Boston Harbor

Amelia gazed out of her window. The moon’s first crest rose out of Boston harbor. The lights of the city twinkled below, candles and lanterns glowed a pale orange. The stars twinkled above, clear and bright. Nights like these were made for lovers. Made for watching the stars pass by; made for watching the sun rise. They were not made for writing long into the night.

Amelia looked down at her letter. ‘Dearest friend’ the page was titled. Dousing her pen in ink, she started to write. The lamp on her desk flickered, the sky over head darkened, the pen dipped into the ink once more. An owl hooted. The pen stopped. Amelia looked out on the harbor.

A shadow floated across the bay. A British man o’ war. They were the talk of the town these days. The British this, the British that. It hurt each time she heard that name. Britain. That was where heart was. That was where her love was. The ship floated into the bay, its mast and spars crossed the moon like a prison bar. Amelia laid her pen down and sunk her head into her hands. Like a prison bar.

The wind whistled by, she raised her pen once more and smote a few more lines on the page: “I do not know what to say. I want to say too much, but find myself saying too little,” she wrote. “Boston is the same it always has been, yet it feels empty with you gone. “ She paused. The clamor of men drifted up from the streets below. The measured tread of grenadiers.

It was a cold wind. A cold April. A lonely April. She moved her pen again. Outside the ships drifted on with a solemn silence. The pen, now dry, scratched against the page before she looked up. Her heart full; her page still empty. “Empty night” she cursed, dipping her pen into the vial once more.

Far across the bay, by the Old North Church, a belfry there lay. A light was shinning. Amelia watched. Another shone. She thought, waited.
“Across the bay two lights are shinning,” Amelia wrote, “I miss you, yet in my heart we are like those two lights. When one shines, the other follows. When one grows dim, the other quivers. It is a hallow torment to be apart so long. But I our souls our linked: our lives are linked. Like two lights on hung in a belfry tower, our souls shine together.” Her pen paused, her heart full, her face smiled.

Footsteps thundered outside. A man shouted: “The British are coming! The British are coming!” Amelia paid him no head. Her pen scratched one last time, “Always yours, Amelia.” She was done. Her letter was done. With solemn voice she whispered across the bay, to the two lights hanging in the belfry: “I love you.”

Some of the inspiration, and some of the phrases from this story come from Longfellow's poem, Paul Revere's Ride.

Caves and Vampires

It was a dark and stormy night.

The sky was black, the rain hailed down, and in the distance lighting crackled. Sometimes there is no place better to be then in a cave. Jeremiah huddled by the fire, idly scrapping at his bowel of porridge. Laid around the cave, his companions slept on the hard ground. Wind blew through the cave spraying sparks off the open fire: the sky flashed.

The heavens thundered in response. Jeremiah starred off into the endless rain. Sighing he placed the bowl on the floor. All around him was no-man’s land. A barren wasteland filled with rocks and mud and swamps and vampires. One must never forget the vampires. Jeremiah chuckled.

The fire dimmed, the last few embers glowing a dim red. Shadows danced on the roof of the cave. Jeremiah laid back watching the flickering lights, listening to the pounding storm, hearing footsteps pound above him. Footsteps pounded above him.

Jeremiah sat up: eyes wide. The rain splashed on the small awning, the wind howled, and one of his companions snored. Jeremiah looked around. His comrades slept peacefully near him, bundled up on their robes on the dirt. After having walked a hundred miles in the desert, they slept.

Jeremiah felt sore. His legs hurt, his back ached, and his feet were numb. His body felt tired, but his mind felt awake. He gazed into the entrance to the cave as the lightning flashed.

A man stood at the entrance of the cave.

Jeremiah blinked, and he was gone. His heart pounded. He crouched.
The embers died. The shadows flickered above. The bodies of his comrades were devoured in the growing gloom. Jeremiah stood there, ready.

The cave went dark: a man laughed.

Strunk and White

I am, for many reasons, greatly indebted to the authors of The Elements of Style. I offer here a toast to them. May their writing instruct another generation to write more clearly.

“Show! Don’t tell!” Mr. White shouted. He wrote the words on the black board. Turning to face the class, he glared. Two hundred freshmen eyed him back. Their eyes were glazed over. One yawned. Another snored.

Mr. White took term paper off of the stack on his desk, and read, “Susan was happy today. The people she met also felt happy, it seemed to her that the world was an interesting place full of fun and very unique adventures.” He dropped the paper into the trash. He spat out, “Jennifer, what is the problem with ‘very unique’?”

The a girl in the middle of the room stared back. The color drained from her face. “Uh…” She stammered.

“Very unique. If something is unique then there is only one of them. Something is either unique or not unique. It can’t be very unique.” Mr. White chided. On the board he scrawled out “Rule 13: Delete useless words!”

Grabbing another paper from the stack he read: “The game was going so well, but Jena was hit by the ball. She got angry and James got hit by the bat that was thrown by Jena.” He paused, tossed the paper into the waste basket with its comrades, and growled, “Stuart, what is the problem with this… this thing?”

Stuart responded with a snore. The yardstick cracked down on his desk. He opened his eyes and yawned.

Stuart looked around the room, a long haired man who was dressed in an half buttoned, un-tucked shirt and baggy pants was lecturing in front of the class. He listened for a few minutes to the lecture, promptly got bored with his teachers command to ‘feel what you write’, and went back to sleep.

Stuart smiled at Mr. White, and chirped back, “Rule 10: Use the active voice.”

Capsize

The mast creaked and the ground shook. The captain shouted “Raise the sails faster you monkey’s cousins!” The Mihra – a ship of twenty guns –was being tossed in the storm like a box of matches. But at least it wasn’t on fire.

The next wave came over the prow; Samuel Gladman felt the rope tremble in his grasp. Shipmates screamed as they lurched over the side, into the water below. The water surged over the deck covering it with a green slime. The waves towered from above. Gladman stumbled forward. Lightning flashed; wind howled; the sail ripped.

The world slowed for a moment as if dazed from the mighty roar of the tearing sail. With the crack of thunder it sounded as if the sky itself had been rend apart. The water stopped surging over hte deck pausing for a moment to drip over the vessel’s side. The ropes stopped sliding, vibrating in the silence. The sky brightened, and bells rang. Gladman thought of his home: to a quiet field by an old stone church where the sun always shone and the bells rang; for a single, crystal-clear moment the world stopped moving.

The boom crashed down onto the cabin deck. The planks broke like twigs beneath its weight. The sails flapped wildly as the spin spun round. A wave struck the side of the boat. Thrown off balance, Gladman held onto his rope for dear life. A man caught his arm and the pair swung out over the see. With their arms locked, they looked at each other. The vessel pitched. The pair’s eyes met. The ship toppled over; the man sank into the depths below.

Mice and Men

Mice in mazes look for cheese. Their noses lead them to their prizes. They look through endless rows of dead ends for the nugget of gold: their dinner.

Adventures in mazes look for treasure. Their brains, brawn, and luck lead them to hidden vaults filled with golden nuggets; at the end of the maze they get paid. At the end of weeks in a soggy dungeon, days eating stale rations, and hours of fleeing from beasts summed from the pits of hell they get paid. Yet sometimes, they don’t.

Plavius stepped out of the trapdoor. He looked down at his once red boots and shook his head. They were never going to get dry. He left wet footprints on the ground as he walked into the abandoned cellar. It was dark except for the small lantern that he carried. On every wall the fine white lines of mortar sparkled with the thin silvery strands of spider’s nests. Spiders. Lots of spiders.

Plavius looked wearily at the hole as a round head came into view. A mass of bones and muscles followed it, covered with an ample amount of skin and hair. Gaius: the brawn of the team. He wore a shirt of chain. The bottom row of links were rusted and on his chest a few holes were punched out of the chain revealing a bloodstained shirt underneath.

“Bloody spiders.” He bemoaned to Plavius and stepped away to allow the last member of the team to enter the cellar.

Triminius looked around, saw the webs and his face drained of color. He sat down at the edge of the trapdoor and breathed deeply. The edges of his tunic were soggy. A small pack was slung over his shoulder. A thin copper tube hung at his belt, maps for the sewers.

Plavius glanced over at him and drily said, “I guess your map didn’t have any of these webs on here either?”

Triminius looked back raised his hands in the air and said: “I thought the map was joking when it said ‘Here be oodles of spiders.’”

