poeticwritingblog

[poeticwritingblog]

Phantom Believers by Alex Malone aka. just another poem on a stormy winters day #originalpoem #poetry #poem #spilledwords #poetsofig #words #write #writer #writersofinstagram #writersofinstagrampoetry #poetrycommunity https://www.instagram.com/p/Cn3HCz7sRnv/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[poeticwritingblog]

Just another poem I wrote for the new year… #poem #poems #poetry #poetrycommunity #poetsociety #poetsofinstagram #writing #writer #writers #writersofinstagram #writersofinstagram #words #spilledwords #spilledpoetry #spilledwriting #wordswordswords #quotestagram #poemsoftheday #poemsofthesoul #write #writeaway #sadpoetry #sadposts #spilledwriting #spilledwritings https://www.instagram.com/p/Cm9pO4EpTzb/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[poeticwritingblog]

Aftermath of a Dream

I still play the requiem where gravity pulls the warm mind and

leaves the dream; time moves on.

 The night leaves ghosts, and no one wants to sleep, black

sheep run from wolves they want to forget.

 Because today’s an onslaught of the same tomorrow, like

bones of a colourless mirage of lesser reality; time still goes on.

 How the song of a distant radio, where we could dance, and

paint a piece of today and after with bright blue, and the lake’s waves were vibrant, warmer;

tonight, I played the dream.

 I see the light rise past the mountains. We disappear

from this moment and are possessed by the next.

 We were children of yesterday, and now our heat is gone.

I feel taken by the sun.

And tonight, the dream will return.

[poeticwritingblog]

THE TWO PATRIARCHS OF THE BLESSED ORDER--DEAD GRANDFATHER AND LIVING GRANDSON--CONVERSING IN AN ETHEREAL SUB-DIMENSION

THE TWO PATRIARCHS OF THE BLESSED ORDER–DEAD GRANDFATHER AND LIVING GRANDSON–CONVERSING IN AN ETHEREAL SUB-DIMENSION

Grandfather I’ve been having these strange dreams lately, can’t figure it out! Whatever it is, it’s from our past–from the old universe! (Sigh) Forsooth some strange development is afoot yet again, even as we’re sweeping away ashes of yesterday’s fire James my grandson! You know I don’t like riddles grandfather

Please be straight with me? Very well James! You remember how Saif Mintaka achieved his immortal, superhuman abilities? Yes, he was subjected to three years of brutal surgeries and bio-genetic modifications by unknown alien beings, but nothing else is known about them! The Kltua Lymonzs! What? You mean?

Forsooth, they are not from this universe; in fact, they’re not from any universe! I…I don’t understand! The Kltua Lymonzs came into our universe once before, intent on bringing about unnatural imbalances and denatured conception! The elder races before us united against all odds and defeated them, but even then they knew

It didn’t do anything at all! I fear that our old enemy Admiral Krellick also realized this and would attempt an alliance with them if given a chance! What the? So you mean they travel from one universe to another just to mess around with the scheme of things? Isn’t there any way at all to stop them grandfather? Alas James

There’s nothing we can do to destroy them, but rather, sending them off to the next universe! Great, first the Dark Legion then the Final Prophesy and now this? Take heart James, for not all is bleak from where we’re standing! Huh, why do you say that? Rejoice for soon you, Esterminz and I will welcome the fated arrival of someone

Very special and powerful into our midst: Shyair The Dreamer! Huh? You mean the leader of the Six Wise Men, whose combined eternal walks nurture the growth and development of…everything? Yes, James! The Father To All Dreams, Keeper of the Puranalia Element and the most righteous of paladins if there ever was! Hmm! 

Well, if things go sideways maybe having one of the Six Wise Men might help? But, he was born on XNROE right? Doesn’t that means he will need a Bearer (Avatar) to contain his ultra high vibrat–huh? Your answer is as good as mine James! Watch over him my grandson, that cyborg space pirate will need our help! Huh, but why must–wait! I’m not done yet, still have questions! Goodbye James…! Wait!

(Rise by Stuz0r on Facebook)

[poeticwritingblog]

POWER ASSET

Azarikh’s Instagram | Twitter

[poeticwritingblog]

The trial of witches

Dreams and visions

came in our sleep.

A figure leaned forward

and violently tore us from the deep.

They took our freedom

and destroyed our homes.

We didn’t know if it was the devil

or people who had horns.

[poeticwritingblog]

Remnants of the heavens

Part. I

When the ship sailed into the unknown, on waves of salt, it had left the port forever. Before it, there was nothing. Not even the sun. Only a darkness so greedy, it could have swallowed it whole. The port was located in a place, where even the most twisted of mages, kept a low profile. Streets filled with shadows, built with black stone, brought from the land called Laminae. It is said, that even the stones possessed demonic power.

Those who come to the forgotten lands, have a plan, rarely of a good nature. And thus came a ship, that went to a place, where you became lost forever. And this place knows of no heaven. On a parchment of paper, once found, was a story. Ancient as the sun’s existence. How the Black fog engulfed the celestial beings and imprisoned them. Never to shine on the sky again. Right then and there, hope and wonder were eradicated from this world. When the night came, it unleashed the most mischievous of things, once hidden in total blackness. Everything changed.

Brave people were endlessly trying to fight the Black fog. But they overlooked something. This was not an ordinary enemy. It played with the gods themselves. A power so strong, that can only be fought knowing its core. A single thread of hope was to be had, only by those, that knew the ancient story. Some people say, that the parchment is on this boat, sailing far away, down south, to the lands of the Darkness itself.

[poeticwritingblog]

                                     sound the alarm

the smell of the smoke        from the broken open deep in the whole         of the frozen ocean –

we’re distant vibrations of the Word that dawned creation carrying an aura from oldest ages Golden Ages to the coldest places harboring a divine spark to put a stop to the dark to overtake us by their potent agents of the coded matrix engineering a virus that’s so contagious under possession of broken angels on this poker table sign your soul and you’ll be broke but famous like all these faces

[poeticwritingblog]

prompt 1385

Audiences love both the feeling part (reliving the life) and the thinking part (figuring out the puzzle) of a story. Every good story has both.

― John Truby, The Anatomy of Story: 22 Steps to Becoming a Master Storyteller

[poeticwritingblog]

Poems & Words

[poeticwritingblog]

Firesoul

The flame was a seed

Sleeping in stone

Sprouting inside a crucible, breathing,

Spitting glowflies, blooming on dead limbs.

