Prisoner of Water (tentative title): Prologue

The Siren Song Series:

Tribal Era Books:

Prisoner of Water

Prologue

There is a certain light, not of sun or moon, nor gleam of stars nor the radiating darkness of night. It is the blue light between nightset and daybreak, when for a brief moment both sun and moon barely peak over the horizon. As their colours bleed into the air and mix above the grey earth, turning the sky violet, the whole world below is suddenly transformed blue and cold and crisp and brilliant as the new day seeps into the very fibre of the world.

This same blue light of the morning was coating the antiquarian palace standing by the crashing seashore. It was built of massive, cyclopean white marble blocks, ancient monoliths secured in place by the strong hands of time and generations of black moss between their seams. The bay was uncharacteristically mistless this morning, as if conscious of what day it was and knowing better than to intrude on the palace. A welcoming cool breathe of wind played with the white billowing silk that hung over the windows and in the doorways as if they were sails, refreshing the warm, humid incensed air within the dark, sleeping structures.

A dark set of fingers pushed the white silk over one doorway aside, and the face of the man emerged. He was clean shaven and young, probably closer to twenty than thirty. He stepped down the three wide stairs to the sequestered, white, limestone courtyard. Tall palm trees rose from large stone carved vases in each of the corners of the courtyard, their massive green fronds moving like fingers in the breeze as they hung over the small pool at the center, covered in water lilies and lotuses. In the distance the calls of seabirds formed ambient harmony with the hushing sound of waves continually rolling upon the rocks.

Sitting upon a low wall was another man, in deep blue woolen robes, whose usual tawny complexion was rendered almost as dark as his companion’s by the blue light. He passed a hand through his black, curly hair, the same color as the beard that ran along his chin. He smiled, raised his eyebrows, and shrugged his shoulders in a manner to express a carefree ignorance to the question he knew was bound to come, but he could not hide the nervousness and worry in his eyes.

“I see. No word yet?” the dark one asked the one in blue, as he swatted at a horsefly trying to land on his exposed chest. “Where is Tsinya?”

The one in blue looked towards where the sound of crashing waves was coming from and spoke, “He received an urgent message early this morning by silverwing from the capital. Apparently the university needed him back immediatly. He grabbed everything and made it to the Nkonyana before she set sail.”

“I would assume it had something to do with his master’s illness.” He said, crossing scared arms over his large chest.

“I don’t know. I didn’t get a chance to look at the letter.” the one in blue responded, striking flint to steel and lighting a candle nearby.

“So... he really is gone...” he spoke as his eyes gazed glassily into the flickering flame.

“Well, he will be back. He has to come back. He left this behind for us to finish for him.”
The one in blue brought forth the massive tome, bound with dark brown sea otter leather, crisp papyrus pages glowing white in the blue light before dawn. Opening it up he began to read.

“Here follows the account of, Palo Gocce-Caro, First Recorder of the Great University of the Archduke. In the third year of the reign of the Infant King, sixtieth year of the Great Recorder, I was sent to the Great Inland Sea, to explore its vast reaches. While I was there, the people and the merchants told tales of a land that lay beyond the Great Inland Sea, a land on a great peninsula serrounded on three sides by the Ocean and the fourth bordered by the Inland Sea. I sailed and landed on the coast of what I later found, was called Nyaami. There, under torrential rain, I saw a massive monolith, standing alone on the shores of the beach. And upon it was written in strange characters which shapes recalled to my mind the phases of the moon,

millions and millions of words that ran from top to bottom all around. Having proved that the land did exist, I returned with my discovery to the University. There, my Master, the Great Recorder, told me that I should return, and explore this new land. If there were people I should learn the language. If they were friendly, I should not hesitate to form ties of friendship with them. I did not know then that those friendships would be the kind to last a lifetime. In all I was readied for my journey and so set off again. I decided to start in the south, in what I would later find called, the Great Mountains of Djarmond. And that is also where it all began, because it was there, in those hollowed and sacred mountains, where the Nyaami only sought peace and tranquility, there that the first attacks began, and where blood first stained the snow...

