The half smoked cigarettes lay decapitated from their cylindrical ash heads like mummies, crinkled and dry and ancient. The paper is wrapped around the strings of tobacco like rags around bundles of herbs and god-like jars. Their neck stained brown with nicotine; a ghost of my inhales. Laying quietly like cast of ammo cartridges on the windowsill, nothing but paper and tobacco without my hand and lungs.
Tag: creative writing
Elven War Haiku [1.12.18]
5 The time came at last
7 To defend their ancient land
5 Men making arrows
9 The council making preparations
5 Their magic was strong
7 But their will was much stronger
5 They forged their weapons
9 Wove their Mithral armor with old spells
5 The animals knew
7 Smelling the fear in the wind
5 Fitted with barding
9 Ready to ride and die in battle
5 The Elders silent
7 They had seen wars here before
5 In ancient times past
9 The young do not remember that war
5 The old don’t want to
5 They stood solemnly
7 Stringing their bows and waiting
5 They could smell the fire
9 Enemies would soon be upon them
Skull and Bones [10-6-17]
The roe buck was dead.
The snow mounded around his lifeless body half concealing him.
His antlers grew out from his sad head,
an echo of his power and strength in life.
His legs lay out at awkward angles,
white tongue lolling from the side of his mouth,
out from between his flat teeth and lips stretched thin and pale.
He had fallen into death some time ago;
his fur falling from the hide in piles around him,
unto the ground and the snow.
Rough naked patches of flesh spotting his body,
the skin ripped and shredded open along the spine and ribs.
The remnants of coyotes feasting upon the carcass for their dinner.
The bones still had meat clinging to them in places,
and the rotting sac of organs beneath the rib cage exuding no smell,
frozen in the mid Winter chill.
It seemed that all he was,
everything that made him a deer,
was slowly falling away into the snow.
The only remaining legacy of life; his empty black eyes.
And in the Spring,
all that would remain would be his bare bones
scattered across the ground.
Familiar [11-1-08]
At night I hear the crickets talking to me,
their black backs
slick and reflective
against the moon.
When the sun comes up,
I leave the doors ajar so
one
by
one
they come inside to hide
under the chests and in the corners of the room;
their Morse code of clicks and chirps
a metronome for my writing hand.
Huntress [10.4.19]
It has been centuries.
While I have found pleasure in the work,
and have gained much skill through time,
I no longer get the satisfaction.
With every kill I make it gets easier and less fulfilling.
I am always searching for that perfect prey to give me what I want,
more than the things I need.
Eons pass and men fall before me.
Hopelessly bound by my love.
Rendered paralyzed by my gaze.
Wrestling internally with themselves to figure out if
I am real or only a dream.
If I am a goddess or a daemon.
Their blood is my life,
their love feeds my soul,
but they never last long;
can’t hold up against the intensity of my existence.
They worship and bend and beg for my love,
and eventually they withdrawal or attack or run.
And that’s when they are ended like so many before them,
and I begin the hunt anew, in search of another.
I grow tired, and wiser, and stronger,
but they never seem to change.
Mortal men are weak,
bound only to themselves and not built for eternity.
I eat their hearts and collect their souls.
Use their bones to build my armor
and that’s all they’re ever good for.
Their names drip like spells from my tongue,
and after centuries it seems my magic still isn’t strong enough
to find a thing I cannot eventually destroy.
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