Taking leave...

...of my senses!
Nah, but I will be seriously neglecting my blogs (yes, all three) until after finals.

I've got a new nifty-skippy blog!!!

I dropped "My Pretty Excuses" blog because I didn't like it so very much. However, I have added a new one. "At Least 100 Words Baked Fresh Daily" is the new one which is devoted to motivating me to write at least 100 words per day of new material. We perfect our arts, gifts, and talents through the pursuit of their perfections...correct? The longer works and those for school will still be posted here though, and my rambling bits of opinionated nonsense can still be found on my rambling blog. I may consider adding my forced essays for my classes to this one...maybe. Anyway....both new and old can be reached by clicking on those buttons over there <---

I am soooo done!

I've finished the last of my three poems...yay me and whatnot....
anyway, here it is:

Done

                                                              

Just beneath the silver sky

Shredded clouds go flitting by

The crow glides past, then the hawk

They know it’s on Death’s door you knock

You the little mouse we’re mourning

You who offered us no warning

The world cut deep, so you cut deeper

Deep enough to greet the reaper

With skin quite thin you covered well

The bone frame of your empty shell

No heart, no mind, and now no shame

Since you’ve left all of us the blame

Just where did you think that you would go

Once your blood had ceased to flow

We would not be waiting there

To hear you moan of your despair

You wrote that you could just not find

The happiness and peace of mind

That you imagined we all had

Because we did not sound as sad

But fool you were and fools we too

So the last word you wrote is our last adieu
goodbye

Finally....and now I've one to go.....

So, here's my free verse poem for class....due tomorrow of course...what was that one quote? Oh, yes..."procrastinators of the world unite.....tomorrow."

They  say

I am                        the last of the lettered

They say

I am                        the last threat

They say

They are coming

soon

                                                          what                         They say

                                                                                will be all that remains

So, for Creative Writing we have to write 3 poems,1 rondeau and 2 whatevers.

I've finally finished my rondeau: Woo Bloddy-Friggin' Hoo!!!!!

Scintillating Is Delicious

Scintillating is delicious, as words go.

And it melts like smooth rich chocolate so

The word itself, though not the meaning,

Can get my salivaries streaming

With an amylase enzymatic flow.

That in like ways does my lust grow

For those tasty letters that do blow

Into such words as glitz and gleaning.

Scintillating is delicious

So, I on you do such words bestow

In luscious French forms like this Rondeau,

To taste, to savor, with a light tongue teasing

The so many words so lasciviously pleasing,

Whispered with purring across our pillow.

Scintillating is delicious

My Final Draft for my creative writing class' "Short-Short-Story"

Addicted

I watch her, always.  Not so much as a stalker would (well, maybe a little like that), but more like a guardian angel or a knight. Yup, just like a knight. A knight paid by a king he despises to perform an act of nobility he’d all too happily perform for free. But, that’s me, Sir Aaron, blessed with the burden of watching over the eternally cursed Lady Maeve.

Today we’re waiting by the phone down on the corner of Blankley and Twelfth.  She glances suspiciously behind her as she lifts the receiver and begins patting her pockets for change again. She won’t find any. She hasn’t the last four times she’s repeated this action, but she’s not really looking for any, so I guess it doesn’t matter. She slams the phone down quickly, takes a few steps back and scowling, flops down onto the faded, dirty bench—again. I find myself smiling at her antics when I glance into the side window of the 1995 Ford station wagon that has been playing the part of “cover.” My hair is far too flat today, and I shove my fingertips through it and try to rough it up a bit thinking that this could be the day she finally figures out that I exist.

By noon Blankley is filled with angry motorists. The sounds of unnecessary honking, hard slung profanities, and constant cycles of revving and braking overfill the narrow space between the tall buildings. Sometimes a car or three will come cruising through with the bass thumping so violently that the older panes of hand-blown glass rattle menacingly in the windows that line the backsides of the long grey brick structures. I stare at the cracks in the cold bricks across from me. The station wagon had left an hour ago, and I had been forced further down the alley to keep from being revealed before she needed me. It stinks of human filth, and as I slump against the great green dust bin that juts out about half-way down, I wonder what diseases the back of my sweatshirt may have just contracted. I brush the notion to the very outskirts of my weary mind and begin slowly pushing away, letting my stiff legs carry me back toward the front where I can check on the pretty beast waiting by the phone. My God, she is beautiful.

