Showing posts with label Poets United. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Poets United. Show all posts

Así Soy

I am magic
down to my every bone.

Deep in every cell
I carry the imprint
of some dancing mother
ready to embrace me
in the twine of forgotten DNA.

My magic within hums
in tune to the magic around me.
My bones remember the beat
even when my mouth stumbles over the words.

This magic and I are one.
There is no wall
saying, “Here it begins”
and “There it stops.”

But you want to quantify it, own it
while at the same time looking down on it.  
Imagine that…

Consider that magic flees from disdain
and force. Stop and understand
that eyes that have decided on definitions
before they are even opened are as good as blind.


Harvest Brew by Lady Viktoria
More of her enchanting art is available at her Etsy store.
This poem is linked to Imaginary Gardens with Real Toads: Just One  Word - Imagine and Poets United's Pantry of Poetry and Prose #9.


Song Choice: Así Soy (Spanish cover of This is Me from the Greatest Showman) by Calle 42


Evolution of a Chajin: Blogging Around with Rommy Week 44


Water touches tea
releasing its sweet fragrance.
Today I receive
instead of serve. I find joy
in others’ first tastes of art.

This poem is linked to Poets United's Pantry of Poetry and Prose


Liner Notes For This Groove: I remember when I first started tea lessons. There were so many terms to learn, so many small details of movement and positioning to keep straight. I may have responded in Spanish a few times when I was supposed to answer in Japanese. I may have mangled my Japanese so I told my guests to finish cleaning up for me. But the older more experienced students were there to give me tips on how to remember things, tricks for polishing my techniques, and just be generally helpful.

So recently I had a lesson where I was the most senior student. I did advance clean up to make the lessons flow more smoothly, just the way I remember some of the older students did for me. I lent out some of my tea things so the newer students could practice with them.

Now I’ve been studying long enough to know I’ve made decent progress in my personal practice. But being able to help really made me feel like I was part of the tea school in a way I hadn’t experienced before. I was part of the process of helping others learn, and that felt really cool. Sen Rikyu (the founder of the Urasenke Tea School) wrote many famous poems regarding the art of tea. In his 98th poem he wrote, “Mastery in chanoyu is a matter of empathy, versatility, and experience. When these three are present and in balance, the person is capable of true understanding.”  I make no claims to mastery but I’m happy in knowing I’ve made enough advances in all three to feel a new sense of place in a larger tradition.

Yummy tea treats. One of the new students was helpful
in finding the best angle to take the picture.

So dear Groovers, what traditions are close to your heart? Talk to me about them in the comments section and do drop a link to your cyberhome if you want to take the conversation to a deeper place.



Hunger Pains

There was no question—his mews were less robust than his brothers’ and sisters’ from the moment he was born. And now they had gotten even fainter. None of the litter had opened their eyes yet but Mayra knew that one would not get the chance, even if she didn't intervene. She looked down at the pitifully undersized creature.

 A patched tabby strutted into the alley where Mayra and her brood lay. Lyla gave her a contemptuous look as she got closer.

“You haven’t done away with it yet?” Lyla scoffed.

Mayra didn’t look up. She continued to look at the small kitten, wishing things had been different, wishing he was as strong as the others.

Small white paws…dark fur…white patch on the throat…dark nose…Mayra tried to fix in her mind every detail about him she could.

“Oh move out of the way. I’ll do it if you won’t. It’s a shame to waste food, even if he won’t make much of a meal.”

Mayra hissed at Lyla. “I’ll do it.”

I don’t know if I can care for the others, or myself for that matter, Mayra thought. She had a hard time finding much to eat lately, even with Helia’s help, and worried if she could make enough milk for all the kittens. She had hoped for a miracle. Sometimes she’d daydream about one of the two-leggeds taking her and her children into a warm home. But she had found nothing more comforting from them than glass bottles thrown her way.

There was going to be no miracle. Nothing would help the small one now. She knew that this would give her food she desperately needed and buy the rest of her children just a bit more time. But her heart still ached. It would be crueler to let him linger like this.

Mayra opened her mouth and in a few seconds it was done.

“There now. It wasn’t that hard. You first time brood carriers, always so dramatic. You actually have tears right now! I’ve eaten at least 4 of my own kittens and it never bothered me once. They were actually quite tasty. If it wasn’t such a strain to bear the little beasts, I might have another litter, just for the chance to taste one again.”

