Hey kids. Looks like the long hiatus is finally over. Getting back on the horse, back on my game, whatever you want to call it. I'm armed and dangerous with a new laptop and a head full of ideas. Also, I'm going to get back to work on everybodies favorite whack job and his continuing adventures. Carefull what you wish for, you just might get it. Adieu for now.

-P

The Invisible Moon

The wipers slapped back and forth on the wet windshield, the sound bringing the man to a wistful reverie. A stray leaf clung tenaciously to the corner of the glass in the upper left corner, refusing to give up this last ride in the breeze before falling to the pavement to rot away. He looked at the woman next to him; she was quiet, with a dour expression on her face. It had been a rough ride, picking her up from work. He had been late, sidetracked by the relative calm back at home without her, and traffic had been a bitch on the way to the office where she worked. She had voiced her displeasure at him in her usual neutering way, all hard consonants and loud vowels, pointing out her adeptness at knowing he would fuck up as he usually did; she reminded him that she told him that very morning that she just knew he would be late. She didn’t find it particularly funny when he tried to lighten the mood by mentioning that she may in fact be prescient, and perhaps they should buy some lottery tickets on the way back home.

He turned back to the road, chasing the taillights in front of him from light to light. His mind wandered, thinking of the movie he had been watching earlier, something she would have questioned his interest in watching. He thought of a particularly off-color joke a friend had sent him in an email, thought of the cold beers in the fridge and how nice one would go down right now.

She sat in the passenger’s seat, hypnotized by the wipers smooth motion back and forth on the wet glass. A glob of bird crap, mostly worn away by the water and wipers held vigilance on the lower right corner of the glass, refusing to be scraped into dust. She looked over at the driver; saw the set of his jaw and knew that it was going to be a long trip. She hadn’t meant to be cross with him, hadn’t meant to raise her voice and point out everything that he had ever done wrong as well as being late. Today was important, it was something she had been waiting for all week, and if they were late, it would mess up their plans. Work had been rough as it was, busier then usual for such a late day in October. It had stressed her out, along with the things she had going through her head about this evenings festivities.

She turned back to the look out the windshield, wondering how the spray from the car in front of them would feel on her face. Her mind drifted off to other things; the deep blue of the ocean on a family vacation when she was a child, the way her grandfathers cologne smelled when the family would go to church. She thought about how a glass of wine from the bottle in the fridge back at home would be nice right now, with some soft music and a back rub.

He drummed his hands on the steering wheel in time with an upbeat song on the radio, his mood starting to lighten a bit. He looked at his passenger with a smile; she turned the radio off, saying that she had a headache and would prefer to ride in silence. He rolled his eyes, glad that the glare on his glasses would most likely hide this from her. He had had more then enough of their usual bickering for one day. His mind wandered off to a scene in that movie he had been watching before leaving the house; two people on the phone, separated by countless miles. They had both been looking up at the full moon high in the night sky, and in that moment they were together. The physical distance between them erased by the moment of love they were sharing. He thought back to when things had been like that for him and this woman.

She rubbed at her temples, reached over and shut the radio off. She told the man that she had a headache from work, and would prefer to ride in silence. His eyes were hidden from her, but she could tell by the way he gripped the wheel he wasn’t very pleased by this. She grimaced slightly, afraid this would set the argument back into motion, was thankful when nothing came of it. She thought of a book she had been reading on her lunch break, a romance novel that had been made into a movie. In it two people were on opposite sides of the country, speaking on the phone. They both looked up to the moon, and all those miles separating them evaporated. They were together as one, sharing a moment as best they could. She thought back to when things were like that in her life with him.

He thought of how things were getting rougher for the two of them lately. The joy of sharing a life had been replaced by bickering and stress. Kind words were the exception to the rule rather then the norm. The daily slog of bills and work, of differing opinions of their life together had been stacking up for a while now, and things seemed to be coming to a head. He felt the urge to place his hand on her knee, to reach across the great expanse that existed between them even in this car, but he was sure she would just push him away, or complain that she wasn’t in the mood for that now. She always complained that he didn’t touch her in the right way, that he was petting her like a dog, when he had felt he had been stroking her hair with genuine love. It put him off to be dressed down like this, and had killed what little romance still existed in their lives. Their sex-life was just reflexive now, two people going through the rote maneuverings of foreplay leading to a passionless lust that they shared from time to time. He enjoyed his solo morning showers more then this puppetry of intercourse.

