100 Words: A rock is a rock, unless it's a mountain

Inspired by a post from my friend Zach. 

It's a beautiful thing to see, and even more beautiful to hold, he discovers, when he picks it up off the ground, a small mushroom cloud of dust erupting in its wake. There isn't much to it - just a round-ish, smooth shape, speckled grey and black. It resembles a misshapen egg, and he decides that this is why he likes it. There's hope that life might spring from this lifeless object, and as he rubs it between his palms, the heat of friction keeps that hope alive. His watch alarm dings twice before he stops it. Break's over. He places it gently back on the ground and dons his work gloves. He grabs the sledgehammer he left leaning against the cement wall nearby. He picks it up by the end of the handle and drops it straight down, smashing that hope to pieces.
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Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
Blu & Nottz, God Shit (feat. Aloe Blacc, Co$$, Definite Mass)

Range

photo by Nicole Hunziker (check her feed - absolutely gorgeous)

Where is the chance meeting?
Two people on a train
and they couldn't be farther apart.
That blank space, mere inches,
a filth of fog and floating particles,
something about tension and
the dry heat of emptiness.

Hope is laid like bricks, and
one loose foothold would ruin
the entire avenue - a gust of
cold wind, so cold it hurts
in the spaces between our teeth,
so harsh it brings down the
entire mountain on our heads.
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Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
Shad, Comprimise

Chiaroscuro

A man lives in black and white. He dreams that one day he'll be excited by his own life. He dreams he will be Sam Spade, who would give up everything to do what's right. He wonders how much "everything" is worth and if it fits his budget this quarter.
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Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
Phonte, We Go Off (feat. Pharoahe Monch)

The Old South

Time has been melting,
just as Dali painted it,
and somehow our customs
have maintained solidity.
Our surroundings, though,
are no less surreal,
and we decry change
every day - in large groups.
It's the lure of new culture,
the destructive urge
to progress, to make new,
to fix what isn't broken.

We are the opposite
of amorphous, like
how the Spaniard made
an angular, metallic Newton. 
Unlike the scientist, though,
no holes in our head,
no holes in our chest,
nowhere for tolerance
to filter through and grow.
So we've built anew
the Old South, as current
in the 21st as in the 19th.
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Quite a story from Emma Smith-Stevens on Wigleaf.

Another from Wigleaf - Edward Mullany writes a great short.

Leonard P. Wilson is productive, lately. This one is especially good.
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Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
Shad, Remember to Remember

A farm in the early morning

The barn caught fire just before sunrise, so that when it finally reached its peak, the smoke became an eerie pastiche of Afremov paintings as it drifted with the clouds. The surviving horses ran out into the enclosure once the front door collapsed, soot trailing behind them like dissolving shadows.
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Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
The Tallest Man On Earth, 1904