Beginnings, Chapter FourHauling mountains of luggage, plus the sleeping child, Arthur plodded up the path to the log cabin. He knocked at the door. And waited. And waited. Arthur looked back over his shoulder. The driver had already left, meaning Arthur was alone. At least, he felt alone. The sleeping child was more a responsibility than a companion, and Arthur felt more weighed down and tired than he had felt in ages. At long last, the door creaked open.There he was, just as Arthur remembered. Tall, long haired, and with something of a miniature beard. Francis’ eyes sparkled just as they had on the day he and Arthur had met. All at once, Arthur felt the bittersweetness of lost love and the angry rush of bloody battle. There were a million words he wanted to say. He started with one.“Hello.”Francis nodded. “Welcome to my home,” Francis replied. “Please, come in.”Without aski
Ask The Romance ExpertDear Romance Expert,Even though I am AWESOME, I could use some help. There’s this guy. He’s quiet and shy, but sweet as maple syrup. I’d do anything to get his attention, but, as the old trope goes, he doesn’t even know I exist. The weird thing is, I think I might be the only person who knows he exists. It’s kind of a weird situation. What should I do?-- The Awesome Me*****Dear Awesome,Your confidence is a wonderful asset. However, if this fellow you’ve got your eye on is really as shy as you say, it is important that you do not overwhelm him. Like a rose, love must blossom slowly. Make your move, but do so carefully.Honhonhonhonhon,The Romance Expert------------------------------Dear Romance Expert,I have a problem. I have a crush on my neighbour. He’s a really nice guy, if not a little awkward, but he’s fun and we get along well together. I think he likes
BlindfoldSuch a pretty blindfoldOn such a pretty youthA lust for revolutionBut no taste for the truthAnother manifestoA plant that’s gone to seedMore poison in the waterToo many words to readSuch a pretty sloganAnd such a slick saluteSo many ideasAnd every word acuteThey call themselves the heroesI called them too far goneBut then you went and joined themAnd tied your blindfold onI miss the friends I used to knowThe people I’d admiredI’d held a blindfold in my handsBut threw mine in a fireI’ll never shy away from factsAnd thus I’m called uncouthBecause it’s a such a pretty blindfoldAnd such an ugly truth
Beginnings, Chapter ThreeFlecks of grass caught in the carriage wheels as they spun along the fledgling nation’s excuse for a road. It wasn’t that no one cared enough to build a proper road. It was just hard to decide where best to put one, seeing as Canada had relatively few visitors spread out over a lot of space.Inside the carriage, little Alfred bounced up and down on the seat cushion. The momentum of the carriage urged him onward while every bump they rolled over sent him popping out of his seat. He had passed time on the long journey by making a game of it, purposefully jumping and letting the carriage’s shifting balance fling him along.Under normal circumstances, Arthur would have insisted he sit still, but after spending so long in close quarters with the youngster, he was simply glad that he was entertained. Relishing these relatively peaceful moments, Arthur caught up on some sleep. He had no way of knowing when he’d be interrupted once ag
Beginnings, Chapter TwoArthur may have been wrong about a lot of things, but he was right that Matthew needed companionship his own age. As bad as the fighting between Arthur and himself had been, Francis had to admit it was unfair to keep Matthew and Alfred separated. There were no other children in the area, so Matthew’s only friends were the squirrels and raccoons and ring-necked geese that populated the area. And, of course, his best friend was his papa - a papa who (however begrudgingly) knew the right thing to do. Grumbling, Francis pulled a new sheet of paper from the stack on his desk. He looked out the window to see little Matthew playing outside, and he silently cursed Arthur once more. With a freshly dipped quill in his hand, he began to write.Cher Arthur,J’accepte ton idéeHe scratched it out. He had forgotten to whom he was writing, apparently. Taking another piece of blank paper, Francis reminded himself that switching la