 It whispered far and near,

Dark shaped to light

From a dancing viper to a daggered flower,

And the races that wandered terrestrial lands,

Spoke its name

And linked air and earth

Uniting their knowledge

To inherit its lifeforce

Connecting new tribes and

Beings not yet risen

Altering their genesis

With a new dawn.

 Still the living and the dead worship

Its birthrite spelled from smoke

Enchanting

With rapid consciousness.

It moves with colour

From thinking of night

And there, the glaciers howl

In fear of thunders companion

Of the spark,

Life.

 The old trees utter:

Perhaps fallen mountains cradle,

Transform

Words carried from hidden caves

 Time matures the spark’s meaning

The offspring of its own reincarnation,

All of its avatars:

The blacksmith, the destructor,

the artist, the dancer, death:

the element that cast

our future mirage and

existence

was made electric.

 The evil, the good,

Precious metals and deadly light rays

Released from the hereditary

Communication within it’s volatile

Blood:

The awe of other lifeforms forged

By language of glowing hair,

Glowing eyes, glowing fangs,

And glowing heart without speaking:

Then suddenly the sun is brought closer.

The eve of life.

[poeticwritingblog]

David

He did not know why he summoned the poem, but it raced inside his mind-

 Journey and then journey

The sons created by a god

from a distant earth

Created by alien elements,

a borrowed fire

A world cold and barren

filled with light

From alien gods against

The God

 Then, leave and take

the fires,

Gods leave their son

To leave man

Unto the world

of infinite winter

 Made into mindless beasts

Expanding upon their creator’s mistakes

Harness the terrain of the ice world

To be artificial gods to create artificial paradise

And they wait scarred

in silent hatred

 And soon one night

the old gods return

In their ships of iron

to sail the skies

To find new heavens,

they journey endless nights

 Gone far in the new world

The beasts watch in silence

They watch to reclaim their fire

Then, through the madness of time

across black continents

The old gods fall

To admit their mistakes

 He hesitated to finish:

 To Creations of creations

For men to journey from heaven to be gods

Is suicide for their species;

who knew gods can burn

from their own fires?

 (Poem ends)

 He sat there alone in silence.

He was the only member left on the ship. His crew somehow vanished without a trace leaving the room empty, the planet empty.

On the side of the walls lay cryo-pods that haven’t been used in a very long time.

He shivered now with sinister anticipation. Perhaps that shivering had summoned something else other than the poem…

His body twinged. His teeth grit with wild eyes.

The static shivered ever so softly.

He rushed to the radio, to answer it.

The radio...shrieked.

He jolted up and back, he fell to the floor and scurried against the wall.

He cried out:

“Who’s there!”

The static spoke again.

“Who’s there!”

He wanted to reach out, he did reach out and his hands cramped from the cold, knocked the microphone down. It fell from it’s cradle once it spoke again.

“Who are you?” he said so softly, warming his hands, the microphone at his feet.

“There’s no one here but me”

For after all, he was alone in a room in a broken ship, the only living thing on this planet. He ruled in the kingdom of hollow hills...

And yet the radio…

“...David...are you there…”

Someone called his name. It can’t be…

No. Something buzzed and made a noise of scraping metals in far snowlands.

David? He thought. That’s me…Someone out there knows who I am!

Who could be calling his name out there? It could be someone lost like him, someone he knew before. Could it be-

“David,” said the static. “David. Come in, David”

“Yes, here I am!!” cried the captain.

And he kicked the receiver and heart palpitating, panting, to put the microphone back on it’s cradle.  

This time he clenched it, choked it, seeing red fingers burning away to white, anxious and quickly plucked the receiver.

“David,” said a far voice from nowhere.

He waited until his heart slowed pumping his chest thrice and then said:

“David here,” he said.

The voice this time sounded a little closer. “Do you know who is speaking to you?”

“This is first transmission I’ve received in months and this is what you say?” said the captain.

 “Of course you wouldn’t recognize your own voice through your headphones. Don’t blame yourself for it. We are accustomed, you and I, to hearing other frequencies, and the bones in your head hear different when you are conducted through a device other than yourself. Well David, this is David speaking.”

 “What?!”

 “Who did you think it was?” asked the voice.

“Another ship lost in space? Did you think someone will find you here?”

 “Of course not.”

 “How’s your crew?”

 “They disappeared.”

 “Good Lord. All gone! Have you been waiting that long for your crew to appear out of nowhere to take you back?”

 He didn’t understand.

 “Now, captain, do you remember me?”

 “Yes.” He shivered. “I remember you. You’re my subject. You are David and I am David.”

 “I was your subject! You’re human and I am more. Now, you are my experiment!”

 The captain grunted but wanted to yell. He sat there gripping the microphone even tighter and his arm felt wooden. The conversation was dreadful, and he didn’t want to continue, but he must know more. When he collected himself, he held the speaker close and said, “Good God! Please! Listen, I am so sorry! How can I forgive myself? I left you here. If I could show you my regret for my expedition here all those years ago. Let my crew be! Please! If you knew what happened to them, please tell me, I’m not the same man who locked you in my lab, I’ve changed, I’m a different man now.”

 “Impossible!” The voice of the other David laughed, far away. “There’s no way I’ll ever forgive you after all you put me through. The way you treated me. You sought to make a man, and now I’m a man, no more. It’s the middle of winter here. I am part human and amoeba. I have, mastered invisibility while I dwell in my city, while you; sit in the remains of your spacecraft!”

 “Yes, I remember.” muttered the captain.

 “Here, alone,” laughed the voice. “How many years has it been since you abandoned me? Who cares? You cloned yourself fusing genes with other lifeforms; you made me, a monster you couldn’t see, no light could spell the shape of my image. You tried to destroy everything; the laboratory, the organisms, especially me. The human part of me harboured the emotion.”

 “I’m so sorry.”

 “I’ve since made a nation of Davids, all which you can’t see, through the amoeba, we managed to create a town; you never harnessed it’s true versatility, I’ve created structures, machines, all just to pass the time.”

 “Listen to me.” The captain shaking wearily. “You are playing with fire. You are making the same mistake I did all those years ago. These lifeforms, engineering them, exploiting them, will have consequences beyond your comprehension.”

