The difference between the almost right word and the right word is really a large matter. 'Tis the difference between the lightning bug and the lightning. — Mark Twain
A guest post by ‘The Frostbitten’ (Ibreez Shabkhez) Those who keep from them; The unsuspecting who keep, What little toil will bring. The maddening mist, In which the lumbering weep; It blindens not them. They do not dismiss, Delusions favourably deep - Entrenched in dogma. Normalisation. Moral compromise makes sheep. Desensitised! ...
Dark spinning avius, fly into the sun Icarus, Icarus, hold! Here we come Upon the soaring black wings of life To snatch my son from the Wave To snatch my son from the grave From dancing to the eternal fife, Icarus, Icarus, hold! Here we come Dark spinning avius, fly into the sun
Rising, rolling upon the wind Escaped Summer’s first breath Taloned, sweat-spiked, eagle-winged, To my cosy peace is death The serene long dark of Winter The gentle mist-mellowed cool The burning Sun shall now splinter Thy placid rest, O dreaming fool! Raisins, almonds, peanuts, farewell! Fish, I hunt ye no more! Back, snug blanket, ye blazing … Continue reading Mangoes for Mango People
The tree-branch bobbed past the window, scarcely higher than the sill, its leaves shushing the recalcitrant grass that sprang upright again in its wake. It lurched as it moved onto the path, and idly she wondered if it would unyoke the ragged ridge of bone straining to thrust it up. As the ten-toed spindles upon … Continue reading The Freshly Felled Tree
Once upon a time there was a shepherd boy who spent his days sitting on a hillside watching the village sheep. One day, he saw a wolf, and instantly he began to yell "A Wolf! Help! A Wolf is chasing the sheep! Hellllppp!" The villagers came running, armed with sticks and axes, and drove the … Continue reading The Boy Who Cried Wolf
King Wenestl was a short, stout, ruddy-faced man – a caricature of a middle-aged merchant. All praised his munificence and graciousness, his wisdom and strength; did everything, in short, to keep him in a gift-bestowing land-granting mood instead of a banishing and boiling-in-oil tantrum. But eventually someone would lose his cool, and then there’d be … Continue reading The Rebellion of Conallan Virai
Behold me! I am Éowyn encaged Éowyn by gras eternally aged Use and sloth bind me My chains are forged from flesh Mired in my own sea So let the wobbling flab totter on ‘Til all trace of Éowyn is gone