The Sixth Art: Introductions

So just to clarify, this is NOT my August Challenge Novel. This is merely a short story (segment really) that I just had to write and get out of my system before I could even begin thinking about my August Challenge Novel. So, I'm not sure if it will be this stand alone story or if its really just the begining of a larger story (novella?). We will see. Enjoy.

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The Sixth Art:
Introductions

The room was large, too large. Dark and echoing its cold concrete pillars ascended and disappeared in the darkness above which obscured the end of the warehouse’s ceiling. Around the echoes of the room were placed pale, florescent lights, adding ashen tones to the already pallid shades. In this room that was far too large in this place painted in grey, there lay a figure upon the ground. A boy, dressed in jeans and a red sweatshirt. He lay unaware of what was happening around him. Had he been awake he would have seen that he was not alone.

The most noticeable of the two was the one who had entered last, a moment ago. He wore shades of grey, the light color of ash on embers when they are just about to go out, with a bright white scarf around his neck. Under his arm he carried a black notebook, and in his hand was a gleaning, titanium pen.

The other figure standing apposite him, on the other side of the senseless boy and the other side of the large warehouse, wore shades of grey like the thick clouds on stormy nights barely visible above the night sky. Each of his hands was gloved in velvet black, and the hood of his dark grey sweat shirt was over his face. He also carried a notebook, much larger and completely white, and a marker, thick and black.

“Release him.” spoke the one with the scarf. “You have no right to claim him! He is an outsider!”

“Now, now, don’t act all noble now, Henri. You were going to claim him yourself, weren’t you!” said the other, fixing one of the midnight gloves. “Besides, I need no right for claim. I simply do as my master commands.”

“As so I.” said the scarfed one, opening his black notebook and readying his gleaming pen with a resounding, echoing click.

His hand flew across the page, leaving woven lines of thick black ink on the white pages that seemed to glow. As he wrote, a column began to resonate slightly, and seemed to adjust till it came into focus. The others were soon doing the same, followed by the floor, the ceiling, the lamps, the figure of the boy on the ground.

Meanwhile his opponent smirked, revealing his sharp incisor, and flipped open the large blank page, pulling the top off his thick, black marker, and pushing it onto the page, black indelible ink bleeding thickly in. Several quick strokes and he revealed his sketch, the rearing head of a serpent that filled the whole page.

The serpentine image shimmered, the page seemed to shiver, and the lines moved as if the figure was breathing. The eyes blinked and a sinister tongue flicked out between scaly lips. As the head pushed off the page, it revealed itself as a glossy green scaled with burning red eyes. The artists drew the next section of the body on the black space left from the head, and so it went, as that also animated and pushed off the page, he continued feeding more and more of the image, till finally the tip of the repungent tail was drawn and fell with a beefy, sickening, thud to the concrete.
While the giant green serpent began its slow, coiling slither towards the boy lying in the floor, the writer kept up his steady flow of words, peaking up to see what was happening. As he was looking up, his pen strayed just a bit off the page, leaving globular black letters suspended in air on the edges of the notebook. Soon a cloud of letters arose from the notebook and slid across the air, gliding to the floor. As he continued writing, the letters lay, layer upon layer, until they had formed a writhing black body of alphabet. The letters moved sower and more cohesive, they began to dull to grey and finally white. Turquoise eyes opened in the white head of the smaller serpent that was now on the ground.

It lunged forward at the green serpent, who retreated with an agitated hiss. The second snake coiled about the boy protectively, raising it self up in defense, while the green serpent slid around the sides of the room, looking for an opening. The artist screamed at the green snake in anger to kill the white one. The green serpent turned and hissed at his creator before continuing, looking for an opening. The writer just kept writing as fast as he could. The moment came. A snake struck and the other died, its body degenerating into many small pieces of white paper the blew away like confetti.

