Sunday, February 27, 2011

Misc Passage No. 9

Have been meaning to write for the past week :) Hasn't been settled down and quiet though until now :) Finally, I got fed up, and made my escape :) The following passage is the first one I've ever written with other people about, and not in the dead of night :) Just a very small piece of a much, larger story, but it felt right to just post this piece. Enjoy :)

ps. Fictitious, forgot to put that up there, enjoy!

A thin stream of smoke, rose, from a dwindling stick of incense. Next to it, a candle, barely burning, petered out. While outside, a storm raged, tearing at the trees, throwing them about, beating them with torrents of endless rain, pouring from the sky, drowning every inch of earth. I rose from my chair, retrieved, my now cold, and empty mug, slid on my slippers, and made way for the kitchen, gently stroking one of the cats, sleeping on the cat climber, as I passed by. Making it to the kitchen, I placed my glass upon the counter, grabbed a measuring cup, filled it with water, and slid it in to the microwave, setting it to heat, then wandered over to the window, gently rocking on my heels to keep warm, while the water boiled. Outside, the barrage of rain had momentarily ceased, and the winds had died. I stared for some time, arms folded, keeping my hands warm, the soft hum of the microwave in the background, and watched, quietly. A lone, snowflake, drifted silently by the window, and fell down, into the yard, laying to rest softly, on one of the many bricks lining the path below, where it quickly disappeared, melted, into another rain spot on the ground. I looked up, and there, from the sky, followed a thousand, falling stars, joining their lost brethren, upon the ground. Covering it, in a thin, sheet of white.

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Thursday, February 17, 2011

Misc Passage No. 8

Miscellaneous fictitious story, written for a friend last week.

Down, deep into the canyon, splitting it in two, rushes a river. Bending, this way and that, tearing at the land around its reaches. All around, the canyon walls are lined with trails, some no more than a foot across, weaving in and out of the thin, dusty scrub brush, the only life that dare cling to its rocky, crumbling surface. Down, along the shores of the river, are thousands upon thousands, of perfectly smooth, round, river rocks, shaped by hundreds of years of the rushing water. And below them, ever so small, fresh water clams, buried deep into the fine sand and clay, deep enough to not be whisked away by the powerful tide. And further still, down the river, long past the ripping banks and turns, the river grows wide, and it's rushing current slows to a gentle flow. Still far too fast for one to venture out alone without some means of easy return, yet slow enough that one could skip a rock across its surface, with the right skill, and still have it make a leap or two, though the water isn't very still at all. It's here, some say, that you can see a woman. As the sun sets across the tide, she shall appear, they all say, though she is never the same, and none can quite explain, exactly what they saw once they return, in a fog, to their cars, to make the slow, winding climb up the canyon walls. It was there, one late, sunny afternoon, while standing by the shore, watching the river rush past, as fast as the quickly setting sun. That i saw her. At first, nothing seemed wrong. I hadn't realized i was standing right where they all say she appears, i was merely walking along, and chose to stop, and gaze across the water for a while. When she appeared next to me. Startling me a bit. I said, "Oh, i didn't see you come up" explaining my small start at her arrival. "Tis a beautiful day out no?" 
She turned to me, and it was then, that i realized who she was. For as beautiful day as it was, even in the dieing afternoon rays of sun, one still needed a small coat, or thick shirt, as i turned to her, i realized, she was barefoot, and wearing a robe, that fluttered gently in the breeze. I gave another start. And felt as my mouth went ajar, quickly i righted it, then attempted to make words. Though i could make none. I Stood, staring, long lost on words, as she turned, and looked into my eyes. Deep, they were, like the sea, or the waters of the river rushing now, quietly, past. Eyes, which, if one weren't careful, they could find themselves lost, within their depths. Then, she spoke.

There is talk, from sailors, of a voice, that calls them out to sea, each, and every man, swears that they have heard it, and none can truly describe exactly what they've heard, yet the voice, is one and the same, deep, and demure, quiet like the rush of the wind, and cool as the breeze off the sea. Lost in her eyes, you hear not a word that she says, yet every one, fills you with a different emotion, you feel them slowly fill your body, each one, as the cross her softly moving lips. Then, the wind turns, and her deep, dark, brown hair, rushes around, into her face, and your view of her eyes is blocked, stunned, you're broken from your trance. And you look down, to the space where she was standing. Now empty, the waters that gently lapped about her feet, and there, nestled gently between two rocks, lays an item, and you stood, down, and gently pull it free, and hold it, in the palm of your hand. 

Sunday, February 13, 2011

   “I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.”

- Maya Angelou 

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Sunday, February 6, 2011

John Lennon 
9 October 1940 – 8 December 1980

"In one way, I was always hip. I was hip in kindergarten. I was different from the others. There was something wrong with me, I thought, because I seemed to see things people didn't see. I always saw things in a hallucinatory way."