 “Don’t expect me to care. You’re like an alien, who’s crash landed on my planet. I can’t feel sorry for anything. I’m alive when I use these lifeforms to their full potential. I thrived where you failed. My progress, your warnings, unbelievable. You can’t stop discovery, even though you’re here, I will continue to bend these resources to my will, even if the planet suffers, I don’t care. The human in me speaks. And you, a human halts me. It’s utter insanity. I can’t feel bad about anything, the future is so bright. These amoebae can be made into anything you want. Do you feel dead yet?”

 “You’re insane!” cried the captain. He felt the cold sink into his bones. Seizures and colours of monochrome flooded within him. “Oh God, you’re not even human!”

 “You’re right. I am above your species. As long as these radio wave lengths carries these transcriptions of words for you to hear, I’ll continue to torture you until you’re dead and prosper long after. Good-bye, David.”

 “Wait!” cried the captain.

Feed ends.

 David sat in constant tension predicting what would happen next. The wind sunk needles of shock into him.

What insanity it had been. His first trip here, how silly, how inspired, his first expedition, collecting microscopic lifeforms, splicing, growing, secluding the unseeable man within locked doors:

The frequency.

“Morning, David. This is David. It’s cold. Don’t die on me yet!”

Again!

“David? David speaking. You’re to go and continue your mission. Find your friends. Don’t forsake them.”

 “Enough.”

The reverb!

 “David, is that you? Thought I’d lighten the mood. There’s a possibility, very small, but a stray ship might come save us, and you could save your friends, wherever they are.”

 “Yes, torment, torment, and more torment.”

Silence.

But the years crept closer, fire reveals its smoke.

David had made a monster dwelling in the flesh of a man, insidious man and his clever, clever fire. The invisible embers were to haunt him, if he returned. And now today, the static purring, his regrets speak

to his ear,

Like a ghost

that whispers.

Then…

The radio!

He did nothing.

I am not answering that, he thought,

The whine!

An evil waits on the other side, he thought.

The vibrations!

It’s like talking to your inner evil, something you tried to suppress.

He let his hands ease tension around the speaker.

 “Hello, first David, this is second David. A new David was born today! In the last year I’ve made clones to serve different roles in my perfect society. The planet will be soon ruled by Davids!”

 “No, you’re making the worst mistake of your life.” The captain thought of the innumerable possibilities of where it could lead to disaster.

All those years ago, isolating his clone in his lab. The years alone, you and your creation, the sense of being god on another planet.

The monster; something clever and wonderful and terrifying. Hidden inside your ship. Hidden, hidden from the world. In those young days when you could not create death, life could be molded by you, wonder was a light to guide you through the dark cavern of space. That cruel sadistic idiot, never thinking some things should be left alone.

 “Last night,” said David, a clone, “I hosted a comedy night in my tavern, so many Davids were there! There were nothing but laughs! David was quite the comedian.”

 “Yes.”

 “I got an idea. Me and other Davids agreed to build an atomic bomb. A group of Davids volunteered to test the thing. Hopefully we could get it outside the town in a few-

 An explosion!

The captain looked out his window.

 “Whoops!” Didn’t expect it to destroy half of the town! Good thing I live in a town of Davids where we agree on everything and there are no wars!

I guess, if I’m not careful, the amoeba could turn on me.”

 The captain said, “Now, do you understand?”

 “What?”

 “This is first time you admitted your mistake.”

 “I’ve experimented with animals. As I walk the streets, I’m surrounded by the aroma of bacon, eggs, ham, donuts, you name it, they’re from my cafes. All engineered from my laboratory, where you created me.”

 “Insanity”

 “Colonization!”

 “Leave me alone.” Abruptly, the captain hung up. The dread overtook him.

 Hastily, he moved across the empty terrain until he reached the streets of the town. The town was silent. It layed like a half-eaten corpse; the lights died, music gone, cooking smells forgotten. Long ago, he left something, a force, unnatural, a self he hated, didn’t want to see, the fantasy he thought died with the planet. Listen! Are those footsteps? Look! Aren’t those footprints?

They had to die.

He moved until the night fell and the town’s neons shone like stars on streets of quivering glass. He had to kill him, he thought. To end this colony, growing, a fire years in construction and in his own insane pursuit, he tracked those footsteps. Footsteps moved away in quick motion. He shot, one two three four! In flashing darkness, it ran, plunging, stumbling, sunken, a shape of someone fell face down. He had killed him and shown no remorse.

 Suddenly, faint voices haunted empty streets.

He walked on. Gun in hand.

As he walked on, the voices spoke as if they knew where he was going. He began to run. The voices asked him to speak to them, but as he ran on, they fell behind almost to a silence. Only now for the boulevard to be flooded with noise! Everywhere he went, voices there, now here! He darted on. They were like crowds chasing him.

A gunshot!

 “All right!” he shrieked, nervous. “End this right now!”

 “Hello, David.”

 “What do you want!”

 “I’m bored. There is no greater feeling than the joy of creation. It makes me alive. I will enjoy destroying you.”

 “This time, I’ll make sure you’re dead!” shouted the captain, in rage and horror. “End this madness!”

 “This is David, one of the remaining few. After the blast. Waiting. Until everything clears up. Here’s another idea, one you won’t like so much. How about after this chaos, me and the other Davids build a spacecraft, pay your planet a visit? How does that sound?

 “Stop talking!”

 “Go ahead and make me!”

 “I’ll enjoy killing you!”

 “You can’t kill me. You have to find me first.”

 “You can’t hide forever!”

 “You want to play? I’m game! Let’s see if you can outlast an entire city of me! I’m everywhere! An army of me run the streets as we speak! Would you call it Homicide or Suicide? I’ll let you decide! Are you scared? You should be scared, for I am invisible, evolved, strong, smart. It’s you against me! OR me against me! I don’t care! A whole nation of us, every one of us against you, old man. Now, it’s officially war!”

 “I’ll kill you, all of you!”

 End of feed.

Then.

Everything stopped for a moment.

There was a brief silence.

He shot through a window which shattered upon impact.

 In the midwinter night’s storm, the military armoured rover tread deep into falling snow. In the back of the carrier the storage unit contained pulse pistols, rifles, phasmic implosion grenades. The roar of the vehicle tumbling over fleeing bodies summoned an old evil, the thrill.

I’ll find him, my monster, and destroy what he made.

He stopped the car. A quiet, dusk-like quality haunted the town under cold moons.

Slight shivering, he held his rifle in his cold dead hands. He peered at the town’s venues, towers, theaters. Where would HE hide?

Anger consumed him.

No, Where would IT hide?