“Hmph. Lucky shot.” spoke the artist.

“Well done, Ezekial.” said the writer as he patted the body of the white serpent.

“I don’t see why you name the stupid things. They are merely tools for use towards our ends. If you get attached to them then you’ll only regret it when you loose them, eventually.” he said, pacing the floor, marker at the ready.

“There is something here you wouldn’t understand.” the writer said, looking him straight in the eye.

“E-enough talk!” he quickly drew a small circle on the page, then added four small lines on the left and right sides of the circle

He tore the paper out and held his hand over it. Then, he spoke a word, which I am forbiden to record here. It glowed a sinister red, then hovered over the head of the artist. Two more paged appeared on the right and left side of the paper, each with an identical image glowing on its surface.

“Now would be a good time for you to start scribbling in that pathetic notebook of yours.”

The lines of the images began wiggiling strangly, then stopped. Suddenly, waves of shiny, black obsidian began gushing out of the papers like small avalanches of thousands and thousands of pebbles. But they weren’t pebbles. As they hit the concrete the shiny black bodies began moving across the floor like spreading liquid. It was tens and tens of thousands of spiders, skittering across the floor towards the white snake and the boy.

The writer gasped and quickly wrote, “Then Ezekial raised the boy to the platform that had rose from the papers on the ground.”

The torn paper began building itself up, until a platform with four solid legs was formed. Ezekial placed the boy atop the platform, then began whipping his tail, smashing hundreds of the little black beasts with his single white appendage. But even more kept coming, until he was on the ground, writhing trying to kill the black masses rising higher and higher on his beautiful white scales. Ten thousand visiouse fangs penetrated his armor all at once.

“Ezekial!” yelled the artist.

Sad turquoise eyes looked one last time on his maker, before erupting into inky, black smoke, the spiders falling on those beneath them on the ground. But there was no time to mourn for Ezekial, as the spiders were already climbing the lower legs of the platform.

The writer quickly scribbled the word “flash flood”, and the doors and windows burts with gushing water that rushed in on the concrete. The spiders began running for the walls, but only a few escaped. Most were washed away by the foaming water. Strangly enough, the water stayed back from the two combatants, as if pressed back by some invisibe, circular wall that followed each of them.

The writer jumped up on top of the platform as he quickly scribbled the word, “higher” on the beams. The platform began slowly rising, the water having stopped gushing into the room. The artist began scribbling wavy lines on his page and held it up over his head. It shook, shaking drops of water all around, before long tentacles and seaweed shot out and lashed to the beams, slowing the rise of the beams.

More and more began pouring out of the paper, gelatenous and slippery, they slide sickening off the page and into the water. The paper fell into the water and a large, bulbous head emerged attached to the tentacles.

The writer responded with a few quickly jotted notes, and the pillars began to tremble. They creaked and groaned and began growing taller, branches emerging in a glorious act of de-forestation. The trees grew taller and their emerging branches pushed the tentacles off the trees and back into the water.

“You stupid cephelopod! You’re a waste of my energy! Can’t you do anything right? Here, let me help you!” the artist yelled and pulled the page from before dripping out of the water. He began scribbling more and more, changing angels and running the marker back and forth with fury.

The tentacles fell back into the water limply, the lead quivering and sinking into the water. The current picked up and the water began boiling and bubbling at the unholy birth of something... unnatural. Like an underwater explosion, a gigantic waterspour erupted like a mountain of water, which fell back to reveal the dripping, gleaming, mucousy head of writhing tentacles atop the serpentine body. It shook the water from its head, raised its sinewy and rippling arms, claws gleaming, as it bellowed its sick, aquatic roar that reverberated around the warehouse, black bile flying from its gaping maw and leaking sickly from its nose slits and dead eyes.

“What have you done!? You have soiled nature with your touch! With your art!”

“Nature is how I perceive it. How I decide to depict it!” He yelled, as he stepped back to allow the creature to move in closer to the platform.

