Pellets are micro bites primed to grow. They’re a few sentences paired with a brief description of the setting or context. They’re light and easy to write, numbered sequentially, and have little metadata. They’re licensed PS0 and are freely available for expansion. What you produce defaults to RL1 like any other piece in the land. If you want to pick one up and run with it, just let The Rooster know and he’ll mark it as such in the feed. Add a new one – there are currently 70. Or open The Map and travel.
The feed starts here.
There is no thing. Is no thing there? No thing there is. Thing. There? Is. No.
Searching for Amy Sanderson. First line is, “I ran into her after college.”
Professor tries running his class according to Robert’s Rules of Order — fails massively.
A large port city of Austro-Hungarian origins. Broadside of an alley of pines afore a sliver of skyline, a parallax of ticker tapes. Who knew arboreal paces exceeded those of urbanity?
Gyu fitly fud. I eat “Pizza. Pizzas good) Geting pizza so I!m getting it. Here is mee Janice went to bed”
After 40, a good day is any day a major household appliance doesn’t quit on you.
I think he was a better dissenter. When the court swerved right he lost his touch. Some people just want to watch the world burn.
“Lots of people know how to sort out the ditch digging we all have to do from the lovemaking we all do it for.”
Hovering souls make sounds. They watch the perpetual stream before them, and see life itself in emotion infinite. Up from below rises.
A writer is confounded but undeterred by the mysterious reactions he receives from all those to whom he speaks. He does not realize he speaks to them in the voice of a narrator.
Longtime lottery player is distraught at how close he was to winning the jackpot — each of his numbers was one less than a winning number. He does not realize any number is as statistically likely to come up as any other, and that there’s no such thing as “almost” in the lotto business.
A struggling writer regrettably has to run rideshares, but the people he meets and the stories he hears end up inspiring him to write more and better, and at the end of each episode he’s journaling like Doogie Howser in the “you” and “I” format.
Penguin was a channeler. He wore a seven inch white mustache, and a long herringbone overcoat, which touched the ground. After early morning vespers he gave his warm anciently made bread away from a converted wooden baby carriage. It was free to the children, and we ate it happily as we walked home from services.
They were in the red — one more month, one last shot. The owner let the dishwasher go. The wife took up another duty. Suddy hands, and the stone in her engagement ring fell out of the setting. She had it between her fingers for a second, then it slipped, down the drain, water rushing on high. The trap would have been worth it, but decisions got made.
“Anthony!” I had begged to avoid this and was risking blows that’d strip my mind. “Did you hear me, you wasteoid junkie? Get your shit and get out.”
The aroma of garbage, mingling plastics and edibles, hovered in a channel of air tainting a crisp winter night otherwise purified by fresh snow. A spotlight split the dark. Behind a big green transformer I waited, hoping they wouldn’t see me or the shadow I cast.
You are made of mother nature. Take the long way home.
At the summit is where the wind blows. Who is the king is the pillar.
No longer can the tree be seen, grown slow as pure time flows, and flown high. It is ground down and pulped to paper money.
Distill what grows, what is sensitive, to what it does — heighten the senses.
I need to go in the forest to find a new smell. Cut a path where the color of water elicits paint.
It went down, over there, that side, behind the hill. It’ll come up on the other side, over the ocean, just the same again tomorrow. Again and again – but not forever.
Sun white blind me on this lichen covered stone that marks the grave of a better citizen than I promise not to be.
You dart, plover school. Shed cove water I catch – asperges.
Electric pink rain rising. Blowing glue, glowing blue. Falling hue and slate after twilight’s final gleam.
Coruscating tide of seasons — whisk and wither those coastal grasses. Deliver us from color.
Feathering heights on an Arctic tailwind. Farewell, frigid bewitched.
There is no silence – and it’s not disquietude. It’s the odor of distant smoke creeping.
Embering leaves among the fowl’s meadow – Dedham meets Canton meets Milton meets Boston. High and westward, on watch for Wachusett.
Woodland checkerboard — glare on the odd trees, shadowing across even. Angelic captive echoes run off.
Crisp white tip to a blue wall rising, arcing, breaking like a thousand tiny glasses shattering on thunder — explosive boom.
Clouded recess of the pond where children just felt between their toes a thousand years of dust cum crème de la clay.
Uh gub uh zhig uh bug uh gub uh yuh.
We are all becoming. First, the flowers.
Trickling ripples flood spartina in current whirls, foremost yet somehow aside. Upcoming tide at sundown – the season ends wet hot.
Plick of black nightberry bush. Crystal raindrops on the key to a book. Animal eyes.
They lit fireworks over the fair tonight. I saw in the sky that all in good time he’ll be all good things.
Cherry sugar drop. Quantum flux rill of light down cold water sea cave. Bats hasten.
Brazen top brass motherfucker bandoliered with a heart of gold. Purple haze, choppers on attack. Surf’s up, Charlie – here comes Wagner.
Great objects of greenery. Pinnacle canopy, kingfisher atop.
Limbs are rigid. Skies are new. Rock bed, dusty eye, blurred but true.
Teeth clattering, far away of a liquid sort. Undone, undine.
Super light caught in the trap of my eye. No exit, refracted scream. Enlightenment on the inside.
8:05 — horsefly bit my leg bayside. I’ll be thinking of it, with ironic nostalgia, on that crass-cold February evening coming down the way.
She told me her sister was a transvestite and asked me what I drank. I said I preferred martinis after an egg — only after an egg.
If it were 1981 and I were a different man I’d come up to you without a qualm. But I don’t have a smartphone, and it’s post-9/11.
Go sit on the mahogany and the wicker in the enclosed porch of the white cottage that enters further into decrepitude as summers pass.
Wicked wallow — rainbow shallow. Greyscale bone all the ‘morrow.
Water down, water up. Slow dance that steam, a fog about yay high and this thick. A feather on the face coupling with the aroma of roasted petroleum.
Bikini bridge. Melted silver screen. No cipher. No dream.
Kick the path. Chuck the pack. Go left. Whatever the sad and has-been, it ain’t as bad as all that.
Break that something beautiful. Rebuild it back again. Crash that road and land a ways outside town.
Rustling thicket, night vision on the mount. Duck, duck, goose chase.
In conjunction with hereafter and therefore, whereas the obligation to preceding does a jelly donut make.
Little girl in the Central Jersey Allstars shirt, outside the coffee shop everyday, with your dad lurking over there, I’m not giving you a dime. This is North Jersey.
You approach, a melodious monk. I relive a midsummer daydream.
Follow the lark in architecture to stalky wood swinging low – a thousand year sip from the kettle of red lilies.
Neutral cleanse of permeating pine. Crackle and calm, whispers in the dell. Light rods knight the benighted.
Earthen rich, irony. Wet to the compress. So fine it tints skin. Nearly edible if not forbidden.
Slate plus purple plus orange plus heaven in a summer scent of salted rose hip. White noise.
The gloss of grass glowed off gold morning. In time, the angle of light revealed patterns.
Like knives, blades shave. Strutting, carefully plodding. Mud swamp covered in tufts.
Anguilla mossambica, Barbus anoplus, Barbus viviparous, Caffrogobius natalensis. Clarias gariepinus (translocated species), Glossogobius callidus, Monodactylus falciformes, and Mugil cephalus.
Ripe low orange glow, to fulgent sapphire on new snow.
Green sea river fog mist underwater. Current strong in the groove. Effervescent bubbles tingling from the deep.
Blurred but true. Seeing through. Proximal zone of fear reduced.
So many shades of green. But brown. Blue, brown and green. Puffs of white. Yellow touches the tops.
Untitled, unknown. Now it’s been seen, and changed for the seeing. Gone from here it will erase me with rain, with water, with new dew and thunder.
Deep grey faded dots streaming white tails in a woody thicket.