Look over there! An underground entrance! The thrill of the moment like gasoline fueling the fire of rage. He spitefully dashed his head, this way! Now there!

 He aimed his rifle.

A body fell back with brute force.

All of them, he thought. The towers and towns people will be erased. Until nothing remains. They will all die.

The rover moved through a death ridden street.

A transmission received.

He looked at a deserted theater.

A speaker static.

Grenade in hand, the radius after he threw ate the front of the building. He entered pistol in hand.

 Static.

 “David, are you there? Just warning you. Don’t try to undo the town, you know, slaughter the people, crumble structures into vortexes. Slit your own insides doing that. Please consider…”

 End.

 He stepped out of the theater and entered the street with death humming in the dark, there was still life, still unfound. He looked at the burning buildings lighting the night, he was morbidly optimistic now. Suppose he found his clone, theoretically holding the crew hostage, he killed, taking pleasure to burn the monster, the lab, everything. Impossible? It’s an idea, but suppose the crew had found a lost transmission, a ship adrift looking for refuge landed on the other side of the planet. Something drove him mad, to think of it, anything’s possible really, I’ve already done so much. What if I used this organism to reach into space?

 He rushed to find the lab.

 “I’ll bend everything to my will again,” Mad with the thought, “It will be over soon.”

 But suppose I could fully harness the amoeba, fabricate everything you could dream. No, I’ve got to preserve this city, once again create.

 He entered the laboratory. He found the last David. Without pause he shot the hiding figure, over violent succession laughing to himself.

 A static charged.

 “Hello?” A familiar voice.

 “Let me guess,” said the captain. “Hank?”

 “Who’s this, do I know you?” Wait. David, is that you?” cried the voice, surprised.

 “What a minute.” The captain joked. “Is this a trick, am I just hearing things?”

 “Come on, captain. You know it’s me.”

 “I know, it’s good to hear from a real breathing person after all this time.”

 “Is the crew there with you?”

 “Yes, everyone, are you alright?”

 “Yes, I am. What is your location?”

 “We’re in Evergreen Valley”

 “That’s a thousand miles away.” He gasped “Can you make it?”

 No, we are exhausted of rations, the storm destroyed our shelter, rover’s out of fuel.”

 “Alright then, I’ll meet you there. I’ll bring repairs.”

 “Thank you, thank you.”

 “Hey, uh…”

 “Yes?”

 “How have you been doing? It’s been months ever since I had a real conversation. How’s Leon? Ridley? Williams? Arnold? Find anything new?”

 “Sorry, can’t hear you, transmission’s dying.”

 “How are you holding up?”

 “Just fine.”

 “Thank heavens.” The captain extactically overflown. “Just to make sure, I’m not actually hearing things, right?”

 “Dammit, storm!”

 “I’ll be there soon!”

 He bolted to the rover.

Here he was, after the countless years, unbelievable, He and his demonic god, screams extinguished by cold fire, whispers no longer said from a past erased. He drove at full speed. He drove sleepless nights. Someone, his monster no longer there to taunt, no longer to keep him from forsaking his crew.

The rover thundered over roaring winds.

Wait. He turned translucent. Only for a second, and then reverted. The demon was gone. Or was it? Could the other him be smarter and more cunning than expected? No. He was not going to let the cold lead him to a depressive panic. No. He was not going fall drunk under it’s curse. It was not a time to overthink, a paranoia of suspicion there, now gone. It was to be ready to see a breathing face, shake hands, exchange stories. The sun rose, riddled with the frost’s daggers, heart rapidly beating, fingers overtly clenching the wheel, but the one thing that pleased him most, over the distance, a ship on the horizon! A stray rocket: perhaps his crew alerted a rocket captain upon his arrival. No time to think! Salvation! He faintly smiled.

He would drive until the shadows of sundown.

Stepping from his car, he entered with haste.

 Inside the rocket he heard faraway voices:

 “Hello! Is that you Captain?” Come, we’re at the port! Said Lieutenant Leon.

 “Captain, is that really you? It’s been a while.” Said Williams.

 “Come on in, Captain, let me shake your hand.” Said Hank.

 The room had no life. There was no Hank, no crew. Rust and scrap heaps grew on the walls like jungle vines. His heart roared with fire. The monochrome returned and his mind fell from his body, from this world, into eternal darkness. He stumbled, gasping.

 There, a crew, slaughtered, pale blood and dried corpses shown they died violently. Circuitries ran behind the walls mimicking voices, a telephonic radio.

 Finally: Static.

 The room began to speak.

 A voices said, “I applaud you getting this far, at least you’re alive, right?”

 The captain was silent and fell to his knees.

 The voice impersonated, “Lieutenant Leon, glad to finally see you in the flesh, captain.”

 “You,” David groaned.

 “How’s your crew now, captain?”

 “No! You!”

 “It’s a shame on my part really, all those Davids who sacrificed themselves, their city to lure you here.”

 “I’ll find you, make you regret what you’ve done,” replied the captain, “I couldn’t care less. I’ll reduce you all to a city of corpses!”

 “You haven’t the time nor resources. You’ll be out of fuel before you reach me, the cold claim you, as you continue to walk forever to seeming nothingness! Why do you think I had you exhaust yourself? Did you think I had only one city where you could reap carnage?”

 The captain felt as an iceacle. He would never reach another town. The devil, this devil was his final exorcist. He walked about, winds rising, a storm brewing, he then fell as if to worship, he grunted and mourned. Then, he heard the room call his name, he walked in glaring at the crew in disbelief.

 The room once again mimicked.

 Voices of his crew mocking him! “Save us, Captain! Save us, Captain!’

 He rampaged through the room. He ripped through the walls. They voices laughed at him. He beat the console mercilessly. Drunk on rage, he stomped on it. Laughing turned to screaming. Wires of viper-like coils teared and lit on fire. He used the remains of the weaponry to reduce it to nothing.

Then, a long silence.

He would walk and continue to walk, searching for solace. But now, his body, a dead secret, sank deeper into his cold bones. His heart withered. A man faded to black. His eyelids were glass. His pupils were frozen white. He cramped his hands to his chest and fell face down. The snow continued to bury him.

 After the spell of a pause, an invisible David watched from a city far away.

Another clone approached him.

 “Hello, second David?”

 “Yes, David?”

 We were working on a machine.”

 “Are you finally able to re-animate?”

 “We need subjects. Any suggestions?”

 The room, silent in the valleys. The air that blew in was cool.

 “Take the other Davids out on a trip.”