The writer wrote a hasty note on the air and it drifted into the darkness above. A lone tentacle crashed down on the platform on top of the tree tops. The writer leapt off the falling piece onto the other as it began slideing sideways as well, threw the boy over his shoulder, and leapt into the tree tops. He hoisted the boy over a thick limb and hauled himself atop it, pen at the ready.

A tentacle began curling around one of the boy’s legs, but the writer saw it and leapt on the writhing mass, etching the word ‘freeze’ deep into the flesh. He leapt off, and the crackling sound of ice echoed behind him. The creature screeched in agony and attempted to pull away, but it was frozen solid to the trees. With one robust pull it severed the tentacle, spewing black bile into water bellow with a heavy slopping sound.

“Tsk, tsk. It does seem to be getting rather cold in here. Let me help!” yelled the artist pulling a folded piece of paper from his glove and unfolding it.

He quickly drew a zig-zag line and held it forward, keeping his eyes back. A crackling sound was heard and burst of flames erupted from the paper, shooting into the treetops and lighting everything on fire. The writer coughed and pulled the scarf over his face. Looking around he saw the flames had circled all sides of them.

The foul beast roared as it reared its groutesque head above the flames, embers lighting the air around it as it reared its massive drakian claw to strike.

“Now, hand over the boy!”

“No!” the writer called from behind his white scarf, and quickly blocked his initials onto the boy’s hand. “He is under my protection now. You cannot touch him while I breathe!”

“Well, that works fine for me. Kill him.”

The massive claw readied and began plummeting, when a loud screech was heard from above, in the darkness. A moment later a piece of the darkness above swooped down and lodges sharp claws in the head of the beast, spreading its ebony wings to reveal itself as a giant raven. The writer hoisted the boy on the raven’s back.

“Brin, keep him out of harm’s way.” Then he leapt down into the black, mirky water.

The trees creaked and fell down in a shower of ember and ash that struck the bile-water with a loud hiss. Caustic steam whaffed up and hung like a rotting, dead mist upon the air, obscuring all behind its thick, eye-burning curtain.

The artist looked around, cough as he called, “Come out, come out, wherever you are.”

From one corner of the fog bank, a line of black letters rippled and skimmed across the water, colliding with the base of the foul beast, freezing it in the spot, causing it to fall on its front paws to balance itself.. No sooner had he seen the words, then the artist pulled the folded paper out and pointed it towards the spot, a long whip of flames licking at the mist, parting it. But there was no one there.

Another sliver of words flowed across the misty surface and froze one of the claws in the water and he yelled, “Where are you?!?”

His answer came from another word stream that quickly froze the last paw. The artist screamed in fury and began pointing his paper in all direction, swining it back and forth as the mist pulled back a little.

Wiping spittle from his mouth, he spoke hoarsely, “Fine! There’s more than one way to get you out of your hiding place!”

He began drawing a curved line that grew along the page until it filled almost the entire paper with the giant circle. His arm began moving rapidly back and forth as he coloured the circle in with thick, streaking lines, and stepped back as it floated slowly like a leaf on the breeze to the water.

As the paper soaked up the water, the circle began to shimmer and slither, as the paper crumpled in towards it. Then with a sudden plopping sound it plummet down to the ground, creating a whirlpool around it. The water began churning as the current grew, sweeping around the massive room with billowing waves.

The writer struggled against the waves, grabbing hold of one of the burnt remnants of the trees. He pulled himself upon the log, then scribbled a few notes. Several of the other logs sailed past in answer and jutted into the widening hole. But the hole continued to grow, a few slipping and vanishing in the growing darkness.

“Grow!” he said as he wrote the word on one of the logs while sweeping by on his own log.

