#Susan Mitchell

[mournfulroses]

Susan Mitchell, from a poem titled "Lost Parrot," featured in The Atlantic Monthly

[headlightsforever]

Susan Mitchell

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Detail of inlaid eye belonging to the "Seated Scribe" , 2600 - 2350 BC. Crafted from red-veined white magnesite and rock crystal.

The Polished crystal was covered in the back with material used to create the color of the iris. :: [Treasures of ancient Egypt]

* * * *

The Dead, By Susan Mitchell

At night the dead come down to the river to drink. They unburden themselves of their fears, their worries for us. They take out the old photographs. They pat the lines in our hands and tell our futures, which are cracked and yellow. Some dead find their way to our houses. They go up to the attics. They read the letters they sent us, insatiable for signs of their love. They tell each other stories. They make so much noise they wake us as they did when we were children and they stayed up drinking all night in the kitchen.

[sabinahahn]

Drowned Girl by Susan Mitchell

[themitchellchroniclesau]

A lot has changed about the Mitchells since 2022/23, and I think it's about time they get new character sheets, this is Susan's first since her re-introduction. I didn't include her as a child since the story primarily takes place during her adulthood.

Her name's been changed to make her sound more traditional and 80s-like, she's still our little Susie :)

[johnesimpson]

Finding Your Way on the Route You Already Know

Susan Mitchell, Campbell McGrath, et al.: 'Finding Your Way on the Route You Already Know'

[Image: “Homeward (2019),” by John E. Simpson. (Photo shared here under a Creative Commons License; for more information, see this page at RAMH.)] From whiskey river’s commonplace book: The Dead At night the dead come down to the river to drink. They unburden themselves of their fears, their worries for us. They take out the old photographs. They pat the lines in our hands and tell our futures…

[Read the rest]

[poem-today]

A poem by Susan Mitchell

ELEGY FOR A CHILD'S SHADOW

Perhaps the moment included a bench, a tree with a bicycle leaning against it, and a shadow. From the position of the shadow, the mother might know whether something was entering, or just leaving. And whether, if it was leaving, it would be back.

If she had to describe the shadow, she would say it is shaped like a sundial in a park where all afternoon children have been playing. Or she would say it is like a pool where golden fish swim. When the sun is at a certain angle, she can hear the water inside the water, and what she thinks of is a life dissolving slowly like a wafer in the mouth of a child.

The fish swim in the pool without expectations. She feeds them leaves and grass, but they refuse to eat. Perhaps they feed on time. Is it necessary to know whether leaves which have been falling into the pool all afternoon are floating face up or face down? Or whether the fish are able to see through clouds reflected in the water? Sometimes death is humble, merely a space tempting a child to fill it with itself. As the grass, so plush and blue, tempts the mother. Lying there, she hears the sound of rain exciting the leaves to stillness, and later, much later, she feels the dark gliding gently as an eraser over her life.

Susan Mitchell

[noleavestoblow]

Tonight the bear comes to the orchard and, balancing on her hind legs, dances under the apple trees, hanging onto their boughs, dragging their branches down to earth. Look again. It is not the bear but some afterimage of her like the car I once saw in the driveway after the last guest had gone. Snow pulls the apple boughs to the ground. Whatever moves in the orchard— heavy, lumbering—is clear as wind.

― Susan Mitchell

[spudcity]

The Bear

Tonight the bear

comes to the orchard and, balancing

on her hind legs, dances under the apple trees,

hanging onto their boughs,

dragging their branches down to earth.

Look again. It is not the bear

but some afterimage of her

like the car I once saw in the driveway

after the last guest had gone.

Snow pulls the apple boughs to the ground.

Whatever moves in the orchard—

heavy, lumbering—is clear as wind.

The bear is long gone.

Drunk on apples,

she banged over the trash cans that fall night,

then skidded downstream. By now

she must be logged in for the winter.

Unless she is choosy.

I imagine her as very choosy,

sniffing at the huge logs, pawing them, trying

each one on for size,

but always coming out again.

Until tonight.

Tonight sap freezes under her skin.

Her breath leaves white apples in the air.

As she walks she dozes,

listening to the sound of axes chopping wood.

Somewhere she can never catch up to

trees are falling. Chips pile up like snow.

When she does find it finally,

the log draws her in as easily as a forest,

and for a while she continues to see,

just ahead of her, the moon

trapped like a salmon in the ice.

–Susan Mitchell

[culturevulturette]

THE BEAR

Tonight the bear comes to the orchard and, balancing on her hind legs, dances under the apple trees, hanging onto their boughs, dragging their branches down to earth. Look again. It is not the bear but some afterimage of her like the car I once saw in the driveway after the last guest had gone. Snow pulls the apple boughs to the ground. Whatever moves in the orchard— heavy, lumbering—is clear as wind.

The bear is long gone. Drunk on apples, she banged over the trash cans that fall night, then skidded downstream. By now she must be logged in for the winter. Unless she is choosy. I imagine her as very choosy, sniffing at the huge logs, pawing them, trying each one on for size, but always coming out again.

Until tonight. Tonight sap freezes under her skin. Her breath leaves white apples in the air. As she walks she dozes, listening to the sound of axes chopping wood. Somewhere she can never catch up to trees are falling. Chips pile up like snow When she does find it finally, the log draws her in as easily as a forest, and for a while she continues to see, just ahead of her, the moon trapped like a salmon in the ice.

Susan Mitchell

[blackramhall]

The White House: 3D Cluedo board mode from The Residence ep01.

The Residence in The Residence

----------------------------------------------------------- Whodunit fan? Find more mysteries on Blackram Hall. Avatar pic by Mitchell Turek

[justjensenanddean]

Jensen Ackles arriving at The Boys panel | San Diego Comic-Con 2024, July 26, 2024 [x]

[positivexcellence]

@TheBoysTV: You’re all fuckin welcome, Hall H

[lightofraye]

The Boys wrap up the New Year

theboystv: What a fuckin year

[petercushingscheekbones]

I think it’s obvious that one of the things I find most attractive in a person is a good sense of humour, evidenced by the number of comedians I have crushes on

[poem-today]

A poem by Susan Mitchell

The Bear

Tonight the bear comes to the orchard and, balancing on her hind legs, dances under the apple trees, hanging onto their boughs, dragging their branches down to earth. Look again. It is not the bear but some afterimage of her like the car I once saw in the driveway after the last guest had gone. Snow pulls the apple boughs to the ground. Whatever moves in the orchard— heavy, lumbering—is clear as wind.

The bear is long gone. Drunk on apples, she banged over the trash cans that fall night, then skidded downstream. By now she must be logged in for the winter. Unless she is choosy. I imagine her as very choosy, sniffing at the huge logs, pawing them, trying each one on for size, but always coming out again.

Until tonight. Tonight sap freezes under her skin. Her breath leaves white apples in the air. As she walks she dozes, listening to the sound of axes chopping wood. Somewhere she can never catch up to trees are falling. Chips pile up like snow When she does find it finally, the log draws her in as easily as a forest, and for a while she continues to see, just ahead of her, the moon trapped like a salmon in the ice.

 

Susan Mitchell