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thoughtsfromtheedge
  
Language is an imperfect vessel for thought.
But in trying to express ideas we sometimes
create things more beautiful than we dreamed.

Writers' Workshop
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Hard Cell Dec 10, 2007 7:46 am
2465 Views
If prisoners always write

on the walls of their prisons,

where do you write?


32 Comments
this has nothing to do with politics Dec 9, 2007 11:42 am
2405 Views
the bomb made the car
a living thing

crouched in the street
tensed

then a fury of
hot raking claws

making the girl


a dead thing

slouched in a heap
on a street
like yours


29 Comments
Resurrection - Misty/Muse Challenge Dec 4, 2007 4:10 am
2556 Views
The Muse Poetic Challenge is back under
the caretaker management of Misty.

Rules are the same. See In memory of Muse4You....
for more details and other entries.

__________________________________________

you left me
on the ocean floor
forced
to muse upon
your victory

my dishonour
(formerly commuted)
resurrected
by the strategy
of your smile


24 Comments
still life Nov 30, 2007 8:19 am
2088 Views
“Sire! I must insist that you remain still. Every movement casts a different shadow across the visage and makes my task impossible!”

“Ye gods and little fishes.” muttered Mook.

He felt as if he had been sitting for this portrait for half his life, although it was closer to a week, and only an hour so far this morning. His back ached, his neck was stiff and he was developing a severe allergy to artists in smocks named Roger (the artist, not the smock). Not that it was Roger’s fault, he admitted grudgingly. Every knight at court was obliged to sit. The resulting portraits were hung in the Long Gallery. Mook had been avoiding his turn for as long as possible. He hated being forced to stay still. It was like having an itch you were not allowed to scratch. He was a knight, used to action, and when he had an itch, he scratched it. Hard.

“Sire, I implore you!” pleaded Roger.

“Roger,” replied Mook evenly, “if I have to sit here for another minute, I will either knife myself or you. What say you on the matter?”

“I think it’s time we took a moment’s respite, m’lord.” said Roger without blinking. Mook grunted in satisfaction, stretched and headed for the stables.

“And besides,” added Roger drily, “I haven’t mixed enough scarlet for m’lord’s knife wound.”

**********************************************

Mook felt the horse’s muscles bunch beneath him. This was as close as anyone could ever get to flying. The wind whipped his cloak into impossible shapes as animal and rider arrowed north across the plain. They had carved an unbroken furrow through the waist-high grass since leaving the castle an hour ago. Berwick Castle stood on the northern frontier of the realm, to the west of the Dragonspine Mountains. Its heavily buttressed walls still bore the scorch marks of dragonbreath, though no such beast had been sighted in these parts for over a decade. Mook grinned. This was the life, not sitting in some airless chamber with Roger of Derby.

It was the shockwave that saved him.

The massive downdraft from the dragon’s wings blasted him from the saddle a fraction of a second before steel talons razored through saddle and steed alike. Mook hit the ground hard and lay stunned. The roar of white noise in his ears slowly separated out into the screams of his horse and the shrieks of not one, but two dragons. On his back in the long grass, Mook could see only sky. Two shadows wheeled lazily across his arc of vision, one larger than the other, silhouetted against the blue. A mother and her youngster, thought Mook, learning how to hunt. He tried to gather his wits. Dragons. He had never faced a dragon before, let alone two, but from what he recalled from listening to the older knights, his chances where not good. He knew they preferred raw meat and thus never used flame when hunting for food. Luck had been on his side there. If they had been defending territory, he would be nothing more than a greasy smudge by now. Possessed of acute hearing and vision, a dragon’s sense of smell was, however, relatively poor. A fact which, by the state of his breeches, he judged another lucky break.

A heavy thud, followed by a second, lighter impact told him that both dragons had landed, and had landed nearby. The horse gave a final scream and fell silent. Mook went rigid with fear. Sounds of tearing and snapping and crunching filled the air. Lunchtime had begun. How long could it take two dragons to eat an entire horse, harness and all? An hour? Two? Mook knew that movement meant death, and the mere acknowledgement of the fact started an itching in the small of his back. Maybe if...he arched his spine. As he did so, the scabbard of his sword clanked dully against the earth. The dragons stopped eating. Mook’s breath caught in his throat. He closed his eyes and offered a desperate silent prayer to whichever god looked over knights about to be devoured by dragons. To his intense relief, the sounds of feeding resumed. Making a mental note to enquire about to which god his life was indebted, he devoted the rest of his attention to remaining motionless.

However, as soon as he did so, his senses clamoured at him with reasons not to be immobile. The smell of blood, the sounds of feasting predators, the taste of fear in his mouth, the electric charge of panic throughout his body. He squeezed his eyes shut more tightly and tried to ignore the basic urge to fight or flee. To do either would mean instant death. He relaxed. This was a more familiar situation; the calm before the battle, the acceptance of the uncertainty of survival. All that was needed was a different approach to a familiar situation. If he could not concentrate on being still, why then, simply stop concentrating. Realising this had always been a particular skill of his in other situations, he emptied his mind.

**********************************************

Three days later, Roger of Derby put the finishing touches to his latest portrait. Not a bad likeness, he thought. Maybe a little more handsome than the original, but that was what he was paid to do. Make the court look good for posterity. He glanced up. The knight was standing in the same position as he had for nearly twelve hours over the last two days. Roger coughed politely.

“Sire? I said it is finished. You can move now.”

Seeing that his subject was paying him no attention whatsoever, Roger gathered his equipment and left quietly. A hush fell over the room, broken only by the steady rhythmic breathing of the occupant. Mook was lost in thought. He had accepted death and survived, and his survival had been because of, not despite that acceptance. There was something important to be learned from this, he knew. He just could not quite see what it was. He looked up. The room was empty. His stomach rumbled. He shrugged, and went in search of something to eat. And perhaps a little something to drink too.


