Oskar Leonard's Blog, page 5

Wish For Chaos

Like with the last two weeks, this week’s poem is another fantasy one from that collection I’ve been writing loosely recently, and although it doesn’t expand upon the worldbuilding quite as much, I hope it still provides an interesting little insight into this setting!

Wish For Chaos

Doesn’t every man want to go mad,
one day, and rant and rave until he runs
outside the walls, perhaps chased
by an armoured member of the guard–
perhaps left to his screaming,
while he runs, at a speed unattainable
through training, straight into those woods
that surround us, heavy as a bad dream,
thick as the chains around a prisoner’s wrists
as he is led to the gallows–I speak in
the hypothetical, of course, as there
have been no hangings under our King’s rule,
but nevertheless, doesn’t every man
truly yearn to be free, completely unburdened
of the vicious demands of his society?

We are no better than the devil, in that
we yearn for our basest instincts–we yearn
for the chaos that lies, waiting, around the corner
from the strict order that we built ourselves.

If you enjoyed this, click here to check out some of my poetry collections – free ebooks available as well as print books on Amazon!

(You can also tip me on my Ko-Fi page if you’d like to support an author!)

Tombstones & Rosebushes

Remember Spiritside from last week? Well, this is another poem from that same collection that I’ve been working on, within the same fantasy world – and even the same city! I hope that you find this interesting, both as a little slice of a new world and a poem within itself.

Tombstones & Rosebushes

Distinguished persons, of some wealth and note,
will find themselves buried at G——-,
just by the citadel that rose, brick by brick,
to replace the cathedral, because the council
needed a home to rest their weary heads in,
and the land was smouldering, ripe for the taking;
from the cathedral days, G——- is sombre,
tombstones duelling with rosebushes,
benches with metal intertwined into names,
dates, remembrances–yes, if you mean something,
to someone who also means something, then you
will find your bones at G——- Park.

Undistinguished persons, whether through lack
of power or gold, or oftentimes both,
will not be offered an appointment to reserve
a respectable spot in G——-, so, instead,
they must be buried wherever possible–
it was the fashion, some time ago, for farmers
to reserve a field for such a need, the extra coin
helping in times of bad weather and harvests,
but with the terrible burning of that slab
of W——, and a mass grave already under Spiritside–
well, it is not sanctioned, but the mind hardly
has to wander to understand where you’ll go.

If you enjoyed this, click here to check out some of my poetry collections – free ebooks available as well as print books on Amazon!

(You can also tip me on my Ko-Fi page if you’d like to support an author!)

Spiritside

Something a little different for you this week! It’s a poem, but it’s specifically within the fantasy genre and is part of a little casual collection I’ve been building up to populate the worldbuilding of a project I’ve been working on. I thought it would be fun to include here on the blog, and I might post a few more in the coming weeks, so here’s the first one!

Spiritside

You know why they call ‘Spiritside’ as such,
don’t you? Most do, even if it’s a fact
that falls by the wayside of their lives,
pushed out by tasks that must be done,
coins that must be earned, traded, hoarded,
and all other mortal preoccupations.

It’s not sand that lingers in the gutters,
my friend. White sand in G——-,
whoever heard of such a ridiculous thing?
No, it is the crumbs of those beneath–
those whose bodies support the taverns,
alehouses, dens of depravity, and so on.

And the houses, of course – the collections
of squalid rooms in squalid buildings,
teeming with mortals and vermin alike–
there is a reason why the wall does not
extend its protective, if injured, arm
around Spiritside, and we all know it.

There is also a reason why that stretch of land
between the L—— River and the wall,
is devoid of life. They said it was plague,
when they tore it down, set flames to
wood – they said the inhabitants were all
dead or dying, each one of them.

They did not tell those who were not there
of the armoured guards pressing the ill in,
alongside the well, alongside the living-
and-still-to-live-save-for-the-mortal-vice-
-of-being-unable-to-withstand-flames,
and their screams were ‘a passing windstorm.’

Have you ever stood in a storm without clouds,
without rain, without even the faintest darkening
of the sky? Well, it is no matter; they died.
Their bodies were buried across the water,
to further preserve G——- from slum-plague,
and atop those graves was built Spiritside.

