Ned Hayes's Blog, page 136

“Cold tears as salty as ocean spray wet my face. I wipe my...

“Cold tears as salty as ocean spray wet my face. I wipe my face with a handful of straw and look out on the floating ice. 

The day before my father died, my mother did something I still don’t understand. She took me out in our little fishing boat, out on the open water of the sea—the thrum and hiss of surf upon the shore behind us, the rhythm never ceasing. My mother waited until we were out of sight of land. She squinted against the bright sunlight, making sure we were alone. And then she taught me something: strange words in a foreign tongue, a lilting singsong cadence to it    She squinted against the bright sunlight, making sure of our isolation.”

— from the novel Sinful Folk

"As the great stone gate of my cell slams shut again, there are...

"As the great stone gate of my cell slams shut again, there are the skittering sounds of insects and mice, the distant shrieks of prisoners in pain in other cells, but I do not fear the vermin or my guards. I fear the dark. I can see nothing now but those faint fairie lights that drift in utter darkness against my eyes."
— from the novel Sinful Folk

"Time to go. I move quickly now between the lecterns toward the...

"Time to go. I move quickly now between the lecterns toward the door. As the guards come in the door, I let the hood drop low, I seize on a book on a shelf near at hand, and hold it near to my face, as if I cannot be stopped from my studies, even in the midst of perambulation. Narrow is my escape. The door of the Scriptorium opens and I sweep through it, imperious in my black Brother’s robe, manuscript held tight."
— from the novel SINFUL FOLK
PHOTO: St.Martha’s Church ~ Surrey, England

“The room is round as a turrent and full of light. The...

“The room is round as a turrent and full of light. The roof curves up to an arch. The fire has a screen, and through narrow metal holes carved in cunning shapes, comes a rosy glow. Rushlights burn on each wall, beside tapestries that cover closed and shuttered windows. It reminds me of Nell’s neat croft—the arch she added to the door, the glowing oilcloth across the holes in her walls. Nell’s house was like a tiny hall of a lady or lord, a woodland nobility.”

— from the novel SINFUL FOLK

 

Medieval manuscript… with a paw-print from a cat, in the...

Medieval manuscript… with a paw-print from a cat, in the original text… some monk let the cat walk all over his wet ink!

"The road is a river of ice, slick and unforgiving. A harsh...

"The road is a river of ice, slick and unforgiving. A harsh sweep of white iron, smooth as glass and cold enough to freeze any uncovered inch of flesh to the surface. Hillocks and haystacks rise up, isles in a smoking brume. Here and there snow has blown aside, revealing the line of the great white stone road that slices through the hills."

— from the novel Sinful Folk

"The road is a river of ice, slick and unforgiving. A harsh...

"The road is a river of ice, slick and unforgiving. A harsh sweep of white iron, smooth as glass and cold enough to freeze any uncovered inch of flesh to the surface. Hillocks and haystacks rise up, isles in a smoking brume. Here and there snow has blown aside, revealing the line of the great white stone road that slices through the hills."
— from the novel Sinful Folk

"Ten years ago, at Michaelmas, the early autumn hours were...

"Ten years ago, at Michaelmas, the early autumn hours were fading into dusk. The day was dying slow. I had fallen off the straight and narrow into a place of harsh rocks and broken brambles, like the story of Satan falling from heaven on Saint Michael’s Day. But I had fallen from no heaven, and those who pursued me were no angels."

— from the novel SINFUL FOLK

PHOTO SOURCE: Morning glow

Photo

"I heard this expression once: Each time someone dies, a library burns. I’m watching it burn right to..."

“I heard this expression once: Each time someone dies, a library burns. I’m watching it burn right to the ground.”

- Lennie Walker, The Sky Is Everywhere by Jandy Nelson (via quotasians)