Onceyour beauty lies restless behind thoseOnce2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
hills, where you fought valiantly. and
the man you once were was brave and kind,
but now you are possessed by a passenger
of darkness, whispering words of your
the man you once were is forgotten, and
the man you are today, is only a ghost, a
shadow, of what you were before.
Fury of the Frost GiantsFury of the Frost Giants:Fury of the Frost Giants3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
No mortal man can stand
Against the Giants of the Frost.
For they bear the strength of ages
And the wisdom of the lost.
When first we came upon them
We were scattered by their might.
The fury of a Giant
Was a truly fearsome sight...
Cowering in fear
And waiting to be eaten.
We knew in our hearts
That we were utterly beaten.
Salvation lay behind us
In a death of blood and steel.
Yet fate would always turn
On a twisted crooked wheel.
For we found a cave of ancients
Bearing symbols of the knife.
It led us to a forge
That demanded our life.
Fourteen brothers sacrificed
Into the flames they went...
Their flesh became the metal
As the bellows began to vent.
It yielded me a hammer
Made of grinding bone.
Yet when I swung this weapon
It crushed the toughest stone.
My life was paid in full that day;
With fourteen brothers dead...
I sailed alone for home
With a snarling giant's head.
"I will return when winter breaks brothers; for there are fourteen graves to m
The FountainThere were sixteen tall windows. She'd counted them over and over when she was small, her chubby finger outstretched as she spun in tiny circles. Eight walls, sixteen windows, thirty-two black curtainsthe arithmetic of her childhood.The Fountain3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
"Eight window seats, Daddy. Eight buttons on eachsixty-four. I counted."
The fountain stood dry and dead-center in the middle of the black and white tiles. Eight sides, eight lion-mouth spouts. Sixteen limestone mermaids poised gracefully around the edge. Four thousand and ninety-six blue tiles. Five hundred and twelve white.
And two doors. Always the two doors, huge and solid and radiating a sense of looming disdain. The rough oak had bitten her hands and it bit them now, when she pressed her palms against it. The doors eased open like wings outstretching, coming to rest against stone doorstops.
Her boots clicked against the marble flooring as she advanced, each click reverberating through the silent room. A mute ghost of a man stood in