Ned Hayes's Blog, page 150
September 28, 2013
"April comes to us, with her showers sweet. I wake to the cries of little birds before the light..."
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.
”- Sinful Folk, by Ned Hayes (forthcoming in 2014)
September 27, 2013
The road through books is neverending…
The road through books is neverending…
"Cold tears as salty as ocean spray wet my face. The day before...
"Cold tears as salty as ocean spray wet my face. The day before she 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.”
— from the novel Sinful Folk
SOURCE: plaxidity: Blue ocean on We Heart It
September 26, 2013
“We are in the forest on the way to the deep stream beside...
“We are in the forest on the way to the deep stream beside the alder copse. There a plover calls in the deep woodsy stillness, and then a pair of martins dart across the overgrown path. Through the trees, I can see the thick and fast-moving line of flowing water, a steep bank beneath my feet, and the purple loosestrife and meadowsweet of spring.”
— from the novel SINFUL FOLK
PHOTO: Back to the forest by just.like.that. on Flickr.
September 25, 2013
"The best fantasy is written in the language of dreams. It is alive as dreams are alive, more real..."
The best fantasy is written in the language of dreams. It is alive as dreams are alive, more real than real … for a moment at least … that long magic moment before we wake.
Fantasy is silver and scarlet, indigo and azure, obsidian veined with gold and lapis lazuli. Reality is plywood and plastic, done up in mud brown and olive drab. Fantasy tastes of habaneros and honey, cinnamon and cloves, rare red meat and wines as sweet as summer. Reality is beans and tofu, and ashes at the end. Reality is the strip malls of Burbank, the smokestacks of Cleveland, a parking garage in Newark. Fantasy is the towers of Minas Tirith, the ancient stones of Gormenghast, the halls of Camelot. Fantasy flies on the wings of Icarus, reality on Southwest Airlines. Why do our dreams become so much smaller when they finally come true?
We read fantasy to find the colors again, I think. To taste strong spices and hear the songs the sirens sang. There is something old and true in fantasy that speaks to something deep within us, to the child who dreamt that one day he would hunt the forests of the night, and feast beneath the hollow hills, and find a love to last forever somewhere south of Oz and north of Shangri-La.
They can keep their heaven. When I die, I’d sooner go to middle Earth.
”- George R.R. Martin (via thegirlandherbooks)
Ten years ago, Michaelmas. Summer hours fading into dusk, day...
Ten years ago, Michaelmas. Summer hours fading into dusk, day dying slow. I had fallen out of the straight path into a place of harsh rocks and broken brambles, like the legend tells Satan fell from heaven on St. Michael’s Day. But I had fallen from no heaven, and those who pursued me were no angels.
……
Then the flap of a bird in a bush. The crack of twigs under stealthy footsteps. Someone watching from the wood. A faint shape and shadow in the wind, a stirring in the leaves. I gazed into the dappled dark, wondering at the watcher.
— from the novel Sinful Folk
September 24, 2013
"We gather wood and help Tom build his fire. As I pick up spare...
"We gather wood and help Tom build his fire. As I pick up spare twigs and dried bracken, I wonder how far our sounds penetrate into the black forest, and how far our shouts echo along the White Road. Anyone approaching along the road could find us here.
Supper is roasted pork we brought from the village, and warmed snow. After we have licked our fingers clean, we edge closer to the fire, heads cocked toward the whispering wind as it brushes the treetops. Night birds warble, and small creatures rustle in the snow.
……
The darkness around us presses down, as if to listen. The music of the wind rises and falls with the swirls of the snow, the creaking of the sea of branches in the darkness above us.”
— from the novel SINFUL FOLK