The logs began growing with the widening chasm, as the water continued to pour into the oblivion. The writer’s log lodged on the others, and he quickly scrambled to the ends of the growing log. He reached in his pocket and pulled out something small and electric blue. An eraser. He placed it on the edge of the wide maw, and began running it along the circle. Blue sparks shot out along the line, as the growth of the circle stopped. The writer jumped off and as he rubbed the eraser along the rim, showers of blue sparks following on the circuit behind him.

The water kept flowing in and as it did, the gigantic beast crashed, still bound in ice on the heap of logs stopping the hole. Black bile seeped out thickly from the many wounds across its heaving body as it struggled against its bounds, bellowing.

The writer approached the beast, “Wretched abomination. Do you know why you suffer such pain? Nature detests your very existence and works within you to destroy the perversion that is you. Shall I end your suffering... Arkus?”

The eyes, with black tears oozing, stared up in painful anguish. He walked forward and wrote two words, which I cannot write here now, upon the creature’s forehead. And as the first word began glowing, the creature that he had named Arkus, grew quiet and tranquil there atop the logs. He reached down and touched the eraser to the log, which began dissolving into blue sparks. Arkus fell slowly into the oblivion and the second word began to glow, dissolving Arkus into a myriad of glowing blue sparks that glowed brighter and brighter until its light filled the void, shooting up out of the hole. The bright blue beam grew thinner and thinner until it was gone, as was the hole.

The raven swept down slowly, circling the drying concrete floor. The large bird landed softly and leaned to the side, enabling the writer to ease the boy onto the floor. He examined him and found a small black pictograph on his arm. Gently, he barely brushed the pictograph with the eraser, and it fell of in blue sparks. The boy’s eyes fluttered open as he gasped for air.

“It’s okay, Gill, calm down. Take it easy. I’m a friend. Just relax. Breathe.” he spoke softly.

“Who-who are you? Where am I? A-and how d-do you know my name!?!” asked the frightened boy.

“All will be revealed shortly. But I have to make sure he didn’t mark you twice. Whats the last thing you can remember?”

He gave a confused nod before saying, “I-I was walking, when I heard... a noise... a strange noise. I felt a tingle in my fingers and a-at the base of my spine. T-then.... then... h-h-he was there!”

“Who?”

“Him!” yelled the boy as his eyes widened with fear.

The artist had been advancing and stood facing the writer’s back. He smiled as he pulled the folded page from his glove again. The writer stood, whispering to the boy that everything would be okay.

“This ends now!” he yelled as he opened the page and wreaths of flame engulfed the two.

But just as the tendrils of flame were wrapping around them, the writer had spun around facing the oncoming fire and held the eraser up, its electric blue glow creating an umbra about them. All the flames were absorbed by the blue light, and fell away as blue sparks. The eraser had grown dangerously small by now. After a second volley of flames was deflected, it was spent.

“Your eraser is done. Now, give me the boy! I would rather you both go unmolested, but if I have to use force, by God, I will!”

In answer the writer wrote something behind his back and instantly felt the heavy, cool weight of the steel in his hand. He just hoped that the artists wouldn’t nottice.

“Never. You cannot have him!”

The artist roared and shot tendrils of fire towards them again. But this time there was a flash of silver and the writer held something in front of them. It was a mirror. The flames approached them and as they reached the mirror, all curved towards it and were absorbed by it. And then after a moment’s hesitation, the mirror burst forth flames at the artist. While he leapt out of the way, his precious fire page was destroyed by its own fire.

“Ha! You think you’re so clever?!? I still have more paper!” he yelled in rage.

“But you don’t have enough ink, do you? No more foul beasts or sea monsters. You barely have enough for another spider!” he said baiting him.

“Well I can just summon another army of those worthless spiders! Over and over again! Its so easy.” He retorted and readied his canvas.

“Don’t you feel sorry for them at all? They are so easy to kill. You loose unnecessary life.”

“I don’t care that they may be easy to kill because you know what, they don’t matter! They are as you say, unnecessary life.”

“Don’t you care at all bout your creation?”

“I couldn’t care less about them! They are my creation and will obey me, even to their destruction! Because I am their lord and master!!!”

