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Time on a Window

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     The kitchen wakes warm, a little river of sunlight running through steam from the kettle. I stand on the blue rim of the window and taste sugar in the air, bright and granular. A round face on the far wall winks metal lashes—tick, tick—and every wink sends a small ripple through my wings.      “Who blinks over there?” I ask.      “I keep measure,” says the Clock, voice crisp, a ruler made of teeth.      “Measure of what?”      “Your path,” it answers, “through everything.”      Everything smells of toast, varnish, and lavender soap. The floor holds the weight of a table and four chairs; the ceiling holds a lamp that hums. Between them hangs air for flying and learning, so I lift and stitch a zigzag through the room. My wings beat: one-two-three-five-eight. Counting settles my small body into order.      “Faster,” whispers the Fan from the ceiling, starting its slow revolution. “...
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Paper, Ink, and Being Seen

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  Morning spills through the blinds and warms my skin. From the kitchen, coffee rises with citrus and smoke, eggs whisper in the pan, butter edges the air. A riff of heavy metal rolls from the speaker—drums like weather, guitars bright as sparks. My breath steadies. I wait for words. 
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DT as a Nut!  Today I'm a NUT Ever listen to Pink Floyd's song "Time"? The ticking, ticking, ticking of the clocks just waiting to get to the good part. Get to the melody and lyrics that move you to want to dance, or sing? I feel sometimes my book is like that song. Got to get past the parts, the first few chapters, to get to the melody, the part that makes your soul reach for more. Perhaps I'm wrong and the first part of this story people like? How can anyone judge the passion I have for these creatures in 10 minutes? WHY CAN'T I FIND AN AGENT????????? It's hard. It's like trying to find a job but everyone is too busy to even look at what you have to offer...
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