28 Comments
untitled and uninspired Nov 29, 2007 8:27 am
2170 Views
there is a joke here

about kicking nasty habits

but I'm still too poorly

to make the most of it



anyone got a light?


32 Comments
a gentle magic Nov 23, 2007 4:16 pm
2485 Views
my father was imbued
with a soft and gentle magic
that lightened hearts
and soothed

he passed a little on to me

but I
am not my father

an evident truth
reverified
with every heart I bruise


36 Comments
chill Nov 22, 2007 2:19 pm
2445 Views

it's colder
than I thought

out here

on my own


40 Comments
grizzled skipper Nov 21, 2007 10:01 am
2065 Views
the grizzled skipper butterfly
has been seen
further north
than ever before

now

I don't know
if this is
a good thing
or a bad thing

but you have to admit

the grizzled skipper butterfly
has the coolest name
of any butterfly
you know

18 Comments
And all because the lady loves... Nov 20, 2007 9:17 am
2170 Views
It was a dark and stormy night. It was England, it was wintertime, the sun had set; it was always going to be a dark and stormy night. Mook wrapped his cloak more tightly around his body. Rain poured pitilessly down the back of his neck. He was soaked to the bone. At least he had elected not to wear full plate armour, wisely surmising that the last thing he wanted was to find himself in a tight spot, unable to move for rust. His chain mail shirt clinked wetly as he trudged across the moor. This was not a night for a knight errant to be out and erranting about. This was a night for roaring fires and mulled wine and the company of friends. Mook wondered who would be in The Slaughtered Lamb tonight. Gawain certainly. When he wasn’t questing, he was drinking. Parsifal, Roland and Guy would be playing at skittles, badly as usual. Perhaps even Tom and some of the other squires would be taking advantage of a night off from polishing armour and be at the bar, loudly boasting of their latest exploits in a not always vain attempt to impress the serving maids. Mook grinned, remembering when he had been squire to Sir Hector. The quick-tempered old knight had been a good master, even when raging and foaming at the mouth. Once you learned to ignore all the oaths and expletives, you could pick up a lot of useful information.

Mook sighed. This was the worst part, the approach. Horses feared the moor and would not set hoof on it. The only way to get to Castle Craven was on foot and at night. At night because for some curious, and undoubtedly arcane reason, the castle did not exist during the day, at least, not in the dimension that Mook liked to call home. And there it was. Castle Craven. The low battlements hugged the hillside like a squat toad, bloated and immovable. A single tower rose from inside the walls, lit by the occasional torch and the lightning that still split the sky. Mook checked his pack. Rope, grappling hook, skeleton key, piece of chalk, half eaten sandwich, spare cloak, dry underwear and a Swiss mercenary knife. Something was missing. Mook growled. He always forgot something, but what was it this time? He went through his mental checklist once more. Walls – rope and hook; door to tower – skeleton key (opens 90% of all enchanted portals according to the sales wizard); in case of labyrinthine tunnel system – piece of chalk; chafing thighs due to wet undies – dry underwear; hypothermia – spare cloak; in case of munchies – half a sandwich. That seemed like everything, but still a nagging doubt remained. Mook shrugged. Time would tell.

Castle Craven’s guards were of the undead variety. Mainly zombies. All very well in a keep-on-coming-even-though-you-chopped-my-arm-off kind of way, but pretty useless at quick sprints and taking the initiative. So, when Mook coughed loudly at one end of the battlements, all the guards shuffled over to investigate, allowing Mook to double back to where they had come from. The well practiced throw-tug-step-and-heave routine with the rope and hook quickly saw him inside the castle grounds. He crossed the compound to the base of the tower like liquid shadow and halted at the door. No sounds of alarm. He had remained undiscovered. Inserting the key in the lock, he gave it a clockwise turn. Nothing. He tried again. Still nothing. He cursed. Trust his luck to find one of the ten percent. In frustration he turned the key anti-clockwise, towards the lock. The door clicked open. Mook had never understood why some locks turned the wrong way, but now was not the time to ponder such things and he slipped inside.

The stairwell curled up into the smoky shadows. Mook’s soft leather boots, now muddy and soaking wet, made an uncomfortably loud squishing echo as he ascended. He took a sputtering torch from its bracket on the wall. What he sought was in the topmost room of the tower. As he passed each landing, doors led off in every direction. Taking any one of them, Mook knew, would lead to insanity or death. The doors whispered at him as he climbed. Some promised riches beyond imagining, others power beyond compare. Strangely, some offered things that Mook found a little repulsive, but it took all sorts he supposed.

Finally, he stood outside the single door on the top floor of the tower. The whispering had ceased. Mook pushed the door open silently and stepped inside. It was a bedroom. His eyes were immediately drawn to the bed where lay a young woman. Crossing to the bedside, he knelt and took the woman’s hand in his own. It was cold as a winter’s dawn. Reaching out, he placed his other hand upon her brow. She stirred, as if trying to awaken from a bad dream. Suddenly, the words of his master, Hector, came echoing to him from across the years,

“Gods damn you, you dolt! How many times have I told you? When you go to rescue a maid held under an enchanted sleep, always remember to take chocolates. You can’t expect to awaken a girl from a hundred year nap and not have some choccies for the lady, can you?”

Okay...right...now then. Mook swallowed, desperately trying to think of a solution. Somehow he knew that a half eaten sandwich (filling uncertain) was not going to do the trick.


24 Comments
congratulations Nov 19, 2007 9:09 am
2280 Views
Congratulations to nooneyouknow

for being the only person who

realised that my previous post

marked my first anniversary in the blogs.

Sadly, there is no prize.


35 Comments
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