During this dialogue, the two had been standing off against each other, the artist not realizing that thousands of small eyes were watching from the rafters behind him. At the last comments, a black mist seemed to serround him and draw towards him. It was the spiders that had fled the flood. Thousands of them. Dangling around him. Moving towards him. They had heard enough.

“Get off of me! I order you!” he yelled as more and more spiders began moving up his body and covering his arms and legs. “Ahh! Get off! Get off! Get off! Off! Off!”

He yelled and panicked and began swatting at the spiders all around him and writhing on the floor trying to stop them, but it was no use. They had overcome him.

“Help me! Please!” He screamed in terror.

“Please, stop.” the writer said.

All the spiders stopped and looked up with curiosity and expectancy at the writer.

“See, this is why your art is unstable. You have no control over it. You release it out in the world and it becomes alive, absent from your control. But if you name it, you can at least ask it nicely and purhaps it will cooperate with you.”

The terror stricken artist was shaking, unable to utter a word behind clentched teeth in horror, as millions of tiny fangs tickled against his skin, ready for the strike.

“And now,” he said pulling a second eraser out, “For creating that abomination, for soiling nature with your abhorrent touch, and for trying to touch one outside of the Circle of Art, I hereby sentence you to-”

“What?! Have my mind erased and banishment from the Arts? Ha! You fool! I may forget everything, but my master has the power to find me and restore to me all that will be lost! You cannot win against us! Its is futile! You and all of these horrid things will all die in the dust before my master once he gains the fifth art! If he hasn’t already got it while you have been detained here! Hahaha!”

The spiders’ rage buzzed in the air as they all sudden injected him with their venom. He gasped, and then screamed high and long, gasping for breath before screaming more, his veins protruding from his head and arms, his face in anguish.

“Oh! It burn! It burns! It hurts! On the inside! Awe. Gawd. Id huuwtz...” then he collapesed on the floor in convulsions, white foam coming from his mouth as he shook and smashed his head back and forth on the concrete, unrolling a piece of paper from his other glove in the process. In an instant he was engulfed in more flames.

The writer turned to the boy, standing watching the figure burn with horror in his eyes.

“I’m sorry you had to see that Gill. You see, there is something called the Sacred Art, and those who wield it are the Forbidden Artists. Forbidden because we are only suppose to use our art for other people and without them knowing who did it. But there are those who have... forsaken the vows of the Sacred Art... and started a secret war to enslave the outsiders under their power.”

“Y-you’re crazy aren’t you?” he gulped.

“How can you still think that after what you just saw?”

“Well.... what does this have to do with me?”

“You were born the exact second our previous master died. We have been looking for you since then. There is a prophecy that you will be our next master. And that you will reveal a new Art in the Circle of Art, the Sixth Art. If what he said was true, that the Apostates have all fve of the Arts, then we will need you and the new Art if we are to overcome and finally end this war.”

“W-what? Me? But, I-”

“Gillford St. James, we need your help.”

August Challenge!!!!

So here we go, a week till the August Challenge and I guess I should at the very least introduce myself.

My name is Jean, I'm South African (ergo my site nom de pume), and I am writer (ergo my use of ergo). I've written many poems and short stories, the first of a trilogy of novellas (and I have to wonder, are three novellas in a series the same as one novel?), as well as some nonfic dabbling. As far as actual novels go, which is what the challenge is about, I have two series that I have been working on and off for the last three years and have very little to show for (I got up to chapter 20 with one, but thats it). Essentially I have way too many ideas and not enough time or self control to ever force myself to stop procrastinating and just sit down and write. So for me the challenge is about forcing a deadline, essentially making me write.