She had moved further away from it when one of the local bums showed up and laid claim to the nearby bench. I think his name is Bob or Al or something. I’d seen him around and as far as I could tell, he was a basically harmless antique of a drunk. She glares at him as she paces like a wild demon caged beneath the old “Try Coca-Cola” sign. The sign was as faded as everything else, covered in grease, dirt and bird crap. She flips her short brown hair with a long thin hand and I notice she is a bit paler today than usual. “Still my darling little sparrow,” I mutter as she suddenly slams her back against the wall. She starts pounding the craggy bricks with her tightly balled fists and snarls a steady string of curses into the stagnant air as the stiff edges tear her skin and make her bleed. I take a deep breath and slide out of the shadows of the alley into the shadows of the sidewalk. The traffic has thinned a bit, but I have to dodge a few bullish drivers in their shiny new cars to make it across the broken pavement of the back-alley boulevard that is Blankley Avenue. In the last few paces between the bench and phone I suddenly notice that my gait has become strange. Dear God, I think, I’m strutting like a damn peacock.  I stare down at my feet and immediately trip over the devious nothing that has apparently latched onto the toes of my left boot. The sound of her tender flesh ramming the cruel face of the tall brick wall falters and when I glance up at her, my heart begins to thump hard and fast deep beneath my ribs. My initial embarrassment gives way to a flutter of excitement until I realize that she’s not actually looking at me, just through me. Again. I pat the pockets of my worn-out jeans and jam my fingers into the one that had rattled just enough. My fist emerges with a clump of pennies and two shiny nickels. I turn toward the most beautiful creature to have ever graced the land and hold out my handful of change. “Hey, you got a dime I can borrow?”

“What?” The sound of her voice floats to my eager ears and I feel for a moment as though I were being greeted by an angel. Then reality smacks me and I’m forced to recognize how hollow she actually sounds and notice the confused exhaustion that desperation has left to shroud her dark brown eyes.

I walk over and lean against the wall beside her, carefully keeping enough distance to not be considered a threat. “You’re injured,” I say. “Your hands, I mean. They’re bleeding.”

“Oh.” She glances down at the broken edges of her delicate hands. “Sorry.”

She slides down the wall and tucks her hands between her knees as though they were offensive to me. I instantly feel like an ass for even mentioning it, and as I follow her to the concrete, it occurs to me that she looks kind of like a little kid that’s just been yelled at by parents that can never be pleased. I wonder if that’s what happened to her—was she constantly beaten down by coldness until she was too numb to ever climb again? Who knows, he’ll never tell me, and I’m not really sure I want to know anyway. Her bottom lip trembles a bit and she presses the sharp edge of her incisors into the delicate curve of its plump pink center. My God, she is beautiful.

My thoughts are interrupted as a paper bag crinkles loudly somewhere near the phone. The bum, what-ever his name is, sits up on the bench and pulls the empty bottle out of it. He’s gazing down at the clear glass container almost like he’s expecting it to magically refill itself at any moment. Though I am not a drinker, I still understand. I grin and think, never a smoker either.  Reaching into my jacket pocket, I pull out half a pack of cigarettes in what claims to be a “convenient flip-top box.” I nudge her arm with the edge of the box. “Smoke?” 

She looks at the offering and doesn’t hesitate to claim one, then gently slides an injured hand into her pocket and produces a bright orange lighter. She passes it from one hand to the other, and I notice it’s one of those religious ones with a picture of Jesus on the front and some bible passage or other quoted on the back. As she runs her little thumb over the flint wheel an exceptionally high flame springs from its metal mouth. The fire dances in her eyes, but is instantly snuffed when she passes Jesus to me. It’s still warm from her touch, and so I slip it into my pocket along with the rest of the pack.

Wisps of smoke curl around her thin frame, and, for a moment, I can imagine she’s a genie newly released from her gilded prison. I am glad to see that the blood is beginning to dry on the hand holding the cigarette. She takes a few more slow drags and relaxes a bit while a breath of wind carries the sweet scent of her soft skin over to me. Like a well trained bloodhound I breathe deeply, carefully memorizing every subtle detail even as I am staggered and consumed by it. Suddenly emboldened, I take a chance and carefully wiggle just a little closer. My God, she is beautiful.

