Lydia slipped her hand in her pocket. She knew it was there but she had to be sure. It was real. It was hard, through the soft fleece jacket.

No letter or note. His clothes, his laptop, his books—all gone. She picked up her keys. It was starting to rain. She had texted, called. All went unanswered. The cars made hissing sounds on the street. Lydia hated to drive in the rain.

It was little things that upset her most. Things like the rain, or burning the toast. A run in a stocking, the start of a cold.

Things like his sister. She lived nearby in a perfect white house, with Hostas and white wicker chairs on the porch, and in his eyes, his sister could do no wrong.

Every Sunday she called and they laughed about people they knew and things they had lived and Lydia sighed; she slammed and stomped. Still it went on. Remember that time when…one would say, and on and on and Lydia stood stock-still and glared…

Sometimes she imagined feeding on skies
full of dark matter,
wanting swallowed constellations
to bust her open, split by supernova energy,
then be dispersed as pieces of bluish atmosphere
in a massive hue-saturated nebula.

This melodramatic reverie just a whim…

Word Enchiladas

It's like Game Jams, but instead of making Games, we're writing words!

Purpose

To encourage noders to write outside their comfort zone, without worrying about perfection, or even completing a writeup.

Principles

1. The spirit of the rules and the event is more important than the letter of the rules.
2. Enchiladas are