Old daily created OOMs:

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Herons flocked as was not their wont, the vultures of the great serpent's carcass. Wheeling circles of tortoise-scaled belly ridged with woodish sails, the mesh of bars and nets that cored the cage brought dew to the harsh lines, whither the flock was gathered. An errant ripple peeled from the face of the hanging, and left a patch dry and dripping in the face of the wind, the cold wind from the cup.

Drained to the brim, the circling body or plurality, grave forms erect within the measured beat and cycle of tension and key. Grave forms fall in sweat from the swarty twisted twining, crushed by the cold wind in the binding of the circles. The sail ridge flaps calmly, and says nothing at all.

2023/03/08 #dailywrittenoom

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A rap on the patchwork door, and the looming frame sits up. A quivering creak as the planks swing on their hinges, sucking cobweb lungs. The insidious echo distills to whispers in the crown of the Stormburg, the horn of the house. Many shadows you may choose to enter: the first is an empty corner; the second is a corner not so empty, and you turn from a lipless grin with hesitation. The gullet of the cellar, swallowing your steps, the maw of ceiling trap, drooling steps to take. You ascend, and another ascends: you go up, and another comes up from the bowels of the cellar with noiseless feet that resound through the spirit congregation. You pass a moving thing with a sigh, a thing with feet that are granite and blink. Rubbing shoulders with memories, clustered froth at the mouth of the grave, while the Thing snakes up behind through the press, between limb and veil and clouded eye. They all cry out to you, but you only hear them because you glance into the fated glass, and because you see It in there, It is there. Your shadow strives for you against your Devil's match, an ancient axe precedes you out the smear-stained panes, and you drag a leg away from the jaws, where you will never again seek to reach the mystery that sits in the heart of the horn, the Stormburg, crest of swarming shades.

2023/03/09 #dailywrittenoom

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Crestfallen heroes along the shelves of the terebinth scholar's den. Pan-tiled hills in gray and lichen, dragon shoulders aged, humped, humbled antiquity in foundering flay. Skid and sand filtered over ringed rays of cord. My transient fresh shine blesses the air in the watcher's columns: deep prey climbs the troubadour's skulking splayed spire. Nascent breakers dim beyond the scrubbed windshield measure the time in cups and half-cups. White water twists on the face of all the planet, deepened rays brought the splay together under our eye, and no longer nascent the den drops the brackets, and all fall through the wall into smiling darkness, tooth and weapon bared to be covered in foe flesh, to find the unbreathed breath and make it founder in its own shadow.

2023/03/10 #dailywrittenoom