“So, your name is Maeve, right?” I already know it is, but it always seems right to ask. Normally if we had made it this far, she would just say yes or stare at me for a while like she’s trying to remember if I seem familiar. Sometimes it even seems like there is at least some thread of a memory that’s been promised for me, but it fades quickly and I’m new again. Today, however, is different. I ask and she shrugs.

“Maybe,” she says. “Sometimes it is.”

“What about the other times?”

“It gets in the way.”

“In the way?”

“Yeah, cause if it’s always yours then you’ve always gotta answer to it, even when it’s the devil calling you.”

“So what’s your name when it’s not Maeve?”

“I don’t have one.”

“So, you get to be free then?”

She tilts her face toward me and allows her eyes to find mine. There is a sudden flash of life that shimmers for just a breath in the deep pools of her eyes. I do not blink. I dare not even breathe for fear of frightening that flicker of life away, but all too soon the spell has broken and her eyes trail back to the ground. My God, she is beautiful.

When I look up from our spot on the dirty city sidewalk, I see the bum, whatever his name is, watching us. For a while we sit in silence together. It’s not turning out to be an easy day for her, and every so often she makes sudden movements like an overly sensitive predator catching a faint scent of something entirely too delicious to ignore. When the phone begins ringing she lunges toward it, scrambles to her feet and runs the last few steps. Clutching the receiver in trembling hands, she purrs into it like a cat in heat.

“Hello, J.T.?” She’s breathing heavily and at the sound of the voice on the other end she begins slithering like a rattlesnake against the side of the large blue-metal box that houses the black and silver payphone.  “Are you on your way? Okay baby, you got it, right. Nah, it’s just me, don’t worry. Yeah. I’ll do it if you hurry. Just c’mon, I need you.”

The line goes dead, but she hangs on to the receiver and stares into the lanes of traffic. My eyes begin to fill with bitter tears. I stuff a hand into my pocket and run the tip of my index finger along the cold, smooth surface of her lighter. I pull it out. There are black burn marks on the bottom edges, and when I turn it over I notice that the bible passage has been mutilated by a combination of hot embers and smoke. I walk over and hold it up in front of her knowing she’ll need it where she’s going. She reaches for it. Her fingertips brush across my thumb, and I flutter my tingling eyelids in an effort to stem the flow of my sorrow as I imagine in that flash of physical contact what it would be like if I could just save her. I catch her eye just long enough to whisper “take care.” I already know she won’t.

The shiny black car screeches to a halt just past the payphone, where she stands on the edge of the sidewalk. As I watch her open the door and slide into the passenger seat, I tell myself she’ll be okay. Again.  The driver slings open his door and gets out. I gaze past his approaching mass and watch her fumble with the latch of the glove-box. It finally pops open and she reaches into it with one eager hand as she gropes for the arm rest of the door with the other. The door slams shut. I turn away from the man coming toward me and just hold out my hand until the thin stack of crisp bills are placed between my fingers. He knows what this does to me, and I have to stuff my hands deep into my pockets to keep them from curling around his chuckling throat before he can walk away. I turn back just in time to see the car pull away and quickly become lost in the tangle of traffic between the tall buildings.

Forcing a smile, I turn toward the alley that will lead me back home and as I pass by the faded, dirty bench by the phone, the bum, whatever his name is, stretches his hand out expectantly. I yank the now crumpled wad of cash out of my pocket and drop it into his greasy palm. “You know you’d be rich if you didn’t drink it all in one place,” I joked.

“I don’t, I smoke some too.”

I shake my head and continue on my way. Before I step off the sidewalk into the busy street, I turn back toward the bum. “Rehab gramps. It can’t be that hard to quit?”

“I don’t know about that,” he chuckles. “See you soon.”

“Sure,” I yell back.

Ever On

Ever on, ever on.
      Darkness sweeps through day
  and smothers it politely as
              small children creep about begging for

 "just ten more minutes".
          Of time,
                       of life.
         Of both I think.

Ever on, ever on.
             I,
                for my part
  in this silly sweet play,
               shall wrap myself in words
         breathed by antiquity
   and called
"Agamemnon".

Utter ramblings

Mr. Arlison:   So, why did Cro-Magnon create these cave paintings? Was it for aesthetics, rituals, physical rewards of some sort, or as a record for future generations?

