Ned Hayes's Blog, page 129
January 14, 2014
"In the morning, the sky is dark and gravid with snow. We...
"In the morning, the sky is dark and gravid with snow. We depart early on the White Road."
"'Sinful Folk' is a beautiful and bleak tale - a murder mystery and a journey of personal revelation..."
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— William Dietrich, New York Times best-selling author of the Ethan Gage series.
» About the new novel Sinful Folk from Ned Hayes
January 13, 2014
"In reading, a lonely quiet concert is given to our minds; all our mental faculties will be present..."
- Stéphane Mallarmé (via prettybooks)
"April comes to us, with her showers sweet. I wake to the cries...
"April comes to us, with her showers sweet. I wake to the cries of little birds before the light comes across the heath. They wait all night with open eyes. Now, with the rain at dawn, their voices make melody.
I turn back the reveled cloth of gold on my bed and walk to gaze beyond my glazed casement window. In the plaintive voices of the wood fowl, I imagine my mother calling to me, her words echoing across the years.
Every night, I slip into the empty winter land of memory.”
— from the novel Sinful Folk
PHOTO: spring by say.today on Flickr.
January 12, 2014
"Spring grew into summer, and the rhythm of my life now included...
"Spring grew into summer, and the rhythm of my life now included Nell. I learned that her secret thyme and mint beds were deep in the woods, out by the chuckling stream that disappeared underground.
She gathered plants she needed every day, and she was as a child who gathers flowers in May, setting them in bundles, choosing with caprice, singing to them, naming each plant and leaf with fondness. She danced in the sunlight and the shade. Even watching her a moment, my spirits lifted. “
PHOTO: adorus: untitled by Laura Leal on Flickr.
“As the light bleeds into the sky, the feeling of the crowd...
“As the light bleeds into the sky, the feeling of the crowd shifts with it. The hunger for this journey jumps back and forth between the villagers, like the heat of a flame passing between them.
The spirit moves the men, just as it moves the wing’d creatures and rough beasts. I think of our first parents – Adam and Eve – as they staggered away from the known world, thrust out of the garden by an avenging angel.”
— from the novel SINFUL FOLK
January 11, 2014
"I ran. A path seemed to open before me into the woods, some...
"I ran. A path seemed to open before me into the woods, some small track to a little town, a forgotten village.
I sensed the watcher—keeping pace with me in the thickening forest, maneuvering silently through the clasping vines, the slapping branches and heavy windfall logs—close to me at times.
Then my poor left foot betrayed me, catching on an errant vine and sliding helplessly on slick rock. I tumbled into a bramblebush, pushing Christian out of harm’s way before I plunged headfirst into the misbegotten backwater of a summer-shrunk creek.
I pulled myself out of the deep and stinking sludge, clawed my way up the granite, and reached for my crying son, his blanket caught precariously in brambles. But my foot lodged in a fold of robe, and then I fell without stopping, slamming backward against the great unforgiving rock.
The distant thrumming of the hooves still shuddered through me as the stone caught my head on the way down.”
— from the novel SINFUL FOLK
"Masses of people think that feminism is always and only about women seeking to be equal to men. And..."
- bell hooks (via ceedling)
January 6, 2014
"Stars steam away as a pale sun rises, hot coal dropped in a...
"Stars steam away as a pale sun rises, hot coal dropped in a watery sky. Light seeps across the forest as the reedy shrieks of wood fowl echo in the trees. The path from our village to the King’s Highway is a crooked line of mud rutted with cart tracks, a rough trough where the dirty snow is stabbed through by the hooves of feral sheep. To the east, that faint track leads up through the forest until it reaches, finally, the open country."
PHOTO: touchdisky: Horsford woods by Matthew Dartford
“April comes to us, with her showers sweet. I wake to the cries...
“April comes to us, with her showers sweet. I wake to the cries of little birds before the light comes across the heath. They wait all night with open eyes. Now, with the rain at dawn, their voices make melody. I close my eyes. My mother is walking in the spring, in the morning of the year. Oh when that season with sweet showers, pierces through the chill draught of March, I can feel the sweet liquid of joy in me.”
— from the novel SINFUL FOLK
SOURCE: sane-madness