That’s the thing about you mortals – one or two
always squeeze through the cracks, and then
you must live elsewhere, and just as they ripped
the unsightly mess from aside their wall,
it sprouted again, a most resilient weed,
blossoming from a bed of skeletons and bone-dust.

Isn’t that a tale, friend?

If you enjoyed this, click here to check out some of my poetry collections – free ebooks available as well as print books on Amazon!

(You can also tip me on my Ko-Fi page if you’d like to support an author!)

The Matter of The Chest

This week, I’ve got a poem for you and an exciting announcement – this poem was published in Issue I of These Writers’ Voices, ‘The Silence’, yesterday, which you can check out for free right here! If you’d like to just read this poem, I’ve included it below for you. This is a pretty personal one that covers three different stages in my journey of having top surgery, so I really hope you enjoy it!

The Matter of The Chest A Summary Of Two Round Decades Of Discontent

There are holes in my chest
and they are weeping,
leaking transparent tears
onto blisters, biting flesh
that only wishes to be hidden:
this is the price, paid in cells
ripped from epidermis –

call it madness to engage
in a daily ritual, knowing
the result is red and raw and ruthless,
and so miserable that even it
cries clear tears at night.

A Snapshot Of The Quaking Moments Prior To Relief

Time mimics my heartbeat,
hanging on the wall, thrumming
like a ridiculing parrot, sending
vibrations through the inked pages
intended to distract me. They do not.

I will die here. I will not. Yet I might.
Who is to say, in this sanitised crypt,
that I have not already gone? Did I blink,
disappear, forget, and return? Is this…
what do you call it? Purgatory?

Maybe I am mistaking my heartbeat
for a death rattle. There is a knock—
the heart stops, the clock continues.

‘The team are ready for you now.’

A Realisation Of Joy, After The Fact

It is the second car journey,
not the first. My brain echoes
itself, softly, until I understand
the words: now I know what it is,
this trans joy. Now I know.

A glimmer of a tear trembles,
not quite overflowing. Yes,
now I understand. Lightness,
held together by scabbing lifelines,
causes the motorway greenery to glow.

If you enjoyed this, click here to check out some of my poetry collections – free ebooks available as well as print books on Amazon!

(You can also tip me on my Ko-Fi page if you’d like to support an author!)

Inexplicable

Back to the poetry this week! This one is just a little light-hearted take on the random appearance of spiders in places that really don’t seem beneficial for them, considering their fly-based diet. It’s just a fun poem, so I hope you enjoy it!

Inexplicable

He is clinging to a ceiling corner,
dressing landlord-white in silk,
his appearance inexplicable,
his patience admirable—
there is no prey for him here.

Then, sound; heat; droplets
of purest steam, scalding,
rising, reaching his corner,
the coveted beginning and end
of his privacy.

It is over. His silk has been shed,
falling in whispers too light
to be witnessed. Warmth escapes,
but he does not. He clings, still.
He waits, still.

And when his friend arrives,
a copy in every way, the appearance
is still inexplicable, and their patience,
doubled, is still admirable—
there is still no prey for them here.

If you enjoyed this, click here to check out some of my poetry collections – free ebooks available as well as print books on Amazon!

(You can also tip me on my Ko-Fi page if you’d like to support an author!)

Duke’s Descent

I know that we’ve been on a roll with the poetry posts over the last few weeks, but I’ve decided to give you something a bit different today – a short story! This one has an interesting background too, as it was actually the first time I tried out writing the character of Duke, who is the main character in The Horse Who Fell in Scorland. He’s in a similar setting but a pretty different situation in this short story, and I think it’s quite interesting to see how far the idea developed between this short story and the novella. So, I hope you enjoy Duke’s Descent!

Duke’s Descent

Duke was stolen from his master’s stable at a quarter to midnight on an otherwise unassuming Sunday in the dead of winter. With it being the Lady’s day, the stable hand had retired early to attend an evening service at the temple and then complete his prayers at his bedside. Duke’s master had visited the stable briefly before breakfast to attend to some particular matters–the grooming of his well-kept mane and tail, for instance, which he always personally oversaw–then made himself scarce to herd his household of loved ones and servants to the standard morning service.