Mayra hissed and spat again. Lyla raised her paw to strike.

“All right over there, Mayra?”

A scarred pit bull loped over to the two cats. She barred her teeth at Lyla. “You wouldn’t be thinking of hurting a new mother, would you, Lyla?”

Lyla turned tail and fled. Helia gave a snort in her direction. “I never did like Lyla all that much. She bothers you again, I won’t feel bad about taking a nice big bite out of her backside. Oh, I almost forgot. I got something for you.” Helia ran to the front of the alley and came back again, bearing a large mouse. She wagged her tail excitedly, dropping it at Mayra’s paws. “This is nothing. There’s a whole warehouse full of ‘em. When you and your babies can move, I’ll take you to it. The two-leggeds would probably love having some good mousers. Maybe they’ll need a guard dog too. I already had plenty. This one is for you.”

Mayra ate, grateful for the extra food. She tried not to think that this was the first time her belly felt full in a while. “Thank you Helia. I don’t know why you’re so kind to me.”

“Already told you. You look like the cat from the place I was before. She was the only good thing about that place and the only reason I made it out.” Helia noticed there was one less kitten curling up to Mayra to nurse. She licked the cat tenderly, deciding not to bring it up unless Mayra did. “It’s been a busy day. I don’t know about you, but I could use a bit of rest.” Helia placed herself in front of Mayra, and lay down.
…

Mayra picked her head up drowsily. There was something in the sound of the wind that woke her. She sniffed the air. Beside her, several kittens shifted restlessly in their sleep, squirming more closely against each other. A faint whine came from Helia, but she still slept. Blinking, she looked more closely at the shadows near a stack of slowly rotting cardboard boxes. 

Mayra never had trouble distinguishing objects in shadow before, but instead of the broken glass, mildewed rags and other assorted city trash she was used to seeing, all she could make out was an inky haze pooling around the boxes. As she watched, all of the shadows seemed to take on the same velvety darkness. Mayra shook her head as if that might clear her vision, but the shadows started to congeal into shapes with no relation to their surroundings. 

A legion of small, fragile figures could be made out, some of which occasionally shifted back to the formlessness of the larger shadow before coalescing into a tiny feline form again.

“Mama” came a tiny mew and dozens of equally high pitched mews of “Mama” followed after.

Mayra hung her head, “I am sorry, little one. You should have been born to a mother on a comfortable farm somewhere, with kind, big two-leggeds to bottle-feed you and kind, small two-leggeds to adore you. I am sorry I wasn't enough to save you.”

“We know,” answered dozens of tiny mews. “You cried Mama. Only Mamas cry. Not everyone cries for us.” The words repeated again and again like ripples across a pond.

Mayra blinked, “We? Us? There was only one kitten I…” She turned to look at the rest of her babies. They were all still there, still asleep and moving fitfully. “Who are you?”

“Ones who could not survive. Lost and found ones. We have each other. But we still need a Mama.”

“Why?”

“Feed us Mama. We are so hungry. Please feed us.” The small echoing mews filled the alley.

“I don’t know how. I wish I did. You’d still be alive if I knew how.”

“Feed us Mama! Feed us!” came the insistent mews, rising ever higher in pitch and volume. “We’re so hungry!”

“I don’t know how!” Mayra screamed.

“Whoa, Mayra. Hun, you alright?” Mayra felt a large wet tongue on her side. She opened her eyes and saw Helia’s worried face. One of her kittens started to mew and she flinched. It was a perfectly normal and healthy mew of a hungry kitten. She trembled and gave it a tentative lick. The kitten was warm and solid. Mayra moved to start to nurse her and the others started to move closer.

She looked at Helia. “Just a nightmare. I guess I knew the little ones needed to eat now.”

When Mayra was finished nursing her children Helia got up to leave. “I’ll be right back. I’m just going to go to warehouse and get us some food. It’s going to be all right Mayra. Just a couple of days and we’ll all go together.”

Not too long after Helia left, Lyla came into the alley, followed by two cats Mayra didn’t know. “I know Helia’s gone. She won’t be back for a while.”

The fur bristled on Mayra’ back. “What do you want Lyla?”

“Breakfast.”

The three cats started towards Mayra. She hissed at them. All I need to do is hold out until Helia comes back, she thought. I can do that.