Bagels, a definition

Bagels: hot, warm, and tasty, taken from the oven and laid out in the sun; cold, stiff, and bland, hidden in cupboards wafting to be eaten. A doughnut-shape of flour and water baked till hard. A torus of fruit and grain cooked in an oven. A breakfast of kings, lunch of paupers, and dinner of students in one delectable treat. Whether guillotined in half, or eaten whole; with cream cheese or lox; freshly baked or a few days stale it matters not. A physical representation of S1xS1, a subset of R3, a wonder for the mind both mathematical of gastronomical. Oh bagel! it was for you they said: “less is more.”

Poetical Birds

“Arma Virumque Cano,” a tunic clad poet sings. A green wreathe rests on his head; a small wooden lyre rests on his knee. Around him, people watch. A patrons lie on a dozen couches which line the walls; the poet sits in a single chair in their midst. Behind him a tapestry hangs on the wall. The cloth displays a fleet of ships rolling through stormy water. One of the ships rolls down the waves so and men fall over its prow. On another the wave casts a ship up into the air it’s keel freed from the watery depths. The sky, painted in an array of gray and silver threads sparkles in the fire light just as the crackle of lightning illuminates a stormy sky.

“Musa, mihi causas memora,” the poet’s voice strengthens as the music speeds up. Everyone in the room listens to him. Dressed in tunics and togas these statesmen and their wives sit in utter silence, as the poet’s voice fills the hall. The remains of a feast is spread out before them. A platter of grapes and grape vines lie on a small table. The bones of a dozen different animals sit on one plate. An idle hand picks at a bowl of nuts.

“Urbs antiqua fuit, Karthago,” the poet calls out, his voice slow now, his words beating to the notes of the lyre. The windows high up are cast in a smoldering red and the darkness fills the air. Fires flicker in casting the tapestry above in shifting lines of light. The patrons’ faces dim and brighten as a slow breeze rolls through the room and the flames flicker. The poet’s face is cast in ever shifting shadows, and the lyre’s notes ring through the empty hall. The sound of the ancient poem drew in two finches from a far. Sitting upon the windowsill they gaze down at him, and so enraptured they were with his voice that they dare not speak fearing to mar the poet’s sweet song.

When I good Gentlemen came to the Bar...

Annalise looked at the door, then to the cook and then back at the door. She shook her head, and picked up the plate of steaming steak and potatoes. Half a dozen tables spotted the room, each made of the same beige wood as the ceiling, and each having stood the abuse of being danced on, turned over, and thrown over course of a night’s revelry.

She sat the plate down next to a small figure huddled up on the rug besides the roaring fire place. He was wrapped in a thick gray blanket and sat with his knees right next to his chest. She left the plate of potatoes beside him on the rug, to which he glanced up and murmured the vaguest thanks, and turned back to the counter for the next load.

Beer this time. She grabbed up the two mugs and walked over to the laughing pair. Both of them looked as if they had seen their fair share of cows in their life. Their hands were raw and their hair pulled back into tight knots. Their boots were muddied and their trousers filthy. The only thing clean they had on were faces, which Annalise imagined, their wives had vigorously scrubbed moments before they left the house. They turned to her as she set down their beers and one of them joked: “I’ll give ye my two best cows if you marry my son, young lass.” The other laughed at his comment, she smiled and turned away.

The other five tables in the bar were empty; the sun hadn’t yet sunk beneath the horizon. The door swung opened banged against the wall. Where it used to be, a man now stood. There are a few schools to thought to door opening, this man was apparently of the let-the-entire-world-know-where-you-are school, Annalise though. He stood in the door frame, and at least according to Annalise wanted to make sure the entire world knew who had so viciously conquered over the mighty force of the door handle. No doubt the other four patrons were cowering in fear at this awe inspiring master who had cleverly discovered how to turn the handle and push! He shouted: “Give me some ale!” And promptly sprawled out into one of the chairs.

One brawler in. A few more to go. The door opened this time, a well dressed gentleman, his back straight as an arrow. Without a callous to call his own, he sat down full of poise and looked ahead at the roaring fire. While the man who walked in front of him slouched onto the chair, his body girded with thick muscles, ready for the nightly brawl, the man who just walked in sat straight up in his chair, his skin hanging tightly onto his bones, and his body ready to run at the first sign of the brawl.

Before she could take his order, the shouts of men drifted in from outside. The door opened just as the last rays of the sun drifted down from the hill and a band of soldiers came walking through. Six of them, each as primped as the one before him, came in sporting red tunics of the king. They laughed and sat down at the tables calling for food and ale. They were going to be the meat of today’s brawl. Annalise considered them for a moment and decided, they were the meat of today’s brawl: the people who kept the fight going.

The door opened and closed and a man stood there and on his head stood a hat with a single feather on it, tipped to the side. He walked with a slanted gate as if he had a sword hanging by his side. With only a single glance at the inhabitants of the room, the six soldiers, the blacksmith, the state’s man, the two farmers, the fellow by the fire, the cook and Annalise, he walked over to the empty seat by the gentleman’s table and sat down next to him. His walk remained Annalise of someone she had once known. A long time ago a general had walked into to town. He walked just as this man did: confidently and boldly.

She started at him for a while not able to get his face out of her head. She felt like she knew him from somewhere, yet she couldn’t place where. As he sat there talking to the gentleman in hushed tones she thought about it for a while. Then she knew it. She walked up to the cook and said: “To coppers on the fellow who just walked in.” She slipped the coins onto the table. You always bet on the guy with the funny hat.

Morning Glory

The crisp notes of a bell shook the dusty rafters. Some birds startled by this morning’s calamity starred up from the beams in fright, flying out an open window. And from far above the red and purple glass of the window shined outlining a wooden cross. The floor was filled with two straight rows of pews, yet only a dozen people sat there. The flickering of candles cast shadows on their faces as they stood, their heads bowed in prayer. The click of the Parson’s staff echoed as he walked down the isle: as he walked towards the altar.

As the parson reached the alter the entire hall fell silent. He bowed their heads as they did and let his lips form the familiar words of prayer. Wordlessly he prayed. The wooden cross loomed far above. Its form was marked out in the dim haze of candle fire; its wooden body seemed to writhe in shadows as the candles flickered beneath it. A muted cough was the only sound that broke this silence, and the world was frozen in a divine tableau.

The sun broke out the chains of far flung hills and it’s light shattered the penetrating darkness of filled with candlelight. The parish’s once shadowy faces were filled with a new pure light shining in from the windows above that paled their visages in a uniform radiance. The image of a cross was projected from the window above. A multicolored halo of pale red and purple girded the black form. Each of the parishioners looked up to the Parson in unison. The Parson let his gaze wander over the dozen people standing between the wooden pews, raised his arms, and called out with a voice that resounted more vigorously then the sounding of the bell: “Let us pray.”

Muffins!

The smell of muffins wafts out of an oven. The morning sun glimmers off its beige surface. The walls in this sunlit kitchen are marked with lines of yell and green which glow in the morning air. On one wall a window adorns the striated wall, and outside lays a field of green. A boy and a girl play with a small ball throwing it back and forth, their shouts come in the window as bellows of laughter or shouts of frustration. The ceiling fan turns in a loose circles, its gray blades slicing through the warm air. Four wooden chairs lay at the corner of the room surrounding a small table. A white table cloth girds the edges of the table and hides all but the four wooden legs. On the wall a clock ticks away each minute, and below that a black and white picture hangs. Four persons’ visages are embraced in the heavy set lines of wood. A mother smiles while her hands rest on the shoulder’s of a young girl. A father his face a stern scowl, and besides him a boy mocks his father’s expression with his own scowl half turned into a boyish grin. The ceiling fan turns again and… the oven beeps.

Causi Sui

Somewhere above this world, a star shines brightly. Far above the winds and the rains, in the dark heavens, it lies. Jupiter is girded with a belt of comets; this star is girded with a belt of clouds. Clouds of all shapes and sizes swirl and dance in this belt of fluff: big red ones with a rusty hue, small green ones that carry a sickly taint. Once in a while two of these behemoths collide sending celestial dust into space.