Despite being a noble creature with a certain regal arch to his neck, Duke was seen as a mere beast in the Lady’s eyes and therefore did not observe the Lady’s day each week. He noticed the regular absence of the stable hand on these days and the harried affection of his master, as well as the lack of any exercise through his master’s owned lands on the outskirts of Bonnien, but it all meant little to him.

As such, he was dozing at twenty minutes to midnight when the thief arrived. Although the stark white of his coat suggested that he may have been out in the frozen winds and buffeting snowfall currently besieging the inner-city walls of Bonnien, this was not the case. He had been kept warm by the enclosed nature of the stable, with his stall being one of many–and far better than those of the simple carriage horses, in his opinion. He could only hear the faint wailings of the winter winds. They held as little consequence and volume as the mutterings of the mice who found their way into the walls.

Upon hearing the metal bolt of his door slide open, Duke’s ears perked up and his half-sleep quickly became a state of full-wake. His thoughts, although not expressed in any coherent or taught language, centred on his master. There had been some specific times, few but undeniable, when the master had needed him for urgent midnight rides to various keeps around the valleys that circled Bonnien, and even, on one occasion, to attend the court of the old Duke of Bonnien himself, for whom Duke had been named. With his well-built body, established pedigree, and recent tournament placings, the shared name could not be seen as an insult but rather a compliment given with adoration and aspiration.

Tonight did not mark one of those occurrences, however; it marked the end of all such events. Duke did not know this, yet he still regarded the hooded figure entering his stall with a certain degree of suspicion. It was not the stable hand, and it was not his master. He knew all the master’s children, although only the eldest son had yet been allowed to mount him, and this figure could not be one of those either. It was a stranger.

To Duke, it was a threat.

Still, he believed he had the upper hand in any confrontation between himself and this person who obscured their face in his presence. He would not roll over for them, like his master’s round black cat might, and he would not beg for morsels of food as he could imagine the carriage horses doing. They probably nickered to this figure as it passed their stalls—if they weren’t already fast asleep. Not alert. Not like Duke.

He would not be fooled. The figure passed through his stall door and closed it behind them, staying just in front of it. He sensed fear. Perhaps this figure had seen Duke striding down the cobbled streets of Bonnien with his master astride him and now quivered to see such a great creature up close. Not knowing their intentions, the horse could only stare down the figure and dare them to do as they pleased–he would not go along with their doubtless malevolent plans. If they brought a hand to him, he would almost certainly rear and stamp the life out of them.

‘It’s alright, boy,’ the figure whispered, lifting a hand tentatively. Duke snorted. It was very much not alright. As far as he was aware, this person was trespassing and had nefarious intentions involving him–he did not think that was ‘alright’ at all. ‘Shush, boy. Quiet, now.’

Although being quiet was not something that Duke was inclined to do upon being told to do so by a stranger, he did quickly become aware that he had a certain reputation to keep up within the stable. If he could not deal with this intruder in a calm but firm manner, then he could only imagine his iron grip on the other steeds loosening. In fact, if his master had to hurry down from the house to investigate a ruckus in the stable–caused by Duke himself, what a thought!–then he may have even found himself replaced by one of those lowly carriage horses by the morning. He could not bring himself to even imagine the unseemly weight of a harness on his carefully sculpted muscles, which seemed to be naturally intended to carry the esteemed weight of his master.

No. It would not do. He would not make a fuss, and he would be quiet, but not in a show of obedience to this figure. If they tried to injure him, then he would kick them until they fell silent. If they tried to take him from his stable, then he would lead them into a dance of compliance until he could escape and dispose of the figure as quickly as possible. Then, he would return to the stable, letting himself back into his stall if he was able to. If not, he would suffer the brief indignance of being kept outside of his bed until the stable hand was roused in the morning—and would take some small delight in the lad’s confusion at his presumed antics during the night.