But even if she had been well-fed and not weak from giving birth three days ago, Mayra was small and young. The two cats with Lyla were strong and well used to scuffling with bigger opponents. After the first few blows, Mayra was dizzy. The world started blur in front of her. As she fell, she could hear the kittens crying behind her.

I can’t feed you, she thought. And as soon as I’m gone they will eat you.

“We’re hungry Mama,” came dozens of little mews.

“Little ones, I wish you could eat them,” she whispered.

Immediately the shadows from the alley gathered and a sea of small, indistinct shadows crashed over Lyla and her friends. Myra heard their pained yowls but couldn’t see anything besides the forms in shadows pouncing over and over again. Eventually the yowls stopped and even the mass of shadows stopped moving. One small figure came away from the larger body of shadows, and dropped a bit of meat in front of Mayra.

“For you Mama.”

“Thank you sweetheart,” Mayra answered. 

Photo by Ricardo Tamayo on Unsplash


Song Choice: Baby Mine from the movie Dumbo

Liner Notes for this Groove: This is a slightly updated version of a story I wrote awhile ago. It just felt right bringing it out again this time of year. It also feels cool revisiting some of my older work after the amazing time I had at the Nerdtino Expo. (More about that later, I promise!)




Autumn's Breath: Blogging Around with Rommy Week 41


Autumn Breath
Jason Limberg
Used with Permission


Autumn’s breath should be crisper
than the first bite of an apple.

It should carry the musk
hidden in the heart of leaf piles.

It should whip past you
with the snap of a newly bared branch.

But when it is smothered too long
in a zombie summer’s dregs,

even the animals’ whispers will carry
across the sullen air.


This poem was created for Imaginary Gardens with Real Toads' Art Flash prompt. It is also linked to Poets United's Pantry of Poetry and Prose.



Liner Notes for This Groove: I can remember being disappointed by freezing Halloweens in my youth - ones so cold that you had to wear a big jacket and no one could tell what you were dressed as. As much of a bummer as those were, I have to say that this recent one's unseasonable warmth bothered me more. I was able to run around in a short sleeve dress without needing a light sweater. I did however have a cup of tea with me as I was giving out the candy. As Thea Devine wrote, "Tea was the great leveler. It brought calm, quiet, contentment, warmth. And it was something to do." At least I could depend on my evening cuppa to be exactly what I expected.


Song Choice: Fall on Me by R.E.M.



Our Own Hallelujah: Blogging Around with Rommy, Week 38


Photo by Diego Morales on Unsplash


It starts at the core of us,
in that layer resistant
to all attempts of taming.

It’s in the way we sway
in that roll of hip and tongue
in that part that rejects respectable
straight jackets that flatten us to one dimension.

Our authenticity is dynamite
ready to blow up outdated definitions.

We sing our whole and holy words
punctuated by hallelujahs
for all of our possibilities.

This poem is linked to Poets United’s Wild Friday and Imaginary Gardens with Real Toads: Just One Word—Dynamite



Liner Notes for this Groove: I’ve read a lot of poetry collections that have moved me. But when I picked up the Poet X by ElizabethAcevedo it was like finding a long-lost family member. All I needed was a can of Inca Cola and a plate of lomo saltado nearby to take me completely back to my childhood. Ms. Acevedo finds so many of the words I felt but couldn’t say as a kid. I have to say I felt a little Molly Grue when I finished it (where was this book when I was young and hungry for something like this?), but I am truly happy to have encountered it at any age.



There Must Be Some Misunderstanding: Blogging Around with Rommy Week 35


My second biggest fear in writing was being misunderstood (my first biggest was being afraid of it stinking). It’s understandable. I think a lot of us express ourselves artistically to let loose some part of ourselves. So people sometimes see misinterpretation of their art to directly equal a misinterpretation of who they are.

It’s fair to feel let down. On the other hand, when we share art we have to expect people will view it through the lens of who they are. For example, the thought of tea parties gives me the warm fuzzies, but to Virginia Woolf “even a tea party means apprehension, breakage”. People’s first (and sometimes only) responses are usually tied to the emotions and thoughts most familiar to them.

Do I like it when people overlook some of the bleeding heart bits I season my work with? No, not particularly. But do I like it when something I wrote really touches a reader, intentionally or not? Heck yeah!