If by chance, as this dust falls on the earth, it is shaped like a dog, then in some home far away a puppy is born. With coffee brown fur, floppy ears, and soulful brown eyes it pleads with the passing families to be adopted. And if by chance it is shaped like a bird, then far away a young blue jay squeaks out its first chirp. The chick calls out to its mother, among a nest of its siblings, wanting to be fed.

Yet if by chance it is a boy or a girl, then a baby is born. A mom and a dad snuggle. In their arms they carry a child swathed in wraps of blue cloth. A fire crackles in the corner of the room, but another fire glows in their hearts. The father’s face melts from an icy scowl into a warm smile. As the mother coddles the child, in her arms next to her heart, her eyes glisten with tears.

If by chance you wonder where you come from, just gaze upwards and two clouds strike again sprinkling the world with a shower of dust, a shower of life. That is where you came from.

Sunset

One day I sat upon a slab. White granite speckled with black grains. Below me I heard the sounds of people playing and people talking. Harsh hurrahs and rolling chortles. But more then that I heard the wind as it whistled through the trees and the bells as they rung in the air. From far behind me a clock chimed, its solemn notes bouncing off every surface. Before me the hill spread out covered in mighty oaks and leaning pines. The entire world was shaded by the shroud of dusk. And far in the distance the horizon glowed

A yellow dimmed into a deep orange, vibrant in the cold night air. These rays of light seemed to play off the clouds above, illuminating them in a lining of gold like some golden treasures in an Egyptian tomb; these clouds glimmered with a silver lining.

Even as the light dimmed, the sky glowed on. Dark shadows cast on the edges of the clouds, painting dark lines across their golden bodies. And as the sun sank into the bay before me, the yellow light hidden by the water’s edge, the reds in the sky dimmed as if in respect. The air above me glistened with radiant beams with one more hurrah of light. The clock struck once more. The red melted into the dimming hills and the stars began to shine.

Howling Gales, Part Three

Two sunken eyes peered from under a dark hood. the darkened visage was bowed as the winds billowed past him. The fur lining bristled in the winds of the storm. Little shards of ice stuck to the fur clinging to its warm embrace. The hood billowed out catching the wind and if his head erred up his robes threatened to sail away like some oversized burlap kite. Far above the, heavens scowled upon this poor figure. The storm clouds had grown black and they loomed over this wondering shape. His steps left little craters in the snowy ground lasting only moments before a new batch of snow filled his tracks. His robes dragged behind him, sweeping just barely above the ground, the tattered edges a testament to days of sharp rocks and snowy vales. The staff in his hand, knotted and well worn plunged ahead marking its own small steps in the snow ground. The world was white around him. The misty fog of snow was marred only by the black of drop offs and of cold sharp rocks. As those sunken eyes swayed over the never changing landscape, the wayfarer picked up his foot and dented the icy snow once more.

Icy Prayers, Part Two

He bellowed forth crisp words. With every breath left in his frigid lungs he shouted a curse to the howling winds. All around him the snow billowed and they sky scowled an inky black. Below him massive crags spanned their way down this peak, and large drifts of ice pilled here and there. The shout reverberated off a distant mountain. Unseen in this wild weather of wind and snow, the mountain responded with a muffled crash as another rock lost its lofty footing and tumbled into the waiting world below.

As if in some weary stupor the clouds above him seemed to shape and turn, rolling through the expressions of some massive faces as they laughed at the poor victim beneath him. The black clouds above him offered icy white gifts of snow as homage to the prayer this weary traveler gave to their awe inspiring might. As if in some lonesome desert where the hot sun beat down and the winds tossed up fine grains of sands into whirlwinds of dust, the snow themselves seemed to twist in the shifting winds creating their own cyclones of ice as they carved a path around the mountain top. And just as a row of pointing spears might cause the hearts of the bravest horses to tremble in anticipation, this poor man’s hearts shuddered as he gazed at the grim outlines at the ghastly tow of peaks far in the distance.

And if by chance some loathsome deity laughed at this poor wretch, the chortle was lost in the clamor of the winds and the storm as the traveler hiked another step up this grisly summit.

Snow Peaks Part One

The following three pieces will be the same takes on the same scene from different perspectives. Here is the first of this series.

His brown robes billowed. Flecks of snow whirled off his fur lined hood, spinning out into the empty air. As his robe whipped in the frigid air little specks of snow were dethroned as they joined their brothers in the snowy air. The tattered edges of the robe scraped against the snow covered rocks. The brown strands of fibers clung to the icy ground as they where whipped across the snow plane tossing cold flecks of water everywhere. But underneath that have sack of twisting cloth, heavy boots clung to the ground.

The well worn soles pressed into the snow earth, covered with each barrage of snow. The filled heals pressed hard against the snow pack earth they leaned on, the boots laces covered in layers of snow and ice. Even though the thick leather girded his shins, those utmost reaches were under the constant fear of an icy drowning.

Far above, his hands were encased in leather gloves. The white drifts of snow that found their resting place on the creases of those gauntlets matched the color of his hands inside, pale form constant use. His knuckles were bleached under the strain, and the once thick palms gripped the smooth groves of a large oaken staff. The two hands creaked as they clutch that rod, planting it firmly into the snow.

At the summit of his well cloaked form a winter hood shrouded his head. Well bent into the approaching winds, the fur lining whipped and crackled with the power of the storm. Shards of ice clung to the furs before they were buffeted away in a gale of wind. And underneath that armor of cloth and leather some creature paused in his stride.

All about the winds just howled. And that huddled form took another step into the snow filled ground.

Subtle As Artillery

The roar of mortars shakes the ground, seeming to cause the walls of this sunless cell to quiver. Stacks of pens fall in a rollercoaster ride over charts and maps before hitting the cold stone floor. Clocks rattle as the walls behind them quiver in increasing intensity. In the quiet pauses before mortar strikes the hum of a radio can be heard as the static bounces off the walls to the room. The room itself is covered in chaos. The mess of clocks on the walls, to the mess of maps and books that cover every shelf and every inch of the floor, to the pens that bounce around freely seeking for a place to rest, and to the desk shaped shroud of maps and notes which only abate around the base of a machine which jolts with each strike.

In the center of all this disorder, a man sits writing. Above him the world shudders as if drawing its final breath, yet he scribbles on a yellow pad of paper as he listens to the groaning static. His pen jumps with every strike and his curses follow as it yet another line is marred. His cloths are a wrinkled, his loose shirt is blotched with black stains and his pants are ragged blotched with brown splotches. His hair lies on his head haphazardly, each strand going where it wants. And his hands are strained with black smudges. Yet his pen never stops flowing, even as the barrage seems to reach an intensity so great that the light bulb above the desk swings with ferocity. Until at last, as he fills the final page of his yellow notebook, with letter and numbers, and an unearthly quiet fills the air above him. His room itself seems to grow even more quiet in the silence that follows.

Closing his notebook before him, he reaches out and grasps the strip of paper which flows out of the seismograph. He scribbles out a series of dots and lines, strikes and rests on a shred of paper before him. With that he drops the long strip onto the mess at his feet. His hands shake as he scans the code. His eyes dart over them again, before looking down at the abandoned script at his feet with dismay. At last he sets the mote of paper down on his desk, and picks up his notebook. His bare feet shuffle the notes on the floor and his hands shake as he trudges out of his hidden cell. The door closes and the light dims. The world is about to awaken to a new day.

"The Book"

A brown leather cover girds a volume of paper. On the surface golden letters glimmer in the dimming light as they mark the cover of the book. Seeming to have been burned into the book itself the letters create their own image as the loose handwriting flows over the cover of the book. The book is filled with the creases of age, the weather worn cover is palled on the corner and the center seems to be splotched with a long forgotten liquid. Lines seem to transverse the pages like some fjords crossing the arctic oceans. The creases roll over the golden letters as the flow along, splitting some in half. The letters themselves seem to be unstopped however, as the curving gold marks out two short words on the cover of the book: “The Bible”.

The tome creeks as it opens, it’s dusty pages flapping in the still room. Squashed handwriting fills the two pages that the book is opened on. The yellow and black pages are earmarked for study and the margins are filled with a scribbling in a more erratic handwriting. A small stain appears in the center of the page, bleaching the letters that run through that circle and causing the ink to flow around as if caught in some great whirlpool. The words themselves seem to cast shadows as shinning candles flicker in the room.