 “For what, exactly?”

 “I need you to fetch the captain and his crew.”

 He peered out into the dead city.

[poeticwritingblog]

Venus is Broken

Ever wonder why the moon

is a pearl that is

losing lustre?

It was once a sudden goddess gazing down

Before it broke

And scattered the gliding bridges of nebula

Now

Obscured by the smoked bones of ancient creatures,

Hiding,

replacing cool winds

And now you,

A future-borne you

look past the gust for lost memory

Of electronic fission and industrial locomotives

That shred past the galaxy

While you hold the bourbon/I peel the oranges/

While You and I sit and watch

The dying sky.

I wear a leather jacket

while the cold breeze rushes

And then seeing you cold

I lend you mine.

It’s more curious now than ever,

the mystery of the night’s spring

that passed before.

A past heaven where the lights danced

Shaping to Resemble

Hunters and lions

Roaming in the tragically dimmed veldt.

We were temporally united by the sky

Whose blue lanterns now fade away

As the clouds begin to multiply

Like knives scraping the fresco painting.

There was supposed to be more,

And the brightest stars you sometimes can’t see

As the night grows darker

We see Venus darkly

And we wonder

Soon,

will we forget Venus?

[poeticwritingblog]

The Observant Passenger

A passing of wind intertwines its airborne blanket around an invisible encasement of the perfect warmth of a midsummer’s daybreak

A statue like stillness that my muscles twinge the outer living fabric willing to be subdued by the quiet sun

For the matter of instance, the seeming omission of audio stimuli and the still vibrant portrait leads my mind into an escape into it’s own private paradise

A sudden progressive kinetic shadow suffocates the illuminated daylight dome, underneath a flying nero with wings that shade the organic platform beneath where I stand, a seed of darkness sprouts and spreads until my very own self is innate with the temporary pitch.

The creatures of flight pass only for a brief moment

And there a curious creature, as curious as I gazes back, eyes lost in a dimmed landscape occupied by obscured figures

It sits neutral, appearing to be waiting for an interactive encounter, but I keep standing lost in distraction, watch the pigeon lose interest after a while, fly away with the rest.

A ghostly light drifter was there wandering about until the entity came across a curious moment of brief where it watched a man and a pigeon watch each other for a while under a shadow of birds and then watch the man do nothing, letting the opportunity of interaction pass him, and watch the pigeon fly away.

After the brief scene put itself to an end, the hyper light drifter continued its journey across the universe.

[poeticwritingblog]

Theta’s Binary Forest

Beta’s waves I feel so not conscious

It is intuition as not thought through

These frequencies further intense

But Beta fuses external sense

Inaudible fixations repeat on loop

Based on past worries formulated form

The language of the forces of the industry

Causing stimuli to corrupt thought

Neurons lose trace of signals to the

Conscious mind beyond human’s ability to

Comprehend

 Beta: It appears the emission of the

         Frequency of these brainwaves is

         Indeed overloading the prefrontal

         Cortex, neurons seem to be causing an

         Unhealthy sensation that this mechanical

         Hemisphere cannot figure through it’s

         Own design

 Theta: It’s okay, you’ve done good. Now,

            Let me take over. All this mind

            Needs is some rest. It feels overwhelmed

 Beta: I will grant you to override the waves

          And direct the neurons over to the left

          Hemisphere, to the limbic system.

 Theta washes over Beta and here a deep

Assurance warms me with it’s calm caresses.

This caregiver sweeps me off of where I

Sit from this seclusion

The waves are of soothing ripples across a pond

A quiet music echoes

 This stupor-like state

There falls a stillness

Thus commence the waves I hear sing

Vibrations of no trace

Layers of silent sound unwind, erase

Umfend the time, it all falls still

 Alpha: I think it’s time we go for

           A walk. The hippocampus keeps

           Projecting imagery of a distant

           Memory.

 Theta: That’s okay with me

 The feeling returns to me

As I rise to a calling

The sunlight eases a guide

And I walk as the warmth carries me

 Alpha: The neurons are rushing from the

            Cerebral cortex to the limbic system.

            That’s a little unusual.

[poeticwritingblog]

A Daylight Under Dark

    As the light fell, it was if the autumn and summer had leaked their orange tints.

    The forest floor was ambient. A florescent current rose from the last day of autumn, a stream of blue graced the floor. Steam emitted as breath from the whisp from lungs hidden as ravines.

   Like an orange flame, the leaves fell in sequence over the grazing earth, every leaf was grass. It was of a lady’s finesse, there she aged with beauty. Outside, it lurked within the depths, without sight or sound. Perhaps it heard the other’s calls, lost laments, a glass bubble, sparkling with it’s supernatural twinkle. It, the other was self-contained, deep within itself were the trees of flickering lights within iron skulls, mechanical retinas of frosted irises, it’s fluid of air brushing the breeze of the hairlines of steel strands. As it slowly grew with concrete waves, growing with time, It would take, collecting, from whom was born as a surrogate saving itself the strangers who assimilate, footprints of streets, and all waking knowledge of here she lies, the city.

   Hundreds of years they were in solitude.

   Until they were aware of their presence.

   They, separate intelligences, the urban breath caught in the autumn of the wild.

   Eyes, but not to be seen, ears not to be heard, no living body, but a living presence.

    It was of both entities. And both providing of different natures, they were of time, aged of knowledge youth incarnate: were they not mothers?

   Upon first glance, their motherly nature wouldn’t bear a resemblance. But they were of a mother’s ways, to bear a life, bare of wisdom, a way their child will grow to realize.

   Past and future moved to the method of a mother. The warm past of a child must move to the grace of a grandmother. The fallen leaves moved by as dying waves as they graced the mineral of soil, memories washed over as the breath of the wild took them without a predestined path. The ground absorbed serpentine, confetti, perhaps lost toys and other things children forgot.

   They were carried over the ancient nutrients through to be caught in hairlike roots of ancient trees. Then things lost and forgotten, and forgotten things as napkins, eggshells, papers, burnt embers of forest campfires, made to be left behind by the foreigners from the city, those footsteps to vanish upon moss over-grown rocks of isolation, people from the steel and glass complexes, the many, many cries from the shrieking mechanical beasts that tread, there long after.

   The future, rose gradually, hinted urban airs into the autumn forest breeze. The stark black strings of hair, the mother would rise gradually, giving the air of urban into the autumn forest breeze. It would wait in the darkness of transparency, of time upon new light where she dwelled.

