We haven’t sat for a while, them and I.
At first, it wasn’t for lack of trying. I would go to the usual place, sit down and wait for the fire to light itself. It remained stubbornly unlit. Without fire to draw them, nothing was drawn. I might have taken it upon myself to light the flames but, in the strange rules of the place when it comes to starting fires, I am entirely ignorant.
(more…)
Vengeance, My Heart is a work of serialized fiction. Jump to key story links to read earlier content.
The dark within was unsullied by Dusk. It stood apart from the twilight standing without.
The understanding was immediate and absolute. It came before her eyes drank in the faint bioluminescence rising from the stone walls beyond the entrance, casting a faint, ghostly cerulean into a dark that drank in light with a fullness. It came before the smell of water betrayed its location within the hollow space between the stone. The burden that rested on her neck since the shootout at the camp three or five days before, was simply absent. Not lifted. Gone — the yoke had never existed, never had been slung across her neck, never pushed her body to the ground.
It was in stillness that she stood just within the threshold dividing the entrance between the gloaming and this new, fresh darkness, letting the feeling wash over her in waves.
She crossed over in fullness.
(more…)tagged:
filed under:
with eyes returning
to campfire's flickering
old grey relations welcome
back without performance
to sit without a word to say
sharp skull the tap
wake up wake up
he croaks today
A poem prompted by a randomly selected Elder Futhark rune.
Today’s rune is mannaz, a rune that translates to “man” in the sense of “humankind”. The rune is associated with family and the social order, and in trusting the intuitive process or seeing clearly — both from within and from without. Mannaz influences relationships of all kinds, including those of a romantic nature, and encourages compassion, for oneself as well as for others.
Please visit my Elder Futhark pages at sceadugenga.com for additional interpretations of the runes based on multiple references and personal reflection.
strange days when a fiction
confirms a reality and
stones become doors in
the heather on the heath
and ravens give to crows
on the edge of bedsheets
there is not-song in head
and not-fire between
and everything's burning
at the crux of the seams
blink becomes stutter
we give fat, we give bone
we skin give to we
Vengeance, My Heart is a work of serialized fiction. Jump to key story links to read earlier content.
It was with an explosive frantic fluttering that the quail broke from the scrub, barely registered before the gun’s thunder broke the twilight calm, before any thought of the bird came to the fore.
Only after the bird had dropped to the twisting shadows of the mesa, had the stranger known she had made a kill. There was no magic in the act, although it might have seemed so had anyone witnessed the event.
(more…)tagged:
filed under:
too simple for words, and so
i point towards the moon
before gathering my heart
folded into ink-etched bone and
send it in a ribboned box
to her
we've the path of ashes
bringing forth in reds & golds
burning october in our summer
etching shard ice in dreams
soon i will shift under
perhaps you bone stay—
to the elsewhen all go
in the eventual
you will wear my eyes blind
slipping to burning october
Hey isn't this neat
But we've got to be discreet
'Cause something this supercalifragilistic
Can get sado-masochistic so quickly
So if you want to know me
Well you'd just better take things slowly
Man, I sure miss the tongue in cheek saccharine-laced snarky sugar pop of albums like this. A little more over-the-top than Strawberry Switchblade (who were more polka-dot laced bubblegum goth), but I loved this shit.
As you might recall from a few days ago, Julianne sang for the more folksy-hippie-goth All About Eve. Yeah, I’m in a J.R. mood this week.
no more fingers
outstretched because
we can see our
only use is to please
some illusion of touch
arthritic entanglements
become slender thorns
pressed under tender
skin
Vengeance, My Heart is a work of serialized fiction. Jump to key story links to read earlier content.
As she made her way to where the crow perched, it was clear that Fallow was not the only equine casualty of the shootout. One other lay dead on the outrider’s side of the camp and the other two had panicked at the noise. The stranger could see the silhouette of one against the backdrop of the last of the failing light. It was looking back at camp, but seemed disinterested in returning. Of the other horse, there was no trace.
Dee was resting her back against the base of some mesquite once the stranger found her. She was pressing one hand firmly against her thigh, blood staining her fingers dark to match the growing shadows. Her other hand rested near the holster without quite reaching it. Her gun was not in the holster and it took the stranger a moment before she spotted the revolver in the gloaming, left almost under the wain.
(more…)tagged:
filed under: