writing

Fine Young Bloke

Sprouts push hard against the stubborn earth

Everyday, we witness the miracle of birth

While a wise, kind, and caring being is dying,

A tiny young bird falls, and begins flying

A boy heaves a stone and learns to kill,

In the vast world some people are not free still,

Someone raises up in anger and shouts,

In the intelligence of men there still lay doubts;

A heart is toyed with and broke,

By a careless but rather fine young bloke,

It is a miracle for anyone to stand,

Alas all I want is to hold someone’s hand.

The Counsel Gathers

As the sun rose and exposed Saltmarsh to warm sunlight, it was a very different city. Fires smoldered on one side where siege weapons were attacked and destroyed. Slain guards were lined up and accounted for so they could be buried properly; casualties of the civil struggle between the king and the traditionalists of the city. Much blood has been spilt in the conflict. Will there be more? 

Galen stepped into the common room of the Mariners guild house dressed in a clean bright tunic and black pants with boots shined brightly. His personal guard, Buckminster was by his side and held Galen’s arm to steady him. Galen’s face was drawn in and bruised, signs of the torture he endured in the jail of the kingsmen. He stepped to a chair in the center of the room and gingerly sat then folded his hands in his lap. Buckminster stood behind him and looked about the room with eyes narrowed as brow tight searching for any potential enemies and even when he found nothing but friendly faces he maintained his scowl. 

Next Eda, the old burly fisherwoman entered. She was wearing a long coat, common for fishermen, and heavy boots. Her face too was bruised, the work of the torturer, and she walked carefully. A pair of strong young men helped her to her seat next to Galen. She sat and he reached out a hand to her, she took it and gently squeezed. They enjoyed a moment of solidarity as survivors then sat forward and waited for the final counsel man. 

Murmurs that he would not show began to circulate but at last Anders entered with bright clothes and his head held high as if this were some basic meeting of the counsel. He greeted many personally and took time to shake hands with a number of people whose faces brightened when they saw the young man. He smiled and chatting briefly with a few folks before finally taking his seat. 

The room fell silent. Galen cleared his throat with a croak like a frog then asked in a slow and deep voice, “How can we resolve this conflict and if possible, gain control of our precious city once more?” 

The question was one on the minds of every person there. It was a question of the fate of an entire city. The answer would affect generations to come.

Fathers Day

Many names I’ve been called

A few titles I’ve been given 

Some were deserved 

Others spat with venom 

None are more meaningful

Than all of the others

For when a child’s born 

They began to call me father

It’s a title given out

With much ease at first

As I stood by at witnessed

My children’s births

But it’s a life’s commitment

Of sacrifice and effort

To deserve the title

And hold it high with honor 

It’s one I’ll carry

For my lifetime 

I’ll wear it proudly 

For my children are ever mine 

To protect and nurture 

Educate and guide 

Nothing more could ever

Fill my heart with greater pride

Smell of Death

From The Monster in the Woods a Sureshot short story available on Amazon. It’s a great little story and great way to check out my writing. You’ll love it!

Blood and bones increased in frequency and the men knew they were getting close to the Ogre’s lair. They crept silently along, backs bent low to reduce their profile as they moved through the brush, parallel to the ogre’s path. Their eyes were wide and scanned constantly. Their ears were strained to hear any sound of threat and they even checked the air for changes in scent. Indeed, the air became more foul the nearer they crawled to the ogre’s home. It smelled like rot, as if the woods had an infection or tumor that grew ever more dangerous.

At last the smell of death was nearly unbearable and flies were thick; buzzing about like a constant breeze. There was a bit of a clearing, likely because the ogre smashed most of the trees to the ground. The area appeared to be the site of some hideous battle which left nothing but blood and ruin. Bones were everywhere and blood covered every surface. The trees that were still standing had been abused and bore deep cuts, scratches and gouges on their trunks.

All the Right Reasons

Another HS poem. Such youthful optimism.

Beaming a wide grin at one another as they hold hands in the park.

A wish come true that they found each other through the dark.

Smiling uncontrollably since the day that they promised to forever love and cherish.

Home they sit and bathe in the love that they have for the other.

Sunshine pours in through the windows and soaks the couple embraced.

A friend for life is what the two are and will be forever.

Yellow flowers brighten the kitchen table as they eat their meals together.

Gold rings are a poor symbol of the purity in their hearts.

A dog at their feet as they cuddle on the couch and whisper soft tender words.

Mouths pressed lovingly together now as they will be forever.

They are a couple that got married for all the right reasons.

Not a Hero

Opening to my Zombie story.

I’m not actually a hero. I know that some of you think I am, but you’re wrong. In fact, in many ways I’m a coward. I have a tendency to run. I run from most conflicts, from bill collectors, from my boss, from my wife, from my kids, from most everything. I don’t say no to anyone or stand up for myself. I basically let other people tell me what to do. I hate to spoil the story before it begins but I didn’t want to lead you on this whole time. I am not a leader or a great man. I wanted to be. For a moment I thought I was but in the end it all collapsed. It all ended where it started really and I was no better. I survived is all. But that’s why you’re reading this. You want to know how I survived. You want to hear from the guy who made it. You want to read the story of the man who conquered the zombies. You want to know what really happened because there are a lot of accounts of that event that are confusing or worse “official.” But there is only one true story and I have it. So, you’re reading the right story. Just don’t expect it to inspire. I’m not a hero.