I’ve written things that are 100% true, but phrased them in a way that could have multiple interpretations--Honey for example, which a lot of people assumed was about an affair. Debra from She Who Seeks got the closest when she asked if it was about Winnie the Pooh.

It was about my husband – and how his formerly out-of-control sweet tooth led to his diabetes. I’ve often said I’d trust the man in a house of ill-repute, unless the house of ill-repute was loaded up with baking supplies, in which case he’d spend the whole night preparing culinary masterpieces so the ladies could carb load for energy.

Photo by Patrick Fore on Unsplash

My husband’s response to the piece was eye-rolling and saying, “At least you didn’t kill me off again.” He insists that some of the poems I’ve written make it sound like he’s dead (to which I respond that the petite morte poems I’ve written have a solid grounding in fact, thanks to him). It just goes to show that even someone close to you can see something wildly different than you intended. 

Being misunderstood isn’t my number two fear. Persistent typos after several rounds of edits take that spot.


This essay is in response to Moonlight Musings Interactive Edition over at Poets United 



Keep Away


The overripe fruit burst under her finger in a splatter of pulp. Ilva curled up like a bug at the sound, counting to 10 before she lifted her head.

The field was still the same—vines heavy with rotting fruit, their sticky smell, and the quiet undisturbed by even the sound of a fly. Ilva looked at the meager collection of fruit in her basket. It had to be enough.

The plop of a fat raindrop on her hand startled her again. But this time she smiled, looking up at the darkening clouds. Heavy rain would muffle the sound of conversation. Taking it as a good sign, she scurried back to the crumbling building that served as her latest home.

Ilva, along with several others, made it in before it really came down. The tense lines around everyone’s mouths eased the longer it went on. Except the Keeper’s. She had her usual sorrowful expression on her old-young face.

Ilva hated her eyes. They always looked seconds away from tears. But what she hated most was the Keeper’s cheeks, plump from eating the best of everyone’s harvest.  When she asked Pa about it, he shook her until Ma stepped in.

It was her turn to take the best from each basket and feed the Keeper. Ilva grabbed what she could and walked to where she sat. Her fingers brushed up against a fruit spotty with mold. Before she could think about it, Ilva popped the rotten fruit into the Keeper’s mouth.

Let her see what it’s like, she thought.

The Keeper began screaming when Ilva turned away. Someone ran to the Keeper and shook her hard enough to crack her head on the side of the wall. But it was too late. The luck keeping them safe fled along with her life. The Finders had certainly heard the noise. And they would be coming.


Photo by Del Barrett on Unsplash


Song Choice: In Hiding by Pearl Jam

This flash fiction was created for Poets United's Pantry of Prose. This month's theme is gothic stories.

Negative Feedback and the Nerd Girl


So if you’ve read this blog for any length of time, you probably already know I’m kind of a nerd. Like many people who were overachievers in school I got used to the high of a sweet, sweet A+. Maybe a little too used to it. Those hits of external validation become life.

But external validation makes pretty poor armor against negative comments when they come. And they always come, no matter how many honor rolls you were on or AP classes you aced.

Lisa Simpson is not impressed with your negativity.

I’m not going to lie. It’s still not easy for me to handle external criticism, especially if it’s about something that brushes up against a core perception I have of myself. I don’t think I’m alone in that though. I’ve seen some pretty chill people lose it when a soft part of their underbelly gets prodded.

So what do I do when the inevitable negative criticism is lobbed my way? First, I take a deep breath. Then, I’ll call/ PM/ hang out with a member of my personal squad if one of them is available. I have a wonderful inner circle of friends who are kind about letting me vent, while not letting me get stuck in self-pity mode (and good about being caring but honest when I've missed the mark). I try to remind myself that part of being smart is being open to learning. Only an idiot thinks they have nothing more to learn. So what does this negative experience teach me? 

Eventually, I do get to a calm enough place to be objective about the event. And if it the criticism has a valid point, I try to honor that and change.

Of course, there are times I just laugh about it and practice my Spanish cussing with my friends too. Hey, I’m not perfect! 😆



Song Choice: All Star by Smashmouth

This blog post was created for Poets United's Moonlight Musings: The Interactive Edition 1.

Glow


“I’m tagging out,” Oliver said as soon as Isaac walked in.

