George T. Mormann

The Best Instagram in Town

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Lately, I’ve been dedicating more time to my aquarium hobby than writing content for my website. I’ve been a freshwater aquarist for over twenty years, and these past two years I have really invested a great deal towards raising and breeding various fish, invertebrates, and growing aquatic plants and mosses. As I establish and decorate more aquariums, I wanted to start an Instagram page focused on my variety of fish tanks. My Instagram photos can be found at the bottom of this website. Please have a look at my photos and feel free to like and comment. Regardless of whether you’re a fellow fishkeeper or an admirer of the hobby, I enjoy talking about aquariums.

My Instagram

Youth, it is

a sandcastle
admired for a day,
abandoned to the
inevitable tide.
Photographs, like
grains of sand,
rouse the shallows
where memory wades.

a dollop chased out
of a jar of promises,
an arthritic swivel
of a fingertip
twisting counter-
clockwise against
the hands of time.

reclaimed in somber
remembrances
over a box of ash
filled before the age
of seventy.

The Crow’s Elegy

We hid in the sticks of a dying willow long stripped of her luster, gripping the ice left from an untimely winter carried across a pond we’d never seen. Here, we watched a white man shoot the last white buffalo we’d ever know. She limped towards the plain before the red, setting sun. Blades of tall grass caught her blood and tears, and the man trailed them wielding a long knife. When she fell, we sang for her and promised to carry her forever. From our wings we danced over her like crows. Not as a murder. As a tribe.

Metallurgy

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An obtuse heart locket, pentacle and curiously enough, a dog’s bone — gifts from boyfriends one, two, four? — in no respective order. They had long wrestled at the hollow of her bosom. Their chains pulled the hairs on the back of her neck.

She googled “reverse smelting,” for it was the ore from which these metals were born she’d wished back. Instead, she wound up with a puddle and poured it into a crumpled water bottle. She watched years of her sweat escape the hollows of the bottle, innumerable voids as minuscule as the hairs on the back of her neck.

*This was originally an entry for a photo prompt story. The selected story is here.

Solemn Day of Las Vegas

las vegasOn days like today and the event which unfolded therein, I always think of that Catholic tradition of relegating certain days to each of the Saints. Feast days, I think they’re called. However, for the U.S., the days would be relegated to various shootings and tragedies. Keep up with this cycle of frequent mass casualties, and the calendar will be inundated with Days of Remembrance for a plethora of isolated incidents, workplace violence, ill conceived forms of vengeance en masse, and who-knows-what-else-or-what-next.

Daily candlelight vigils and moments of silence.

Church bells ringing in congruence with the moment of the first shot or explosion, which occurred a year, five years, a decade prior, everyday in perpetuity.

Debating the absurd fluidity of what a terrorist is.

It’s as if our only catharsis is to busy ourselves with mourning and to commemorate commemorate commemorate, like expressing some sort of collective guilt because not a single resolution is ever followed through or simply agreed upon. And it’s always too soon to talk about until the dawn of the next shooting.

The cycle then repeats itself.