wytchcroft

Extracts from The Deep Stuff a sequel to The Solar Windmill re-edited and posted for a prompt from here
and see also here
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Memory:

Falling, it’s extreme. Some people make a sport of it.
Dress it up any way you like, spread yourself, use whatever you’ve got, some fancy jet, a ret-board, a parachute, wings, it’s still falling.

“No, it’s not, it’s flight. What, you think you fall... with wings - how butt crazy is that?”  Halley, of course.

“Whatever.” and Eva sulking.

“Whatever yourself grll-fren', you can fall all you want. Me - I’ll be flying.”

"Woah! Halley, cheese much? You practiced that one in the bathroom huh?" and Eva laughing. "Well, ok, ok, you fly – then if I fall you'll catch me.”
 

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written to a 5 word prompt: chill suitcase tire boarding heel

one:

It was playing static out over the debris of the room, buzzing cathode
white-noise as if a sea of sound was seeking to bury the wreckage.

maybe something here would in the years to come surface anew, lathed
and polished and transformed to be found by a child or an old man some
interested beach comber of the violent new age, maybe it would be art,
the enigma of unknown objects, new meanings sought for and revealed in
the cryptic pieces of a life held in suspension now, re-framed,
revisited and once more in dialogue; a suitcase with its corners
rounded and the lock long rusted, a shoe heel like the fossil tooth of
a mammoth, a station ticket welded to the bed-frame and a boarding
pass frosted by the white-noise and its winter chill.

sometimes the tide can lie as much as any story teller - we are so
easily beguiled.

sometimes the white-noise of a tv and the cold pixelated light, covers
the sound of quick fleet footsteps and a quiet true self in a hammock
somewhere, or swinging in an old tire in the afternoon sun spinning st
christopher with her fingers and privately laughing.

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