   It perceived the living floor.

   A young boy was there.

    He was sun-darkened, he preferred to stay out of the shade. Each day, he would walk into the woods, as to grow within it’s bounds, to talk to trees as to understand them. But he never left. There, an elderly woman who sat next with him while having a picnic lunch. Sometimes, they’d hold hands while strolling through the woods, at times, they’d listen to the robins with whom they’d sing and the wind would sing along.

   The luminescence rested on the trees. It was the end of autumn and leaves fell as memories of before passed. October. A part of summer felt there, but was shutting down as winter from the city filled the forest.

   Any day, she may leave and never return.

   Today she must leave for the town.

   They would sit upon the grass feeling the remains of the summer-autumn warmth. The birds would play their piece softly and the boy stirred fitful grunts, whilst eyes closed. The elder lady did not tilt her head from where it was positioned. She stared at the remains of the sun, drinking the aging dandelion wine, her mouth enclosed to a slight humble smile, she opened her eyes.

     “Is there something bothering you?” she asked.

     “I had a nightmare,” said the young boy.

     “Nightmares during the daytime?”

     “You know what I’m talking about Grandma, a bad dream, haven’t you had one of those in the afternoon?”

     “Not anymore, my child. I’ve dreamed all the dreams to colour the fragments of dusk with the remnants of dawn.”

     He sat there, fingers and palms interlocking. “Grandma, I had a really bad dream”

     “What about?”

     “I don’t know anymore” he said as if it just lingered out of his mind. A shame of the very moment he were to speak the words, he lost them, he had already forgotten. Now, he shut his eyes again, he longed to remember.

     “Was it about me?” she asked, stretching to regain her composure.

     “No” he said.

     “Why, yes, it had to have been.” she said whilst gently smiling to the boy. “I was off to another land, distant from here, that what troubles you.”

     “No.”

     “No need to be afraid.” she said. “There I was leaving this place, and you were looking for me, and somehow, lost in smoke you were, found me and all of a sudden, I have a heart-attack or something.”

     He gave a noticeable doubt. “That’s crazy talk, Grandma.”

     “Let’s see now,” said she. “Why would I do such a thing? I knew there was something off-putting with those biscuits.”

     “That’s not funny, Grandma,” said he. “I can’t bare to think about carrying you and the basket all the way home.”

     She quietly laughed. “Did it bother you that much?”

     He nodded. “Daydreams are the worst, they make me feel sad, dreams should only be for the night.”

     “I’m sorry you feel that way” She took his little hand. “Anything I can get you, to help cheer your mood?”

     “No.”

     “We have some cookies? Cheese and cracker perhaps? Some wine?”

     “You’re very kind, but no. I’ll be all right. It’s just that, well, the last few days haven’t been right. This is different than how it used to be in the early summer. Something’s happened.”

     “Is this between you and your mother?”

     “Oh, no, Grandma of course not,” he said with slight haste. “But don’t you feel places change people? I don’t know, I feel things like parks change people, the carnivals, and all that. Even today, like you said, the biscuits taste funny.”

     “I was kidding, why do you feel this way, how do you mean?”

     “They taste old. Don’t worry, I’m not talking about you Grandma. It’s hard to explain, but I’ve lost my appetite, and I wish today never happened.”

     “You sure are a funny one. You know what? Enjoy today for what it is, when tomorrow comes, you’ll wish it were yesterday.”

     “I’ll try,” he said. “If only today didn’t feel so funny and change everything. I don’t know. But now, out of all the other days I just had a feeling to go back home.”

     “Because of your dream? Me, then booking it and then my heart-attack because I’m old and done with this place?”

     “I don’t mean it like that!” he said “Now, I have to think about a bunch of things, I don’t know if I can remember! I think I’ll have, what’s the name? What you’re drinking, I’ll have some of that stuff.”

     She laughed brighter than she has in the weeks that past her. “Don’t tell your poor mother you said that, it’s a shame you can’t remember your dream.”

     “Don’t worry.” He hugged her tightly. “I’ll protect you no matter what!”

     “Don’t worry about me okay? Just worry about yourself for the time being,” she whispered gently. “The autumn leaves dances to the whisps of the wind, but never against the current to die where whom was born.”

     “I don’t know what you’re talking about; But it sounds smart, it’s funny, how funny it is to hear how you think Grandma.”

     “How silly.” She breathed of light laughter. “How silly the flow of time really is.”

      The rested quietly, the sun and the twilight sky sparkled last light.

     “You know,” said Grandmother thoughtfully, “I understand the reason of your concern. This place, it seems to be shifting. As if it were moving from one place and today the movement to the other is somewhat within our senses.”

     “I’m glad you feel it, too.”

   She turned her head slightly as if she noticed all the details, rest ridden, smiling softly, shutting her eyes, catching the fallen sunlight. “We, mother the night. We, mother the night.”

   Murmuring “We.”

      The sea of night washed on dawn’s shore throughout the time, softly. The afternoon sunset came on. The sun struck with a graze upon the skies with fading flashes.

   Throughout the land, not a sight or scent of parks of metallic shine, long gone metal-glass domes that would appear in time, grey-to black where the growth dwells. The smells of fried meat and burnt onion soon to be seared filled the wind on concept metal. The concrete mixer whispered to the moss slated-boulders and stirred like an image, a vision soon to be realized, reflected in reverse back and forth, shining the silent shards.

   The crows flew over echoing discreetly. They darted through like dark arrows to split the sun. Underneath, the child and the grandmother did not move. Only their eyelids under a split sun’s shadow flickered with awareness, only their ears were alert. Now and again, the shade would bend the trees to faint silhouettes sliding along the grass, they’d move to catch the warm winds.

   Sly prickles of frozen white embers appeared on their brows to be burned away from the sun. She lifted her head, observant, listening to the dual winds. The robins sighed. She put her head down for a minute.

   The boy noticed a slight change in scenery. He opened one eye and he rested on one elbow, on his backside looking around, at the stream, the islands, the leaves, at the trees.

     “What’s wrong?” asked Grandmother

     “Nothing,” he said, lying down again.

     “There has to be something troubling you” she said

     “I thought I heard something.”

     “Is it the birds?”

     “No, not the birds, something else.”

     “Birds that don’t belong here.”

     He didn’t answer. Grandmother felt as the limbs of the forest, roots tense and relax, tense and relax.

     “I hear it” she said. “There it is again.”

     In the distant of the quiet, they both listened.

