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.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Friday, August 28, 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
"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.
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.
Monday, August 24, 2009
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.
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.
Friday, August 21, 2009
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 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.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
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.
Monday, August 17, 2009
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.
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.
Friday, August 14, 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
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.”
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.”
Monday, August 10, 2009
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.
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.
Friday, August 7, 2009
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.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
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.
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.
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.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, August 3, 2009
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.
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.
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