The shadows of pale light filter in through a small window high up. The light shines down on this tome, as two candles glint around it. The words themselves seem to be shadowed as the window’s light seems to loose it’s strength and the candles take up the work. As the shadows dance on the pages surface the tip of a pointed quill pierces the other shadows that lay on the page. As the ink spill out onto the page filling up yet another margin with curved notes, the pen flickers across the page stabbing shadows left an write. Only the paper itself is spared from this relentless barrage of stabs from the vicious quill but it bleeds black ink for the death of the inky shadows that seem to float across the page.

At last the pen steps its lengthy assault and settles once more in a vat of ink. A few breaths of air gently flow of the papers surface causing it to rustle in the otherwise quiet and breezeless cell. With another noise, a long sigh, the tome is closed once more, the weight of the old leather cover collapses onto the rest of the book with a triumphant clap. As the last shard of light falls out of the dying sun, the words on the cover glimmer once more, before being relinquished into a shadowy night.

A castle for the New and the Old

Tall, gray, strong, a massive hulk laying against a gray sky it’s concrete form looming as the sun sets it’s deadly shadow casting a never forgotten reminder: ‘today might be your last’. A bomb shelter. Under the small sign declaring that this building was equipped to handle fallout, a small yellow and black radiation symbol. Those small strips were a universal reminder of times that had already passed, times of war and times of fear. The colossal building had withstood the sharpest winds and the coldest rains. The roof still stands unchanged after the furies of countless blizzards and the gray walls remain unadorned by the marks of errant vandals.

The sunlight shines from the building, it’s gray form mixing into the morning fog and the perpetual smoke in the air. The rays of the sun silhouette the gray form in a glow of dirty yellow light. Cars honk in the distance as the busy street comes alive with the morning crawl of traffic. Words are shouted and the tires ground the sounds of the morning echoing off the sturdy walls. As the morning light pierces through the gray cloak of fog the passersby barely take note of the gray monolith streaking into the sky. Every errant glance on the yellow-black sends shivers down the spines of people who remember. For those folks who remember the time the building was constructed, who remember the fear this building looms overhead a chain to keep these folk from moving on from that grim time.

The sky was grayer then. Black clouds of smoke billowed out from large smoke stacks. The puffy clouds mixed with the white cloud of the sky making black-and-white cloud pictures in the sky. Cars buzzed by on their merry ways, and the streets were busy with people walking. The engines rumbled as a new car sporting an loud and powerful diesel engine streaked by. All around there was construction. There was the vibrancy of men working. The dim outlines of towers stood like great stick figures jutting out into the sky. Later the walls will be constructed the floors furnished with rolls of carpet and slabs of stone, and people will move in. Some of the buildings will be offices where solemn suits will fill up offices. Some will be apartments were toys will fill up bedrooms. But back then only the outlines of these buildings had been finished. The future only a bare shadow on the minds of the men working on the buildings. A future that may not come.

Every night as the city turns to sleep the buzz of radios and televisions conquer the dinner tables. Words are thrown about in hushed tones bouncing off sacred hearths and stirring a deep black fear which shrouds the strongest fires. Words such as “the Evil Empire”, “Communist”, and “Nuclear Fallout” whose very uttering sober even the most lively of parties. When the buzz of electric lights are extinguished, the toys all packed up, and the children seek refuge under heavy colors under an oppressive blank sky, silent words form on their lips: “Please let me see the flowers bloom again”: a quiet prayer to some watching deity.

In the days of yore kings had their castles. Great affairs with turrets piercing into the sky, walls shielding the day’s sun and moats whose smell kept armies at bay. Trumpets might be heard from the rafters as the king dressed in gowns of purple and gold arrived on chariots flying flags over every color imaginable. Musical notes might fill the days air as the king ate glorious feasts in grand halls. Cheers might tremble the walls as returning war heroes clad in green and white tunics returned. Their shields displaying heraldic crests of noble families. And dances would occur where the jubilant shouts of the common man filled the air, and chaos reigned for a time on the well kept streets. Cannons brought and end to those days with their powerful shots they shattered the walls and brought trembling monarchs down to their knees.

Now a fortress stands, the last few pounds of concrete poured, the yellow and black paint on the walls drying and the vast underground cavern dim and silent. The gray hulk merged into the dim sky, the gray of the sky matching the gray of the building. In front of it, a podium rests where a man in a jet black suits shouts to the world. Christening this new palace in front of a small crowd he declared that this might be the last hope for humanity, the last hope for anyone. Before him the honks and drones of cars filled the street. The men and women watching him stand with rapt gazes a blighted fear growing in their hearts. With a silent awe the city seemed to stop as the people felt hope in their new fortress. Hope which was drowned out by the cold black fear which asked the question: “What comes next?”

Yet now the tower stood bleak against the vibrant city. The sky had the vaguest tints of blue now and the cars buzzed by filling the air with honks and screeches. The building reigned on though. The symbol lived on. Though that fear had been conquered by peace, it was an uneasy peace. And as then men and women who were alive when that monolith were built drive by, a tingle rolls down their back as they remember that fear and the silent prayers for a new day.

Autumn Nights

The yellow lights flickered over head. The new electric bulbs make a dim racket in the air above the street. An entire street lit with electric lights. How marvelous. An entire street bathed in the orange light of electricity. How grand. The lights overhead crackled and one popped, dropping that portion of the street down into the comforting black of night. Above the stars seemed to dim as if they took offense at the lights that man had created. Only a few could bee seen in the sky, the rest were hidden being the perpetual black haze over head. Far in the distance a ship bellowed. The loud horn echoing off the heavy streets as the entire vessel plodded it’s way into the harbor. The winter wind flew through the street, gusting now as it brought up the newspapers and cigarette buts that littered the ground. Tossing them up like the leaves that made them.

A heavy footfall sounded around the corner. Bouncing off the lamppost as another gust of wind rended a few more pieces of paper from the ground. Another footfall hit the ground, and then there was nothing. Only the whistling of the wind, only the horns of ships driving by, only the crackling of electric lights. A shadow arched over the walkway, splitting under the orange lights. A bulky figure, a head on a coat, a wide shouldered scarecrow perhaps with glowing red eyes in an orange pumpkin. The unearthly shadow of this form, steps forward slowly withdrawing under the harsh yellow light of the light overhead as it drifts closer and closer. The footsteps mix with the sounds about him, like some cannons added to Tchaikovsky’s overture, these footsteps mix the with commotion of the street. Again and again the fall, the shadow sinking faster and faster into the yellow light, until a form appeared.

In the dimming light a passerby who saw the shadow might not know what to expect. A murder perhaps, a smoking gun in his hand, a large trench coat covering his mighty form as he slowly stalks down the street looking for new pray. A zombie perhaps, waken from his solemn grave come to right the wrongs of his oppressors or under the rule of some unholy sorcerer with the flesh of his face mixing with the liter on the ground. A mighty scarecrow come from some hellish farm with a huge orange head, a grinning mouth, and flaming eyes sent to haunt the streets in the unhallowed month of October.

The wind howled just a little more, and a small whirlwind of papers flew up off the street. The yellow lights flickered and buzzed, and some moths flew around the lamp posts. The cold night swirled around this lonesome street mixing the sounds of the ocean and the city into one. From far off children cried in an old apartment. Somewhere a woman screamed and somewhere the echoes of gunshots ricocheted off the walls. The sounds mixed in the air and sang a lullaby to that sleepy city, for somewhere that great hulk paced.

A Nightingale sings...

The moon glistens off the waves as they gently crash against the rocks. The spray mixes into the air filling the air with a salty scent. The quiet noise of the crash drift up the pathway far above this rocky shore. An old cobbled road it stretches out along it shinning in the moonlight. On one side there is the everlasting seas filled with mystery and adventure, on the other a quite grove of trees against a backdrop of a bustling city. On this path two lovers walked. Their heads leaning against the others, their bodies wrapped in heavy coats as they press together. Their hands entwine and fingers touch. The cold night air bristles the furs of their coats, sending up the salty smell and the misty taste of the ocean over them. The moonlight pours down over them blocked only for a moment as they stop under the leafy boughs of a tree. Shaded under these leafy branches holding each other closely their mouths murmuring soundless word, their lips meet. And as they kiss, with the moon rolls off the surface of the water, it turns the little drops of spray that float into the air into little diamonds, the wind whistles through the branches, and from far above them a bird alights on the tree and clears it’s little throat. And a nightingale sings in Barkley Square.