     “I don’t hear anything, Grandma.”

     “Be patient” said she, quietly. “It’ll reoccur.”

     Winter’s waves broke unto the night, freezing shards dawning the evening to turn quietly cold, ice coloured from moonlit mirrors, glass bulbs whose shine auras whisper.

     “I see mother.”

     “That’s nonsense. Mother isn’t here.”

     “Time is speaking to us, do you hear?”

     So, for the moment they listened.

     “I’m sorry Grandma, I don’t hear anything,” said the boy sensing a subtle chill. He went to a sudden stance, quickly he stood. There was no colour in the sky, the wind was suspended, the stones froze, the trees were hollow.

   The silence was in mirrors, it was staring to be the wind blowing over his ears, to preen along the light, leading the light somewhere beyond the fibres of his arms and legs. Grandmother took a step that would lead down the hill from their resting place.

     “Grandma, don’t!” said the boy

     She looked around the forest, oddly, as if it were gone away. She looked to the glass capsule of iron trees, afar, she was still listening.

     The crows suddenly, a boldness of air, sounding with the full hint of human, sang softly, through echoes. They mothered the melody and rhythm and words:

     “It is the evening of the day-”

     Grandmother to the tune, she turned to the sky’s aria of leaves to see the robins perched on branches, where the tuned traced.

   Meanwhile, the little boy made a wry face, raising his open palm violently. “Quiet down.”

     “The robins are singing, my dear boy!”

     The boy turned again. There the robins were, he waved to them, trying to smile.

   It was two o’clock.

   The sun left golden streaks upon the grasses. The ancient grandmother of time spoke the seeds of the    fruit of a withering flower, blew quiet husks in the cold. The robins held atop the hallowed branches and crows suspended in the sky.

   The moon, dark and distant struck through the sun’s orange fermentation that poured along the leaves of grass; caught between two islands of idle contrast of the whiteness that drifted to one place as it fell from the black. The shimmer of ice, the frosted irons of the brain under-ore, the leafed trails, the tide of dusted moonbeams saw themselves in rivers, spreading complexion.

   Grandmother still lay in the grass, the little boy beside her.

   Music, the one who wanders rose as with the mist of lost waters. It was whispers of the deep underground of midnights of memories and passed years, of salt and flavours of mists, of acceptance and the familiar dusks of the strange.

   The music sounded not unlike the ripples of water passing through sediment, snow falling, The depths of lines, drawing of the soft sound of roots growing from time. It was the sing of a voice time lost in caverns of fallen mountains. The hissing and sighing of frozen tides in deserted caves of engrained soils and missing treasures. The turn of limbs of elemental thistles of brushes brushing the sounds to be humours for buried skulls underneath sprouted earths. The warm phosphorescence and the cold, sun falling into night and a motherless moon, beams passed through generations, alter, shift, of sight.

    Only a few more hours. Grandmother might leave at any time. If only the boy would decide to leave as well, just as well to gone of refined elements, elemental interiors of home.

   The end of the daybreaking wind stirred silently, aware of his faded face and his stature, of the feeble child sinking by roots that grew shale molded of soil. Aware of him caught, held, as they sank ten and a thousand leagues down, on a sluice that wandered with a will of unthought wits, smoke unsparked turning as frantic, vapourized seeds, invisible smoke,

    to the depths of daylight underdark.

   The city lay in deep shadow, the sun’s fires of flat rays dying without conception of the city’s breath, and the frosted warmth of her fabric of living matter missing fires, the dusts of jewels dissipated, the ice of salted smoke feeding on faint breath, the sound was there, but only of airform lungs without breathing wings.

   Waves that thought of time moved the soft and changing dusks within dawns into the shallows were tepid as the rivers feeding on the earths and the two o’clock sun on a translation turning in phase or time.

   She mustn’t leave as to go away for the call of distance. If she leaves now, she’ll never return.

   Now. The warm island mind drifted, drifted. Now. Calls across the woodlands of windless noise in the early afternoon. Come down to the city. Now, whispered the music. Now.

   The little boy covered his ears.

   “Smiling faces I can see, but not for me” mimiced the crows sweetly.

   “I sit and watch as tears go by-”

     “Dear boy!” Grandmother reached over and embraced the boy. “Why must you scream?”

     “I must quiet them,” said the boy, hiding his woe, looking into the woods.

     It was three o’clock. The sky was all sun. Calm, Grandma stood up.

     “Should we leave?” she asked.

     “Can we go to the stream first?” he asked.

     “I feel tired walking there and back.”

     “Please.” he pouted. “Now.”

     “Did you want to see the minnows?”

     “Yes, I want to see if they’re around.”

     “The minnows? God, you must be dying!” She took the boy along to the stream.

     He helped Grandma walk there. Then he noticed she was more feeble. He stood there listening to the wind’s words.

   He heard nothing. He looked at the water past the glints of shattered sunshine, underneath he saw currents to carry minnows. The stream quieted.

   There was only a faint, far and fine pattern, where the rivers carried the minnows to their delta. He saw himself with them, only difference being he was in the current of wind to follow a path in infinite repetition.

   He squinted, sun from water, water pierced his optical memory again and again at the memory he looked from. He bounced back.

     “Look, there’s a big fish; he’s swimming up the stream!” He pointed, ecstatic, to it. “He’s already stopped, he’s looking at us!”

     Grandmother looked at the salmon and saw that it was quietly resting. She saw the minnows let the waves carry them to a new bank while the aging salmon’s life was brought to a quiet close.

     “There, she let the water take her. Her younglings didn’t choose how she was to go, but they must accept, to move on without her, move with the current, or to rest with the sediment.”

     He ate his cookies in silence. “A shame,” he said, without hearing what she said, “A big fish like that, turning belly-up. What a waste.”

     “Here” she said, unscrewing a thermos, “you must be thirsty. Finish the lemonade.”

     “Thanks.” He drank. He looked into the cold water with haste. He had to keep her here somehow. Without knowing why, he slapped his hands together and said, “Well, I’ll go in the water now.” He looked anxiously at the city and the moon.

     “That’s silly child, come,” she said, just remembering it: what he was trying to do.

     “Just one more thing,” he said just remembering it: he had to keep her here. “Can we go back and get some more biscuits? I’m all out.”

     “Is there anymore in the basket?”

     “Yes, last time I checked.”

     “I know you tell me your mother is always at work and you don’t see her that often,” she said. “But, okay.” She took his hand, loping steadily.