Brianna:    Maybe the beast was screaming.

Mr. Arlison:   I’m sorry, maybe the what?

Brianna:   The beast.

Mr. Arlison:   What beast?

Brianna:   The one inside.

Mr. Arlison:   What, inside the cave? I suppose they could have believed there was a beast of some sort further down in the cave.

Brianna:   What?

Mr. Arlison:   Well, if that were the case, then they may have believed that drawing it pictures of food, as it were, would have appeased it. Some sort of spiritual feeding maybe. But even that would qualify as ritualistic.

Brianna:   You mean like all the rituals associated with superstitions, right?

Mr. Arlison:   Yes, exactly.

Brianna:   Yeah, that would make sense. But that wasn’t what I was talking about.

Mr. Arlison:   Really? Well, it was an interesting idea at least.

Brianna:   Yes, and entirely your own at that.

Mr. Arlison:   Okay, so what beast were you talking about? A real one?

Brianna:   Um, sure, we’ll go with that.

Mr. Arlison:   Go on.

Brianna:   I meant the beast inside the artist.

Mr. Arlison:   Well, during this period it would have been more likely that one would find an artist inside a beast, but go on.

Brianna:   Well, it’s like this, yeah an artist could create something for all the reasons they give, but I find it rather annoying that everyone is leaving out the most basic reason an artist creates: the artist who creates because he must—because he just can’t stop himself from doing so. Because it’s like there is some primitive, slowly starving beast inside purring, soft as a whisper, until it awakens. As the veil of sleep slowly slides away and it becomes more angry, ravenous, and desperate it begins screaming at him, ever louder, ever more shrill.

The Beast:   Write! Write now! Write anything! Feed me! Feed me your words! The bitter, the sweet, the murderous, the maddening! All of them! I want them, I need them!!! Write something, write anything!!!!

Brianna:   He can’t ignore it or escape it. It claws at him constantly. And keeps screaming.

The Beast:   Write! Do it now! Write or I will burn from your mind every shred of sanity you ever imagined yourself to possess and scatter it in the breath of eternity! I will scar you! I will break you! I will waste you from the inside out! Now, write!

Brianna:   And so he obeys.

Mr. Arlison:   Are you okay?

Brianna:   Oh, yes. Why?

Mr. Arlison:   Um, well, you seem a bit… upset.

David:   He means mental.

Brianna:   What? Mental? Oh.

(Strange and confused looks from all around.)

Brianna:   Oh, no, no, no. I’m sorry. I’m not crazy, I just forgot for a minute.

Mr. Arlison and David together:   Forgot what?

Brianna:   That cave-dude was a painter.

Ha! And I never even used it!

--This was the essay I ended up using for the literary non-fiction submission. Got an A. Eh...

I remember her fingers pressing a small pinkish cockle shell into the glue that covered the bottom third of our paper. Those fingers had always reminded me of the knotted willows down by the river--shriveled, rough, and permanently twisted in on themselves.
She had been diagnosed with early-onset arthritis at the age of twenty, and over the years her hands had been contorted so badly by the disease that when we colored together she had to use the same fat Crayolas I used in preschool. The pain it had caused her had been constant and difficult to escape. On her worst days I can remember her walking to her bedroom and opening the closet door to gaze up at the freezer bags that had been crammed full of pill bottles and tucked up on the highest shelf, but then she would just turn, smile and walk away. As far as I have ever learned, those bottles remained untouched until the very end, and over the years since my grandmother’s death I’ve often wondered what became of all the pain medications which had filled them through the course of my childhood. I have also never been truly certain of why she’d refused to take the pills, but I rather suspect that she had always known the hazards of mixing drugs and alcohol and just didn’t want to take the chance.

Alcoholism was another of her diseases that had been constant and difficult for her to escape. I don’t remember what she was like when she was drunk, but then my mother has told me in more recent years that that’s because she was never sober enough to tell the difference. Apparently, it had always been a source of heavy tension between the two of them. What I do remember about it is that her Kool-Aid had tasted horrible. Bitter and hot, it had burned my throat on the way down. She had warned me to never drink it, but I’ve always been more than a bit stubborn. She had actually been pouring me juice the morning I grabbed her cup from the table, but I had the patience of most small children and simply couldn’t force my tiny self to wait. I suppose the scent should have clued me in on the taste that would follow, but as always, pig headedness prevailed. After that day I had refused to go anywhere near Kool-Aid until I was a teenager. By then I had finally figured out that it was her drink’s vodka content that had tortured my poor tongue. I still don’t like Kool-Aid though.

