We were wolves, basking in the glow of the moonlight. Chasing autumn’s heels as winter froze our game. Hungry bellies that ached beneath the warmth of our fur, our smoking breaths, our hopeful howls. We huddled through the cold, cobbling warmth together with beating hearts and heated blood. When spring came, we were the first to greet it. Singing praises to the melting snow and the blooming life. All things renewed in our meadows, filling us to the brim with new scents, new trails. And we stayed through summer as well, panting through the sun’s burden of heat. Powering through so that we might blend with the colors of autumn once again.
We were wolves.
And things were beautiful.
It was not perfect.
It was not easy.
It was life.
And it was good.
We were wolves. Together under the gaze of the forgiving moon. Hidden along the trees’ shadows, watchful and hopeful with every passing season. Looking forward to the future together with our eyes looking past the skies.
Now I’m unsure.
The foreign scent brings me grief. Filling me to the brim with something akin to summer’s heat, yet, it leaves me empty like winter’s bared teeth. This strange, familiar shape I see…
This change brings a season I’ve never heard of before. Winds that jar my senses with the foreign scent it brings.
And I don’t know anymore.
If we are not wolves…
Who will we be? Continue reading “Forging Seasons”
A hundred years I slept.
Do you know how many dreams you can have in a hundred years?
An awful lot.
Especially if you’re sleeping through those hundred years.
Things start to make less and less sense as you sleep. Was that a memory that just floated by? Or another dream? Is this dissipating fog real?
When you wake, everything rests in that cloud of dreams. Of memories. Stuck in the valley of things that come and go. Of things that can be barely seen, and never grasped
After a hundred years of sleep…
It’s hard to tell.
Continue reading “Hazy Dreams, Sleeping Memory”
They thought they could change me. That immersing me in this… darkness… would help. That it would make things different. Fix me. Shatter the thing that claws. That bites. They thought they could break the beast within me by plunging me into memories. By trying to change what I know. Change my experience. Eliminate the past.
I told them this wouldn’t work.
I’m all for destroying the beast inside—believe me, I am—but…
I want to do it right. Correct. Vanquish the beast completely.
I know the beast within. I know it well.
After all—this beast within?
It’s just me.
And I knew:
This wouldn’t work. I told them very directly, very plainly.
This won’t work.
I wasn’t wrong. Continue reading “Beast Trigger”
I remember the chill in the air. The way the leaves folded to it. Fell before the shaking, turning as they dropped. I remember seeing the dander in the air. Small pods of pollen flittering to rest on anything and everything. I remember watching the hawks drift. Carried by it’s weight.
I’ve never seen him. Never. Not once.
I remember him.
I remember the wind. Continue reading “Thankful Memories”
On Halloween, I met someone special.
I met a skeleton. Continue reading “Mournful Bones”
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”
I don’t remember just being mighty.
I remember being majestic.
A whole constellation, a spilling of stars, smattered into the sky. Burned into the dark atmosphere like the proudest of marks. The most gorgeous of tattoos. A unified light that could guide, if need be.
I remember it.
But I’ve forgotten how to get there.
Forgotten how to get back to you.
Guide me back to being a constellation.
You need me.
Don’t you? Continue reading “To Fill A Constellation”
I’ve always had a lot of fight in my bones.
When I was born, they say I picked my head up. Yep. Right out the womb, I had my whits about me. Had to have a look. Had to squirm, had to move. If I could’ve, I probably would’ve punched out at someone. Hit ’em square in the jaw or something. Anything, really.
Because I’ve always—always—had a lot of fight in my bones.
And, if you were born with something in your bones, you might as well be remembered for it.
Continue reading “Rubble Rouser”
Do you know what’s scary?
And I don’t mean in that vague, temporary way. The way in which you walk into a room—be it the kitchen, or the laundry room, or your living room—and forget what it is that you’re there to do. What task you had in mind, or what object you meant to pick up. And then, after staring intently into the abyss for a moment, you remember what it is and then go about your day, the feeling of an unseeable itch gone, replaced by the relief of remembering.
I don’t mean that kind of forgetting at all.
I mean truly, sincerely forgetting.
It’s terrifying when you think about it.
…how do you remember what it was you forgot?
Spooky, isn’t it?
What have you forgotten, I wonder?
Was it important?
Was it beautiful?
Was it magical?
Was it something like this?
I wonder for your sake, not mine.
I’ve already been shown what I lost to my bad memory. What it was that I forgot.
And it was all those things in one. Continue reading “Soaring”
Fire is a beautiful thing, but it’s dangerous.
Really, really dangerous.
It burns and it eats. Devours whole forests, devastates communities, takes without mercy. It moves without thought, without feeling. A natural destroyer.
Fire is very dangerous.
But fire is not all bad.
In fact, fire is quite useful. When fires start in forests, it’s usually because that area of the forest is dead. Sure, when it burns it takes the homes of the wildlife, but it paves the way for new homes. For new life. New trees and new plants. It makes room so the forest can flourish, rather than just exist or survive.
Yeah, fire is dangerous.
But it does do good sometimes.
Personally, I think fire was made to be good. It just can get out of control sometimes is all.
Doesn’t mean it isn’t useful. Continue reading “Olden Fire”