Squirrels Unite!

A squirrel sat in the branches looking over the parking lot. It watched as two forms emerged from a car, one carrying a blanket, the other a small paper bag. “Food” it thought. As the two sat there seeming to bicker with the other, the squirrel watched intently climbing from branch to branch, momentarily getting distracted by some acorns in the tree.

Presently it seemed as if the pair had resolved their differences and now were smiling as they entered into the underbrush of the forest. With a happy gait the squirrel followed them as they headed towards the dying sun.

With a few short leaps and bounds the squirrel, however, found himself at an impasse. The two lovers had gone forward, disappearing into a glade, but there was a hole in the tree line caused by a deep ravine. For the humans this was no problem, but to one lives his life among the branches, jumping from tree to tree, this was a problem. Usually this would be a problem best solved by daring acrobatics, but the distance between the trees was simply too large. With a few chitters of his whiskers he decided to take the journey down the side of the tree and venture onto the forest floor below him.

He could smell the scent of the pair left marking the way. He followed their footsteps for a time before gazing at the deadly ravine before him. Soon he spotted a hole in the underbrush that paralleled their path and began the journey with a few bounds. The sound of the human footsteps before him finally stopped, catching his attention as he entered into the hole. He could hear a few grumbles, a few complaints and finally a few laughs echo into the narrow coridor. He could even smell them even from here, a sweet honey smell wafting off from that paper bag.

In a few steps he was released from the thicket of branches and emerged on the other side of the ravine. Before him was his prize. A blanket spread across the forest floor, replacing the blanket of pine needles that had once been there. On top of that a giant lay prone. Kneeling above him was a woman, slowly stroking his back with her hands. Apparently the pair had resolved their differences and the squirrel heard the man murmuring a barrage of sighs to the winds.

The poor squirrel sat on the ground watching them. Something there smelled sweetly and he was going to find out what it was. Looking above him he saw a network of branches hiding the ground from the sun. Up the side of the tree this squirrel went to pursue the outcrop. As he summated the last few branches he noticed a patch of acorns hanging a few yards on the other side a few trees away. This gave presented him with a choice. His whiskers quivered as he debated his path. The acorns were on another tree, to get there he had to go up a bit, jump over to a tree running adjacent to them and leap out to grab on to them.

On the other hand, however, this squirrel thought all he had to do to get the sweet scent he caught off of the bag was to climb a bit farther, prowl out to the end of the branch and leap down. It seemed like the they were growing more relaxed. He knew he had only had a few more moments before one of them ate his prize.

Up the tree he ran and across to his look out place. He could still smell whatever it was in the air, and he watched as the woman straddled her legs over the man’s back. The scent still wafted up revealing that it had moved. It was no longer inside of the crushed paper bag but instead in her pocket. His whiskers quivered as he prepared his descent. With a short hop he leapt down onto her back, as she laid a kiss on her partner’s neck.

Om Mani Padme Hum

The bugs were everywhere. In a massive swarm they flew here and there. Their tiny bodies alighted on branches for a moment and then flew off to resume their chaotic journey. Through the reeds they traveled. They buzzed and filled the cramped space between the reeds with a mass of black specks of bug. Their swarm divided into two at times, one set of insects going one way another the opposite, only to merge back again. They found moment’s refuge in the branches of overhanging trees or in the cool shade of fallen leaves or on the still surface of a pond but each time they returned to their flight, the swarm renewed in its buzzing as members came and went.

Moldy branches overlooked this pond of water. The branches groaned under the weight of the mosses that had taken root. They screeched as their insides were eaten slowly by beetles and maggots. This dying tree seemed to be supporting the lives of so many at the cost of its own. It was once a proud tree in a vibrant forest, its leaves a verdant green, its trunk straight and narrow. Since then this tree fell from that grace. Now it’s leaves lay in the muddy water being dyed brown, now no longer does the sun beat down on its strong, straight trunk but the glimmers of light that filter through the overhanging mists above barley illuminate the crooked and curved mass of wood. As the buzz of the swarm fades away, the winds pick up and tosses the few insects still clinging onto this poor tree to the ground, granting it a little rest before the sun sets.

A frog pokes its head out of the water and lets out a murky croak. The filthy water still clings to its head as it jumps out onto the dark, wet shores. With a few splashes it walks along the dirty embankment, croaking into the dying light. Then, just as if a great beast of pray had appeared in the branches, with eyes of fire, and a growl that could frighten the moon itself, the terrified frog leaps back into the water with an enthusiasm that would shame even the most amorous of lovers. With a heavy splash the water wells up behind him creating ripples to be cast over the still water and disturbing the swarm of bugs once again into flight.

The ripples are cast along the muddy shores, echoing off the shores, as they slowly rockea boat made of dark green leaves. Upon this muddy water these leaves rocks, its color a dark green, not the sickly green of the trees above, but a dark green of health. Each vein stands out, the water slowly lapping at the sides. It floats along with half a dozen leaves all are attached at the stem, as if they were kin on some family tree. These leaves float over the sickly surface of the water turning their jewel in the evening air. The bugs fly over head and the frogs croak. The branches sway and the wind whistles it’s low breaths. These leaves were left alone, nursing their prizejust as a mother might coax a baby to sleep.

Upon this vessel of verdant planks lay the jewel of the swamp. Once flowers had bloomed here often, their yellows and reds filling the air with color. Their nectar completed the smell of the forest as the fragrance mixed with the trees and the plants around it. Those times are no more. Now the land has grown dark, the flowers have wilted and died, sinking into this new swamp of filthy water. But here in the center of all this darkness is something that calls back to happier times.

Its petals the soft white of the morning sun. Its stem a deep green, healthy once more in this rancid water, and its smell fragrant amidst so much adversity. The white petals open in salute to the dying sun, as the leaves gently twist and turn in the rippling water. This jewel swims across the murky lake. It is a white beacon of life shinning in a cavern of death; a jewel of hope in this place of despair; a crown of god in this land of hell; a symbol of beauty in a swamp of filth; a lotus.

Orations

The sun glowed against a backdrop of blue. Not a single speck of a cloud could be seen from horizon to horizon. The clear blue sky seemed to add a happy note to this occasion. Down upon the cobbled streets this mood dissipated to the daily grind of life. Men shouted and their horses neighed. Shopkeepers bellowed their calls and their goods clanged. Everyone was milling around on these gray stones. There they walked some in bare feet, others in sandals, and a few in boots. The droning noise of the market lifted up to the heavens. More to the point it lifted up to a stone pedestal where a man stood.

Made of the same stone as the grounds the pedestal rose into the air, standing amist the hustle of the market like a wave against a rolling tide. It jutted up above the heads of the tallest horse: it’s shape a wedge against the smooth cobbles of the market placed. It seemed as if some great force had simply pulled the stone up from the ground and tossed it pressing above the heads of onlookers. It watched over this din of activity in grim satisfaction. As the shop keepers called out their goods and the men shouted out their work this stone alone was left unfettered.

Even when the streets had run with blood, the wood stained with the sanguine fluid of revolution, this podium lay unmarred as the life of rivals dripped of its platform. Even when the city was rebuilt in the glorious image of some aspiring architect this platform of stone was left unvarnished as a monument to the past. And even as the grounds themselves seemed to open and the land was shacked in shudders of some earthly deity waking form it’s slumber causing fires to reign once more in this city of wood and stone, this stone was left unmoved and unchared by the chaos around it.

And by the podium stood a man. His youth seemed to mock the podiums hardy back that had endured so many hardships. His bright young eyes and sleek brown hair exposed flush cheeks barley marred from the passage of time. His thin form stood elevated from the mobs below him girded by a flowing white fabric outlined in purple. On his head sat a green halo of leaves, a laurel. And on one long finger attached to a hand elegantly holding up that ceremonious robe, was a single ring which shone a brilliant gold in the morning sun. This man stood there and surveyed the busy scene, watching as he rested his hands on the podiums side and took a deep breath.

With a hushed awe and a silent fear the horses began to quiet. Their hooves stopped their clatter on the stone and their heads stopped their exuberant neighing. The shop keepers halted their calls mid sentence and stood their eyes fixed. The men at works paused the strikes of their hammers and the clamors of their anvils and turned their minds skyward. The first few words pierced the air like a shot each syllable spoken loud and clear. The sound traveled down the heavy streets bouncing of the cobbled stone and reverberating on wooden doors. The market place listened; the man spoke: “Friends, citizens, countrymen.”