“That good, huh?” Isaac put down his bag and went into the kitchen to give his exasperated husband a hug.

“I’ve never seen a kid work so hard to swallow their gift. I couldn’t wait until mine came. I ran around like a maniac shooting sparks for weeks.”

“That sure sounds like you. The maniac part I mean,” Isaac said, dodging the flicked towel that came at him a second later with a laugh. He was happy to see Oliver laughing too. “I’ll go talk to her.”

Isaac knocked on his daughter’s door. “Can I come in?”

At the sound of a muffled yes he walked in. He sat down next to the lump under the blankets.

“Sweetie, can you come out?”

Kira’s popped her head out. Isaac could see why Oliver was so worried. He could almost see completely through her.

“Will I disappear forever?” she asked.

“Not at all. This happens when people try to hold back their gift. Have you been feeling any of the signs?”

Kira cried, “What if it’s lamest gift ever and still have to grow up?” She buried her head against his side.

“Did you know I faded a little too when I started feeling my gift? I won’t lie. There’s a lot that scared me about growing up, but it’s worse keeping a part of yourself buried because you’re afraid.” Isaac breathed out a flower and gave it to Kira.  “Why don’t you try letting it out now? I’ll be right here.”

“Can Pops be here too?”

Oliver poked his head into the room. “I was hoping you’d ask.”

Kira took a deep breath and blew out a small golden orb that lit up the room.

“Light, like me,” Oliver said.

“Breath, like me,” Isaac said.

“But the glow is all mine,” Kira said.


Song Choice: Winter by Tori Amos

Liner notes for this Groove: Still going strong with the blackout project on my Instagram. This short fiction was based on a short poem I created from a page of my galley proof of my book, The Trouble with Wanting and Other Not Quite Faerie Tales. It's linked up with Poets United's Telling Tales with Magaly Guerrero.

Glow. Hidden glamour is folly.

The page came from Kindred Steel,
my latest Yuuki story


Diva's Second Act


It took three days for Ai to realize she was a prisoner not a guest. She spent the first day on the shelf trying to shake off the despondency of leaving her friends behind in the attic. What she wouldn’t give to hear Yoshi-kun describe how he lit up a spring festival again. Even Matsu-san’s stuffy war stories would have been welcome, though they always happened during a storm. But what else could one expect from a general’s umbrella?

The second was spent trying to hear any traces of grace in the insensate notes played by children on other instruments. Even the accomplished geisha Hatsuko was a novice once, Ai told herself as she observed them from behind her glass case.

A month later, she could bear it no longer. No one noticed her. No one would ever play her again. Ai swooned. Her neck clicked against her cell.


“What’s this?” Mrs. Tanaka said turning towards the back wall of the music studio.

“Would you believe it?” Trina said. She motioned towards the old shamisen. “I found it with other junk in a client’s attic. They said I could keep it. I thought it looked pretty good there.”

“Hmm,” Mrs. Tanaka said, touching the case. “No bachi. Still lovely though. May I take her out?”

“Sure,” Trina replied. “Even if you break it, it didn’t cost me a dime.”

Mrs. Tanaka reached in. She heard the soft sigh with the first pluck of the string. “How much do you want for her?”

Trina regretted saying she got it for free. She probably could have asked for more. Still, it was money she didn’t have before. She laughed as they shook hands. “You know, sometimes I think this thing is a bit of a diva. It’s always falling over.”

 You don’t know the half of it, Mrs. Tanaka thought, cradling the shami-shōrō.

Ai smiled.


Shamichouro-Kotofurunushi-Biwabokuboku illustration by Matt Meyer
curator of one of the most informative and beautiful sites devoted to yokai lore, yokai.com 
as well as author of two amazing books, The Night Parade of  One Hundred Demons: a field guide to Japanese Yokai
and  The Hour of Meeting Evil Spirits: an Encyclopedia of Mononoke and Magic.


Liner Notes for this Groove:

A shamisen is a traditional Japanese stringed instrument. A bachi is a flat, ice scraper shaped object used to play a shamisen. It's a little like a guitar pick in function. A shami-shōrō is a shamisen once owned by a virtuoso player that has attained sentience.

This short fiction was composed as a response for Magaly Guerrero’s prompt Telling Tales with Magaly Guerrero:A Pantry of Prose over at Poets United. The poem it was based on was Lament of a Shami-Shoro.




