a pistol still in hand.
“Oh nooooo,” Rick said… You do not want to see this one … but at least we know what happened.”
I agreed that I did not want to see the other body, and Rick followed me out onto the porch to sit and wait for the police.
What story did Rick see in the carnage of his beach cottage?

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~whitefeather: untitled

The odor of wilted chrysanthemums wafted toward us on the hot summer breeze. Swaying flower heads hanging weary.

After a long drought, the outline of where they placed your urn, is marked by dead grass and weeds. You wanted no fanfare…

Death… like the brown colored weeds and grass; only memories remain.

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~BarTalk: Cut the Short Story Shorter

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