scribecreature

[scribecreature]

✒️ He pulled out the rusted old pennywhistle, wincing slightly as the back of his wrist caught on the edge of the stonework. Turning it over in his hand, he marvelled at how intact it looked for having been buried for... he paused to squint at the date on the weathered tombstone... over fifty years. A flicker of surprise followed before he inspected it closer.

Holding it up to bring it into eyeline and squinting down the length of it, he wiped off the mouthpiece with the hem of his oversized shirt and then brought it to his lips while straightening his spine up. For someone who always felt that the school desks had made him slouch no matter the clouting that it got him, when playing, it felt effortless.

The melody was rich and crisp on the ears, although he couldn't help but shudder at the resonant underlying note that seemed to vibrate in his sternum and rattle his teeth. His fingers danced over the dark metal that was polished to a shine around the finger holes from use, his movements precise, and there was only the occasional wobble in the lilting and jaunty tune as he sought to familiarise himself with the peculiarities of the instrument as an individual.

Sat cross-legged with his back to the rest of the graveyard, while he was guarded from sight by overgrowth, the tin whistle's tune - charmingly eerie and disarmingly cheerful - carried much further. Playing, and playing, and playing. Tunes that he could not remember hearing, tunes that seemed to resonate within his hands until they were played, unrelenting.

[scribecreature]

[scribecreature]

✒️ The cracked, dry twigs snapped underfoot, brittle from the oppressive heat. The ground was spongy, overgrown, the scent of decaying leaf litter and wilting honeysuckle the early morning's perfume. Boxwood clustered at the entryway, arching and winding around the other growing plants present - strong, thick lines of cracked bark like peeling dermis, strewn with dusty webs. Yet within the grove, for all the stones of the Dead were ivy-grown, worn and barely readable, there was a quiet little welcome as though appreciating the path less trod now witnessing a passing.

[scribecreature]

october_midnight ~ bring me up from the soil

[scribecreature]

[scribecreature]

Be open to knowledge when you're not certain.

Be open to knowledge even when you are.

- growing pains

[scribecreature]

New Project

Editing a new book manuscript, something modern and contemporary. It is always a delight to help authors forge their works into what can be released into the world.

[scribecreature]

[scribecreature]

[scribecreature]

Carl Phillips, from “Civilization”, Then the War: And Selected Poems, 2007-2020

[scribecreature]

The Heart (1513) Leonardo Da Vinci

[scribecreature]

a journey of pain, growth and persistence

[scribecreature]

©Philomena Famulok

.

[scribecreature]

[scribecreature]

A reprieve ༘ a short rest under a low shady tree.

[scribecreature]

Stay for me there! I will not fail To meet thee in that hollow vale.

[Exequy on the death of his wife, by Henry King, Bishop of Chichester]

Epigraph, 'The Assignation' by Edgar Allan Poe

[scribecreature]