This line of logic would have explained to many why Duke, such a loyal and often stubborn horse, did not object to the figure producing his snatched bridle from behind their back and fastening the straps around his long, stern face. It didn’t explain anything to anyone, however, as Duke had to deal with the limitations of not speaking the common tongue or having the ability to scribe his thoughts and plans, lacking both opposable thumbs and the taught skill of writing.

The carriage horses, as he invariably referred to them, largely did not notice Duke leaving the stable. He had not been saddled and the figure took every care to limit their noise as the unlikely pair left the building by the large front entrance. The double doors scraped somewhat against the concrete ground, prompting a small pony–kept for the master’s younger children–to lift her head above her stall door and whinny inquisitively at Duke. As his manner was unchanged from that expressed during his day-to-day life, Duke did not acknowledge the little creature. She yawned as the large doors groaned shut, not knowing that she had just witnessed a crime of the greatest significance… and not especially caring either.

For a moment, the figure stopped Duke outside the stable, and he caught a glimpse of their face beneath the dark hood. It was a woman. She had a face that he would’ve found pleasant on any other occasion and she reminded him somewhat of one of his master’s children: the eldest daughter. However, this woman was older than the teenage girl who braided his mane before summer tournaments, and her eyes were far rounder. Her body–or as much as he could see of it beneath the concealing robes she wore–was taller and broader than his master’s daughter, so he concluded that it could not be her.

This was cause for concern, of course, but no more than he had held previously. Steeling himself as she set his reins over his head and rounded on his side, Duke allowed the woman to propel herself up onto his back, somewhat impressed that she could make the distance. His master was a tall man and Duke was of a fitting stature for his owner; on the day he came of age, the master’s son had been boosted onto his back by the stable hand and, even then, had clambered awkwardly over the saddle. This woman had to be at least a head shorter than his master, and perhaps even shorter than the son, but she was on his unsaddled back within seconds. She urged him forward and away from the stable and house he’d always known as home.

Lowering his head to face the chill of the dregs of the storm that had been battering Bonnien for almost the entire duration of winter so far, Duke indignantly stepped forward. With his first step, he made up his mind to throw this woman as far as he could. Without a saddle, she would slip easily, and he didn’t mind breaking his reins to escape from this brazen thief. However, his thoughts on this topic had barely cemented themselves into his mind when she jerked his head to the side suddenly, burying the cutting bit into the corner of his lip. Startled, he took her down a side street barely large enough for a mount of his size before he’d even realised what he was doing. 

So began Duke’s unwitting escape from Bonnien.

Towering stone buildings crowded together and watched as the figure snuck down alleyways and shadowy lanes, witnessing her quick ascent to the horse’s stature. It was impossible to ride Duke without feeling at least a mite of his unwavering pride, and soon the woman sat tall on her stolen steed, having Duke strut down desolate main roads which led towards the inner-city walls. Beyond those, he knew, it would be difficult to return–but return he must and return he would.

Alas, at every opportunity he sensed to throw his rider and gallop home, or take the more dignified approach of trotting home, she seemed to smell his intentions on the frosty air. She would secure herself even more strongly to his back and disconcert him with a sharp command. Her heels dug into his sides, and she kept her reins–or his reins, rather–short, not allowing any slack. A grumpy Duke and elated rider approached the large inner-city gates, which had been closed against the horrendous winds waging war against man and nature alike outside them.

‘Halt!’ A guard called, clanking up to Duke and raising a lantern to the woman. ‘We’ve been ordered to strongly advise against journeys outside the city walls. Emergencies only.’

‘My mother’s sick,’ the woman said. 

Duke, sensing a chance to be rid of her once and for all, snorted loudly. Streams of breath gushed from his nostrils, creating small, damp clouds which settled on the guard’s helmet. He grunted–then gasped.

‘Our Lady in heaven, is that Sir Michaelson’s Duke?’ Duke stomped happily at the sound of his master’s name, while the woman drew up his reins even shorter. ‘You stop right there, horse thief; I’ll be surprised if I don’t see you swing for this.’

Just as Duke did not particularly enjoy entertaining the woman’s commands to be quiet in the stable, the woman did not seem to care for the city guard’s demanding words. As he turned to call for backup, she kicked Duke’s side, lashed his reins against his neck, and blasted a guttural scream into his ears. 