 I also remember my family having to move when I was five. Before we moved, it had been my grandmother’s responsibility to walk me home from preschool every day. So, together we would wind our way down the short path through the woods across the street from the preschool, follow the dirt road to the old steel bridge that crossed the little river, and then cut through the back pasture behind our barn. One day we had stopped to rest and feed bits of bread to the catfish that swam close to the bank under the bridge. I had loved watching them come up with big, pouty lips, suck the bits into their mouths and dive back down.  As usual, my grandmother had begun spinning me a tale about the merfolk and selkie that lived in the sea and sometimes came to visit her under our “whisker fish bridge”, but that day she had grown silent while I stared into the water, hoping with each tiny ripple to meet a selkie for myself. She had fallen asleep and no matter how much I tickled her, called out or shook her, she just wouldn’t wake up for me. I’d eventually given up and walked the rest of the way alone.

After I had explained what I could to my mother, we both tore out of the house and ran back the way I’d come. My initially relieved mother had quickly become furious when we rounded the corner of the barn and saw my panicked grandmother practically running across the pasture toward us. I remember the tears had streamed down her tired face as she dropped to her knees and threw her arms around me. My mother had to help her walk back to the house. The stress my grandmother had put her damaged joints under had been more than they could take. My mother hissed and fumed and cursed the whole way.  She blamed my grandmother for passing out and decided that we should move out because grandma had become nothing but an “irresponsible drunk”. A few months later we learned she had been diagnosed with narcolepsy.

My grandmother died when I was twelve. By that time my family had permanently branded her an irresponsible alcoholic with debilitating arthritis and narcolepsy. My brother and I however, had never allowed ourselves to be so easily fooled by things like facts, and while we both eventually accepted the determinations of her doctors--the alcoholism, narcolepsy and arthritis--we always believed the accusation of irresponsibility to be an obvious misdiagnosis. In all the years of our lives she had never missed a birthday, report card day, achievement awards day, field day, Thanksgiving, Christmas or Halloween. She had always been there when we needed her, even if only in memory, and while some of my memories of her have faded into oblivion, a great many more remain, like the memory of our walks, the taste of her Kool-Aid and the small pinkish cockle shells pressed into glue.

Inspired by art...

Click here to view the inspiration!
The playful wind of a fair afternoon slid along Borexi’s back as he folded his wings tightly against his armored ribs. He let his tongue hang from a corner of his massive mouth. It flapped and slapped against the side of his head covering him in globs and droplets of thick slobber. He slowly approached the city of his new neighbors and began to dive down for a better view of the inhabitants. They were odd little creatures, small and furry. To Borexi they looked squishy. Very squishy.
They had tiny little arms and legs and circular ears that stuck out on the sides of their pointy little faces. He smiled down at them and waved his long thin arms in greeting. It was a beautiful day full of sights and smells and sounds that were all so new to him. He stretched his wings out and flapped hard to gain a bit more altitude as he prepared to fly across their tallest house. One of the little creatures stood on the rock pole high above its fellows and began waving back.
“Yes, hello down there little…whatever you ares”, he Borexi cried. What a nice lot, he thought, very welcoming indeed. Oh and look at that, they’re going to play some music.
He swooped low as the creature started beating a drum with the large mallet he had been holding in the hand that hadn’t waved. More drums were struck somewhere further down, and then more beyond that and even into the county side. The beats were steady and they echoed off the mountains where Borexi had claimed a small cavern as his new home. Oh what fun, Borexi thought as he clapped his hands excitedly, maybe they’ll throw me a welcoming party. He began a slow descent toward the great door at the front of the tall, spiky stone house, and as he closed in he heard them.
“To arms! To arms! Kill that dragon!” one screamed as it thrust a long metal toothpick into the air.
Oh no, Borexi thought. “I don’t understand. What are you doing?”
Borexi shoot back up toward the clouds as he heard the pounding of hooves on stone just above him. He looked for it. One of the furry little creatures was galloping toward him on horseback. Both were screaming. Borexi, never one to focus on anything for long, stared at the horse and tried to think of why food would be running toward him. He barely even noticed as the creature on its back flung itself toward him and barely felt the bite of the toothpick it jabbed into his neck.

