Duncan Wilson's Blog, page 6
July 1, 2020
Twitter Art Micro-Stories: July 2020
'The kingdom was a quiet realm. They had little their neighbors envied and far off lands knew them not. Nestled among high mountains, their land was untroubled by the ills of the world, serene in its solitude. It had lasted for ages, stable, staid, and supremely insignificant.' https://t.co/5eO3XKrlgo
— Duncan Wilson (@MrDuncanWilson) July 31, 2020
'All knew nature reclaims what mankind forgets. The trees return and the waters run clean once more. The bricks and stones that once were so carefully crafted and assembled to the will of man, crumble to dust over time. True, man might return, but for now, nature reigns supreme.' https://t.co/5cEjdyXxm9
— Duncan Wilson (@MrDuncanWilson) July 30, 2020
'Few knew about the source of life and where it could be found. So very few had ever seen the spring from which all life arose, the stream that still fed the spirit of the world, the river of all hopes and dreams, so very few knew and they were determined to keep it that way.' https://t.co/W6DP53tk9A
— Duncan Wilson (@MrDuncanWilson) July 29, 2020
'They were calling down the wrath of the gods, so it was said in muttered curses when they erected the spire. They were shunned, feared, hated for their work, but they were never trying to taunt the gods. When the spire worked and free energy flowed, they became gods among men.' https://t.co/KfJYWxd1jd
— Duncan Wilson (@MrDuncanWilson) July 29, 2020
"There are beings of tremendous power out there among the stars, that we can't see with our most powerful telescopes."
— Duncan Wilson (@MrDuncanWilson) July 29, 2020
"Do they know we exist?"
"They barely know they exist. They're vast, with tendrils throughout space and time, but they're little more than a system of nerves." https://t.co/GNByDohaob
'The monks of the mistborn temple were skilled at many things, this was born from the many times they were separated by snows and slides that choked the passes for decades at a time. They were revered as masters of many crafts, but the one prized above all was how they brewed.' https://t.co/UheHVR7sT0
— Duncan Wilson (@MrDuncanWilson) July 28, 2020
'Be wary of the old books, my pupil, for they know things most secret, most dangerous. Within their pages is power, oh yes, but peril as well. Be cautious among the stacks in this library, it is old and its books older still. The walls take on the words, and the weird warps all.' https://t.co/i97CwMBpBU
— Duncan Wilson (@MrDuncanWilson) July 28, 2020
'There was no question who was king in this land, no question and no quarrel. The lord was terrifying and solitary, the subjects timid yet thriving. Though they duly feared their sovereign, they lived in peace. The dragon hunted elsewhere, and no threat intruded upon their home.' https://t.co/l0Wbz1wRKo
— Duncan Wilson (@MrDuncanWilson) July 27, 2020
'When the waters came for their stunning city, they did not mourn. When the oceans rose and stole their astonishing achievements, they did not fight. When their mighty metropolis vanished from the surface of the earth, they did not do a thing, as they had died out long before.' https://t.co/8fmMEY5OU3
— Duncan Wilson (@MrDuncanWilson) July 27, 2020
'The world had grown grey with the passing of the ages. The weary old guardian, perhaps the last of his line, would soon pass from this land, and all he could do was fear for the foreboding future, one without any color. Little did he know, only his vision had faded to grey.' https://t.co/l98IZXWvlh
— Duncan Wilson (@MrDuncanWilson) July 27, 2020
'He had a long way to go, but with every step, his bones hurt less, his load became lighter, his mood became brighter. He had a long way to go before his journey's end, but was but little to the long way he had come so far. He could walk a little longer before the end.' https://t.co/yhVR5mmxuW
— Duncan Wilson (@MrDuncanWilson) July 26, 2020
'When they emerged from the places yet untouched by man, they seemed like a dream, the sort you never awake from. The fighting was desperate and unmerciful on both sides. This was a war of survival and all knew it. The last battle between nature and man would be waged with fire.' https://t.co/YhONmuEpZd
— Duncan Wilson (@MrDuncanWilson) July 26, 2020
'They had a plan. They always had a plan. It was a grand plan, spanning many years, drawing upon the labors of many, a plan that would show their might and glory, that they could suborn nature to their whim at any time they wanted. It was a great plan, but nature did not care.' https://t.co/X5kuO4NDqC
— Duncan Wilson (@MrDuncanWilson) July 23, 2020
'The people of the village always celebrated when the ships departed. Their children were on those ships, their cousins worked in the grand world-port, the one that had transformed their world into a nexus of civilization. Their village was a small, but vital part of the galaxy.' https://t.co/tKHQeEw80K
— Duncan Wilson (@MrDuncanWilson) July 22, 2020
"This desert is so far from the sea, so far from any river or lake. How did these boats get here?"