She contemplated the state of things between the two of them, this man and her. All the smiles and hugs had been replaced with bitchy talk and sour faces. Time after time, one of them had stormed away from the other with sharp words and a hard countenance. There had been more slammed doors and silent dinners then she cared to admit. She wished he would rest his hand on her knee like he used to, longed to caress his earlobe in the way she did when they would ride in the car, but she saw his hands were hard on the wheel, and knew he would be bothered by her touch now. He used to stroke her hair, and it would give her goose bumps, but now his touch was more of an instinctive thing when they were alone, or out in public. Just a bit of show that lived on after the romance had expired. Their love making had become boring and predictable, all done by numbers with the sole mission of orgasm much in the vein of fulfilling a bodily urge; as in the way an itch demands attention. She enjoyed her nights alone in bed with a spicy romance novel when he was held up at work more then this theater of intimacy.

His mind wandered as the wheels rolled over the wet pavement. He went through a mental checklist of the things he needed to do when they got back to the house, things that he had to get done that week. The face of a friend he hadn’t seen since high school popped up in his minds eye, and his thoughts turned to the wild parties they had gone to and the girls that he had dated back then. One girl in particular stood out, the proverbial ‘one that had gotten away’. He smiled at these thoughts, and his mind soldiered on. There was paint to be bought for the bedroom, an oil change that he needed to get for this car. He thought of how nice it would be to go to the local pub this weekend. There was a band playing there, they played the raucous sort of music that he enjoyed blaring when in the car alone, going to work. The woman next to him used to enjoy heading out to see live bands, had enjoyed stepping out for a few drinks and laughter. But things had changed. She was more reserved then before, more inclined to stay at home, and idle away the hours watching TV or a movie. He enjoyed this as well, genuinely wanted to be around her, but on occasion, he felt like a caged animal, felt like he was pacing back and forth looking for a means of escape.

He knew his listlessness wasn’t solely based on boredom, but didn’t want to consider that it may be time to move on from her, from them as a couple. He didn’t have it in him to give up at things, and dreaded the fight and eventual loneliness that would follow. This was all just the reality of things staring him unblinkingly in the eyes, and he knew that he’d have to deal with it eventually. Such is the quandary in dealing with the change that is necessary in life, but that which no one ever really wants to face.

She mulled over the mental checklist of things that she had done in preparation for tonight’s birthday party; a surprise party for her companion. The cake, the food and all the people she had invited. She had called ahead before leaving work to warn them they were on the way. She thought of the conversation, with a friend she had known since grade school. They had laughed at the realization that here it was years removed from their high school days, and they were planning a party that they had to hide from someone; back then it had been parents, and now it was from him. Her girlfriend had reminded here of an after prom party with a boy that they were sure was ‘the one’. She smiled at the memory, and then went back to work on the details that needed covering now, and for the rest of the week. They had some remodeling that needed doing back at home, and she was sure the car was due for something. She looked at the driver, and thought better of brining this up now. Better to wait until things were smoother. She remembered that there was something happening at the local bar this weekend, had written a note that she left in the nightstand on her side of the bed. She would have to remember to talk to him about it after the party.

She hoped things would lighten up for them after tonight, that this would be the thing to brighten the mood and bring them back closer together. She had been feeling like they were in a bit of a rut, more prone to bump heads in anger then combine them for a kiss. She had noticed his agitation recently; he had seemed more prone to move about the house without a set destination in mind. It was unsettling in that she felt the same way, but didn’t want to admit what that feeling entailed. She wanted to work harder and fight for what they had, crumbling though it may be. It was better then being alone in some ways, but worse when she realized they would just be poisoning each other for each other. Her headache started to really throb at this thought.

His eyes wandered up towards the tops of the building they were driving between. Man-made cliffs that the life they lead flowed through in a current not entirely of their choosing. He started to make a mental list of the things that they had in common, and the things that they didn’t. This really soured his mood, so he moved onto other things. He thought about the things he’d rather be doing. He thought of lying on the sand at a beach, listening to the waves rolling in under a hot sun. Hiking through the mountains, breathing in the cool pine scented air while the wind played through the branches. As it inevitably did, his mind took him back to her; not the woman here next to him, but the ideal woman that lived in his thoughts. This nebulous person was comprised of the facets of the woman he shared a relationship with, which he found most intriguing, and attractive, and of women he had known and thought he knew.