In the heat of the moment, Duke forgot himself. He was not the regal mount of his master, proud to serve and always keeping a sense of duty and reputation. He was a stolen horse with a banshee on his back and every muscle within him surged forwards. 

There was a small opening to the side of the main gate for guards and permitted foot traffic to pass through. The woman steered him towards it. He burst through the other side before the first guard could blink, cutting a jagged red line into his pure white coat from a stray twist of iron on one side of the opening.

He couldn’t feel the pain. No longer noble, Duke was a beast enraged by fear and desperation, quickly leaving the inner-city walls behind him as he raced over snow-covered ground. He galloped without a thought for who could see him or what they thought of him, and especially not the demon yipping on his back. 

When she sagged and fell off his side, he didn’t notice. Maddened and bucking, he lasted two breaths longer than she did.

The arrow entered his neck and the shock of the impact brought him to the ground first. It was not an arrow intended for him. Nevertheless, it is difficult to hit a dark blur in the night, and much easier to accidentally harm the huge white silhouette crashing through its surroundings. By the time the city guards had jogged up to him, Duke was back on his hooves, staggering to and fro with blood bubbling around his bit.

‘I’ll never hear the end of this,’ the first guard groaned. ‘Sir Michaelson’s Duke, and one of you idiots shot him.’

‘The thing was mad as a hare, captain,’ another guard said. ‘Wouldn’t have been no good to Sir Michaelson nor the Lady herself. Drove him mad, that gutter-rat did.’

‘Well, she’s dead now,’ the first guard, a captain, said. ‘Guess she won’t swing, unless he really wants to see her punished twice.’ He removed one glove and brought the bare hand to his nose, pinching the skin and exhaling heavily. ‘By the Lady, Sir Michaelson’s Duke. Of all the horses to take.’

‘Sir, it seems she’s got the hangman’s mark. Would’ve been dead for something or other soon. Just had to take Duke down with her, looks like.’

‘Last dash for freedom,’ the captain said, sighing. ‘Take her in. There’ll be no saving him now; I’ll just wait for the brute to die.’

For the next few minutes, Duke fought against the hand of death valiantly. He stumbled and swayed against the quieting storm, raising his head as if he intended to spar with Mother Nature herself: a heathen god outside of the Lady’s influence. Although the winds settled, snow continued to fall and began to accumulate in his mane and on his back. The white powder mixed with the blood running from his two wounds and his shuddering mouth.

Having re-gloved his hand, the captain followed Duke slowly and crossed himself every time the mighty horse fell into the deepening snow. On each occasion, he resolutely refused to die and pulled himself back up onto shaking legs.

When Duke finally struggled to regain his footing, the captain took pity on him. He quickened the end of his life with a standard-issue short sword. After cutting away the bridle and wiping his sword on the snow next to Duke’s huge, still body, he returned to the inner-city gates to request a large cart. Sir Michaelson would likely want to recover the body of his beloved steed.

Between the captain’s departure and the cart’s arrival, Duke lay still and alone in the snow. His majesty gone and his power depleted, he took one last pained breath and died in the ebb of the storm that would rage outside Bonnien long into the spring.

If you enjoyed this short story, why not check out the novella it inspired?

(Available in print and as a free eBook!)

Rip Out The Pages, Burn The Textbook

Another poem this week, and it’s another one that I wrote for uni as well! This one is a sort of melding of the idea of personal history and history as a subject (i.e. being taught in school), with a ton of different images rolled up into one poem just for you. I hope you enjoy it!

Rip Out The Pages, Burn The Textbook

How does empty history have a hold on me?
No one has written of it, kept it, published
endless treatises on it, pinned to a revolving door
of revolving doors—there is no class on it,
the week after motte and bailey, wattle and daub—

so how?

It is I, I suppose. I must be cause, reason,
explanation, keeper of the one small history
I can lay claim to; I am the one pressing play
on the DVD, night after night, moving through
room plans (I know them better than the architect);
rather call them escape plans, battle diagrams.