— Duncan Wilson (@MrDuncanWilson) July 21, 2020
"They floated."
"But how? These sands are among the mountains! No flood could have carried them here!"
"No flood, no. No river nor stream either."
"Then how?"
"The clouds above…" https://t.co/GjupuxWGkl
'They worshiped it as a god. All the mortal deer that looked alike were considered sacred. It was a gentle, benign god, only crushing the occasional village, who must certainly have sinned against it. Truly, they were blessed by such a god, that for the most part ignored them.' https://t.co/5jCHbXJHry
— Duncan Wilson (@MrDuncanWilson) July 21, 2020
'All roads meet in the end. All of the many divergent paths through life, no matter the length, no matter the difficulty, no matter the course through this world, all trails come together in the end. All roads converge to cross through the gateway before the next journey begins.' https://t.co/zE39CkN8yl
— Duncan Wilson (@MrDuncanWilson) July 20, 2020
'It is dark, here in the undergrowth, where the small creatures live and the night flowers bloom. It is dark, here in the undergrowth, where the sunlight comes but rarely. It is dark, here in the undergrowth, dark enough see the tiny lights flit and fly free.' https://t.co/CcS9pzD51D
— Duncan Wilson (@MrDuncanWilson) July 20, 2020
'The tower was not made by man nor beast. Some said the gods shaped it, some said the waves. Others believed that only demons of the depths could have erected such a sinister structure to dominate the coast. No one really knew, but all swore the light it gave was not natural.' https://t.co/V4Df1G0Rs6
— Duncan Wilson (@MrDuncanWilson) July 20, 2020
'They were beautiful. Exotic. Entrancing. The red leaves shimmered in the sunlight, seemingly glowing a bright crimson whenever dawn colors struck their edges. The trees were tranquil upon the empty plain, exuding an enticing odor, deadly to inhale, keeping all threats far away.' https://t.co/ueq1dvLant
— Duncan Wilson (@MrDuncanWilson) July 18, 2020
"Can't believe you're fishing for birds. Birding!"
— Duncan Wilson (@MrDuncanWilson) July 16, 2020
"Not birds."
"No? Whatcha trying to catch?"
"Old droids. Ones who have nowhere to charge anymore, whose owners passed on."
"Oh yeah? What do you do with them?"
"Take them in, give them a new home."
"…Mind if I help?"
"Sure!" https://t.co/p4qWrVgaQg
'Within the shell of a dead mountain, within the walls of the earth itself, they built a house, safe and sound. No matter the raging storms of the world without, the rocks and bricks would protect those inside, sheltered and secure in their own little world within the world.' https://t.co/gJk1hw0DbO
— Duncan Wilson (@MrDuncanWilson) July 15, 2020
'The trees and grasses came back after the deluge. There was so much more fertile soil to take hold upon. The old land had been swept away, but the plants adapted and seized upon new deposits and new opportunities, forging a fresh new land, bringing life back after the flood.' https://t.co/lc4yabgNhi
— Duncan Wilson (@MrDuncanWilson) July 14, 2020
"There wasn't always two moons."
— Duncan Wilson (@MrDuncanWilson) July 14, 2020
"You're nuts."
"No! I swear! The truly ancient texts speak of only one moon!"
"Then when did the second appear?"