She looked out the passenger window, watched the soggy people walking under a drab sky, all those lives that she would never know or touch, just footsteps away. She thought of what had first attracted her to this man, how those things that she had at first found so endearing now tended to grate on her nerves. This set her mind whirling in a particularly negative bent, so she moved on to other things that were more pleasant. She imagined lying out in the sun with a good book, a soft breeze cooling her gently. She thought of being in the middle of a huge forest, far removed from the bustle and noise from this place, from her life in general. Her mind led her back to the place that it had been going quite often recently, to the imaginary man that she daydreamt about. He was an amalgamation of this man that she shared a life with, some men that she had known in her life, and some that existed solely in the books she so enjoyed.

He felt a niggling guilt at these thoughts, knew the emotional toll it would take on his companion if he were ever to breathe word one about what he was thinking. He felt this guilt, but carried on with the thoughts. It wasn’t a malicious thing that made him continue; he didn’t have a strong urge or need to be free from her or what they shared. It was just his mind wandering, seeking the things from within that weren’t being provided or found without. He could see her now, this imaginary woman. She was spinning in place in an open field, a sea of green, arms wide, eyes closed and smiling face turned upwards toward a sunny sky. He saw himself running towards her, scooping her up in his arms with a laugh and a kiss and falling to the ground to roll in a sweet embrace. He smiled at this thought, and then felt remorse for having it.

She felt bad for allowing herself this daydream, for the fact that these thoughts must never be expressed aloud. They would just lead to hurt and distrust, even if it was just her imagination working. She knew she loved this man, but the creeping doubt at the edge of her feelings for him could not be denied. She imagined dancing under a warm sun, cool grass rustling under her feet as she capered about with free abandon. She could feel her arms out wide, fingers splayed and touching the wind as she spun in place, face up to smile at the sky. Her imaginary man would come running to catch her up in his arms, to plant honeyed kisses on her face and hold her close to his chest. She twirled a stray band of hair with her finger, and nearly blushed at these thoughts. Just as quickly as they had come on, she banished them with a twinge of guilt.

He looked up from the street, saw that there was a break in the clouds. A full moon was peeking out from behind the sodden sky, a white beacon of hope in a great big sky of gray. He knew then in his heart what he must do, tough as it may be. The time that he had spent with her was coming to a change, not necessarily a close. They would have to sit down and have a quiet talk full of very hard things. The outcome may well be good; perhaps the conversation would be a catharsis that would leave them closer and stronger then they had been before, or it may turn out to be the flame out of a relationship coming to its terminal end. But he knew it was the right thing to do. He looked back down to the street, and came to a stop between two cars at a red light.

She looked at the red light that loomed out of the rain where the car had come to a stop in the far left lane, waiting to turn. She saw where the sky had opened up a bit, and out shone a full moon, bright and clear through the leaden rain. It lifted her spirits to see this, and in that moment she decided what she would have to do. After the party, they would have to sit and discuss things. There was the distinct possibility of hard feelings and harder words, but it was inevitable. Change is a part of life, and she knew that to continue on as they were wasn’t good for either of them. She hoped the conversation would lead to a strengthening of their life together, but was prepared for it to lead to a break. It wasn’t going to be easy, but she knew it was right.

He looked over to his left, out the rain flecked glass to the car next to his. There was a pretty woman in the passenger seat, staring up at the moon he had just been looking at. She noticed his gaze, and looked over at him. Her face was distinctly familiar to him, and yet was completely new. He smiled at her, and gave her a slight nod.

She felt as though someone was staring at her, and looked out the rain mottled glass over to the car on her right. A handsome man with glasses was looking at her. She felt as though she had seen that face before, and yet knew that she had never met him. He smiled warmly at her, nodded an almost imperceptible hello. She smiled back, mouthed a soundless greeting.

He looked to the moon, and then back to her. She turned slightly to follow his gaze, then back to his face. In that moment they spoke volumes of things to each other that they had bottled up for so long and said nothing at all. They shared a warm moment, and then the light changed. Her car turned left, and disappeared into the rainy night, a surprise birthday party awaiting her and her boyfriend at the end of her trip. He lingered for a moment, watching the taillights fade and then accelerated straight and through the intersection. His destination was the house he and his wife shared with each other. Just two people, thinking of the same moon, all that distance evaporated to nothing and yet, so very far apart.

Rambling @ 3:45 a.m.

