Coming up (in no order)

1. The venerable ones

2. Of Pfepf

3. Cloudfield

4. Other fun stuff from me other blog thingies

5. the Pink Floyd posts from insta


To Write (no promises, etc etc):

1. Royal Arcade (update the insta writeup)

2. The ghost children of Berlin

3. Magic: Cloudfield, Berlin, Royal Arcade

4. Stars on a string


PS: Drink up me hearties, yo ho!

Goodbye

I had too many explanations, some involving bayes networks, and I thought I'd skip them all, and move on to the goodbye. So, uhm, yes, Goodbye.

This pretty little Coppice Gate is closed. 

Now go on and read If On a Cold Autumn's Night. Oh, and for those who care, I'll be back. Sometime. Somewhere.

If On a Cold Autumn's Night

It was another evening at the Broken Mirror. Monsieur Vendémiaire's ale flowed freely, and the company was jolly, and the inn was filled with raucous tales and laughter. In a quiet corner, sat a fair maiden, apart from the crowd in countenance and in comportment. She had a cherubic round face, eyes that could shine in laughter, and golden tresses that caught sunshine in open meadows. But now she sat a pale shadow, shrinking into herself, anxiously awaiting someone, perhaps.

She kept her eyes down, this shy little daisy, except when she dared dart a glance outside the great window. But evening grew weary, and the door remained shut. Suddenly, there waz a roar of laughter and a shout for more beer and she, startled, saw that the lamps were lit outside. And under one such wrought iron lamp and creeping ivy, she saw the Dark Lady, intently writing on her pad.

She wore a stark black gown that seemed still, and yet also to flow in the breeze. Dark hair fell on her pale face in jagged edges, emphasizing sharp features, pointed nose and high cheekbones. Her eyes were blue as the night sky, with the stars bright and a crescent moon setting in the west. And her red, red lips were curled in a curious little smile as she scribbled, scratched, paused and scribbled again. And the clear grey eyes of our little one were drawn to her, strangely fascinated by this creature, so unlike what she had seen in her young, sheltered life.

When at last she stopped with her scribbling, she gracefully rose, tearing the pages from the pad. Her step was light, and she pushed open the heavy, oak door with no seeming effort. The fair child watched, wide eyed, as she glided over to the innkeeper, tearing her yellowed papers into halfs and further halfs, then handed them over to him, her eyes glinting with secret amusement. He cast them into the fire: its flames leapt and crackled, illuminating a scar that ran from his brow to chin. Then he announced a round of drinks on the house, and his customers clapped and cheered, oblivious that their fortune had been writ, shredded and consigned to keep them warm. For that night.

The Dark One walked away, satisfied with her day's work, and the girl in the inn shivered, but continued to stare in her direction long after Darkness joined her.

--
This story was born in a cafe whose layout is suspiciously similar to the layout of the Broken Mirror, where Discordienne and I completed each other's sentences. Then I wrote it up, and we both obsessed over editing it.

In Verse: Still Life

Some things do not take kindly to photographs.
They are entirely too un-still, to be stilled
on film, or in code of ones and zeros.
Take the flight of swallows:
in one click, capricious turns and banks
are reduced to a flash
of feathers, wings and forked tail in blue sky.
You're like that, I think.
One might, perhaps, capture the laughter
about the crinkles of your eyes,
but it is far easier to catch the warmth of sun glint on rivers
than that something in those precious eyes
that hints at knowing secrets to life itself.

Things I'm afraid to tell you.

I do not have, today,
sparkling stories or warm memories,
or glossed-up descriptions of grief.
And I thought, today, I'd be brave.

Write of that that isn't beautiful,
isn't perfect.

Fingers quiver. Type.

Delete. In the silence,
the fan beats out its relentless rhythm:
it's hot, it's hot, it's hot...

One day, love, I will not be afraid
of judgement and rejection.
I will be brave enough
to write of the things I'm afraid to tell you.

In verse: Confession

Ma, I think I found a name
for that sharp feeling welling up in my bosom
when my friends narrate stories of their fathers:
resentment.

Wisps

It wasn't much different from my other dreams. I was having a bad day: I'd done stupid stuff, shown poor judgement, nothing new really. And then, I saw dad following ma into the kitchen. He looked blurred, only a little, and I told myself it was just my imagination. But he felt solid enough when I grabbed his arm, and so I threw myself into his arms and cried.

The next few days, I held on to that dream when I felt lonely; it had been too long since he’d actually held me, and the dream felt more real than memories. Now that dream's faded too, and again, I am left with wisps.