I have taken a whitened chicken bone, from which the unfortunate animal was used as dinner a few nights ago. The farmer seemed more than happy to give up one for the cause of the King. From this bone I have begun to carve a small Celtic charm, my brother's wife taught me the meanings of several and I have chosen the luck charm. It is said that the more you wear it, the more luck you will have. Duncan taught me everything he taught Daniel, including how to carve. It was only about three quarters of an inch wide on all sides, and the details were difficult with my wide blade, but it was turning out well. When I had finished the outline and cut the shape out of the rest of the bone, I took a lump of coarse dirt from the roadside and began polishing the edges to round it out.
I sat in the entrance way to my tent after a long day's march, and the rain had begun to pour down. There was not much else to do in the camp besides drilling, so I had plenty of time to make the charm. When the polishing was finished, I reached into my bag and pulled out my sash. Pulling three loose threads from the cut edge, I tied them together at one end and then braided them down to the other end. I took the charm and looped the braid through the top hole in the design, and then tied it around my neck and dropped it down the front of my shirt. I felt it through the cloth and put my hand over it. "Thank you Duncan, goodbye."
I heave a sigh and wipe the moisture from my eye. Tomorrow, we are told, will be the last day of marching, we will be in Portsmouth by mid afternoon and from there on to the ships. I have never been on a ship before, only small fishing boats, and I wonder what its like. Matty walks by on his way to supper, I jump up and join him, and I will ask him.
"Have you ever been on a ship, Matty?"
"Me? No, never."
"I wonder what it's like." said I
"Chris has been on one before." Matty smiled as we ducked out of the rain into the mess tent. "He sailed from Ireland to join up."
Hmm, that's right. I will ask him then. We get in line and two steaming plates are put in front of us, as well as two tankards full of water. No ale for the drummers, humph. We turn from the line and search for Michael and Chris. They are spotted across the tent, but Nicholas and his gang are sitting between us and them. I look at Matty and head off to take the long way around; we've had mostly no trouble with him, but they are growing bolder; and even though we are equals, he is older and stronger. So we avoid him and his English pals.
"I swear, if I was the cook in this place, Ah'd have made us all a nice big pot o' porridge, never mind this shite!" I swore when taking my seat.
"Oh, so yer a chef now, as well as a sword master?" laughed Chris.
"Aye, Ah'll kill you wi' mae sword in one hand and cut you up and put yer pieces in my stew with my dirk in the other!" I joked back. Matty's eyes widened at this and ducked his head down. "What's the matter, Matty?"
He looked nervous, but spoke anyway. "Is it true
Greggory Cullen Wagner
after Don DeLillo
Is all that will be known of where we haven’t been still
pasted in mud clay of elm and maple walls logs stacked
to the rafters the roof views a farther news
spoken when the axe bites to gather feed and fuel
beside a wagon with no wheels no river abandons the way why
would anyone stop here might it have been the dawn
sky with petticoats on incomplete without a suitor
for the new day a cantor for the new mass a procreator of hair
dressed in dirt vestments
whose idea was it to stand still in the revelation of light
no broader than two or three paces broader than ten or twelve paces
as broad and as wide as the number of paces required
for the rest of your life things will flash and die the elements conspire
against us what does the wind know of distance
the sun know of day the clouds know of shadows on rainy parades
of earthbound transparencies who waltz anyway what does it take
to pick up a rock toss it higher than mountains at that fool yellow moon
faraway nightlight of well furnished tombs the bully of wolfmen
who taunts little dog laughter truant dishes and runaway spoons
kitties and fiddles and bovine balloons who dented this imperfect circle
and called it a heart a slapshutter window
shattered apart by the impatient crave for more
seasons and psalms and thunder and calm blessings
JesusGodAlmighty where are your poor
bone jointed troubadours of blood woes song
who build busted branch second chance twilight teepee fires
content to watch planets which don’t seem to move at all?
Sixteen chickens were now living on 'Ol Joe's farm. They were sitting and clucking around and not knowing exactly what to do.
The mom chicken gave birth to one; it was a boy. It was excited, clucking around. The sky was free and everything flowed like a feather in a breeze. It was great. Everything was good. It was the only chicken born to the mother. He wanted friends or siblings. "-Cluck- I need to have to fun -cluck- We could run around on this clucking farm together -cluck-"
It was another boy that was born! On the same day and same time that the first chicken was born. Happy. The first chicken was extremely happy. He looked at the new chicken, it looked almost exactly like him. Twins. However, it was more strange because the new chicken seemed to be the same age as the old chicken, even though he was just born. "-Cluck- Big ol' twin" The new chicken smiled at the old chicken. He seemed quite able for his age. The future seemed to be friendship.