This isn't going to be a work of fiction, nor is it poetry. Just what's going on in my mind at this moment. I've been suffering from writers block; there has been no amount of doing something else, or letting the subconcious mind gnaw at it, that has been able to break the blockade that is occuring in my misshapen head. Seems that sometimes fiction turns into fact, or that imagination can -at times- become self fulfilling prophecy. I've been thinking of starting a journal, which would seem to make the most amount of sense for someone like me. The problem with that is, it reminds me of a joke I heard from a comedian a while back. He joked that every single guy needs a porn buddy; someone that would come by his place, in the untimely event of his death, to clear out the smut before the family showed up to clear the deceased's belongings. I think I'd need a scary thought/mental illness/admitting to weird shit buddy. Its not that I've committed crimes, nor have I engaged in anything that would have them drag me off to the Hague to convene a war crimes tribunal; its simply that if I let some of the things out of my head, some of the darker things, or stranger thoughts and emotions, the ones that live behind the constraints of the governor that society and upbringing and peer pressure has saddled me with, those things that bump into eachother in the dark waters of the psyche, of the mind, out, and put them down in a journal, that would be some mighty big bad juju. If those things came to light because I died in a wreck out on the road, or if genetics and the abuse I've put my body through over the years caught up to me, I'm worried that a journal would simply be a warehouse of the dark things I've inured myself to, but which would shock the people I would leave behind. Obviously, I wouldn't care, nor would it really affect me; I'd be dead. But the the living thought, the one that scrambles my noodle, is thinking of how that may affect those that I know, from the perspective of being alive in this moment. But that's all just worrying about nothing. I may as well concern myself with the thought that maybe Napolean just needed a hug, and to be told that being vertically challenged isn't necesarily a bad thing. All of this is neither here nor there, its all wrapped up with a bow, pulsating under the christmas tree I've never bothered to take out with the rest of the detritus that clutters my mind. Now that I've alluded to some of that, I'll move on to something else. Quality of life. My life, obviously, has taken quite the change in the near past. Things that others, and ultimately myself, knew were going to come to their final flaming conclusion, did. Its not really a good or bad thing, simply another step on this journey of life, but one I was hoping wouldn't come to pass. Whats really got me in a funk of sorts is: what now? By that I mean, I did everything the way you are supposed to; put in the time and effort, be accomodating and open to compromise. It was doomed from the start, and thats fine. But when you follow a blueprint that is burning to ash at its edges, it throws confidence in the way you thought was proper when handling things right into the big porcelain bowl with a quick flush. I have my freedom, great! Now what? Nothing seems to pull me in this direction or that. Its a big pile of ennui. I'm not sure that I'm overwhelmed with all the oppurtunities or possibilities that have become recently available. Or if this is some sort of accepted malaise that I've programmed myself to. I'm waiting for the sky to crack open, and for the explosive epiphany to strike me righteously right upside the damn head. Way too many movies in my past. I don't want to drowned it, or worse, in the way I've handled things in the past. But everyday is the exact same. Its a dark, existential sort of Groundhog Day. Except that Bill Murray has a filthy vocabulary, and thinks some really weird shit, and laughs at things you are supposed to tsk tsk about and shed crocodile tears for. Maybe this is just the manifestation of the disassociated, disaffected way that my generation deals with things. Or maybe its just me internalizing things without my even being aware of it; maybe the lunatics are in charge of this asylum? Is the warden staring down at a calm courtyard from his cherry and chestnut wooded office? Safe and serene, but not realizing that the door is locked, and all the really heinous stuff is going on behind the building? I'd flip a coin on that, and be completely unsurprised by the outcome either way or anyway. Thats enough for now. Salud.

No title for this one, a brief snippet of a possible novel. Enjoy. We'll call it Lustre for now.

The storm rages overhead and all around, the night’s hold broken by quick shocks of angry lightning. My shoes squelch in the mud as I stumble from tree to tree, heart hitching and galloping in my chest. My eyes can see in the dark as though it is noon. Fear shrieks and shakes her fists in my head; I can’t seem to focus and yet everything has a clarity that is breath taking. I run a quivering hand down the soaked bark of a tree, I can feel every nook and bump as though they were deep valleys and soaring ranges. I can feel the insects and huddling creatures that quake at the ferocity of this storm within the gnarled trunk.