--- To Be Continued ---

...naked tree in winter...

The object of the game was to begin our writing with the words: If I were a
Then, we had to randomly pick a slip of folded paper which held one of seven prompts. I got naked tree in winter.

If I were a naked tree in winter, with my slender branches trembling in the breeze, would you peer through your window at the edge of an icy dawn and still think me beautiful? I would still admire your grace if I were such a tree. My roots would hold fast to the center of your earth and each tiny twig twist and stretch to touch you once more. You could rest in the shadow of my strength, cool your hot skin against my frosted bark. And though the glory of my summer face lay half-rotted beneath the snow, I could dream you loved me still. And you'd have loved me and have kept me and have put the old axe down.

Hot Chocolate (about 6 moons old)

This one was a Smart Thinking exercise for school. The task was to take a segment of our day, write one sentence about it, and then turn that sentence into a paragraph of six or more sentences.


Starter Sentence:  I got hot chocolate and walked out to my car.

Three shiny, silver coins dropped into the pan with a hollow clinking sound. The brown paper cup with tiny, steaming coffee cups all over its sides slid down the shoot and came to rest on the metal plate behind the plexiglass door. I watched patiently while it was slowly filled with frothy hot cocoa. As the steady stream slowed to a trickle,
I slid the door to the left and retrieved my liquid relaxation. Breathing slowly, deeply, with my nose barely an inch from the lip of the cup, I made my way down the chilly hall toward the heavy double doors that opened into the parking lot. The scent wafting up and into my flaring nostrils was so delightful, it almost pained me to force the treasure laden hand out and away as I rammed my rump into the left door and shoved myself outside. I turned, glanced at the rows of vehicles littering the lot and lifted the cup to my parched lips. Stepping tentatively forward I took a small sip of what should have been chocolaty goodness. My lips twisted in agony, my poor tongue contorting with disgust. Stepping over to the grassy knoll, I tilted the cup and set free the offending drink. As I looked up, I noticed a guy staring at me. "I don't recommend the hot chocolate today," I said and headed toward my waiting car. –Abigail Morris

Storytellers Stone (also about a year old)

The small group of exhausted villagers gazed at the man in the mist. Though their village had been destroyed by ruthless invaders and they had been traveling for more than a month with little food, you could still see hope shinning like saphires in their moonlit eyes.
Their wise woman had died on the first night of their journey, but as she lay, wheezing and coughing blood, she had told them of her vision. She had seen the evil men coming, the village burning, the long journey and it's destination.

"You will go east", she had whispered, "to a high mountain and in the valley you will find a cloaked man. You will follow him and he will lead you home."

The displaced people had heeded her every word and made the long trip east. Now, here was a cloaked figure in the mist of the valley below the high, dark peaks of a foreign mountain. He beckoned to them and they followed.

They followed him to a large stone jutting from a shallow stream.

The stone held their gaze almost as much as the stranger had. It was slightly higher than a their tallest man and covered in smooth, slick moss and lichen. The larger portion seemed almost perched atop the sloping base and the midnight moon gave it an almost magical glow.

They watched in silence as the figure stepped on to the stones glistening bottom ridge and leaned his back comfortably against its sloping top. He reached up with a pale hand, pulled the hood from his shaggy white hair and slowly licked his shadowy lips.

"I found this sanctuary when I was but a boy." He began, his voice raspy with age. "My parents had been killed and I had traveled to many villages along the way, seeking food, shelter and comfort. The people I met were not kind."

Several heads bobbed in agreement.

"They had no place for me, no room, no food and above all no interest in hearing my story. It was the same at each place, my story did not matter, my life did not matter. It did not take me long to simply give up. The only people who had cared for me were gone and others were too occupied with themselves. And so I began walking east. I knew then that life had abandoned me and death it seemed also did not want me. Starved to the bone and exhausted I finally arrived in this valley. I was spellbound by the way the moon lent her beauty and the sun her loving grace to this place. In this place berries were plentiful, fish abundant and the wildlife tame."

