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.