Thunder explodes like shells from an assault by heaven above, exploding over and over and over again, the sound deafening but mesmerizing in its sobering intensity. The lightening exposes the brooding hill that looms over these old woods, rain seeming to fall thick enough to drown a weary traveler. Laughter cuts through the din, my ears picking out the sound as though it were a fond titter over a polite cup of coffee. A quick moment of disconnect washes over me and I turn my face upwards to the deluge that falls from the sky.

Oh so many drops that fall; so many cold, cold tears for the loss of humanity and the sweet touch of the mortal. For a brief spasm my body shakes and I must grip the tree in utter terror of the ramifications of my dark choice; to gain we must give, to strive we must stumble, to conquer we must fall to such depths as though it seems as if there will be no chance to ever walk again with back unbroken by the weight of foolishness and ungainly pride, but to instead always reside within the pit of pitch black madness itself.

“Darling, why must you be so? Haven’t I given you such a sweet gift? Isn’t it everything I promised you that it would be?”

That voice, the silken honey and naked body dragged over gravel emotion of it. She breaks my reverie like a hammer blow to the temple and a warm kiss at the nape of my neck.

“Come now, stop being so theatrical and lets go back to the cabin. I’ll bathe you and feed you and quiet all your fears.”

I can’t help but swoon at all the sweet and dark things that voice promises. My heart slows its hammering, and seems to fade away with the patter of water that beats at my skin. I release the tree, and stand anew, soaked and muddied as I am. My clothing runs with the cold water, yet the lack of warmth bothers me no more. Eyes wide, I look up at the falling rain, the impression of it instead moving away from me vertiginous. In that moment, the sky lit up and time stopped completely with the soft intake of a lovers breathe, her breathe.

I look down at her standing there, blonde hair matted about her shoulders like seaweed, her white summer dress molded over her form. Raindrops hang suspended in the air about us like so many diamonds, and her eyes are wild as they look into me and through me. Her soft lips crook into a knowing smile, and she steps lightly towards me. The feeling that a wild hare must have as a bobcat closes the distance washes over me, but I am rooted in place by her gaze. Those eyes, such a deep forest green, the green of growing things and sunlight and of crazed jealousy.

Winter Sun, working title for a weird little fairy tale, more to come soon.

Inky black hooves, smooth as polished onyx, crunch through the icy crust that covers the snows, crunch and snap like bones being ground for the loaves and pies that would feed the armies of hell. The sound makes the traveler snicker, black smoke coughing out of ox like nostrils with a deep snort. Snake eyes, pupil’s dark and red as dried blood, fill with a frightening glee. The whole face contorts into something resembling happiness, but something much more disturbing at the same time. A passing bird looks to the countenance, falls from the air, dead, into a snow bank at the sight. Nearly as tall as a two story house, this beast has to duck and weave at some of the sturdier branches of the trees that line this path through the deathly still woods.

Great twisting ram’s horns frame the nightmarish head, boar’s teeth protruding from a wolf’s mouth. His flesh is tinted with the hues of burgundy and night sky, the huge torso clothed in the skins of dozens of black bears. Such a sweet delicacy the bears were for him to find, reaching into the dens of sleeping beasts like a child plunges a hand into a pickling jar for a treat. This thought made him laugh out loud, a great black noxious cloud issuing from his mouth, filled with lit embers and burning debris. A small family of deer nearby scattered at this sound of twisted joviality as though they were fleeing from a pack of a hundred wolves. The eldest of the small herd dropped dead, landing comically on its back with legs sticking straight up.

He snaked a blood caked finger through his mouth, licking at the dried life that encrusted it. Relishing the last taste of his meal, he moved on. How he enjoyed these forays into the world of man, so many interesting sights and tastes and sounds. He was a hulking figure, but he moved with a belying grace so contrarian to this form that he chose. His true form was horrible in its beauty, for his people hadn’t always been denizens of the scabrous clime in which they currently resided.

Once, every so often, this being came forth onto the world from his plane of existence; to take a stroll about the back woods and lonely places of this world. It was a brief holiday in this land of lesser beings, was the way he thought of it. He called himself Winter here to any whom had the chance to make his acquaintance; this was the name he had picked since the humans had come up with the word. This was his favorite of the seasons in this place. The quiet cold desolation of snow shrouded lands, when everything was dead or sleeping in restful obeisance of the rules of nature.