The stranger smiled down at them and gestured that they should look beyond their own ranks. As they did, several gasped at the sight. Animals of all sorts lay on the banks and tall grasses. Mountain lions, mice, wild sheep, rabbits, birds and more. They were calm and attentive. Their eyes focused not on the villagers, but on the thin man lounging peacefully against the stone. The villagers looked back to the man, marveling at his apparent magics. He continued.

"All was well here, but I found I was still lonely, abandoned. One night, as the cold mountain rains came and the stream began to swell, I climbed atop this old weathered stone and cried. It was then that I first noticed the magic of this place. As my tears fell upon it's smooth, carpeted surface", he patted the stone affectionately, "I began to tell my story. I began to tell the stone, the mountain, the water, and the moon. And, I began to feel better. So, I continued. I told every story I knew and made up even more. With each new story the moon glowed brighter. With every new tale more beasts came to listen. From the moment I arrived, this valley was peace, nurtured by the sun, smiled on by the moon, rhapsodized by the waters, kept company by it's creatures and protected by it's mountain. But now, with the only thing I had to give it, it became paradise. My paradise."

He gazed upon the villagers now smiling faces. Their cares washed away, and their boundless hope flowing free.

"This is my paradise, and now it shall be yours. I am old and though the magic here has kept me for many long years, my time draws near."
A muffled cry rose from valley. The beasts hung their heads and tears trickled down many of the peoples cheeks as he went on.

"You will find all you have ever needed in this place. You will find happiness and more. The valley will keep you for all your days, but, you must also keep it. You must share your stories, weave cleaver, happy and even tragic tales for her. Love her with your words and she will give you everything. You are all story tellers now. Remember this as you climb upon her ear."

He ran his white fingers along the mossy edge and rose. In silence he pulled his hood over his head and stepped down. They watched as he slowly turned and began making his way through the glassy water toward the mouth of the valley, and as he disappeared into the mist from which he had come they began looking to one another.

From deep within their circle the young son of a farmer rose with a sly grin and made his way to the stone. He did his best to position himself as the old man had and as his lips slowly parted and his first words slid past, the lost people of a dead village knew they were home.

Born of Blood (this one is about a year old)

As a child of servants I had never expected to become anything more than a servant. I could never have seen the events that brought me to this moment. As I placed my hands upon the cold stone of the low balcony the past few weeks flashed through my exhausted mind. I remembered waking from a dreamless sleep to the sound of knocking, and the king’s advisor rushing in and rousing the old man. The two of them spoke frantically and then the sound of running feet began echoing from the down the long corridor. The rest was so blurred by my anguish I could not find the defining moment, that one single moment when my life had been changed forever.


I shook myself and focused on the present. Gazing at the huge crowds of people that had gathered beneath the balcony, I shifted my weight uneasily and looked to the north, east and south. The fires were nearly out, but smoke still billowed from many of the people’s homes and businesses. Splintered planks and charcoal beams rose to meet the fringe of morning sun. Fields lay wasted. The crops that would have fed the people were torn and mangled beyond salvage, and a pile of corpses rotted beneath the broken city wall. A few random men were still hauling more bodies, as delicately as they could, to the edges of the morbid hill. The air stank of smoke, blood, maggots, filth, and death.

As my tired eyes lit upon each offense my heart fluttered with agony, knowing what must come, what I must do now. I cleared my throat and spat the thick phlegm on the stones at my feet finding myself caught, for a moment, by how even and smooth they were, no doubt having been worn down by the slow, troubled tread of many kings who had come before. I let my eyes trail from them, up along the gnarled twists of thin brown vines that clung with tiny fingers to the crevices between the stones and, finally, to the masses of people waiting for my words. They looked so tired and dirty, worn as I had been by the past weeks of labor and feud.

The enemies had poured in by the thousands, and we had felled nearly all of them. The few who survived fled, all but the small clump which now stood, staring up at me from the front of my people. The deepest sorrow flowed through me as they watched my every tiny move, their eyes searching mine, pleading with me to show them mercy. I was the son of servants. I was the commoner. I was the only one who could save them, change their fates. My eyes rested on the smallest of them. She was just a child, maybe four years old, innocent. I wanted so much to spare her. She was not guilty of her father’s crimes. She had not brought the invaders to our gates. She had not plunged a knife between the king’s ribs. She had not betrayed her father.

