Writers -- O
Olivia Noble is a writer, painter, and an erstwhile resident of Corpus Christi.
Play the Moth Game
Play the moth game, inspired by the short stories of V. Woolf. The game goes like this: walk around from room to room until you have enough dead moths to fill each hand, which comes to about a cup and a quarter in a standard glass Pyrex. Another word for a double-handful is a yepsen. This group of moths you’ve picked up is now your first friend.
Draw with a pinched-out match tip on the white bottom of your sink. Turn the disposal into an unblinking all-seeing eye. This friend is good for staring contests and quick moralizing glances. It will look at you until its lids become runny. (The disposal should not be a new friend. It is loud and old and eats too much.)
Anything can be a friend if you try hard enough. Two faucets running in different rooms are now in conversation. Sometimes it’s unwise to interrupt, but even on bad days you can always listen.
You can find them while you’re drinking your maple milk at the window. On the streets all of your new car friends have snub-noses, like cats. The Volvo can be a little distant but at least it’s direct.
Take off your shoes and arrange them in a clutter that you would never have left – oh, look, a friend must have kicked off their shoes in a hurry. It works, I promise.
Cut the bottoms off a few yellow pears and set them on their new stable bases. Look carefully for the bumps and brown marks that could be freckles, or even real dimples. Say, “I have missed seeing all your lovely faces!”
The moth collective is jealous now. Be on guard with your new friends. Their disapproval is a heavy thing.
One day you may wake up and find that the shirts on the clothesline are already such well-intentioned friends that you didn’t even have to clip them up yourself. Their pale cuffs tumble and wave from the lawn. Pour the rest of your milk, which is now too warm, over the side of the porch and into the hostas. They might be taking things a little fast, but who are you to object?
copyright Olivia Noble
About The Book of Wounded Sparrows
Octavio Quintanilla's much-anticipated The Book of Wounded Sparrows is available for preorder. Here's a sample.
Fig of Unfolding
Tonight, I expect the only star in the sky to be
so bright I’ll forget all I know about sorrow,
how it feels like sandpaper against skin,
how it looks like the old woman my mother has become.
I was still a boy when I watched my father plant a fig tree
in the back yard, me not knowing much about the fruit it promised,
but enough knowing about the river running through
my father’s quiet as he dug a hole to make his offering.
Ever since, I’ve been running in the opposite direction
of hope, trying to logic my way out of God’s existence.
It gets tiring tunneling through time till I get close
enough to see an exit and then time begins again, but this time
without the people I have loved. A day will come
when my body will no longer open like a suitcase
to take myself on a journey where I’ll dream
of never being found, where I’ll dream of never finding
what I’ve lost. I no longer have a need for it, no more fig tree,
no more father, the backyard sold long ago to strangers.
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Olivia Arieti, with a degree from the University of Pisa, lives in Italy with her family. She is a published playwright and also writes poems and short stories which have appeared in numerous journals and magazines.
THANKSGIVING ON THE FIELDS
The sun shone gently
On the russet fields
The corn, the squash
Smiled at the joyous day
The pumpkins glowed
With pride and glee
The apples danced
Upon their tree
While the farmers
Prayed
And thanked above
For the golden
Cornucopia
In their hearts.
WINTER
Cold and hostile
Winter rises
From its lowly bed
And tireless
Spreads chills
And worries
Upon
The harvest hearts
Still gleaming
With autumn
Glow.
All eyes redden
And the livid lips
Are sealed with ice
As enduring darkness
Prevails
On rosy dawns.
The old oak only,
Proud and wise,
Stands steady
And waits
For better times.
WINTRY MEMORIES
Silent
The lake
Awaits
The frosty dawn
Where dreams
Fade
And memories
Are lost
Among the shivering
Reeds,
Until the hunter’s
Shots pierce
Its rippled heart
Forever banning
Nostalgia’s
Shadow.
THE FOX
The fox,
Proud of
Her poignant
Wilderness,
Watches
Defiant
The bleak
Falcons
Gliding
For prey
And huddles
In her majestic tail
Careless
Of the dying
Night,
Her golden glow
The adamant glory
Of impending
Dawns.