Summer was for the living, for playing and noise and song and life. That was the time for lovers and children, for flowers blooming and the crops green and growing out in the field. While he liked the prospect of having more people about to potentially frighten out in the forests away from the small towns (and the occasional societal dreg to eat), Winter preferred this cold and still time. It matched his insides, or at least the way he felt inside. It was an interesting dichotomy from the fires that actually smoldered inside him, but the desolation was what moved him most. In this cold and dead and lonely place, this was where Winter was in his element.

Snow caked the fur of his lower legs as he clomped through the empty forest. He hummed a tune to himself, and pulled the thigh bone, from under his hides, of a particularly large bear he had found to suck out the remaining marrow. The sound of the song was reminiscent of a drowning cow, with a backing choir of strangled cats and the lament of starving orphans. It was one of Winter’s favorite tunes, a ditty that his wet nurse had been croaking out during his hatching long ago.

Tossing the bone aside, Winter licked his fingers clean, and found himself at his first destination. It was the first place he stopped upon coming to this plane of existence on his brief holiday; the local graveyard. Winter loved his work in the pits, torturing and maiming and pulling apart all the poor souls that were sent his way. And at every chance, he thoroughly enjoyed finding new and varied ways of continuing and improving upon that work. This was a place he had stumbled upon only a century before. It was nirvana to him.

This place was a conduit of sorts for the spirits of the deceased, and lead to the place that Winter called home. This wasn’t where Winter entered this plane; he did that many miles from here, in a place where very dark things had been done by the people of this land against others of their kind. But here, at this hoary old graveyard, Winter could access his home plane.

He pushed open the old iron gate with a creak. He had to bend down to fit under it. Stepping into the graveyard, he looked at the field of tombstones and mausoleums. Gnarled trees stood in quiet reverence of the deceased. Freshly placed flowers and wreaths stood shoulder to should with dying and dead bouquets and garlands and small drifts of snow. From the most ornately carved stone to the plainest marker, the everlasting legacy of so many lives, all marked for the living, wearing away under the elements, time and fading memory. He thought he heard something, the sound of a choir. He stood stock still for a moment, wolf like ears moving all about, straining for any sound at all. The cold wind blew small soft puffs of snow and the staunchest of dead leaves from the trees.

Convinced he was alone; he reached beneath his pelts and pulled out a small music box. It was old and had some disturbing stains on it, but the gold and lavender paint still shown brightly where it was unblemished. With a large black claw, Winter flicked open the top of the box. A small ballerina stood inside. As he gazed at the tiny dancer, an odd feeling came over Winter for the briefest of moments, something very alien and disquieting. He chalked it up to an unsettled stomach from too much bear meat.

He held the small box over his head, and began the familiar chant.

“Of this plane, so thou were born, lived thy life so full of scorn. Thy hate filled heart, thy unspeakable deed‘s. And now thy soul, do daemons on feed.”

The small box began to tinkle. The sound of a child’s laughter came from somewhere very far off.

Winter closed his eyes, spoke a brief mantra in his own tongue, and then repeated the chant much louder.

“Of this plane, so thou were born, lived thy life so full of scorn! Thy hate filled heart, thy unspeakable deed‘s. And now thy soul, do daemons on feed!”

The small ballerina started to glow and spin slowly in the box. Winter opened glowing red eyes, looked about the graveyard. The graveyard now populated by hundreds of scurrying souls. Sometimes when the time comes, the spirits of the deceased move to the places that they will go for an eternity or however long they will reside there. Sometimes they have unfinished business here and can’t quite let go of the mortal world and its vestiges.

“Run! He’s here for us! Run you fools!” one of the spirits shrieked.

Winter chuckled to himself. ‘Even in death, they are like scurrying rats. What a noble race indeed.’

“Cease your braying, you motley lot.” Winter said in his deep baritone. He brought the tinkling music box down, and cupped its light with a large dirty paw. The ghosts continued to move like a school of frightened fish. Red eyes flaring, Winter took in a deep breath.

“Cease your noise now, lest I drag you all into the pit and rip you to shreds with mine own teeth and claws! I will suckle out your eyes and throw the rest of your putridity to things that would not be as kind as I. Now silence all of you, silence now! There is but one that I am here for and I must bring him round myself. Back to your holes like good children, and cease this chatter! Any one of you useless bags of skin makes a sound, and I‘ll see to it that your mouths and throats are choked with spiders, slugs and vermin for a millennia!” Winter boomed out.

