Crop Rotation with Meow Meow Pow Pow

Thrilled to see this piece published with Meow Meow Pow Pow for their Family Crypt theme. I really like this one!

The mission of this publication is to pair writing with art, to share with all. So download the poster and plaster your walls. The paired art with the teeth and carrots was just perfect! Thanks to artist Cassandra Panek.

And as a bonus (?) you can hear me read “Crop Rotation” on the site too.

https://www.meowmeowpowpowlit.com/recent/crop-rotation-by-janna-miller

The Dark Side of the Moon is Off-Camera

After the TV turned off, Eva was thoughtful and quiet, while the others chattered like birds. She slid open the glass door and stepped into bright sky, her eldest brother a shadow behind her. 

“Evie?”

“How come I didn’t see him?” She wore the ache in her heart like a beacon. “Grandpa’s watching me from the moon, said he would always.”

Suddenly leaning against his side, she twisted a fist against tears.

“Ah, that’s because rocket scientists don’t know everything.”

“No?”

“It’s the wrong frequency, you see. Rocket fuel can’t go the speed of love.”

Eva smiled faintly again. “Lovespeed.”

Clouds, Moon, Sky, Day, Full Moon, Cumulus, Weather
photo credit: Pixabay
100 word challenge in honor of the 50th anniversary of the Moon landing. This one focused on a girl trying to fit a new reality over a comfort she had been offered by a quick-thinking older brother.

Before the River

Weekends were for alligators, black tannic water, and snakes that swam head up, glistening body behind. Avoiding small cypress knees that could twist an ankle, we carried the canoe across land that was not ours to makeshift launches in the river.

As we walked, just off solid ground, we passed the wetter places where old washing machines, tires, and ovens lay half submerged. They seemed to watch us as we passed, these abandoned pieces that crouched like gargoyles. I tried not to look at them in case they accused us for their disuse.

Other discoveries were exciting, like an old rusted car almost completely hidden, the trees growing up through faded red upholstery and springs. The treehouse too, that was built at partial angles with sagging plywood. You could tell it had once been painted red and blue. The wooden steps that had been nailed into the tree were gone, like Rapunzel’s tower. It was inaccessible and beautiful.

An only child then, I liked to imagine the kids that played there before me, swinging from the now rotted rope and bouncing on the old car’s seats. They rowed shallow boats on the river and looked out for cottonmouths and copperheads. They wore shoes so the mussels wouldn’t cut them.

They were part of a different wild Florida, before they grew up and were replaced by the gargoyles and their memory in my imagination. Before the land was sold and bought and two-story houses with pools and screened in porches were built. The cypress knees somehow turned into a green Bermuda grass lawn.

Before the houses came and we had to drive the canoe to the county dock instead of walk it across the street, my dad dug up an oak sapling from there. It was the child of a massive, centuries-old one dripping with Spanish Moss, that did not survive the waterfront bulldozer.

We planted it in our backyard where it grew with large spreading branches, blessing us with shadows so that we would not burn our feet.

     Now 400 miles and 30 years away, but still connected by a tree, a different oak grows in the yard and peeks over the top of my roofline.  It shadows the front porch and my own children’s feet as they rush inside on blistering days. Their local wild is limited to the possum that lives in our Mulberry tree and eats the cat food, and the small brown D’Kay snakes we can catch in the layered rock wall. Tame, by old Florida standards.

Even so, neighborhood stories still circulate of foxes that used to roam the streets by night, traveling from one patch of buffer trees to another. And deer that run at dawn and twilight, their territory now pulled into vertical lines that follow the greenway across roads. More so now that the old farms gone fallow are growing “urban farmhouses”.  

Weekends now are filled with honeysuckle and the wild blackberries that sprout by the air-conditioner. The clicking sound of a Stag beetle crawling out of our porch’s support beam and wild rabbits that find a feast in crimson clover. Lunch on stone benches by the lake. Baseball games in the lawn seats. How quickly a child grows taller.

Under an oak tree.

Photo credit: Pixabay
This essay was written as a part of Charlotte Lit’s Beautiful Truth Initiative.

Closed Chamber

Layla worried about owls in the pre-dawn, her son sleeping near a circled arm. His feathered hair reminding of flight and soaring love conversely chiseled open rusty chambers of her childhood heart. Inside were beetles, blood poisoning, and cracked mirrors. Of the meaning of owls hooting in threes, while she pulled him close.

Owl, Hunt, Nature, Hunter, Predator, Animal World
image from Pixabay

53 Word Challenge. Theme: Superstition

The Other Farmer’s Almanac

There are several precise minutes in the day when things are possible, though not absolutely, For example, at 7:05 in the morning, dew can reflect your true love or cure a wart. Most people know that at noon, of course, you can get a sunburn in the shape of a dagger and at midnight you can get a crick in your neck looking for witches against the moon. People know this and take steps against it, even if it is improbable. Others are more vague and unknown. At 10:51 you can see steam rising from a hidden cave. At 3:50 you can hear the sound of bells from an old church long since gone. At 13:22 a rabbit can speak your true name. And at 2:59, just before the real witching hour begins, shadows can freeze and fall gently to earth. Sometimes they fall as leaves and flowers, but more often they fall as the wings of birds, to mimic the great raven flocks that black out the sky for just that minute, as they travel from the real to the unreal.

They usually melt the first day of Spring, at 9:03.

Wing, Feather, Angel, Flying, Black