Now, even though this will fall over my finals, I think that there are some things in life a little more important than finals. This I do for the well being of my own soul. So I will strive (and hopefully succeed. :D) for a chapter a day. Really, I guess thinking about it, a chapter is only what, 3-4 pages. Thats not so bad. And if it spills over into more, all the better. As you can tell I am practicing having a positive mental attitude. Lets hope it works. :D

And if you browse through my writing here on the blog you'll see that I am very fond of fiction, of all varieties and kinds, from dark gothic (nevermore!) to the light hearted children's fearie tale and everything in between. Some of my personal favorite authors and writers in general are Thackaery and Shaw for their wit; Faulkner (especially for 'A Rose for Emily'), Mrs. Gore, and Poe for their Gothic twists; Byron, Keats, and Shelley for their poetry, Mary Shelley because Frankenstein may just be the deepest most psychological surveying and pertinent novel in regards to the modern human condition, but most of all J. R. R. Tolkien and David Eddings because of the depth of their detail and intricacy of their characters and plot.

So, to everyone else who is participating in the challenge, welcome and I can't wait to see what you all come up with.

Buona Fortuna

Jean

Listen to me

So, I've been working at the same desk in the library now for the last few weeks, and have come to find literally hundreds of messages written or carved into it all over (and under) the desk. So I decided to string some together in this (I guess) social poem. Those clumped together were written below each other, seemingly in response to each other so I treated them as sets.

Listen to me

Why write on desks?
Why not?

Listen to Third Uncle
Listen to Bill Hicks
Listen to Bob Dobbs
Will you listen to me?

I wanted to write something
But couldn't

Listen to me

You sat here to watch girls play soccer
Today is boys lacrosse
Are all the Ref's FAT?
A couple of dudes are throwing a football
Not today.
Today the field is empty.

Listen to me

I've been thinkin that mebbe use is stupid for reading the desk
Who wrote this? "use"? "mebbe"? arn't you in college?
LOL you spelled "aren't" wrong, moron.
Were you hoping a 5 year old would sit here?
YOU HAVE NOT BEEN THINKIN!
He's a darker race ;)
Are you an ignorant f***?
Hardly. Listen to his vocabulary.
Racism is a sign of lesser ignorance, not deeper.
F*** all you n*****!!
Sleep tight, morons
You're mean
Listen to Boom Rap Project

Listen to me

Anne with all her heart will forever love Justin
(crossed out) (twice)

1 more week?
Are you sure?
Cours. Are you?
I don't know. Its too fast.
Just 2 more days!
Find me later. This isn't going to work out.

Happiness or lovely flower?

Just a thought.

Listen to me

I sat here for awhile
and did what I was
suppose to so
then I did what
I wanted

Listen to me

Please don't burn me

Leave

Alone.

alone

Alone now

Why does it hurt so much to be alone?

Listen to me

Can anyone hear me?
If you can, hear me, listen to me, love me
Please
Listen to me

The Unknown

The singed page fluttered down on the evening breeze as the last traces of sunset sank into the serrounding hills and meadows. The man standing far beneath the balcony watched it intently, willing it to fall faster.

The paper fluttered a bit in the breeze, moving sideways, slightly brushing the brickwork before blowing away form the building again. Around its edges, the small glowing red lines could faintly be seen, as they ate the paper away bit by agonizing bit.

Sweat gleamed down the man’s nape as his heart beat with fervor, each agonizing second like a lifetime beneath the balcony, watching the paper fall as it was slowly consumed by the fire.

But it couldn’t! It was his last hope! He needed to have that paper and if the slow feed of the fire claimed it he would be lost. That was why he was here. This was why he had come. And now all his hope, all his dreams, his very future, rested in the hands of the wind as it carried the burning page lower then higher then lower again.

Small traisl of ash flecked off the edges of the lost regions of the page, the near black handwriting there on gone forever, the words lost to him. He could stand it no longer. He began leaping for the paper, while it was still a way from him. No success.

He jumped higher and higher, his gloved hands barely missing it. One more jump, muscles tensed, calves flexed, his boot’s soles dug deep into the wet muddy grass as he launched himself upwards, hands outsretched so far his joints screamed in pain. But his finger only barely brushed it before the cursed breeze picked it up and flipped it away.