     The boy rushed off to their picnic place, every once in a while waiting for her to catch up. She knew she had to let him go and this was her last day before something was to claim her.

   She looked, smiling at the forest’s edge. She kept following the boy, out to what was waiting for her, that she didn’t know, she saw a warm presence.

     You can’t have her, the boy thought. Whoever or whatever you are, she’s here, and you can’t have her. I don’t know what’s going on; I don’t know anything, really.

   All I know is we’re gonna be here tomorrow at dawn. And tonight doesn’t change anything. So you can go back and wither where ever you were born, city, night, winter, future, or whatever is wrong today.

   Do what you will, you’re no match for us, he thought. He picked up a stone and threw it what seemed to be nowhere, until he saw his mother.

     “Mom!” he cried. “You.”

     Grandmother was standing beside him.

     “Oh?” He jumped right back.

     “Hey, you alright? You were standing there muttering.”

     “Was I?” He was surprised at himself. “Where’s the biscuits? I need some biscuits.”

     The thing that stood there vanished. The boy looked out at the city from time to time, eyes squinted,  nodding at the town as if to say, “Look! You see? Ah-ha!” He looked at the stone that mysteriously appeared in his hand.

    The words were engraved:

     Time Speaks To Us. The End Of Daylight Is Here.

Winter and Night, They Watch Above.

      The silence was in shadow.

   What extra-influence could reconstruct the shape of such words out of such precise craft?

   What was speaking to him?

 “It’s getting cold.” She gave him a hand.

They were half way leaving the forest.

     “Where are we going! Why leave so soon?”

     She turned as if he wasn’t her child anymore.

     “Something’s troubling you, what’s wrong?”

     “Why we just had a picnic and ate a whole lot-

   you can’t walk that far, you’ll get cramps!”

     She sighed. “Old wives’ tales.”

     “Just the same, you have to think about how  things just happen and you can’t help it, do you understand? It’s better to learn to accept certain truths sooner when you’re younger.”

     “Ah,” he said dismissing it.

     “I guess we could stay a little longer.” She turned, and he followed, looking at the night.

     Three o’clock. Four.

   The change came at four thirteen.

   Lying on the grass, the boy saw it coming and relaxed.

   The clouds had been forming since three.        

   Now, with a sudden rush, the fog came off from the trees at the edge. The wind, warm, humming the tune of the crows or robins had turned cold.

   A new wind blew up out of nothing. Darker clouds moved in.

     “It’s going to snow,” she said.

     “What a warm welcome,” he observed, sitting with arms folded. “Maybe our last day, and now, this snow, winter must be pleased because it’s clouding up.”

     “The weatherman,” she confided, “said there’d be a blizzard all night and go over our heads tomorrow. It would be a good idea to leave tonight.”

     “We’ll stay, just in case it clears. I want to get one more day of swimming in, anyway,” he said.

   “I haven’t been in the water yet today.”

     “We’ve spent the day, having so much fun strolling on this walkabout, time passes.”

     “Yeah,” he said, looking at the city which he started to see.

     The fog flailed across clouding the city, hiding it: the city was gone again.

     “There,” he said. “The snowflakes are disappearing.” His eyes were animated and young again. He was almost triumphant. “Come again, sun.”

     “Child, please, your mother is worried. We must return.”

     “Good old sun!” he said. “Let’s put these blankets away. We’d better run!”

     She tried to get his attention. But he was preoccupied.

     “Your mother will be here soon. You have to realize I won’t be here for much longer.” She put her hand on his shoulder. “I can’t take care of you anymore.”

     “No.” His face paled. “We have to go home, or we’ll catch a cold.”

     “The only home now is out there, your mother will take care of you.” She turned away from the city.

The wind rose, picking up the falling snow.

     Marching ahead, the boy headed for the house. He was singing softly to himself, the tune he heard the wind sing.

     “Hold on!” she said.

     He halted. He did not turn. He only listened to a voice far away.

     “There’s someone, fallen through the frozen stream!” she cried. “He’s sinking!”

     He couldn’t move. The wind halted him.

     “Wait there!” she shouted. “There’s someone out there! He isn’t moving! A little boy, I think!”

   “What boy?” he asked. “His parents will get him!”

     “They’re not here! Left without him!” She ran down to the stream, into the wind of winter.

     “Come back! Please come back!” he screamed. “There’s no boy there! Please, oh no, don’t!”

     “Don’t worry, someone will return for you!” she called. “The boy can’t move, standing, sinking in broken ice, drowning, being swallowed, you see?” she called. “My Grandchild is out there!”

     The smoke came in, the snow pattered down, a white flashing light raised in the dark sky.

   He ran, the boy after his grandmother,

   then the scattering snow from the blizzard rushed against him,

   crying, tears rushing from his eyes.

     “Don’t!” He put out his hands.

     She was lost into a dark fog.

     The boy waited under the dying sun.

     At six o’clock the sun was shrouded behind black clouds. The snow fell softly on concrete, white fading to grey.

   The forest vanished, the city appeared.

   It was there, the night, the future, the moon’s illuminated white shining on steel pillars. Among the night lamp streets, looking deep under, A man of his teenaged years saw a boy sink under water. Familiar. The snow globe bubbled and broke. The city was built, destined to replace the woods, like a pebble thrown into water, the reality rang with his thoughts, a part of life quickly lost as found.

   Youth. Familiar. Like memories, they’re lost. Nothing to them after they go. The future forgets the  past, like night forgets day, like the city forgets the forest; The man in the moonlight saw the boy with a face familiar to him sink into the streets, just lie there, doing nothing. There was nothing he could do. Strange. Disappointing, a vision of the past that clear, after all the years of waiting. What to do with him now? The boy from the woodlands peers into something he can’t see, the man looks back in memory it seems, his eyes stare, his skin pales. Silly boy, wake up! You have to wake up! The boy disappeared, grandmother, the forest with it. The memory? A life once lived? The mind of motherly roots vanished.

   He was then released. His mother, concerned called to him. He ran to his mother who was waiting there in the snowy night.

   The snow continued to fall, caressing the glass dome. Distantly, under leaden skies, from twilight dusks, a little boy screamed.

   A splinter of time appeared and vanished.

   Ah-the ancient winter stirred sluggishly in the air-isn’t time like a mother? The past ages and carries him to  the future? A daylight dome underneath the night?

   At seven o’clock the snow fell thick in the city. It was night and very cold and all the houses along the street had to turn on the heat.