From every length
In spite of gravity
I myself am
A preposterous verdue
Beneath coarser grass.
Patient from broad, keen storms.
From morn now creeps ivory.
From every length
She spent her evenings, worrying, pacing the floors. Her only hope was the soldiers thinking the building had been abandoned. He still hadn’t returned though and the worry was starting to seep into her heart. She was beginning to think he wasn’t coming back…
Scarecrow’s New Hat is a project that I have been working on for some time now. When I say “working on” though it has been mostly indirectly; a sketch here, some notes there, nothing overly dramatic. Till now. I have been working on it again but this time more progressively. I have all the hats illustrations done, have made more notes on production and finally have the whole story written. It has been a fun last couple of days and I am looking forward to hopefully approaching the publishers next week! I’ll keep everyone updated as I go.
How the Ottoman Empire Started
It was a Coffeepot actually who started it, spreading rumors, calling the Kettle black.
The Chairs got tired of it.
They rallied, scuffing across the kitchen floor. I can still hear the creaking, the sound of wood on bare linoleum. It was the Toaster though that fouled their plan.
The Coffeepot had been taking a quick catnap when the toaster screamed and fell into a dead faint next to it. The Chairs all stopped, stood silent, whistling in their tiny brains hoping the Coffeepot wouldn’t notice. But it was already too late. It had seen them, and it would have to be silenced.
In the end it was a barstool who had stepped forward as the Ottoman lay sleeping, quietly listening to the whole thing, in the other room.
This story originated because of two things: a) A friend needed content for his podcast and asked if I would write something. b) I had had the most bizarre dream of my life around the time we had moved into our new (rental) house a couple of years ago.
I had watched a really bad horror movie that evening, which I never do, and my brain kicked into overdrive because of it. In the dream…there was an old wooden chair, the last of four, and it was angry because it was made to sit in a corner with clothing piled on it. Several scenarios from the chair chasing me across the floor to it stabbing me to death after I chopped it to kindling, ran rampant through my mind. This poem was how I made fun of it to get it OUT of my head. I look back and laugh now but it still creeps me out. LOL
One good thing though, this was a fun piece to write and it is available in mp3 format for anyone who would like to email me and request it.
The Soul of Art
Art is to be felt, not rationalized. Art is meant to make you smile, to make you cry and swell up with all manner of emotion. Art is meant to be thought provoking, engaging your mind down to your soul. Unplanned and chaotic, it emerges and becomes what it will. Art at its best simply is.
Creative fire cannot be contained, it can only be caused to smolder. It seeps out from the marrow of your soul until it consumes every part of your being. It cannot be caged and will not be put out.
Music has a great deal of influence over my creativity. I use music to get my head inside a certain mood depending on the project theme. If I am working on a childrne’s book, something light and airy. If I am working on a fiction piece, for example something set in the MIddle Ages, I put on chant or E.S.Posthumus‘ Unearthed album.
Soundtracks from movies, or even games, are a staple in my musical diet. My most favorites are the soundtracks from Guild Wars (MMORPG), and the MYST games (Riven, Exile, Revelations, Uru and End fo Ages). This poem was written to a song off the Matrix movie soundtrack.
= = =
Racing through storm
the devil and hell on her heels
she rides through the air
bloody Valkyrie astride a winged fury
her black horse with white eyes
its mane as red as her hair
flowing behind them
a rocket’s tail
I was watching my daughter sleep one night; her knees tucked under her, simply listening to her breathing. It was the most beautiful sound in the world.
= = =
snoring as silent as a cricket whispers
you lay gently, knees pulled under you
Sometimes the idea of facing your fears is worse than the fears themselves. Change is never easy but one thing is certain, it is inevitable.
We define ourselves, mankind, and everything else around us, based on the knowledge of our predecessors. What if they were wrong? Even the smallest error in judgment would have a snowball effect. Truth based on a lie; one editorial decision affecting all of society like ripples on a still lake.
We kill what we fear. Fear what we don’t understand. We rip down rainforests; wrenching root from our mother’s womb. We call it convenience. We call it progress. And while we fill our pockets and pat ourselves on the back, we’ve stopped thinking because we aren’t directly responsible. In our blindness, we release the disease, and killed the cure.
This is a piece I had written quite some time ago in response to a friend’s request for podcast content. An mp3 version of this story is available on request from email@example.com A couple of friends had been writing horor novels around this time and I was involved in a roleplay storytelling group as well.
= = =
MOONLIGHT & SHADOW
She sat there for what seemed like hours, just letting it all absorb. She couldn’t get over how clear everything was to her now. She no longer needed the glasses she always hated wearing, her hair had become long and lush, and her skin was pale and bright. The pain of her death seemed almost a dream now, even moments after its final conclusion.
She lay down quietly next to him, her dark auburn hair flowing over his arm and chest. He enveloped her once again, but gentler now, more soothing and calm than the frenzy that had almost devoured them. Her embrace was like no release she had ever known before.
They lay there in each other’s company throughout the night. Candles burning brightly throughout the room, though they were not necessary for sight. The sounds of fabric moving woke her and she sat up. It was then that she realized that they had not been alone.
All about the room there were shadows but not like anything she’d ever seen. She looked with new eyes now and would have to compensate for her learning thusly. The shadows moved wrong. She would catch movement out of the corners of her eyes but would see nothing looking dead on.
“It’s alright, my love. They are here simply to see to our needs.” He softly stroked her back with lazy fingers.
“Who are they?” she whispered.
The sound of her own voice was like a boom to her ears. The shadows disappeared as though they had never been and an eerie stillness sat on her like a weight. It was as though the darkness had become a thick, black oil soaking up everything around her.
“They are mine and those of others that I have taken in.”
They what? She thought to herself. His reply to her internal dialogue startled her.
“They simply are, my dear, all reborn like you in one form or another. But those of others had been left to die, for they surely would have, left to their own. I have done my best to teach them what they needed to know.”
He sounded very matter of fact, though she was only half listening to him, still stuck on the idea that he could read her mind. Can he really hear me?
“Yes” was what she heard in her head, but in his voice though she did not see his lips move. “You will learn in time, my love, in time.”
Ok, NOW she was a little disconcerted.
Her privacy had always been paramount to her. This clear lack of boundaries upset her balance.
He gently caressed her back and pulled her back down to his arms. Her kissed her cheek and cradled his head in her neck, preparing for sleep. His arms, wrapped around her like a blanket, no longer brought her comfort. They felt like a straightjacket now.
There would be no sleep or rest or peace from now on. What had she done…