Beginnings, Chapter OneDay dawned early, brimming with the promise of summer. The scent of morning flowers perfumed the late June air, so Francis propped the door open wide. He crossed the cabin’s slightly uneven wooden floor and pulled the curtains away from the window as well. Soon, the quaint log cabin was filled with warmth and sweetness and sunlight.Stoking the banked embers in the tiny cast iron stove, Francis hummed to himself. He loved this time of year. It was a time of fond memories and new beginnings. He cracked a few eggs into a pan and set them over the flames to cook. That’s when he heard a squeak and a thud behind him.Francis turned around to see a pair of short, chubby legs sticking out from under a tangle of cloth. A single blond curl protruded from what appeared to be a sleeve.“M’aidez...” the bundle whimpered. “M’aidez, s’il vous plait.”Chuckling to himself, Francis approached th
Storm CallSeasong carriesover water, awaySailing the windTo the end of daySurrounding soundHigh fidelity, hearkenA weather eyeSensitive evenWhen autumn skiesDarkenDistant thunderRestless wavesClouds scatter and fleeThe nightStarless,Breathless,Pressure buildingThe pauseBefore taking flightBetween here and awayThe moment stretchingThe pause between breathsTaking lifetimesThe calm that comes before the storm...Ocean already tugs at the lifelines.A whisper of cooler Atlantean airPolite warning… The storm comesFrom the breath of susurrationTo the thundering wave's drumsInexorably now, it comes.Caught up by horizon stormsThe shore beneath you disappearsThe sea provides fair warning.And from the savage night — Full-throated furies howl and rage — Emerging, battered,Fragile, shattered,High and dry by morning.Cast up by the seaStrange creatures and mysteriesLeave beachcombers to wonderBut what the sea providesThe storm-surge yie
YieldAutumn cloaks a darkling soulIn half-truths of vermillionCrimson, scarlet, amber, goldBeneath a blue pavilionAutumn hides its old grey bonesIn cupboards filled with snail shellsSkeins of birds and garden stonesWhere every half-lit secret dwellsAutumn’s guise is gossamerThistledown in parachutesRushing waters’ dulcimerAnd reed-song veil its bitter fruitsAutumn’s spirit is occultMelancholy, insidiousIt offers balmy days’ exultThen turns to storm, perfidiousAutumn’s altar smells of rainLeaf-mold, woodsmoke, rot and rustI yield to darkness in the veinAnd sacrifice content and trust
rain angellie down on the smooth footpathit has been warmed by the sun formany hourslie down and feel the heat againstyour back and the ants that beginto crawl through your dry hairrelaxand read the skyspread out your arms on the footpath andgaze aheadinto the roiling black heavensjust wait there, wait until theyopen upon yougentleand warmand humblingblotting circles pattern around you until the sky and the path are painted the samebut for a smiling rain angel where you liesheltering beneath youand that strong, heady scent of petrichor that surrounds youcomfortingeverything becomes wetcarbon, concrete, chlorophyllthe tickling ants run for shelter and youbecome freelet this all-consuming deluge wash you awayforget the nuances of a crowded, bustling lifemoney, jobs, responsibilitieshuman injusticefor just a few minutes while the warmth fadesyou don't need to be afraidyou are a child of the earthsmilejust breatheand free your mindwhen you are done and drenchedrol
NaiadI am of the tall kelp and hard cliffs madeI do not bow, I do not breakI am coldness, I am hungerNo one is older, no one is youngerMy soul is pure yet deep as the lakeInto which Bedivere returned the magic blade.If you find me hiding in the reedDo not be frightened by my blue-grey faceMen who come wish to cover me in dressesBut I’m fine, my dignity saved by my black tressesWomen may leave an offering of delicate laceOr gold coins, as if my hunger is one of greed.But don’t come too close to the water brinkI am the guardian of all those who sleepEternally in seas dark and rivers wildI embrace every spurned lover and unwanted childAnd drag them down, for my sisters to keepClose to their hearts, their blood to drink.
cosine wavesliquidParabola hits shoreas x^2obtuse angleflattens to 180°numberlessFoam
each autumn is another springautumns where every leaf isa fumbling wildflower andevery deep sunset where colours bleedagainst the horizon,pools of melted copper andshreds of cloud like glittering morningdawns:i hope you realise how eachautumn is another springhowthree blackbirds fly across painted skies,tearing up the dust ican still taste the peppermint the sugarhills and every midnight, dandelions theydance in my chalice ofchipped china coffee mugs.whilst islept, bluebells, baby crocusbuds swept apeek round my doorway andI didn't prepare for a drenched bouquet ofsilk netted soaked morning lights onmy doorstep wheni'm still dreaming of circledstreet-lamp hues as soft as whispers thathang high above thedew drops in the air-come take me there.
CricketsSounds that sparkleBreaking gently over the etherEchoes of a summer eveningThe heartbeat of time