An unknown raven perches on my sill
Or perhaps, in truth, it belongs to her?
Though unknown, I find myself watching still
as if by some trick, some sprite's sweet murmur
and I wonder if she has come for me.
Each feather shines with a disguised light,
her eyes untamed, deep as a winter's sea.
I move near, yet still she refrains from flight.
I retreat to my chair, for now deterred
by nothing more than shy, curious blush.
With light heart, I watch this wondrous bird--
the room, for a heartbeat, falls to a hush.
One thing I know, with no need for a seer;
I am not the reason that's brought her here.
I met a traveler from a nearby land
who shared this story: “A hoary ruin
of pitted concrete and chewed-up brick stands
amid the ancient groves, an intrusion
of steel beams cut short like broken hands
and rusted by the turning wheel of years.
Round its base, framed by curtains of moss
and fallen leaves whose scents rise like vapors
is a signboard, half decayed and faded:
“Bangor Nature Preserve... Please Leave No Trace...”
Nothing else disturbs the rest of shaded
brook and breeze. No human touch, ill or wise,
trammels the scene.” Am I yet as jaded
as the people who took their own advice?
Scarlet caps the green
of last summer's bounty like
foam upon a wave.
In warmer lands, South Wind stirs,
rising to his ancient task.
South Wind runs his hands
through golden frosts and fields,
leaving branches bare.
After each October gale,
Hoary winter gains more ground.
Ink-blot crows rest in
cages of branches and sky
then take wing once more.
North Wind begins to sing
quiet, cloud-gray lullabies.
April
pulls its fog-shroud
over the coast, battered
by surf, the seagulls' songs haunting
the tides.
Sea fog
lifts and lightens
over cliffs the color
of despair. Waves reach up to touch
sunlight.
South winds
banish the gray –
the barren, muddy earth
shows the first emerald sparks of life
returned.
Flowers
bloom from swollen
buds, the ocean cliffs turned
into a realm of light and joy;
sea rose.
Robins
return to nest,
gracing the cerulean
sky with the ancient verse of spring
once more.
April
lifts and lightens
the barren, muddy earth
into a realm of light and joy
once more.
A Talent for Misery Chapter 1 by Captain-Random, literature
Literature
A Talent for Misery Chapter 1
The ornate brass key looked much newer than Gabriel knew it to be. Despite being at least three generations old, having been passed from his grandfather to his father and now, at last, to him, the small key shone with a ruddy light under the weak early winter sunlight streaming into the courtyard. The simple fact he had been given it at all was in some ways a miracle. As the second son to the baron, the honor should have gone to his older brother. Of course, life had a way of writing its own script and that often didn't follow the standard procedures of humanity's devising.
Gabriel slid the key into his coat pocket and turned his attention
“Howdy, stranger.”
The young man strolling down the wide dirt path was every bit the gentleman; tweed jacket, deep green waistcoat, straw boater perched fashionably atop a head of lustrous chestnut curls. The old farmer's face – as furrowed by time as his fields were by the plow resting at the grassy verge – creased into its well-accustomed frown. The last thing he needed that day was some uppity dandy saying howdy like he was king of the county.
The young man stopped his stroll and tipped his hat toward the farmer. “Beautiful day, wouldn't you say? The breeze is as perfumed as Spring's soft whispers, and ye
An unknown raven perches on my sill
Or perhaps, in truth, it belongs to her?
Though unknown, I find myself watching still
as if by some trick, some sprite's sweet murmur
and I wonder if she has come for me.
Each feather shines with a disguised light,
her eyes untamed, deep as a winter's sea.
I move near, yet still she refrains from flight.
I retreat to my chair, for now deterred
by nothing more than shy, curious blush.
With light heart, I watch this wondrous bird--
the room, for a heartbeat, falls to a hush.
One thing I know, with no need for a seer;
I am not the reason that's brought her here.
I met a traveler from a nearby land
who shared this story: “A hoary ruin
of pitted concrete and chewed-up brick stands
amid the ancient groves, an intrusion
of steel beams cut short like broken hands
and rusted by the turning wheel of years.
