The Fragrant Gift
Wrapped in fragrant lily petals, lay a pair of silver metals, graven with the finest etches,
of a master's limber scrawl.
He had drank of skyborne nectars, being commissioned for his vectors, by a spirit dressed in feathers, arriving from an airy host.
Told that these two silver earrings, were to lend a gift of hearing, to its destined chosen keeper, this he knew was heaven's task.
Being wrought throughout his fingers, as they trembled spirit lingers, sending their divine vibrations, into supple flourished bends.
Thus the pair of spiraled spooning, crescents curved like rippled moon in, undulating balmy waters, in a June soaked lunar pond.
Took on heretofore non-written, forms with whorls and wavy scritten, flourished arcs that were the symbols, of a melodious aural tongue.
That above the earthen voices, heard beneath all sonic noises, in the hidden heart of Sengral's, optic opened subtle mind.
With its unheard song of golden, notes not heard nor eye-beholden, worked their movement through extension, of his softly wavering hand.
Thus by art of this attendant, double twirling verse-laced pendants, sheened with polished argent lustre, were born with gleaming cast.
To his patron calm yet eager, showing him what wasn't meager, cast his hand into the sunlight, palming both the silver strands.
"Here" he said, "Thy work is done." And let him cast his eyes upon, the pair of smoothly twisting vessels, to be worn in floral breeze.
The feathered creature pleased and stirring, thanked the craftsman and with whirring, wings bestowed a shell with pearls, unto the artisan then turned.
And taking two fresh fragrant curls, which on the flower near unfurled, he gave them bed in which to carry, to their intended maiden.
And flying forth above the marsh, and soaring over mountain harsh, he came to the sylvanian garden, where Leda spent her vernal days.
And there she gazed and well received him, knowing not but yet perceiving, that this plumed majestic guest, had something yet to give her more.
Opening the incensed petals, peach in color with the metals, sparkling in the shining daylight, and to her lock-strewn ears adorned.
And when they on her lopes were swaying, music like a chanter praying, came to her and in a voice, nor-heard nor-learned yet understood.
Whispered in its breathless tones, waves that carry unheard moans, it spoke in unseen light a message, mingled in ambrosial rhymes.
This it was annunciation, telling her a procreation, not by choice but heaven's measure, to her womb would come to be.
Dazzled by this fleet expression, she noticed not the feathers pressing, just upon her bosom warmed, by sunbeams of the falling sun.
And there just near the lilacs twisting, with the rose and orchids visiting, did the swan in plumy carriage, make his way beneath her robes.
And later leaving by the twilight, with sun and moonlight on the violet, then she came upon her senses, in that mountain-terraced yard.
And watched the sunset and the star rise, that was in the distance far as, the horizon where the flight of, that fowl visitor disappeared.
And by the months she kept the earrings, and they gave her still more hearings, that would sing of newborn tidings, that to this garden soon would come.
And days went by and hours passed, and Leda's womb grew firm and fast, before the time that Autumn next, seeped colour from all the trees.
At night announced by shooting star, in constellation Sagitar, a babe was born from twixt her limbs, with pearly cheeks and and winged back.
And mischief would he bring to be, but harmless yet he brought her glee, as he bound all beast and bird, to heed his song and follow true.
And when her belly had receded, her silver earrings weren't needed, for the song that used to sing them, carried from the young boy's breath.
She cast them out into a river, carried with the current hither, off beneath the mountainside, where in a crystal pool they lay.
And now the garden dances gaily, with butterflies and birds in melee, twirling to the tunes that warble, with the trills of vibrant notes.
And sometime in the August sky, beneath the cloud by clever eye, a glimpse of white wings in the air, is spied a sailing yonder.
Not to kill.
Just corner him.
And let him be borne into the light.
Where all can see him on his knees.
And his spittled open prayers ride freely on the breeze.
Give no mercy, and give him not the enveloping sleep of death.
But make him a spectacle where all can watch the heaving of his begging breath.
When superiority is shown to all, and a king is forced to fall.
The forced continuance of life, is 10,000 times more dreadful than death at the bludgeoned edge of a wartorn jagged knife.
Song of the Glade
In thou I waltz beneath the bower white,
A woven canopy of floral vine,
Where incensed airs and zephyrs in sunlight,
Provide a bouqet for the berry wine,
Approaching to the altar in mid-day,
and here the honysuckle winds upon,
the marble tablet swirled with stormy gray,
protruding busts of syrinx piping fauns.
Oh season of the drones and butterflies,
When honey’s in the air amidst the fray,
of multi-coloured vibrant floral dyes,
and warbling notes of birdsong that portray,
the primavera vox of motley hues,
that conjures solstice darklings to debut.
