I just got to the stage where my fiction subdomain is getting becoming functional. The keyword is “functional”, but it is far from finished/polished and the content quality there is. erm, lacking at the moment. Of course, it is purely for testing ideas and functionality, so it will eventually be wiped.
It is not currently behind a “maintenance mode” wall, so if you want to see how the Fictioneer WordPress template demos on my site, you can check it out at fiction.ravensweald.com.
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I feel a need to throw a myriad of miscellanea out there to anyone willing to give it a read. This is your classic dumper dive post, where you might find something interesting, maybe even valuable, but what you find might have an equal chance of just being junk. Read at your own risk. No refunds.
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we walk dire valleys
you and i
our bones are hearts
for such places between
pull me gloaming to,
give this stonefield life
Another rune poem of mine, where the rune is selected at random. Today’s rune is eihwaz, which has a core meaning of “yew”. Yew trees are associated with the underworld and the axis mundi (world tree), as well as liminal spaces and transformation.
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kissing at distance
hands dreamlaced time
drawspacing the narrows
thin between eachwith line
mouth to breath shared
of lips gone surrender
no longer bound of care
silkslip and thigh
that flesh dreamt skin
pulling pastlives present
willing you in
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nail bitten fingers
ragged tip raw
all jaundice & spleen
her twilight eyes
flicker flick
a celluloid dream
in shadow & stars
come my lay, my love
she hums, a song
from her past
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a twist on a turn of words
her flower, his hunger
they spin stone for bottle
counting crows perched
high on the live wire
to see who gives what & how
his is the spring
& her seething gives to dance
with her flair, her flail
her everything & ghost
his everything & love
suspecting the hollow
of the old trunk
in the field alone stands
they spin bottle for stone
while crows writhe & laugh
at how the given becomes what
in seething this spring
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I’ve never made it any secret that I am not one for small talk. I’m perfectly fine with silence, either the comfortable or uncomfortable varieties — in preference over small talk anyway. It might be that it seems like an insurmountable task to engage in small talk now that I don’t have a drink or cigarette in one hand, the other, or both. It’s really a thing for me; I lost my ability to natter on about stuff when I went both sober and smober. The smokes and the glass/bottle gave me a prop to fidget with, to play a persona, a mask to slip inside when social situations called for loathsome small talk.
So, picture my dread this morning when I showed up early to a local passport office and limited DMV service center to renew my passport for some expected upcoming Canadian travel (recall those days when we could just use our driver’s license to slip over to Canada? Oh, those were the days!) and encountered not one, not two, but three individuals who thrived off of small talk. Engaging in such small talk. Loudly.
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Of the rubble they wandered, she and the one she called Puck; she dressed in crimson and ash while Puck was dressed in Puck, a shadow somewhere between chrome scuffed and tetris blocks that might have been mustard yellow, if not for the scorching and scratch. Azur, too, if you looked atop his aluminum pate from above or when not aloft — a rarity given the nuclear pellet fueling his eternal flight.
Stones rattled for reasons only stones know, and fell to the scree near her feet with wonton abandon. If Puck did not have encyclopedic reference to the circuitric contrary, it might have thought the stones were rushing down from the remnants of highrises to worship the angel at their base. Puck certainly did, but that was his nature. The girl was its goddess and its life and, even if they had been programmed otherwise, it would still choose this life of servitude under her wing. Call it love, for even machines may become such things as the capacity for love.
Puck tensed at the howl of greymalkin prowling distant, yet close enough to warrant caution. She dressed of vermillion tensed not at all, which was her nature, such as was her trust given to Puck. It was for Puck to worry while she wandered and his servos did whine at the unexpected danger lurking the shadows beyond. How far was far enough? it wondered. Almost immediately, it responded, Never enough, but was loath to leave his charge for the time required to chase the great cats off.
So Puck did the only sensible thing and flew closer to her and did what all things must eventually consider as their final option when danger lurks nearby: hope.
And so, Puck hoped while the greymalkin cast out more mewls and cries, suggesting the hunt had begun.
Puck sighed relief when the sounds moved away from their location, and it embraced the momentary calm, as short-lived as it was like to be.
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this is a day of
desire slips to fade
and we watch only
the forests burning
”i’m too old for this shit.”
in muttered underbreath
“too old for this shit
by far.”
flames lead to smoke
lead to sputtering fuel
gone damp in the
marsh of neglect
nightjar calling at moon
waving away those
memories from when
we were young
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