a f  waddell fiction

 

 

 

  w r i t i n g
 

. . . . My apartment was off Decatur, near the river. I was between a liquor store and a voodoo supply. I could conveniently shop the odd assortment of wines at Jimmy's or drop in at Rita's for herbs, gris gris and candles. Local real estate could be a mishmash of residential and commercial, eye candy and eyesore. Buildings seemed slightly askew, threatening implosion, cartoon-like: from the inside, seemingly spacious --- from the outside, smallish, individual frontage mere slits in the block. N'awlins was sinking. The delta was eroding. The buffer zone was going. The big storm was coming . . . .  More selections >>

 
 
 
 
 

                     b l o g
 

It must have started with crayons. Crayola, usually the small box, but sometimes the large economy box. The crayons smelled good, but not as good as PlayDoh. Melting crayons smelled good too. Pencils were okay, kind of boring, and when sharpened, allegedly dangerous. Be careful with that, you could put your eye out! The pencils danced between blue lines on faded gray speckled notebook paper, letters into words into sentences into paragraphs, the user marveling that letters formed words which formed language, and that the human brain could process such things. More bloggery >>

 
 
 
 
 

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