The citizens began to grow restless, uncertain of my hesitation. They began muttering and milling about. Some still gripped the blood stained weapons which had won us our fight. My mind slammed back to the day after the enemies had first breached the gates. In the hopelessness and fear that followed the invasion the people had looked to me, because I felt none. It was my anger and the disregard for my own life that had elevated me to this station in mere weeks. Now I would have to finish the fight to keep it.

I stared down at the five prisoners before me. Tears streamed down the women’s faces, panic flooded the princes’ eyes, and the child. The child was calmly looping her thin, little fingers through the heavy chains that bound her to her parents. Slowly I released the stones that had given me comfort in their firm support and drew myself to full height. I would never fight for this again, I would remove all question. Lifting my right arm and clenching my fist until my fingernails had dug in far enough to draw blood, I stretched out my thumb. As the crowd grew silent, still, I slid the now bloodied digit across my throat, from one ear to the other.

Five axes whispered in the chill, and little more than dull thuds quickly answered back. The people cheered, chains clanked as they fell, and then, silence. An icy shiver rippled down my spine. I knew I would remember her always, her smiling face, her sweet laughter, the way she always tugged on the shirt of the servant who had slept on her grandfather’s floor when she had wanted the boy to smile, and now, the scent of her fresh young blood mixed with the morning dew. Fate was cruel, and I was now the one true king.

Well, here's the finished product...or nearly finished at any rate...

I had sat there in quiet contemplation while my fellow creative writing students worked with what bits of inspiration were playing across their minds. We were supposed to have been drawing upon our memories of days gone by to form lists of possibilities from which we were to write some muse-driven, brilliantly uninspired, or at least reasonably passable bit of a manuscript that would be due at the beginning of our next session. Sadly, as I stared at the pencil gripped tightly between my immobile fingertips, I could dredge precious little from the muck of my own mind.
Unlike those studious individuals around me, my own memories seemed to rest quite peacefully under mountains of thick dust, fragmented with age and well hidden. I generally prefer to regard them as the gems of my existence cloaked in the dust of days. As such, I have often found myself going on great mental expeditions with my hammers and chisels always at the ready, but only coming home with the moldy and broken remains of what once might have been a remarkable experience.


With pen and paper or monitor and keyboard I can usually set about the arduous task of reviving those splintered moments, so carefully exhumed. I can even work tirelessly on its creation, like one of those tiny, industrious ants that march ever on in its role as hunter and gatherer. But, alas, once a manuscript made of such bother and fuss has finally reached completion, I always discover it bears more of a resemblance to fiction than fact. The facts are so few and so fragmented by disuse that I tend to resort, without realizing it, to coating them with the glue of an all too eager imagination. So it has played out on many a day, and this one was no different.

As part of the grand project we, my few fellow writers and I, had banded together to discuss what we had included on our lists, those semi-random memories we each were considering cornering for the piece. Glancing at my pitifully white paper, I realized with a twinge of guilt, that my list seemed more than a little half-starved. Poor thing. I forced a smile as I focused on the two unlucky ladies I had been thrust upon. As we sat looking from one to another, our collective silence screamed so loudly that our instructor had almost immediately voiced his second thoughts at our grouping.

Rather than be separated into just as uneasy another grouping, I launched into some sort of a ramble that I am quite glad to have already had buried in the very back edge of my memory. The ploy had worked of course, and our three member cluster of mad sprites had been able to drive past the gate keeper and on into the forest of our own personal yores. From those dark spaces of memories flecked with silvery light we emerged mostly unscathed, I, the Lady Bones and the Timorous Pixie.

The details of my own doings that day are, as always, almost entirely lost to me, but oh the stories I could write from the memories of my momentary companions. Perhaps one day I will pull their tales from the best kept and best stocked shelves of my mind. They are there with millions of others, all fantastic legends just waiting to be born of a mind that is so well lit with the vibrant violet flames of imagination. Perhaps one day I will make room for my own memories here, my own terrific tales, but for now the shadows and dust of the pits of time can keep them and their mundane truths.

Procrastinating...again

So, I've created this blog because my Creative Writing Instructor suggested it. It was a decent way to kill time I suppose. That being said, I still prefer Live Journal.

Anyway, I've been trying to force myself to finish our assignment on literary nonfiction. A great humbug I say! Well, I may finish it, but it'll be no damn good. I don't write about me!!!