He ran after it, pursuing the piece of burning paper, his lungs burning with need for air. But he could not stop now. He was so close. No, he had to push on. The paper was all he had left and would not give it up, no matter what. He cleared a small stone bench in a single leap, almost slipping on the cursed gravel, steadying himself with his other gloved hand, eyes transfixed upon his prey the whole time.

Then with utter dismay he moaned as he saw where the page was being blown. The small lake. Where fire threatened before, now water, it seems would claim his prize. No! He recalled how that page, that single solitary page would make all the difference. If only he could save it. It was all in his hands now. He willed his feet to run faster, the gravel kicked up behind his long strides.

It began its slow descent towards the lake’s slopping wet surface. He dashed faster. The page went lower. He was almost there. The page was almost there. Just a few more feet. Just a few more inches. He leapt forward, and came crashing down, just short of the lake, his whole form quivering. The quivering had spread to his whole body, from his arm, from the back of his hand touching the water, from the quivering piece of paper he held in his palm.

He breathed raggedly as he rolled over and opened the piece of parchment, flakes of ash falling on his cravat. His eyes scanned the few lines lines still left untouched and widened.

Painting skies

Who painted to sky such a color
Who poured azure into the air
Who spread it around the edges
Without even a shadow of a cloud
You painted the sky this color
You poured it from fathomless depths
Your lovely hand was the paintbrush
Because with you there is no shifting shadow
I sat and drank in your color
I sat and drank your azure skies
I sat and smiled at the heavens
And recalled all good gifts still come from you

Incomparable Garden

Golden seed sown by autumnal hands
Twixt warmest beatings hearts in twain
Brooding on the whispers of delicious light
Nesting in woven cacoon of lucient smiles

Summer dew ran on lines of spider silk
Gathering in orbs of dazzling light
Dripping tears of secret awakening
Upon unquenchible grounds of questioning

And like the laughing cataracts of the Nile
Seeped down through the hard wintry cracks
Foaming richly in the black warm earth
To slowly dissolve the cacoon round the precious gem

Green spring in full-throated song errupts
Sweet blushing life leaping from the font
Making feint tendrils to curl round the towering stalk
Whose single rose intoxicates the air with love

Many a-flower around this garden round
Reach towards azure heaven with sighing pant
But none compare to the ever-blooming one
Of golden seed sown by autumnal hands

What I Found in the Woods

While drifting leaves fall down to land
Upon the brow of grey, wet flesh
Where milky eyes
Stairs ever onward
Lead downward
Pulling the limbs

Awakening

Awakening

Eyes snap open with a gasping breath
Air filling vacant spaces
Expanding the vacuum
Rushing cooly over the warm of deadly compression
The first breath is painfully taken
Never given back again
And the lonely echo
Of a solitary heart of stone
Once more grinding off the dust
And giving a weak, almost faint, tremble of delight
Before the dust cracks
And time falls off
And the chamber expands once more
The beat, dum dum, the drum
Dum, dum.
The heart beats again
The blood courses through once more
Pounding with expansion
Gurgling through hollow veins
Muscles trembling, flooded with red power
And the gasp comes once more
I am breathing, again...
My heart is beating once more...
My soul gathers together again
Like memories after a deep dream
My will and mind condense again
Trickle together within me
Pools and crystalizes into my soul
I bask here in the still darkness
And hear the sound of my life
The hearbeating
The veingushing
The muscletremble
My lungs expanding, burning
My breathing
Now, my will, once more is strong
No longer to dwell in outer darkness long
Eyes shut tight for oh so long
Caked with sleep and iron strong
Hear me now oh my dear dear eyes
Strength has returned
Open
Lead laced lids begin to stir
Pupils dance behind flesh veils with expectation
Lashes locked for long part at the seam
And tears form diamond-like at the corner of the tears
First, as with all things, there is light
But so I knew that my eyes were finally open