Round its base, framed by curtains of moss
and fallen leaves whose scents rise like vapors
is a signboard, half decayed and faded:
“Bangor Nature Preserve... Please Leave No Trace...”
Nothing else disturbs the rest of shaded
brook and breeze. No human touch, ill or wise,
trammels the scene.” Am I yet as jaded
as the people who took their own advice?
Scarlet caps the green
of last summer's bounty like
foam upon a wave.
In warmer lands, South Wind stirs,
rising to his ancient task.
South Wind runs his hands
through golden frosts and fields,
leaving branches bare.
After each October gale,
Hoary winter gains more ground.
Ink-blot crows rest in
cages of branches and sky
then take wing once more.
North Wind begins to sing
quiet, cloud-gray lullabies.
April
pulls its fog-shroud
over the coast, battered
by surf, the seagulls' songs haunting
the tides.
Sea fog
lifts and lightens
over cliffs the color
of despair. Waves reach up to touch
sunlight.
South winds
banish the gray –
the barren, muddy earth
shows the first emerald sparks of life
returned.
Flowers
bloom from swollen
buds, the ocean cliffs turned
into a realm of light and joy;
sea rose.
Robins
return to nest,
gracing the cerulean
sky with the ancient verse of spring
once more.
April
lifts and lightens
the barren, muddy earth
into a realm of light and joy
once more.
A Talent for Misery Chapter 1 by Captain-Random, literature
Literature
A Talent for Misery Chapter 1
The ornate brass key looked much newer than Gabriel knew it to be. Despite being at least three generations old, having been passed from his grandfather to his father and now, at last, to him, the small key shone with a ruddy light under the weak early winter sunlight streaming into the courtyard. The simple fact he had been given it at all was in some ways a miracle. As the second son to the baron, the honor should have gone to his older brother. Of course, life had a way of writing its own script and that often didn't follow the standard procedures of humanity's devising.
Gabriel slid the key into his coat pocket and turned his attention
impetuous dreams of
seashores and your scarf
billowing in open breezes,
granulated images dusted
with salt and the rinds
of leftover tides,
your footprints stark
in miles of wet sand.
I have all these dreams
of running, to Paris or
Bali, never stopping until
we run out of air
to breathe or reach
the very edges
of the map.
I’m convinced the lines
on my palms are a mess
of co-ordinates,
the longitudes
and latitudes
of all the seashores
we should stand at,
our toes in the ocean
and our heels
on solid ground,
my hair
wild and buffeted,
your scarf
streaming,
as we take
one last
moonshine breath
and run our way
My mother gave me a flower, said
it would only bloom when my heart
was broken. I thought it was a curse.
I watched it grow, leaf after leaf
unfurling into pink-tinged skies
and lonely nights. My first love
turned me (upside) down.
He tumbled into another’s arms,
and the plant shivered an inch
upwards by morning.
I never watered it, hated it like an
unwelcome guest. I once poured
boiling tea into its roots but
the stem only sighed for a week
and recovered. I met a boy with
a talent for making things grow
and the flower halted its ascent.
We talked across continents and
seasons, telephone lines like
tightropes. I lost my balance.
A
The Clocksmith Chapter One by Captain-Random, literature
Literature
The Clocksmith Chapter One
The sun was not yet up, though the sky had turned the colorless hue that heralds sunrise. The tops of trees still budding could be seen as stark shadows against the sky, a testament to the light that would soon return to the world. From somewhere in the predawn fog, the forlorn sound of a train echoed into the dark station. Gradually, the rhythmic chugging of the engine's wheels became more audible, and the large iron beast came into view. The train came to rest in the station, steam blowing out of its smokestack.
"Pine Harbor!" the conductor shouted drearily, half-expecting no one to get off.
Cody Brown lives with one foot in Maine and one in Brigard. Not everyone approves of this, and yet he keeps on doing it. When not writing, Cody spends most of his time world-building in one form or another. The Clocksmith is Cody's debut novel.
You're welcome, and don't worry about being late. Truthfully, I haven't been on top of things lately so I might not have been able to reply before now anyway!