Dragons, dragons everywhere....

Big red eyes and sharp pointy white teeth the monstrosity grins into the cavern. Little darts of flame spurt between the rows of sharp teeth as its massive snakelike head curls into the pile of gold on the ground. The green scales that gird it’s body only stop to allow for a webbed underside on two great wings as it lays there in the ground. As it curls into the piles of gold two grand horns spear the air like lances as it’s talons dig into the piles of gold as sharp as knives. It snorts another blast of fire then settles down for a long slumber. Is this a dragon?

A billowing flame flows in the sky. Its billowing form floats in the evening air. The figure floats on the air as it liquid body is buffeted here and there in the breezes. Small curls of flame spurt out from the form as it floats in the sky. With a head of a lion, and the body of a snake it shines brightly as it flies. With a large bang this airy monstrosity sinks back into the ground as another round of fireworks light the smoldering heavens. Is this a dragon?

A boy sits looking up at the afternoon sky. His gaze falls upon a swirling small cloud. He squints and makes out a head, a thin body with two stubby legs. The creature is made of the fluffy white stuff that floats against the blue backdrop of the heavens. With tiny talons that pierce the empty air it’s figure curls around like some great crest on the heraldry of the heavens. A creature made of light and air. In a few moments the wind carries it away dismantling it into a row of white puffs as they float merrily through the sky. Is this a dragon?

On the dusty covers of yellowed books read long after their prime lays pictures of dragons. Small dragons, big dragons, scaly dragons, flaming dragons. Dragons at war, dragons at play, dragons at rest, dragons at work. Green dragons with great scales burning the figures of poor knights. Dragons on the ground dancing as it celebrates the coming year. Dragons in the sky, white and puffy, as they fill a young boys imagination. No two are the same, and in these tomes dragons fight dragons. Dragons fight men. Hordes are won, lives are lost. Maids are rescued, maids are eaten. The black ink drips from the books onto their dusty shelves. Dragons in the cupboard.

Summer Bird

A blue sky and a green ground and so much space between. What could be more ideal on a warm Summer’s day? Where else might someone find the freedom of the air and the skies? In a horizon free from prey a little sparrow makes its way through the rolling air. It skips this way and that and rolls its tiny form though the clear breezes. Like a leaf flung from the highest tree it floats on the wind heading to the ground in lazy swoops being buffeted by the wind. The afternoon sun beats down on this airborne rodent as it swoops down from the heavens to snatch a few crumbs left just lying about. The blades of grass ripple as it passes, its wings just barley moving as it speeds close to the ground before lifting it’s weight up with heavy wings back into the heavens which bore it. With a few delicate beats of its wings it returns it’s lofty course of rolls and tumbles playing with the tide of the wind as it soars over a grassy plain.

Christmas Day

A sea of white. Gently rolling hills cross the field like waves. Their back are covered with ivory white snow. At the horizon this gently rolling sea of white mixes with the sea of blue that fills the heavens. Both marred only by the passage and the timid calls of animals running in the fresh air. Little rodents crisscross the snows darting here and there. Overhead sparrows mark their territory with lazy swoops and cheerful calls. Above all a pale yellow sun shines down casting long shadows against a cold stone tower, and the figure of a woman perched by the windowsill.

Small flakes of snow cast off from the roof by some meandering creature fall by the window to join their brothers once more in the white plain of snow. The woman looks out at the sea, gazing out trying to spot some difference in the rolling hills and the sands that encase them. With long strokes she runs a simple comb through straight locks of brown hair. Pearly fingers follow the comb playing through the strands feeling the soft hair, warm under the sun. A small sigh escapes her lips as another snow drift tumbles from its heavenly perch. The soft sound mixing with the crackle of a fire slowly burning the dry logs sending out another wave of sparks into the empty air.

Encased in billowing sheets of cloth, white and golds under a comforter of rainbows. Colors mix on the heavy sheet weaving their eager journey through and around one another, swirling along the folds of the cloth, creating waves here and now spirals there. The colors spin throughout the garment creating a beautiful picture of life and rebirth. On one edge chaos begins, the threads spinning a violent chaos before merging into the rolling hills of order.

The threads pass a journey through time quickly rolling through the heavenly garden with that deadly apple before leading onto a scene of a tall mountain. A mountain bathed in a river of golden threads streaming down from a clear blue heavens. A mountain created by blocks of silvers and grays mixing and merging their way up the hollow path. A mountain on which stands a man, caught between the gold of the heavens and the grays of the earth, in his hands he holds two stone tablets. This scene weaves itself into another, of a great tower stretching towards the heavens. This tower mocks the puny figure of the mountain next to it, but the sky is not weaves with threads of gold. Instead there is a chaos of reds and blacks intertwining with the heaven bound threads.

Slowly these pictures go from one to another. They weave their images around in brilliant tableau stretching over the length of this quilt. At the end however the threads stop and a new series begins. Bathed in a sky which rolls from a black pierced only by a brilliant star, to a pale blue marred by a shining sun the sky flows through this tiny image. On the ground three camels might be found and on them the three riders one might expect. Illuminated by the light of the sun and the star lies a small wood house. Woven in brilliant threads of golds and silvers, it seems to glow in the morning light. At the seat of the manger, intersected by the darkening night and the growing day lies a child. The sun and moon and stars all shine down on him, and above his head there is a weave, a halo, of colors. Behind him lies the darkest expanse of night heralding three riders, and before him a glorious new day about to dawn.

The cloth shift as the woman stretches, her lithe girlish form leaning against the cold stone of the tower. She gazes out over this sea of white before her, covered in this brilliant tapestry. The strands of well combed brown hair fall behind her back, creating their own little patterns against the somber silk shawl that covers her thing shoulders. The rest of her body is covered under blankets and as she sits there gazing at the soundless expanse of white and blue before her, feeling the crackling of the hearth behind her, and smelling the fresh breads of morning wafting through the tower she hears the first bells tolling the advent of a new day. A Christmas day.

Freedom

Little waves crash on a humble dock. The planks creek in time with the waves. The songs of birds fill the open air. The smell of solid land once more permeates the noses of a few weary travelers as they step out with ginger feet onto the planks before them.

Leaving their weather torn vessel behind these travelers step out onto the new planks starting a new life. Their bodies silhouetted in the morning sun, as if they were ebony statues against a backdrop of yellows and blues. Behind them their ship, probably more adequately called a raft, rocks back and forth. The twig-like mast creeks with each roll of the waves, and the sails bob useless in the water. Around the boat large holes can be seen. The water slowly peeking in and out of hull as it rocks. Well worn oars lay on the cabin floor moldy from the constant exposure to the water they lay next to ruined oarlocks. This decrepit scene the way-faring travelers leave now to seek the brighter pastures of life.

Dressed only in rags they step out onto the dock. Their lead, a tall and well built figure, casts his eyes about searching for new dangers, his leather boots resounding off the ground. Flanking him are two more figures. A young boy walks behind his father, his skin so tanned under the harsh light of the sun and his hands raw. To his right is a woman, heavy with child slowly plodding her way down the dock. She does not look ahead but weary eyes stare dumbly at the planks before her as her feat wander on. With slow and ponderous steps these travelers slowly cress the length of the small dock and step onto dry land.

Where the plank ends, the village begins. A herd of stone structures lazily lay on the hills their heads covered with hats of thatched straw. By the sea shore the largest of this herd towers above the resounding waves. A monolith of stone and mortar, every stone having grown smooth from the constant beating of the wind and the sea. Instead of a thatched roof its hat shines out in the distances, a small lantern to serve as a guiding star for wayfaring travelers. The entire base of the tower is crisscrossed with strands of ivy girding the stones from harm. The only place the ivy dares not tread is a heavy wooden door at the tower’s base which stands closed under the morning sun.

The sounds of men beginning their daily chores can be heard further into the village. The gruff calls of one to his neighbor fill the morning air. The smells of fires being renewed after their evening slumber mix with the smells of food beginning to be cooked. The sweet taste of pastries and breads join the smells of dew in the fresh morning air. And the yellow sun raises from out of the ocean to shine a calm light over the morning affairs.