Peace in a Bowl


When you serve tea to your guests, you should simply serve tea from your heart, and think about nothing more.
-Poem 93 of Sen Rikyu


I’ve spent years learning
how to set aside my worries at the teahouse door,
and lose myself
in the sound of pouring water
and the scent of matcha rising from the bowl.

Some days that isn’t easy.
The world likes to devour souls by bits
and I can’t drink enough tea
to wash the bitter taste from my mouth.

It is then I remember
tea bowls were meant for sharing.

The art of tea cannot be measured
by the strokes of my whisk
or the thickness in the folds of my cloth.
But it can be fairly gauged
by the smile on my guest’s face.

The peace that eluded me
roots in them, multiplies,
and finally alights in me.
When we leave the teahouse
we both carry more than enough
peace to share, where before there was turmoil.


This poem is linked up to Poets United, Midweek Motif and dVerse, OLN 234.



Notes from the Real World (if you’re just here for the poetry, feel free to skip this part, though I expect MissWicked ought to read it, since she’s the one who challenged me to do it): This poem was inspired by one of three scrolls that were shared by my tea school last year. They were meant to inspire peace in the hearts of people who saw them. My fellow students and I were tasked with serving tea while visitors came to admire the scroll. I admit my mood was cynical before I walked in the door (because hey, 2017 gave people a lot to be cynical about), but as the day progressed, I found myself becoming more peaceful with each bowl of tea I made, and living up to the words on the scroll—providing a small seed of peace for everyone who walked through Shofuso’s doors, and seeing folks leave carrying a bit of that peaceful spirit that (hopefully) they could share with others.



Now of course, 2017 doesn’t hold a monopoly on my moods of cynicism and doubt. Although I’m just coming out of the experience of finishing and publishing a short story collection, a giant cloud with the words “What’s next?” seems to have followed me around from the moment I clicked the button to officially release the book out into the world. The good news is I have lots of ideas. The bad news is that they all are spinning around me like a cyclone of bright shiny things I can reach towards but can’t quite grab. I’m overwhelmed.

The idea of achieving world peace is exponentially more overwhelming, but in that afternoon at Shofuso, I know that I along with my fellow tea students created a haven where peace could quietly slip into someone’s heart, and that peace could spread to people they interacted with later. If such a simple act can do that, maybe it’s not too far-fetched of an idea to take a moment or two to give myself the gift of tea, savor it, and see what comes from that. It’s worth a shot.








Un Edit

My life's limited
by the power of the words
I firmly edit.

Fear paralyzes
an already timid tongue,
seeking the right words.

An uncareful word
banishes without mercy
despite my wishes.

Unspoken words bind
tender thoughts that do not dare
to reveal themselves.

Befriended words build
stories that touch other's True
and soothe my sore soul.

By Rommy Cortez-Driks

Song Choice: Brave by Sarah Bareilles

This poem is linked up to Imaginary Gardens With Real Toads, Tuesday Platform and Poets United Poetry Pantry 417.


Not Quite A Faerie Tale


Glass slippers don’t fit
every size and shape of foot.
I won’t waltz bloody-toed
in silks that don’t suit me.

Let me run barefoot,
choosing silk or steel
depending on the way
my curls bounce at the moment.

Let me guide the magic
in well-woven words
and make the fairy tales fit me,
instead of the other way around. 



Song Choice: Girl Into Devil (I Belong to Me) by S.J. Tucker

This poem has been linked up to the Tuesday Platform at Imaginary Gardens With Real Toads and Poets United Poetry Pantry 415.

Singular

The singular grace
of crooked flower petals
sets apart the bloom
meant for his kiss. I receive
twisted beauty in my hand.



Song Choice: Good Enough by Evanescence 


This poem is linked to Poets United: Poetry Pantry 382

Natural

My hair is too big for the cap I was given. Blowing myself a kiss, I let it fall along its natural part and adorn it with flowers, unconcerned if they match my dress.

It is tiring
to prune one's blooms to conform.
Define glamour
by the plumage that suits you.
Rebel by loving yourself.







Song Choice: Confident by Demi Lovato

This poem was created for the Midweek Motif at Poet's United: Narcissus (Vanity/Narcissism). I am also linking it up to the Friday 55 over at Verse Escape.