"No one knows, but there's a gap in the texts of thousands of years, of no writings at all. What I fear, is the arrival of a third…" https://t.co/wZCwHopcdQ
'Over hundreds of years the path was worn into the ancient stone. Not by purpose, but by a million weary travelers walking up and over the shortest path, by a million tired souls, resting upon the rock as they paused to catch their breath at the top. Now, no one remembered how.' https://t.co/th6Us2Xb30
— Duncan Wilson (@MrDuncanWilson) July 13, 2020
'Not long ago, one could ford the river, not long ago, this was an undivided land where the river flowed freely below the ancient mountains. Not long ago, there was no gorge, not long ago by the reckoning of the stars. Yet that was a time before the first man, not so long ago…' https://t.co/mPnIY3Wwnq
— Duncan Wilson (@MrDuncanWilson) July 13, 2020
'The old god was at rest. Many thought him dead. Then, many thought him a legend. Then, many thought of him no more. The old god sat, still and silent through the ages, pondering the passage of time in the movement of the waves. Asag would watch the tides and storms forevermore.' https://t.co/7mG0A3nrao
— Duncan Wilson (@MrDuncanWilson) July 13, 2020
'The world was new, volatile, fractured and unsettled. Nothing stayed the same for long. Colossal plumes of gas erupted upon the shattered plains, thrusting jagged shards of crumbling rock up from below. No life could survive this hellscape. But, life had never known this world.' https://t.co/d0dOfuYCTU
— Duncan Wilson (@MrDuncanWilson) July 13, 2020
'Lush was the valley below the great peak, filled with all manner of creature and plant thriving among the cold waters. The summer melt brought the waters and the bloom of trees and grass fostered life in the valley for another year. The mountain was dead, but gave forth life.' https://t.co/vKOmPnZ88n
— Duncan Wilson (@MrDuncanWilson) July 11, 2020
'The storm was coming. They all knew it. The birds and the lords of the sky sought refuge at the heart of the gathering tempest, circling, on guard, ready to flee the moment the winds shifted. They all knew the storm was coming, but none knew what would be left once it was gone.' https://t.co/p7B0w5Fziy
— Duncan Wilson (@MrDuncanWilson) July 10, 2020
'It took ages, but the portal was built. It took another age for the people of the doomed world to filter through to the other side, a refuge from their dying lands. The portal stood alone and silent on the dead world. One day it lit up and refugees started to return…' https://t.co/lCMwxHz7zH
— Duncan Wilson (@MrDuncanWilson) July 10, 2020
'It was a long and difficult climb to make an offering to the god of the summit, but every week he would make the journey with thanks in his heart.. Little by little, his fortunes fell and his people died away, but still he sacrificed. Surely, persistence would pay off some day.' https://t.co/0Q44Yl6FkK
— Duncan Wilson (@MrDuncanWilson) July 7, 2020
'Gods, giants, wizards, wyrms, dragons, and demons, all had created the hidden rift valley in the old stories. None knew how it came to be. In truth, it did not matter. Those that settled in the concealed chasm led peaceful, prosperous lives, hidden away from the wider world.' https://t.co/S76xHNh8WB
— Duncan Wilson (@MrDuncanWilson) July 7, 2020
'In the chapel of the vale, there are but few parishioners. The path to the place of worship is treacherous for those who know where it lies. Yet, no matter how few come to pray in the lonely sanctuary, none are turned away for want of wealth. The chapel is a refuge for all…' https://t.co/g5CHsMmR4y
— Duncan Wilson (@MrDuncanWilson) July 6, 2020
'The songs started at dawn. The haunting wails of the creature wafted across the land as it slid through the air, but none paid it anymore mind than they did the birds or bees. No one knew what they were, but no harm had come in the millennia since they arrived, so none cared…' https://t.co/1Xbhvbz091
— Duncan Wilson (@MrDuncanWilson) July 6, 2020
"T'was late in the season, the roads were slick with ice. T'was late in the season, the streams had ceased their flow. It was late in the season, his cart was full of spice. T'was late in the season, he made to race the snow. T'was late in the season, the risk worth the price…" https://t.co/zaYcUFZxa7
— Duncan Wilson (@MrDuncanWilson) July 6, 2020
The post Twitter Art Micro-Stories: July 2020 first appeared on Hic Sunt Deos.
June 1, 2020
Twitter Art Micro-Stories: June 2020
'"Do you see lights rising up from the ridge-line?"
— Duncan Wilson (@MrDuncanWilson) July 1, 2020
They looked at him in shock, backing away in horror. "Oh no… Your time has come! Only the damned see the lights! They'll be here soon!"
He stammered in fright, but they were already chanting. Then he saw the white horses…' https://t.co/puTIJ0arWa
'No one knew why it was there. No one knew what it was for. There was no city here, not even settlements. The tower stood alone. Many came to see it, to study it, to dream of it, and when they went away, their dreams remained. Little did they know, their dreams were the tower.' https://t.co/l3usRDvY4L
— Duncan Wilson (@MrDuncanWilson) June 30, 2020
'There is trade between gods and men. Men would pray and gods would bless. It had always been that way. It is why their city thrived, or so the lords of the city always told their subjects. Yet the subjects prayed as well, seeking something far different in trade from the gods.' https://t.co/4SOLXltkul
— Duncan Wilson (@MrDuncanWilson) June 30, 2020
"The silence shattered with a million gasps! The clouds were parting, the darkness receding, the sun they thought they'd never see again but as a dim haze above, emerged from beyond the gloom! The pharos was alive once more! Hope and light had returned to the world at last!" https://t.co/WPv2Klqmpq
— Duncan Wilson (@MrDuncanWilson) June 30, 2020
'Few walk the land of the dragons. There is no need. Few creatures can live and nothing grows in this remote region. Some brave souls come every so often to challenge themselves and learn their worth. Few walk the land of the dragons, but many that should be feared fly.' https://t.co/pIGfFHs3V0
— Duncan Wilson (@MrDuncanWilson) June 25, 2020
'The rider did not, could not, look up for fear they would notice. The guardians of old were jealous of the path to the temple of truth. None had dared venture there since they took up watch. But the terrified rider kept toward the temple. Someone had to try to learn the truth.' https://t.co/YpeCCJyUa6
— Duncan Wilson (@MrDuncanWilson) June 25, 2020
"They had been an empire once. The relics of a glorious past served as a reminder of their lost power. Grand structures, crumbling away with the ages, the memories of their reign fading away with the features on every edifice. Their life was simple now, simple, small, serene…." https://t.co/xdELtLK9VR
— Duncan Wilson (@MrDuncanWilson) June 23, 2020
"Far from the gleaming cities with their teaming crowds, far from the grand cathedrals and grander monuments to the glories and triumphs of civilization, the isle of the wilds sits in solitude. Few frequent its shores or worship at its sacred shrine. Far too few feel so free." https://t.co/sahksADrbw
— Duncan Wilson (@MrDuncanWilson) June 23, 2020
'The Temple of the Missing Gods existed before the faiths of today. When it was built, there were many more gods than now, each with their own temples and followers. But gods rise and fall and every generation there are less than before. The Temple was ancient, and full of gods.' https://t.co/57Q3XCtBt4
— Duncan Wilson (@MrDuncanWilson) June 19, 2020
The house loomed on the hill above, casting pools of eerie green light and darker shadows in the gloom about her. Turning to her companion, she asked, "Is that it? Is that the house you warned me about? The house of evil?"
— Duncan Wilson (@MrDuncanWilson) June 11, 2020
"No, that is the home of the one who holds it at bay." https://t.co/d8M3sdWq96
"They all looked up, toward the horizon, following the movement of the birds above. They all looked, silent, reverent. Today was a rare day, one of the few days they ever caught sight of the old tower. An age ago, it was their strength. Now, it was a memory, seldom seen." https://t.co/ymYU2lKBLq
— Duncan Wilson (@MrDuncanWilson) May 25, 2020
"No matter how dark the night got, no matter what the blight blotted all about, the tower stood alone, aloft, aloof. It was never stained in the sins of the simple, it was never tainted by the corrupting touch of life, but only because the tower never deigned to become involved."
— Duncan Wilson (@MrDuncanWilson) June 5, 2020
The post Twitter Art Micro-Stories: June 2020 first appeared on Hic Sunt Deos.
May 31, 2020
Twitter Art Micro-Stories: April-May 2020
"It once was a symbol of power, authority, and dominion over the lands around and all who dwelt therein. Now, as the tides go in, and the tides go out, it is a symbol of nothing more than the passage of time, and the memory of long ago times, fading and crumbling with the ages."
— Duncan Wilson (@MrDuncanWilson) May 25, 2020
"A gateway into another world?"
— Duncan Wilson (@MrDuncanWilson) May 19, 2020
"Perhaps. Perhaps it is but a gateway into your own soul, where the only company is your own mind."
"Okay, now I'm scared…."
In that moment between light and dark, in that period between the seen and the unseen, the hidden colors of the world burst forth to paint our skies and our lives, brilliant and vivid for but a brief time, only to fade swiftly to grey, not to be seen again for another day.