The last meal I ate is a blur, but the cracks
in the walls are etched into the membrane
of my mind, and the sensation of living
in the split-moment before the voice raised,
the curtains drew, the popcorn was gathered…

I can’t escape it. Bold marker pen, written—
no, screamed onto my eyelids. Uneasy mornings
counting footsteps; I check the number of stops
before I press the big red button; count them down,
one by one, and it becomes the parent’s last resort.

If you enjoyed this, click here to check out some of my poetry collections – free ebooks available as well as print books on Amazon!

(You can also tip me on my Ko-Fi page if you’d like to support an author!)

Worship

I’ve got another poem for you this week! We’re creeping slowly closer to Halloween (even though it’s still a bit away) so I thought a horror-themed poem might be a good idea! Worship is another one that I wrote for university, and I hope that you enjoy reading it!

Worship

You are a quiet jewel in my crown of clouds,
and I am silent as you cry upwards.
A response to your prayer is coming.

As you scorn me and turn to your bed,
determined that Brother Sleep will cure you
rather than me, I cease my lounging.

Your intimacy spills over my thoughts,
just as your tormentor’s blood thickens
upon the claws that I must wear in your realm;

PHYSICAL FORMS ARE SUCH A BORE

And when you return for a nightly service,
thanking me fervently from your bedside,
I excuse your momentary blip of faith.

You bring your knuckles together
and bite down in sacrifice, as your teeth
become mine, and this is connection.

When your moon turns black, that
is me; you may look up, and notice
one of my eyes in the heavens.

If you enjoyed this, click here to check out some of my poetry collections – free ebooks available as well as print books on Amazon!

(You can also tip me on my Ko-Fi page if you’d like to support an author!)

Numbers, Numbers, Numbers…

I’ve got another poem for you this week! Keeping with the theme of the past few weeks, this is another one that I wrote for uni, and I hope that it will be particularly poignant to anyone who’s ever been stuck on hold on the phone – which is, in all likelihood, most people. Anyway, here’s the poem!

Numbers, Numbers, Numbers…

One moment, please, sir;
don’t worry, you won’t be on hold
for too long. Please be patient;
don’t yell and scream, but sit
and wait, quietly. We’ll play
music for you, sir. Yes, we will.

And you will hate it;
you will wish music had never
been invented; you will regret
ever calling this number, sir.

Has it been long, sir? Oh, I’m sorry
for the wait; it’s the same for everyone
nowadays, you know. What was it
that you wanted? Right. Okay. Mhm.
Yes, I understand, sir. Unfortunately,
you’ll have to wait again. Please hold.

Hang up. Hang up. Hang up. Hang up.
Don’t linger on the line; there’s other
poor souls wasting away in the queue–
you were number thirty, twenty-eight,
fifteen, seven, three… once. Now, one.

Okay, sir, I’ve got the document up now
on my screen. What was your question,
sir? Ah, I see. Well, you’ll have to schedule
a little of this and that, make appointments
here and there—you can handle that, right?
Oh no, you can’t do that now, no sir.

Run to the back. Don’t pass Go. Red button,
numbers, music of your own, green button.
A recorded voice informs you of the value
of patience and the likelihood that you are not
the most important person in the world.
Hello, number forty-two, nice to meet you.

If you enjoyed this, click here to check out some of my poetry collections – free ebooks available as well as print books on Amazon!

(You can also tip me on my Ko-Fi page if you’d like to support an author!)

A Raging Blood-Blush

This is another poem that I wrote for uni, but just a short one this week – with some attention paid to alliteration, which you’ll see in just a moment! I feel like this one has the same sort of vibes as the poems in Aleatory Poetry and perhaps Commute to an extent, so if you enjoy this one then feel free to give those a look-over too.

A Raging Blood-Blush

Roam—rove over me, ravish,
remember: twilight, snow-rock;
running at 3am, red-eyed;
heat, fingers, rolled eyes, smudges
beneath nails, neck-flush.

And I’ve fallen in love all over again.

If you enjoyed this, click here to check out some of my poetry collections – free ebooks available as well as print books on Amazon!

(You can also tip me on my Ko-Fi page if you’d like to support an author!)