Dog Moon : Chapter 1 Marooned
Tatters and shreds of sweaty shirt flapped behind the boy in a mad rush through the canyon, careening through the course of a gurgling brook. Hurtling soaked shoes clapped over smooth rocks with water slapping and splashing the bleeding scrapes that were pulsing and stinging in the sun and wind. Double-gaited gazelle leaps vaulted him over the big jutting stones as his tawny arms pumped and counterbalanced his lithe body. No looking back, only forward towards the looming dark forest canopy where the water enters into a swampy delta. Snakes’ paradise, Kallas’ haven. It will be a lot of work climbing the ancient stone steps underneath the matted roots, but if he can get to the top, everything he needs to make a set of darts awaits him.
The drone-dogs are good, real good. Laser-olfactory, boosted jumping power, visual memory, limited airlift and stay, solar powered, and an arresting bite that sedates, marks and implants beacons. But they have one old-fashioned shortcoming. Water. There’s not much of it around, and they simply weren’t designed for it.
Kallas finally got to the perimeter and waded into the de facto moat where the winding roots of the forest pushed up like thick whorled branches of inverted trees. He climbed in and up, and got his first chance to look back and survey the canyon behind him. As he rotated his head he glimpsed the hypnotic apparition of a giant moth perched on the bark of the tree in front of him. Grey dusty wings fading into a beige head apparatus contrasted with a radiant orange eclipse like eye pattern formed by the two folded wings. Nature’s way of telling predators “Eye see you.” Transfixed for a moment, his survival instinct broke the spell to let him glance back at the canyon. Nothing but a twenty meters wide ribbon of running water and rocks churring through an age old dried up river bed, once nearly a mile wide, now a desert-scape reaching back to the former cliff banks in the distance.
This was no time to relax and be mesmerized by exotic fauna. He crept back up on to the covered trail of stone steps and climbed up and over the tangles of roots, forcing newts to flee and sending crackling sounds of breaking bark echoing in the thick, humid, leafy breathing air.
It wasn’t too far to the top, only a few hundred meters, but it wasn’t too fast either. This trail hadn’t been blazed for a couple of millennia, and it was remarkable the stone could still be seen. They only could because the roots of the trees left lots of lift space between the trunks and the forest floor, and in the rains, which only formed from condensation on this hilly part of the rough but habitable twin moon, the water would run under them and clean out all the brush and forest debris. Finally he got to the top where there was a flat space, the old altar. Still overgrown but it had some low rock barriers that managed to stick up through the foliage and bottom lattice. They were covered with moss and also had lots of chips and crevices, making a perfect place high up that offered protection, cushioned sitting, and storage space for tools and valuables.
Finally pulling up over the last roots, he climbed onto the dais and sat down half cross-legged, leaning back on the moss of one of the barriers. The hollow sounds of half empty fruits falling from trees in the forest mingled with rushing sounds, drips, crackles and distant birdsong and whooping calls. After resting a minute he reached onto the top of the barrier and slid off one of the coconut shells he had placed there to catch rainwater and grabbed a wad of thick green moss. He wet and cleaned the moss, cleaned out all the scrapes on his legs, and doused them with the rest of the water. They weren’t too bad, just surface wounds that would heal in a week or so. He took a sip of water from one of the other coconuts, and then slid aside a stone covering a deep crevice in the barrier and pulled out a makeshift wooden box.
Inside were three shiny milky-pink marble colored arrowheads, crafted from the shells of crustaceans that lived in the brook. They could have been used as points on shafts for hunting, but not these three. These were specially designed to be blades for carving darts.
The drone-dogs couldn’t handle water very well cause they couldn’t make any landings on it, and their smelling capabilities were incapacitated by it. But Kallas’ would have to conduct raids outside of the forest well into the badlands and he would need to be armed. The dog’s metallic armor would be no match for a normal dart, especially wooden ones. But these darts would not be designed to penetrate matter. They were masterfully crafted to whistle with varying high pitched tones whose disharmonic sounds could jam the dogs’ sonic processors and even cause their entire central processing units to go haywire and cease.
Kallas then pulled out a long piece of bamboo… the heavy artillery. A long time in the making, this would serve as both a blowdart launcher, and also a finely tuned flute-whistle able to play numerous combinations of high-pitched notes that could not only jam the dogs, but command them. The dogs used sonic high pitched sounds to communicate, and using this whistle, Kallas’ could emulate commands. He was The Piper.
Dust & Shackles
The winding staircase in the minaret, is missing a step. Virgil's bones await the sunbaked robes of the next scalers. Where once the double-helix throve in spawn and steam, where lizards were green, as luminescent emerald, in the hot and balmy fream, and snakes curled round stamen in petals of the dream... now there is a cracked approach with littered bones midst a sea of sand baking under the dog star... and this lone tower lurching at the vapid sky. The key was lost, many whorls ago, when the rains still sprayed and the children played, they hid it in a secret spot, that wasn't locked, just forgot, and running home to dinner bells, aborted shells of snails and stick traced runes to race toward the setting disc in the last degree of summer's firmament.