"I'm not going to change the way I look or the way I feel to conform to anything. I've always been a freak. So I've been a freak all my life and I have to live with that, you know. I'm one of those people."

"When I was about twelve, I used to think I must be a genius, but nobody’s noticed . Either I’m a genius or I’m mad, which is it? ‘No,’ I said, ‘I can’t be mad because nobody’s put me away; therefore I’m a genius.’ Genius is a form of madness and we’re all that way. But I used to be coy about it, like my guitar playing. But if there’s such a thing as genius – I am one. And if there isn’t, I don’t care."

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Wednesday, February 2, 2011


Enjoy :)

Fairy Glade, Most knew of its existence, yet, very few, still ventured along the long, beaten path, deep into the woods, to reach its end. And fewer still, remembered the tales of its being. Those who did, could still remember. The day they first dared to explore the long lost woods, in search of a mystery, a myth, and were faced, with its true reality.

Only on a full moon, they were told, when the skies were clear, and the forest dead, would the fairies come out to play. And dance beneath the stars, Shining, their reflections, shining brilliantly in the still waters below. Dazzled the darkened forest with blue, greens and reds. Casting a glow, which caused the smooth, river rocks below, to look as though they were cast with diamonds. 

And the few, who remembered that day. The day they stepped quietly into the clearing, to see the whole glade, glowing. Multi colored stars, dancing about above the waters. 

They'd return home, never knowing, truly, what they had seen, yet, when they fell asleep that night, the image, still burned brightly in their minds.

And years later, as they told their great, grandchildren, of that night, it would still burn. With the magikal glow, of a thousand fairies, caught in the moonlight.

Tale, would turn to myth, and myth, into legend. Til all who remembered the glory of the fairy glade, were passing on. Their children, long lost of the interest in stories. Had moved on, after many, fateful attempts, to witness the dance for their own.

And as the last of the true believers, took their final bow. The tales of the fairy glade, were lost. Nothing more, than a bedtime story, told to children to put their eyes to sleep. 

And, along with the stories, the small, passage through the woodlands, disappeared. 

Until, years later, a man, lost, searching for a town, it seemed, he'd never find. Finally, reluctantly, pulled his car to the side of the road, and parked. Down, at the thought of spending the night in his cramped, 2 seater convertible. He slid outside, into the cool, winter air, moon shining, high above, through the sleeping trees.

He looked around, slowly, taking in all around him.

He turned, to slide himself back into his car, deciding to drive for perhaps, another hour. When, deep, in the forest beyond the vehicle, something caught his eye. A dent, in the brush, hardly noticeable. He paused, then reached into his car, and produced a small flashlight, though he truly didn't need it, seeing as the moon was shining high above, lighting the world as clearly as the sun. Without knowing why, he made his way toward the push in the brush. There, nearly lost, was a path, all but grown in, all that remained of the curving dirt lead, was green streak of baby's breath groundcover, giving the once brown, packed path, a now, green, softly paved look. Slowly, he pushed the brush aside, and made his way up the slope, and into the woods.

He climbed, for no reason at all, yet something, something kept urging him on, higher, through the tangled mess of shrubs and thorns, higher, into the mountain. Feeling more and more uneased. 

He knew this place.

From where? He couldn't recall, no matter where he looked, he couldn't place it, yet it all felt so, real.

All that kept rushing to his mind, was his grandfather, who had died, many, many years ago, while he was still a boy. Why, that thought kept racing to his mind, he didn't understand, all he could remember, was his grandfather, sitting in his old rocking chair, talking. Laughing, rocking by the fire, his family, gathered round'. sitting on the floor all around. Listening to him speak.

The ground began to level off, the tightly packed brush, slowly shied away from the path. Til nothing remained, but the tall, bare, trees. Then, something, in the distance, caught his eye. 

He turned, and crept slowly toward the old, mossy, sign. 

and gently brushed away the years of webs dust.

Revealing the lettering beneath.

And Smiled

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Tuesday, February 1, 2011


Un - edited. A small tribute. 

Deep, in the dead of night, a storm had been raging for hours. Burying everything in its path, til all that remained of the scape, were oddly shaped mounds, that could only be what one would guess as houses and cars, all around, the trees, were forced down, til their branches lay flat upon the ground, succumbing to the mighty weight of snow, til they were nothing more than white, cones, jutting from the land all around. On and on it blasted, til all was gone, and it seemed as if there was no way a world could really exist, under it's crushing weight. Until, finally, in the deep, dead of night. It relented. Leaving the world, finally, at rest. And there, for miles around, lay a new sight. One that hadn't been seen for the longest time. Perfection. Pureness. A fragile, unmarred land. For miles. And, if one listened quite carefully enough, they could hear, the softest of all the worlds sounds. The gentle, pat, pat, pat.... As slowly falling flakes, came quietly to rest, finally, upon the ground, freeing it of every stain.

A Tribute To Bill Watterson       link

Thanks to Jasmeine Moonsong, For all the inspiration, And care

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