— Duncan Wilson (@MrDuncanWilson) April 29, 2020
The place seemed so tranquil now. Every so often, a jogger or hiker would pass by, never knowing, never suspecting. Water washes all away in time. No trace remained of either of them anymore. Not their footsteps, not their blood, not even their bones remained after so many years.
— Duncan Wilson (@MrDuncanWilson) April 11, 2020
The post Twitter Art Micro-Stories: April-May 2020 first appeared on Hic Sunt Deos.
May 3, 2020
The Waters – A collaboration
A guided relaxation themed on water written by Jacqueline Belle and me, voiced by Jacqueline, with video work by Daniel Lacho.
March 25, 2020
Again! Again!
“Again! Again!”
I smiled down at my little boy, “I’ve already told this story three times tonight.”
His eyes shone with glee as he simply repeated himself, “Again! Again!”
The sun had set, and the light outside was but moon and stars. My son was not at all tired yet, and neither was I. Stroking his blond hair I said, “Oh, alright, I will tell it again.”
“A long time ago, long before I was born, they told the story of a mischievous spirit called a pooka. Wherever the pooka went, it played pranks on people, but these were usually harmless. It found humans funny, and they, in turn, found its japes amusing. The pooka could take the form of whatever it wanted, and would often play among the human children, laughing and running about. One day, it was playing hide and seek with the children of a small village, and it really wanted to win. It took the form of a moss covered rock, knowing the children would never find it. Oh how it laughed to itself in glee, thinking of all the humans worrying about the child they could not find, lost all alone, in the woods, as night approached. But no one was looking for the pooka. The children had forgotten there was another playmate that day. They had forgotten the strange little child that none of them knew, and they had finished their little game and gone home for supper.
“When midnight came, and still no one looked for it, the pooka changed into an owl and went looking for the humans, wondering where they all were. There were no humans about, there were no torches lit, no search parties for the lost little child who had not been found. It searched all night for any sign that they had worried, and found none. As daylight broke upon the little village, the pooka had become angry, and vengeful. A dangerous thing is a pooka if you ignore its tricks.
“At first, it played the mean pranks it often played when it felt slighted. Milk soured, animals strayed, chairs broke, and food went missing. Still, the humans showed no sign of remorse. No offerings to the magical spirit were offered to soothe its rage. The pooka grew spiteful, and its pranks became dangerous. The baker broke his leg falling off a ladder, the local shepherd almost drowned crossing a river, and the village well dried up. One by one, the humans grew fearful, and they whispered among themselves, wondering what was causing their misfortunes. They imagined ghosts and ghouls, witches and wights, fairies and fuaths. They blamed one creature after another, but not once did they think of pookas, and this made the pooka very angry indeed.
“No longer was it thinking of simple pranks or jests, no longer did it want the people of the village to fear it. No, now it wanted the people of the village to suffer. So it called upon its kind, and from far and wide did the pookas come, each delighted at the grand caper the angry pooka proposed. One by one, the pookas tempted every child of the village away from the watchful eyes of the adults and the other children, and one by one, they stole the child away, putting one of their number in its place, until there was but one human child left in the village. One small, lone child, a little blond boy, just like you, who never ventured from his house, who preferred to play by himself indoors with his books and toys. And it was this little boy that the angry pooka chose to take the place of.
“It approached the house of the little blond boy one afternoon when his parents were still off at work, and taking the form of a puppy, it yipped and yapped, and scratched at the door of the house, trying to lure the child outside. But the child, who looked out at the frantic little animal jumping and prancing about outside his window, did not trust strange animals, just like you, and he turned away from the window and went back to his toys.
“The pooka returned the next day and took the form of a little old lady, frail and kindly, holding a basket of sweet things to entice the child outside. But the child was not fond of sweet things, just like you, and refused to answer the door for the stranger, and went back to his books. This upset the pooka, but what could it do? Even magical creatures have rules they must obey, and the pooka could not enter the house except in the form of the little boy. So once again, it had to go away, and the boy was safe another day.
“Day after day, the pooka returned, and it took form after form, each more irresistible than the last, but nothing it did could coax the little boy out of his house and into danger, for the boy was obedient, and his parents had told him never to go outside when they were away, and never to talk to strangers. Day after day, the pooka tried, and day after day it was frustrated, and the lone little boy who preferred books to all the silly little things other children found so fun remained safe in his house.”
