drawn
by tnun

Comment:
meditative.

When the rain comes
by vawendy

Comment:
oy!

The 29 Cent Sale - All item in photo were 29 cent with coupon
by ladpupmoe

Comment:
i may have to breeze over to the LP SR next year for their 30th! Thanks for the tip ;-)

-The-Dancer-
by sfalice

Comment:
Neato, love the spine... what is it actually?

Andesite
by 2mccs

Comment:
Ooooh!

Brown Out
by Cyrilda

Comment:
haha

The 29 Cent Sale - All item in photo were 29 cent with coupon
by ladpupmoe

Comment:
Ooh I hope my shoprite will run that sale

unstable
by PennyStreet

Comment:
Congrats Penny! Great catch and perfect title!

Raindrops keep falling (and I'm dead)
by PenelopeK

Comment:


The absence of day-end seagulls was acute. The railings and bulkheads that they joyfully decorated were now underwater, being swished clean by the bay's unfailing agitator. A triumphant double flag could still be spotted protruding from a cupola, signalling the existence of the now invisible boathouse below. The broken weathervane atop the flagpole resisted the winds. It pointed straight to Hell.

Following the most recent storm, pinwheels of dead fish could be seen swirling belly-up, their damaged bodies catching on submerged tin ledges near the marina. The downpour had slowed to intermittent pitters of rain, and although there was no sun visible to set, an eerie rose-gold hue fought to emerge from behind gunmetal clouds. Its shimmer jaundiced the silver fish scales, but did not warm the surrounding water.

The ruined fish were but a smelly synecdoche of the scene. Listing skiffs, clamboats, and chubby little tugboats alternated with catamarans, runabouts and sloops in starburst patterns, their sterns or bows leaning in to drunkenly kiss. The movement was radial, maintaining formation, choreographed by insistent underwater eddies. Every once in a while, a zombie boat would smack into a submerged section of dock, creating a winceful, screeching wallop. The one grace was that there was no one left to hear.

The Stroll
by timfythetoo

Comment:

The calm and swaddling fog belied the strength of the storm now withdrawing its harrow from the sea cliff. Yet the ocean itself still struggled. The waves below thrashed jagged rocks, sending up spews of enthusiastic white water to intermingle with the gravid mists. The beach, dunes and bordering marshlands had hurriedly transformed into features of sea floor, barely visible in the persistent churn.

Further inland, freshwater fish clustered belly-up in hybrid tide pools, capitulating to the torrent of brack and brine which had poured into their pond, with the resulting effluent forcing meadow grasses into a seaweed-sway. Here no cricket chirps. There are no chastising calls from black-capped chickadees, nor squirrels to squawk back. Here where the tibias and fibulas of tree branches litter the muck and randomly stab the swirling snarls of winterberry and buckthorn, the only sounds are infrequent gurgles from the newly deluged gopher holes.

But this was not a bad day. Nor was it a typical one, if only for the reason that we had travelled beyond climatic conventions to a world of few weatherly habits. The growing ocean would continue to phagocytose its shores, erasing aged demarcations. Lazy hills become long sandbars. Repurposed cliffs gruffly greet the sea, their ledges on the precipice of extinction. Upon these embankments, we sashay defiantly, inhaling the damp, low sky into our lungs. The trees do not lean toward us in admiration. They cling to the edge with all their might. Like giant mangroves, they begin to equilibrate salt water in order to survive.