But still the horse begged him

A line. A blade. A loss. So the knight rides. Solitude scoured in these tales of silk and sanctuary. And Storm sang drums along the tabled mountaintops. The honeyed dawn of light was always too sweet a friend for death, my love. It cries. For such things are already undone. But still the horse begged him. Run … Continue reading But still the horse begged him

Searching for the Self: Somewhere

Sandcastles and sanctuary. Delicious and thought provoking prose from the always glorious Orchid’s Lantern. Soulful Sunday methinks.

Orchid's Lantern

The beach. Where water meets earth. It is damp, flat, open here. There are steep, grassy cliffs leading back up to civilization. I think I’m supposed to feel something in this place: happiness, excitement, or humbleness towards our great planet. I think creativity is supposed to bloom here, born of a new found appreciation of the small things and just being. Of smelling the ocean air, of feeling the sand between my toes. But the truth is, I don’t feel any of that. Instead of beauty I think of soliloquies, Stephen Dedalus and sulking. I feel uncomfortable; my mind awash with greyness and a longing to be Somewhere Else.

I look along the coast to the bustling amusement arcades and eateries. That isn’t the Somewhere either. I’m starting to think the Somewhere doesn’t actually exist.

Children play happily on the beach. They don’t mind the cold wind that tangles their…

View original post 130 more words

Rounding Numbers

Sometimes something is so beautifully crafted that you can’t let go of it. A poignant and wildly beautiful piece by the gloriously talented, John Potts.

Jankowski was an odd fellow.

He locked his house at night like everyone else, except when five minutes lapsed—to the second, mind you—Jankowski made an extra trip downstairs to check each deadbolt, twice. Permanent markers stained his bathroom sink so he knew how far to twist each knob; red for hands, blue for teeth. Every third Wednesday of the month a package arrived with his household supplies and paper goods, and when he recycled, his bin was filled with the same three-dimensional jigsaw puzzle that waited for trash day.

Food for Jankowski was ritualistic, and controlled. He bought groceries once a week and prepared most of his meals on Sunday nights for the work week ahead. Lasagnas and casseroles were frozen in his basement icebox; chicken seared and sliced for salads; veggies cleaned and prepped ready to be reheated; egg mixtures sat in milk quarts for scrambled Thursdays or omelet…

View original post 1,902 more words