The crowd stopped. Nervous glances were cast from the collection of spirits at each other and then to the hulking figure. Winter looked on at the scene with amusement. He always so enjoyed lording over lesser beings than himself. Taking a softer tone, he continued. “I am truly and deeply sorry that I had to raise my voice to such a lovely group of kind people, but this hysteria simply will not do.”

Winter took a few thudding steps into the graveyard, the crowd parting before him but calmer then before. He closed the music box and tucked it back into a fold of hide. Softening his features, as best he could, he spread his arms wide in a pose of supplication. He grinned with his wolf mouth and boars teeth and spoke with a genial, confiding tone.

“Good people of these cold lonely grounds, I am sure more than a few of you recognize me, as I know your very faces from my visits here in the past, and from other, less savory places. For the new, shall we say, tenants, of this fine field, allow me to introduce myself. I am Winter.”

He bowed deeply to the still quivering mass. Some sounds of acceptance came from the gathered crowd of spirits, which made Winter smirk to himself. He stood upright, and tenting his coal black claws, spoke.

“Now, those of you that know me, know that I can be trusted to keep my promises. You know that the threats that I have made will most definitely come to the bitterest of fruition, far beyond your greatest imaginings. But you know that I can be merciful, even kind and pleasant, when my wishes are met. Is this not true?” Winter asked, pointing a very sharp claw at one particular man.

“Of-of-of c-c-course Winter.” the man stuttered. “You have always been most decidedly true t-t-to your w-words.”

Winking at the man, Winter continued.

“See there good people, an honest opinion from an honest man.”

Winter looked back at the sallow, translucent face.

“Samuel, isn’t it? How have you been old friend?”

“You know exactly how I’ve been, beast.”

Winter arched a brow, but didn’t interrupt.

“You are the one that applies hot coals to my backside, and feeds me the gruel of maggots and glass shards are you not?”

There were a few surprised gasps from the ladies in the crowd, and Winter chuckled knowingly.

“Come come, Samuel; I am merely a servant for my lord, such as you were not for yours, and am simply going by the proscribed endeavors I must carry out, and that you have so rightfully earned.”

Winter took two quick steps towards the little man, the crowd parting like so many sheep at the lithe quickness of the large form.

The hulking brute bent to a knee, and looked into Samuels face with a grin,

“Would you care to enlighten these good folk as to why you are in my work shed, and will remain as such until all the stars in the heavens have been extinguished, or shall we keep that our little secret, and allow you this brief respite from such an, ah, unseemly, interminable and painful existence such as you normally know?”

Samuel removed the translucent hat from his incorporeal head, and grasped it to his chest. He looked nervously about, then back into the eyes of Winter with a weak smile.

“No sir, so sorry sir, I didn’t mean to take liberties with your kindness. I do appreciate the time away from, that other place. I‘ll be more respectful in my actions sir.”

Winter opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by a harsh laugh from the back of the crowd.

A musing

Sometimes the day is kind, fond songs play on the radio, kind memories play across the backdrop of your mind.
And sometimes the day is a cruel being, sad songs litter all the channels, and every last failure that you have endured flagellate you over and over again.
The great grey stone cliffs of sadness have locked you into this terrible march of tiresome loneliness, step after ragged step that seems to lead to nowhere; an exquisite pain that reminds us of our fraility and humanity, of the consequence of bad choices and the chase of unattainable dreams that dance tantalizingly just outside of our grasp. The angels that fell were jealous of us for being God's favorite creations, even though they had never been saddled with this terrible interminable quest for safety and love, for this simple necessity of fulfillment. Our steps have marked the beaches of existence on the shores of time, but the waves lap up on the sands to hide our crossing, and remove the lessons that we have learned from those that follow after us. Doomed as we are to repeat these foolish missteps over and over again, life is a sweet and fascinating thing. Breathe in deep of it, relish it and taste all the facets of living, both good and so painfully sour; it is our gift and our curse to be. The tears that blind your eyes today are only there to wash away the grit so that you may see where better to step tomorrow; the crack in your voice but to clear it for the laughter and soothing words to be whispered to your love softly and with meaning when the time comes. Our flesh is weak, yet supple. It ripples with strength, and shakes with illness; but it will heal when it needs to. It is our carriage, but it is not our whole; that resides in our heart. Both can be broken, but in time will mend, and be all the stronger for it.

In the end, after all of our dreams have run away to hide, after all our grandest hopes and wishes have fallen back down to earth to sleep, when the days colors have run from the canvas to pool in grey and black at the bottom, we are but human. We are but human.
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