The sounds and smells and sights of this village by the see confront these weather worn passengers. It is just another day in this costal hamlet but to those arriving it is the first day. As their boots strike the wet earth of solid ground smiles erupt on the travelers’ faces. This is the first day in their new lives. Their first day of Freedom.

Pheonix

The sky was burning. A red sun illuminating the horizon and the sky running with blood. The red horizon burns into the clear blue sky, burning the air with swathes of black and shards of white light. Where the sun lands ribbons of oranges and yellow sparkle off the distant hill. All at once the heavens seem to open, the blue sky of day descending into the harsh yellow light of dusk only for that to be replaced by the blood red light of night as even that solders away into a pitch black.

The winds howl. Pushed through the valley they scrape the trees and cry out their joys. As the sun burns the skies, the winds ravage the lands. Small whirlwinds of trees and leaves are torn from the ground. Branches are flung from their arboreal homes and the ground itself seems to shudder. Except for a few mighty trees grown massive in years of storms, the winds rip through the desolate valley tossing stones out of their way and up rooting the puny huts of a small village.

Every night the sky burns. Every night the peaceful blue sky of day runs with blood. Every night the winds howl with their wrath. Every night the villages cower in fear murmuring their prayers to the gods. They sit huddled in alcoves, behind trees, underground as the nightly siege plays out above them.

And each night they pray to the Sun and it returns filling the air with the calm oranges and yellows of dawn. Each night they pray to the winds and it spares their crops hidden behind massive crags. Each night they pray to the sky and it renews itself out of it own burnt ashes to the brilliant sky of day. But as the sun ends it’s daily course and begins to sink into the horizon before them these villagers huddle knowing that this day might be their last in this infernal realm of days and nights. They fling up their prayers to Sun and Wind and Sky beseeching them to give them just one more day on this earth. Each day they pray as they know it might be their last.

These are god fearing men.

Waters

Slow ripples move across the still lake distorting the pale image of a moon. A soft murmur of the wind soars across the empty lake, sending up little bits of spray into the air. The moon light shines down turning the clear drops of spray into silver perals to be thrown in ivory rainbows against the cold surface of the pond. Slowly the cries of animals fill the air echoing off the soft surface of the lake. The calm breeze mixing their weeps with a slow whisper calming their frightened noises in the air. A small deer sits at the edge of the lake, drinking a small sip of the clear lake through a greedy mouth. The smells of the fresh forest mix in the calm night air, filling the empty lake with the smells of newness.

With a tedious roar another wave crashes onto the sandy beach. The salty spray flying into the face of a lone wolf as he marches down the shore. The thin drops of water shake off his wet coat as his foots create ephemeral footprints in the shore waiting to be erased by the next wave. Under the calm stars this wolf walks with tedious steps through the surf seeking his prey and seeking his meal. In the distance a firelight glitters off the coast small sparks creating a dim mockery of the starry expanse. With a lonesome cry the wolf plods on through the growing surf.

A stream rumbles in the quiet of a forest. The surrounding glade is filled with the melodic sounds of the water rushing around rocks and over branches. The clear liquid races down the wet banks splashing as it plummets down the sides of rocks into a waiting pool below. Birds chirp in the background mixing their songs with the song of the lake. Slow rustles of the wind meandering its way through the branches provide a low note to this harmony. To complete this cacophony of noises the thunder of hoofed feet echoes off the encircling trunks mixing their might in with the streams rhythm, the birds melody and the winds rustles.

Morning Flames

Fires. Burning campfires scattered throughout a forest. Campfires that billow globs of brown smoke into the clear morning air. Campfires that can be smelled from across the plateu. Campfires whose light is mocked by a small sliver of light rising above the distant horizon. The yellow light of a sun casting over a war torn forest. The morning mist clings to the ground mixing with the smoke and the dust shimmering under the harsh glares of the sun. The world is a bustle of people men crawling about the camp in preparation for the day’s grim task.

The morning light fell over the saps purging the darkness from the fields, casting long shadows over the machines of war. Everyone -- fletchers standing over their arrows, bowmen leaning back their heavy bows with heavy sighs, infantry men barking orders out packing up their dewy camp, the gray haired captains huddling in the cold morning air discussing in hushed tones the morning’s campaign, and the lowly servants walking from tent to tent signing small notes of praise of another morning – wanders around the camp in the growing life engulfed in a small array of lights and sounds.

A small group of men, all dressed in a solemn black robes huddle at the edge of the camp. With voices ladened with sorrow they speak hushed whispers. In the center a patch of disturbed dirt as long as a man and as wide sits. The freshly dug earth glistens in the morning air, the wind playing a slow melody as it whistles through the morning air, the leaves casting off from their arboreal branches add a sweet fragrant to the dewy air, and the a man huddled in his bundle of black cloth slowly lets a small tear sprinkle the damp earth. With steady breaths silent prayers are expelled into the morning sun morning for the loss of another campanion.

Hark

This is a bit on the spiritual side, please read it and leave it be. I'll be witting something to replace it soon

Hark! Hear the church bells ring, here the solemn wedding bells call forth. An evening prayer a time for devotion, not for sorrows. Let your passions, your desires, your wants and needs fall behind you as you enter the solemn steps. Let all your earthly goods fall under heal and toe in search for a broader life, broader horizons. Seek the divine in you, cast off your mortal coil. Cast off your despair, your shame. Cast of your pleasures your secret delights and embrace a world of joy and light.

Only once our mortal bodies have been satiated can we be happy. Only once our mortal bodies no long hunger can we be full. Only once our mortal flesh thirsts no longer for carnal delights can we be satisfied. Seek then not goods to satisfy you, not for delights to fill your belly, and not for the sweet touch of a woman to fill your beds. Seek instead for the heavens, for a greater good, a greater glory. Do not desire the passions of a single night – those passions will disappear. Do not long for the sweet taste of succulent food – it will not sustain you. Do not yearn for the happy times of having – they will lead into times of want.

Seek instead for greener pastures, for more devout times. Seek instead for the tolling of the bells, a glory above your meager form. Do not search in the wants of your body for true happiness but instead seek in the true satisfaction of living your life for your happiness. Do not seek pleasure and pleasure will come. Do not seek sweet foods and your body will live healthy. Do not seek carnal delights and you will know true bliss. Look not at the world for your joys but look inside and you will find them there. These are the joys of life, and that is the kingdom of god.

Angel's Fall

Much credit for this piece should be given to Alezunde McCrary who drew a picture which inspired it. The picture may be found here.

A fall. A fall from a cliff. A fall from glory. A fall from grace. A fall. They all are the same, you know. The first stumble of uncertainty as your body looms of a precipice, the following moments of anxiety as you feel nature take its course, the rush of exhilaration as your body accepts its new downward trajectory, the feeling of absolute freedom as your body proceeds through the lofty air, a moment of sheer terror as you see the ground growing beneath you, then a moment of blackness as the fall engulfs your body – the anatomy of a fall; all falls are the same.

She felt so righteous, so sure of herself. At every turn she was certain of the path to take, feeling that it was the path she was destined to take. “How did this happen… why me?” The solitude of silence stares at her from a bleak expanse. The harsh ground heated by a cruel sun casts a light over her broken form. Her mind still buzzing with curiosity and anxiety, does not fully capture reality but lurks mired in a realm of fantasy.

Recalling those decisive moments, the decision to strike out against the rules, the sheer wrongness they contained. She was an angel, a Valkyrie, a cherub. Was it not her duty to help those in pain? Was it not her job to help those in suffering? Was it not her oath she swore before the almighty being himself to take care of those living under her: to watch the soldiers in battle, to guard over women and children, and to punish those who might transgress sacred bonds? If not that, then who was she? What was she?

The looming expanse mocked her. The burning sun a laughing at her broken form. Who was it to tell her who to save? Should it matter if they were black or white, men or women, heathens or believers, are they not all sacred children flung out to the wolves? Some cower under a holy light but others are bold enough to seek their own path to glory. Those poor fools took a chance, they took a chance believing that they might be wrong searching for faith instead of blindly following it. They sought god on their own not mimicking the actions of others, so we should let them rot in the dark?

