I remember being on the mountain. Seeing the hills below. The way they rolled on, coated with trees. Grass peeking out beneath the trellises of tickling winds. The way everything seemed serene down there. Peaceful. Calm.
I remember being on the mountain with you standing next to me. Proud to show me the view below. You weren’t like the other one. That one was proud because he thought it was better up here. Thought the snow and wind and height gave him something. And, to an extent, he wasn’t wrong.
Unlike you, he didn’t understand what it was the mountain was giving him.
What it was that made this place so special. So glorious. He didn’t understand.
The mountain gave him nothing but a view.
The world, as it is. As it was.
And down there, watching the people move their flocks in the valley, it gave him the greatest gift of all.
A picture of what will be. Continue reading “This Valley”
Through the evergreens, across the frozen lakes, beyond the towering glaciers. I moved, endlessly onward. Pursuing only that wisp. That dream. An inkling that tickled at the back of my mind. Rode the tail of the Northern Lights. Disappeared in the dawn, leaving a faint memory.
Wandered, not aimlessly. Not at all.
But with a goal:
I will find it.
I will find you. Continue reading “Wandering Star”
I’m not sure how to handle this. What I ought to do. Where I can go from here. How to recover.
What do you do when everything you built was a lie? When the house turns out to be made of glass and then—surprise, surprise—it shatters? What foundation can survive on sand? Who builds a house that washes away with the shore?
What do you do when you live like that?
What can you do to save yourself? To save what you’ve stored away? What you’ve built?
Could there ever be reckoning from a betrayal that runs foundation-deep?
I don’t know.
I don’t think so.
How could you ever trust that broken ground again? What could you ever build there? What kind of dangerous contraption could stand on something like that?
What can I recover?
Continue reading “Spirit Unrested”
The knock was gentle. Timid. Meant to be heard, but not to disturb.
I knew who it was, of course.
So, of course, I let him in. Continue reading “Share of Hearts”
The day the invitation showed up was the day I knew:
They found me.
And, more than likely, they weren’t going to let me go.
Not this time. Continue reading “Summer Fling Of A Summer King”
The world moves onward.
That’s what we know. If nothing else is certain, there is that one, tiny, constant.
The world moves onward.
There was a time when we ravaged the land. When we raided from the sky. When humans fought us with all their might, because of our inner fire. Because we…
We were other.
Not part of them.
There was a time when we soared. When we fought alongside the people. When we weighed mountains in hand and cast them aside, simply for the sake of making bridges. To give peace, or to bring prosperity. Humans praised us. Thanked us. Loved us dearly.
Both places exist in time.
As old as they are, they exist.
Both times exist.
Though not in this place.
Because this time is a different time. Separated from the previous. This time is the time that is in the future. The time that is forward.
This is the time in which the world has moved onward.
We have not forgotten.
We move forward.
Continue reading “Lost Passion”
Power is not something earned, or something given.
Bricks stacked together, to build monuments. Dynamite stacked on dynamite, to blow through mountains. Metal bolted to metal, to make tanks.
Power is not in you. It’s something you build.
You can build power in anything, with anything. With anyone.
Power is a determination. A mindset.
What’s the difference between wolves and coyotes?
Not what you think it is, I bet.
I’ll tell you.
It’s not in the bite, or the bark, or the way they howl.
It’s in the way they walk. Continue reading “Strength of the Wolf”
She sputters sometimes.
Wakes up in fits.
There are nights when there’s nothing I can do. There’s no warning. No sounds. It’s quiet. Peaceful for me.
And then, I realize:
It’s only peaceful for me. Continue reading “Fitful Night”
Being a hero was no easy job.
That’s why I never really wanted it in the first place.
Fighting crime? I was okay with that. Getting shot at? Again, not something that really concerned me. Running into dangerous situations? Fiery buildings? Crumbling structures? Yeah, I can do that. I can do all that, no sweat. Easy as pie.
This part of the job?
This was why I was so reluctant. Why I, in part, kind of hated being a hero.
Because heroes do all the dirty work. Continue reading “A Hero’s Mercy”
We were kids. Couldn’t have been older than six, that’s all I know. That’s as far as my memory can reach.
It’s more than far enough.
We were kids, and we were sitting in the barn. Staring at a dead mouse. Well, it wasn’t really a mouse. Not quite yet, anyway. It was still fairly pink. Poor thing. It was trying to be a mouse. It really was.
But it fell.
Instead of crawling or walking or scurrying how mice do, it fell from the rafters. Without even a single sound, it fell.
We were kids, and we were staring at the mouse, a giant lump in my throat and a stone in my stomach. An ache spreading through my joints as I thought about how such a small thing had died so soon. He hadn’t even really lived yet, the poor little thing.
And that was when he said it. Staring at the lost life before us, his expression receded in his sadness, he said it.
“One day, I’m going to be the Grim Reaper.”
It was a bit of a bombshell.
So, I’d said, “I thought you were going to be a lawyer.”
As somberly as he could—neither of us really understood it at the time—he said, “Mom says they’re practically the same thing.”
Continue reading “The Reaper, My Love”