My child beamed up at me and asked excitedly, “Did the pooka ever get him?”
“Never. Not as long as the boy remained inside, like a good little boy should, like you do, my child.” I kissed the top of his head as I finished my cautionary tale once more.
“Again! Again!”
I smiled down at my little boy and laughed, “You have heard this story four times tonight.”
He just smiled at me in that way every child smiles at their parent when they do not want to let the story end, “Again! Again!”
An owl hooted as the deep of the night settled in. My son was still not tired, and neither was I. Stroking his brown hair I said, “Oh, alright, I will tell it again.”
March 2, 2020
The Fuath of the Firth
“I would not go out to sea today. No, no, no….”
“You’re mad, old man.”
“Aye, mad. Mad, and alive, boyo.”
The young captain snorted and turned his back to the old timer, but as he lashed his gear on deck, he cast a wary eye up at the clouds for signs of trouble. No one paid attention to the old coot who haunted the docks for as long as any could remember, but the young captain was as superstitious as any who plied the seas. It did not do to ignore any warning entirely. He snorted again at the clouds, tiny and dispersing. There was no sign of storm in the sky, and no portent of any in the offing. The young captain turned back toward the senile old man, unable to resist taunting his elder, “I fear no tempest this day.”
The old man was shuffling about with his back half-turned, collecting trash left over from the meals of gulls and fishermen alike. He just shook his head and replied, “Nay, no foul gale today, boyo. Yet I would not go to sea today, not through that firth. No, no, no….”
“What’s wrong with the firth then?”
“There’s a fuath in the firth, and it’s no friend to sailors. Not today.”
“A fua… Hells take you, you crazy old bastard! You try to jinx me with ancient spirits? There’s no such thing as fuaths! Be gone and let me work!” The young man of the sea spat and gestured rudely, watching the lunatic wander down the pier before returning to the task at hand. He wanted to beat the tide , and could little afford delays, mystical or otherwise. Yet, even as he worked feverishly, the captain cast a glance every few minutes at the wandering form of the muttering madman, and another glance at the opening to the ocean beyond the bay.
There were old stories about the firth, older than any could remember. Old tales told by old men in older taverns when the winds were howling and the shingles shuddering, over bitter ales in the fluttering candle light of the deep night. He had heard these tales, growing up in the village, but had grown up and grown wary. Even had he still believed in faerie stories, he had never heard tell of a fuath in the firth. It seemed such a silly reason to stay in port.
His preparations at last done and his two crewmen arrived and on board, the young captain cast off and set sail, with one final sneer at the old man still rambling about on the dock. For some reason no one could explain later, the young captain never noticed his was the only ship setting out that day.
The old man no one knew well stood up and put another piece of garbage in his sack, muttering to no one in particular, his eyes flickering a little strangely, “I would not go to sea today. No, no, no…”
February 24, 2020
A Memory of Ash and Snow
Wisps of ash floated down from the growing cloud of smoke. There was no breeze, but the heat of the flames buffeted the smoldering flakes of wood and cloth, gently guiding the delicate remnants of the blaze away from the still raging fire even from a distance. Even without a wind to tear them apart, the flakes were gossamer thin, fragile, vulnerable, often disintegrating into dust before they could reach the ground. Every so often there was a sharp pop from the inferno, and a shower of white hot cinders shot out into the darkness of the night, a spray of short-lived flares, melting snow wherever they came to rest. The cabin burned for hours, sputtering and dying only when the timbers had burned well below the snowbanks, extinguishing only when the still frozen ground would allow the conflagration to go no further.
Between the low lying storm clouds, gathering strength to unleash another torrent of snow the next day, and the thick obscuring smoke from the blaze, the inferno was almost invisible even at full strength, vanishing entirely from view any further than a few yards by the time the last few guttering flames gave out at last and all that remained were quickly cooling embers. The blizzard that broke the next day lasted for a week, dumping layer after layer of fresh snow upon the land, burying all sign there had ever been a fire or home for many months after. When the spring came, later that year than any on record, the gathered snows melted slowly, clumps and drifts lingering over any depression and against any protrusion that could be used for cover. What had once been a cabin offered little shelter for the retreating snows, but it was enough to mask all signs that life had ever dwelt there for a few weeks longer. The days were turning toward the simmering, sweltering summer season before anyone happened upon the ruin.
