I can’t understand poetry
It’s song without melody
Cryptic words, unneeded words
Mystery unraveled by conveyence of eye, ear, tongue
Blathering nonsense of the pretentious
Who feel—why do they?—
That they must pervert the verse
Make weight with space between
shuffling with
gratuitous
indent
As if sculpting their thoughts
As if painting them in jagged edges, empty notches
Like unwitting puzzle piece
Will somehow make them different, make them meaningful,
Make them shine
And cannot trust the word, barren on page
In graphite, in paint, in pressed black powder or staining ink
To speak for itself
She set out alone into the bleary expanse, pebbles rolling beneath her feet, spraying down the rugged hillside as she strained her eyes to the broken light of the first smatterings of dawn. Her body readied itself to feel the sun’s warmth, skin itching within thin layers of pelts, swaddled around her in the manner of the season. The fields were silent around her, scrub brush swaying softly amongst sweet and bitter gales that carried licks of chill and tastes of faraway bloodshed and the pall of life departing, far on the other side where the cliffs dropped more steeply, down in those craters and valleys where the broken lines on her face were carved.
She closed her dark eyes to take in the air. She was truly alone.
Brute Force Worldbuilding
This may not be of interest to any but a few of you, but to force myself into doing some fast and loose worldbuilding for the place where these demonfolk I’ve been posting about live, I completed the project you’ll find below.
I’ve found challenges like 1sentence on Livejournal to be an interesting way to capture the spirit of a character or pairing, when done well, so I thought, why couldn’t the same be done for a group of people, or a place?
I used themeset Epsilon here, with the self-imposed rule that every sentence I wrote had to be, in theory, about a unique person, place, or thing, which would keep me from dwelling on the named characters we’ve already spent time doting on. It’s been difficult, but I’m not completely unhappy with the results.
So, if you are at all curious about this little world that’s slowing coming together, do have a peek, let me know what you think. Be warned that this is about demons, so expect a fair bit of violence.
Without further ado~
library.
Ancient spectacles mended with tape and twine, upside down, peering at their owner from the varnished wood tabletop.
A paint-speckled green canvas cap, like that of a train conductor with some part-time labour.
Wide green trousers patched and worn, colour to match the hat, same as before.
Grizzled beard on the face of a silent intellectual.
A monk.
A traveller.
A world-worn vagabond.
A hapless soul in rags who may have once been peasant or king, now a phantom faceless to the masses who turn an blind eye to what offends.
Perhaps invisible but to the girl who sits and writes about him, gazing by peripheral as he gathers his things, his many bags, maybe all he owns, and she wonders, at this chance second un-meeting, if they might ever co-exist here once again.
The air grew heavier with the stench of heat and the sorcery of creation. Embers sung from clashing metal, thin strands on top teased, worked, thrust back into flame, expounded upon, and worked again. Fiam’s eyes took in the shape now boldly resisting the hammer, but instead envisioned it complete, as it would be when the efforts were through, a phantom idol within the crude arc who begged freedom.
I wish there was a way to sing in text form, since I always get the urge to do so after the family’s gone to sleep.
The feeling of sweeps between resonant lows and sweet highs in my chest, throat, head, finding just how far my voice can climb and seeking its depths.
All framed by the silence of the night, a precious time free of televisions below my bed and automobiles on the road just a stone’s throw away.
But this is a time for others to rest, those who go out in the light and work away, the people of the day; it’s not my place to disturb them.
So, I suppose that is what writing is for.
First was the brush pen, bristles plucked from a lion’s mane, tapered with tallow to a hair thin tip, struck to an ivory handle, a human metatarsal lined in lacquer.
The Fields. The In-Between. Death’s Door.
The elders had many names for this place, but they all meant the same. This was the home of the everlasting war. This was where the weak fell, and where the strongest sojourned to ensure the welfare of their kin. From what the boys saw down below, there was no order to the fight. The combatants, small as beetles when viewed from the cliffs, were scattered, moving between opponents with such frequency it seemed they were on a schedule. Sides were unclear, yet each warrior pressed on with clear intent.