The sun beat down on her again. The air cooked her bones. The empty blue sky mimicked the expanse of white sand. By gods, she was right not them. The laws were wrong. It was her duty to protect the innocent. It was her duty to defend the righteous. What should it matter if they believed in the spirits of the lakes, or another divine? It was her duty to defend those who can not help themselves. By the Almighty himself it was her duty…

She sighed, and moaned. She gazed at the bleak expanse surrounding her. A hallow moan escaped her cracked lips as she tried to move. Her body was broken; her glorious wings were shattered. Here she lay, one of the protectors of mankind, a lonesome wretch on a solitary spot of desert. Cast down from the pearly gates of heaven for an infraction against the laws of God. She was an angel, a savior among men, the white ghost of the battlefield, cast onto a hellish plain for the saving of a heathen girl stoned to death.

Sunrise

A dark blue expanse of air floats over dewy hills. A thin mist covering the gloomy landscape. A thin yellow-gold shine pierces the early morning mist creating a harsh glow lighting up the landscape. The light slides over the land spreading between the long shadows of trees expelling the former darkness. Drops of morning dew lying on green branches sparkles with the renewed barrage of morning light. The brown branches are illuminated against a backdrop of blue, the thin slivers of light cast over the hill assaulting the weathered trunks.

A slow wind blows through the hills, cast up by the heated land it pushes through the branches. Sparkling jewels of water are spun off their arboreal seats and flung to the waiting winds. The leaves rustle with renewed anticipation sending cooing burns singing from their nests. Following the light to each tree sliding around and welling up in long shadows, the wind slides through the forest creating a small whistle in the early morning air.

Moss, twigs, blades of grass – the floor of the forest sparkle under this new light. The damp ground twinkling like a row of stars as the first raise strike it here, no there. Slowly warming up the ground churns with the constant movement of the first explorers out catching an early start on the morning. Tweeting birds, chattering chipmunks and industrious ants slide through the ground casting themselves over the branches through the new soil their feet making small implants on the damp ground. The first raise set off a hubbub of activity, the once quiet air is filled with the song of birds, the once solemn grounds filed with the activity of the ants and the trees are in commotion with the clambering of small mammals.

Brown trees, green leaves, the dirty ground, gray rocks covered in verdant moss all sparkle with morning dew as they are struck by golden rays. A thin yellow-red light shines into the waiting forest banishing the cloud of black night into a thin veil of dark blue air. A sliver of light striking the forests far below, sliding through the branches and signals the start of a new day.

Night Stalker

The night quiets: he watches. The stars spin: he watches. The moon falls: he watches. A stalker. A man who needs his woman. Through the window of a passing cab, through the open slit in a door left a jar, and through the pain of glass which sits besides her window bed, he watches. It matters not who his mark is. Whether she paled skin or blank. It does not matter where she comes from, whether she has dainty flesh or not. Brown skin, black skin, brown eyes, blue eyes are all the same. That is not what he watches. What he watches is the soul.

A old town girl this time he gazes at. Perched from the rafters of a steeple high. She gazes down into the room, silk and lace. White skin covered by white sheets. Soft hands clutching cool blankets. From the moonlight behind him, silhouette him in a black form he watches her breath. He watches her chest rise and fall. A blissful sleep.

A city now, one past it's prime. A horrid place filled with the stench of cows and the cry of pigs. Too many people - too little space. He chose a new mark this night. A poor woman from the local parish -- short young and vibrant. She paces all night her heart a flutter from the glimpse she caught of true prince. He watches her pace back and forth over the lonely fire. Glimpsing her shadows as she wanders back and forth. Back and forth.

And now an open forest, in the shade of an old yew true sleeps a shepherds daughter. A lass with not a care in the world, vibrant, loving, and cheerful. Her little heart going pitter patter as the crickets chirp in the cold night air. Asleep now under the broad protection of an old yew tree covered in a blanket of wool and a blanket of stars. He watches her smile.

It maters not a town, a city, or a lonely glen. It maters not an old damsel, a young shepherdess or a poor peasant. Whether rich or poor it matters not. All he cares about is the soul. It is the soul he watches under the shadows of the night. It is the soul he watches perched from the rafters. It is the soul he watches under an old yew tree. It is the soul he watches as slowly he stalks on.

The Dancer

Red hair, green eyes, pearly skin, a woman walks out into the light. A lithe form, a graceful form. A form only marred by three sheets of silk. Blue, green and red, these three scarves drape around her body. One tied around her waist, the red band hiding her precious pleasure. Another laid around her neck, the blue scarf hiding her curves from view. The last was entwined in her hair, the green strains flowing against her red hair. She walks out onto the stage bathing in the yellow light and pauses.

She stares around at the glowing darkness, and picks up one lithe leg. Slowly she steps forward, swinging her arms up. With a quick step she hops, twisting her torso. The rainbow of colors flowing after her, flying to the side. She turns again – her body making a silent wind in the lighted circle as she spins. She stops. One white foot stopping her body’s turn. She holds her form still, letting the blue and red cloths stop their swirling turns.

She steps again, throwing her leg out into the air, and taking a turn. Bringing her leg back in, tightly to her body, she spins herself faster. Her heal pressing close against her skin, high on her thigh, her legs a twirling top. Again she throws her leg out and again she brings it back in, gaining speed. The multi colored scarves fly around her form, picking up speed with her turns, they fling out buffeted by the winds. Her lithe form flying under the light, her muscles twisting and straining with her own power. She hears the blur of the wind fly by her ears. She feels the salty taste of sweat on her red lips. ‘This,’ she thinks. ‘This is bliss.’

Katana

A reflected night, a sprinkling of stars, a smattering of constellations, on a deadly mirror. Black steel, as black as the night. Sharp steel, as sharp as light. A tang and a blade mounted on a wooden handle. A sword.

Catching the rays of the stars, the metal whistling in the cold night air. The cold steal cutting the cold night. The swish of a stroke mimicking the swirling of the wind. The brilliant sparkles of the sky mimicked on a silver line of light stopping at a simple hilt. Metal on wood. Light on dark. The cold metal connected to a simple carved piece of wood.

A hilt that had withstood the test of time. A handle that had seen it’s comrades decay, seen it’s wielders decline, but never a handle that had failed. This solid piece of wood that encases a metal spirit protruding out it’s end like a deadly beam of light. A handle itself encased from a skin of blue cloth crisscrossing over it’s rough surface.

The entire sword, blade, its blade, its guard, and its handle a single weapon. A deadly piece of work, it is a tool to kill. Yet the ancient handle, and well used blade signify something more, status. This is a lethal weapon, but it is also a sign of glory. The blue cloth crisscrossing its surface signifies a family, and a way of being: the well worn blade power.

A rank, a family, a name, a handle, a blade, all these are this sword, all these are the blade as it swings down its fatal path. An life taken with a whisper, and a life taken with a blade, and a life taken with rank.

Flickering light on water

A small flame, flickering off hollow walls. Stone walls. The light bouncing and reflecting, twinkling on running pools of water, creating small rainbows on multicolored waterfalls. Water falling over cold blue stone. Stone that is smooth and pale. Stone that has seen the test of time, and laughed. Stone that has been beaten down and weathered smooth by years of winds, years of slow trickling water. This is the stone that housed kings and sheltered orphans. A small cascade of water falls down this stone, creating small pools, and shallow lacerations into the blue stone. The cascade turns and slides with the winds spraying drips of water into the air, casting them about to splatter the blue stone.

Thrust up in the center of the stone structure is an alter. As old as the stone itself, a part of the room, a part of its history. Red flames carried by wood torches surround the room, and through the shifting light shadows are cast over a gray blade. With knicks and dents the word looks as old as the stone it lies on. The pale gray gleaming in the red light, offsetting the cold blue surface of the stone. The small patches of mist spraying onto the blade from the gently pooling streams letting drops of water run down the surface of the metal onto a slowly growing pool on the alter below.

Before this monolithic seen kneels a woman. Low prayers growling around the stone room, rumbling with the falling water, mixing with the steady beats of sound. Her form is enshrouded in a shadow of metal. Iron buckles and shifting plates encircle her form. Besides her lies a bucket of cast iron, glinting a shallow light under the torches. Iron knees touch the floor, and iron hands clasp in solemn prayer. A cascade of thin white hair runs over the cold panels falling from a faced lined with wrinkles and scares.

She mumbles old words over the worn sword and ancient alter. The halls reverberate with the steady monotone of chant. The waters resounding with their own hollow roar. All the while the walls around them chuckle with the passing of another timeless moment.