On the same day a year later, another chicken was born. This chicken even bigger. There were three chickens now and they were clucking and confused. "Cluck" " Yes, this is strange. This chicken seems to look like both -cluck- of us" It did. This chicken seemed to be the same as the others. Three year old chicken born at the day. They were all clucking and confused. "Cluck" "Cluck" "We're friends!" said the new chicken.
They were happy but overwhelmed. Their ideas were conflicted now. Were these chickens the same age, because it seemed like they were. Or were these chickens separated by a year, because it seemed like they were. "Cluck" They clucked a lot on the farm. That's all they did for a little bit in silence. They decided to keep enjoying their time together and continuing on with life.
On the same day a year later, another chicken was born. All the chickens had grown significantly. But out of the egg in 'Ol Joe's farm, that chicken was the same size and seemed to be the same age. Were they all the same chicken separated by a year? -cluck- -cluck- -cluck- or what? They did not know what to do, they all had become great friends. They were thinking of two ideas, but continuing to cluck.
On the same day a year later, another chicken was born. Things were feather free still. This chicken was the same size and age as the other chickens. However, the chickens had gotten older. and became more intelligent. It is confusing because the new chicken was just as intelligent. They looked at each other with chicken eyes and clucked again.
On the same day a year later, another chicken was born. It became to be an uncomfortable malaise. The chickens did not know what to do. They loved their brother but were more -clucki- -cluck- confused. They decided they need to keep on going. "-Cluck- Let's play hopscotch" "Yes"
On the same day a year later, another chicken was born. It was the same size, mind, and seemed to be the same age as the other chickens, j
One of my favorite songs that I've written.
A draft of an idea that I've been playing with for a while about a guy who wakes up to have his world rocked a little bit, and then a whole lot, both times because of a young lady.
this piece is a week-long collaboration between katie & I. there had been virtually no prior planning, save for an agreement to compose a fictional piece and to write from separate character perspectives. I portrayed liam, whereas she portrayed ethan.
Here's something I just recently put together. Simple, short. I'm not very poetic, and I know very little about modern poetry, so I'm mostly just slapping words on paper.
Watch, where you’re going!” you sneer at me and move on with your nose up.
“sorry…” I mumble back, picking up my books
Actually you ran into me. I was standing at my locker, not like you even care.
You see me in the halls every day; I sit in the desk behind you in history, and have a locker down the hall from you.
Do you know I’m homeless?
My dad, brother, sister and I stay in abandoned buildings. Our family didn’t split up when we lost our house, and I think it’s better that way. It still feels a little like home because we somehow manage to have a few rules existing.
The rules are simply: go to school as much as you can and don’t fight or get arrested.
Before we were evicted we were a proper “use-a-napkin and write-your-thank-you-letters” kind of family.
But that was before dad was considered a disposable part of the company. That was before all the bills and their ever-so-pleasant collectors. That was before the power was cut and our tap ran dry, and a nice blue paper was nailed to our door.
Don’t think this all happened overnight, oh no, this was a prolonged suffering. My dad fought every step of the way, “just some more time” he’d say. Oh dad, why would time make an exception for us?
That gave me time to prepare though.
Step 1: Go through the stages of grief and then accept the fact that you’re moving into a new sort of residence (probably a refrigerator box)
Step 2: Practice. To get what you need you are going to have to steal, lie and beg. No need to dance around it. Homeless people tend to acquire sticky fingers. I wasn’t always a thief though, but you reach a certain breaking point. Like when that blanket in the store is so soft and warm and the temperature is dropping outside. 44 degrees… 37… 33… and there’s your breaking point. So people should check their pockets when they walk past me, and pat me down at every store exit, but they don’t.
Still, stores are only good to an extent. Homes are the real bonanza.
Breaking into houses is best during the day when most are at work. Usually it takes a little patience and surveillance. Now contrary to popular belief, we aren’t about to break into your house and rob you blind. That would put you and the police on red alert and it would have been a one-time thing. No. We are subtle. We’ll observe the house: When do the adults leave for work? The kids for school? Are there security codes? A dog? We need to get to know you in order for you to be the “hosting” family. We don’t take everything, just some crackers in the back of your pantry, a blanket from the bottom of the linen closet, and the shirt that you never wear. Nothing big enough to notice, just the stuff you forgot about already. We’ll stay with you for maybe a month or two, and then leave. You’ll never even realize we were there.
Those are the days I miss school.
And although I may have stolen many things, I still have a conscience and I won’t forget those I’ve taken from. I made a list of all the names (taken from IDs)
the paint is
spread uneven and
left to be assumed
no bulwark no
strategem can occlude
the treacle they
descried is not
aromal on the surface,
mephitic on the
forward they encroach,
an anabasis toward
the mire with
in which you
and I are
prostrated and in
in and in
and in they
the cleft I
mistook for a