A small child, enjoying the first weekend the weather had allowed him to ride his new bicycle, stopped in front of the blackened outlines in the ground of what had once been a house. He was far from his own home, far from any neighbors he knew, and far from the paths and roads he normally played along. This deep into the wild, down the badly maintained dirt road, he had not expected to find anything. The weeds and brambles had already started reasserting their natural right over the narrow road, adding to the illusion that no one had lived here for longer than was true. The child wondered about what he found, but made no note of it. There was nothing special about charred debris in the deep woods, and his were not the worries of the grown up world. Laughing away whatever fears or worries the oddity aroused, the child pedalled away toward home, leaving the last testament to what had once been a home behind, to be overgrown, not to be seen again.
January 13, 2020
So Long Til Sleep
This is not what you think it is. In fact, it is not even what you think it is not.
Infinite impossibilities tangle inside my skull, contemplating and conspiring on expiring my last waking moments in a cacophony of idle thoughts so they can watch the show of me turning and churning in the sheets, struggling to extrapolate myself from all that is all my thoughts at once.
Mere caffeine alone cannot solve this one. Time for music.
Even if I could, I would not, so to say, even think of changing to a slower grade of pace as I face each day on what little measure of sleep I allow for my mind to take. When else would I dance with the moments of space and time that flit into my brain, expecting a waltz?
I say this, but once. Time is not what you think it was. It is mine.
Coffee is for the week. If my blood gets much thinner, I could slide it into a seam and sew it away, never to escape again. Of course I am rambling, the damn lights never give up, not when they can blind me in the total darkness, pounding into my bones, trying desperately to keep me blinking. Damn sun. Damn sun! Die already!
Oh wait, it’s dead for the day. Why then do I still see it when I look down?
The compositions of those already asleep wander through my ears, soothing the silent beast trembling within my skin. It is good music I hear, too good for the mere darkness of the light to envelope. It is good to hear as I drink a little more sustenance, drowning out the howls of the thoughts as they drift away and disappear on the horizon of a nice soothing dream.
A dream, of music.
December 18, 2019
King Winter – A Poem
In the twilight of the days, in the evening of the year, as inebriated fools hail the fading sun and curse the coming darkness, I whisper into the cooling winds, my words wandering across the earth. The earth comes to rest for another cycle, as the colors flee before my cold. I am approaching on whirling clouds of grey and gloom, quickly gathering into the storms ahead. Darkness looms above, as shadows grow below, nothing escaping the darkness that comes upon the land like a mad torrent of unforgiving anguish.
My cold chills to the bone any caught outdoors. I blast forth from the depths of men’s fears, swallowing up the bright summer days and the colors of the fall, washing all life of its warmth and painting the world in white. Men cower indoors, huddled about together before fires, trying to stave off my chill, trying to bear my wrath for another season, shivering through the long nights and longer storms as I vent my cold fury upon all who would dare to venture forth amid my sovereignty .
Behold, mere mortals, the rancor of my reign! Curse your curses upon my head if you will, offer me supplication from your scant stores, wail into the howling darkness your entreaties for forgiveness, but you will know no mercy. I am King Winter, and you will taste my death, trapped in the darkness of my grasp. Struggle and flee, my chill gales will pursue you, will gnaw at you, will bring you down into numb submission, and will tear the last warmth of life from your frozen bones.
Only when the land is dead, and the chill has sunk into the rocks and dirt will I depart once more. Only when I have had my fill of your misery, only when I have scoured the leaves and chased the joy from all who survived my vengeance, Only then will spring come to know the land. Only then will men emerge and whisper of my cruelty. Only then will men and beast return to the land. Only then will they once more claim lordship upon the world and build and breed. Only when my menace is a memory will they farm and flourish. But men and beast alike would do well to remember that seasons come and seasons go, and seasons pass and seasons grow. Tarry not long upon the land, for in the autumn of the year I bide my time, and once more the dark clouds grow upon the skies above and once more my words wander forth, heralds to be headed, to be feared, to be dreaded. Signs and portents of the fall of light and warmth should be heeded, for once more I will know my glory and life will know what cruel consequence cold can carry.
December 14, 2019
Now Available as an Audiobook!
I am pleased to announce that Once Upon A Lane is now available in Audiobook format, narrated by Bick Schaeffer. He did a great job on the reading and I know you will enjoy listening to his performance!
