đ
that came over that hill that spent the morning casting shadows into a grain filled valley. they were sprouted with arrows, the riders, red liquid ladling from the gapped curves in their platemail. as the horses wheeled aimless towards the low, stone chapel, the chaplain called the boy by the river to fetch its half-frozen water, the river's. Three were dead as they rode with nothing to say to explain the solemn state they entered town in. We were there when the fourth was laid down in the dirt where the cats usually groom in grass usually there. this fourth one had an unfitting wonder in his eyes as he faced down a death certainly coming for him now. like a father gazing gently at his wife. we said what happened and he said, they built a city on the mountain and when i looked up they looked down and they had lights inside their eyes. they looked like children i once knew. i am the loneliest man to exist. and he died with a smile on his face in the long light of a cloudless December day.
Related Recs
this dirty, squishy, grey snow reminds me that i miss summer and riding my bike home at night, often taking routes through mysterious and sketchy shadows, where i wasnât sure how soon and whether iâll get back on a familiar path.
i was getting lost to find my way back.
those were rides in silence, i had to be aware of my surroundings or most definitely slenderman would just take me.
oh these summer nights of scary adrenaline rush..
mmmmm
Jan 22, 2024
reflection in the drivers helmet has seen my tears stream, my voice sing, me smile, me blankly stare ahead. rearciew mirrors point to me in a private side-reflection.
lately i have been riding on the back of my mothers motercycle. she drives and i look all around me. the beautiful paragraph i just wrote i accidentally clicked away and now i feel foolish and stumbly. never that on the back of a motercycle, everything passes you, and all you can do is feel what it is like to be you in that very moment. the only thing to do is hold on, straighten your back, and feel the wind rush beneath your feet. React to everything as you would, look at your reflection, then watch the ever changing scape around you. make deep eye contact and silly faces and truly kind smiles and spread your energy. sing and caw at birds, driver-pending. most recently my mother drove us to a tunnel i am considering singing infront of others in, and on the way back i held on with ine atm like a horse, and yhe other held up high with a bouquet in my hands, letting the wind press the flowers into my palm so that they did not fall. i am like lady liberty but very much alive. next time i will hand out flowers then whizz away. so much better to be the passenger and enjoy the view, i get to stay in my ditsy brain, calm, spirited.
(i truly wrote the most beautiful piece in response but accidentally deleted it and this feels so inadequate, but i just wrote and relived beauty, then tried to relive my relive, so, life is your best writing getting deleted. heres a pic)
May 17, 2024
đ
This morning I read the second section of Ray Young Bearâs Winter Of The Salamander, âWhen We Assume Life Will Go Well For Usâ. Rayâs work is dreamlike yet feels viscerally real. It helps me integrate the mental with the physical in my life. Anyways, I wanted to share a poem I read about ten times over this morning that evoked an indescribable feeling in me.
From His Dream
the air hadnât changedÂ
since she last saw her mother.
the land was cover with frozenÂ
rain. she knew a couple of daysÂ
ahead that the spring would disappear.
she kept reminding to her husband,Â
itâll have to come back.Â
i donât think itâs really over with,Â
but he always seemed disinterested.Â
a look of worry in his eyes.Â
even as it was snowing,Â
thunder rolled across the roofÂ
of their home and they couldnâtÂ
help glancing at each otherÂ
with puzzled faces. bodiesÂ
of disemboweled animals flashedÂ
in their minds,Â
the children ran about in playÂ
but when they ran into their fatherâsÂ
eyes, they could see the lightÂ
of their rooms, the changing contrastÂ
of shadows, clothes that had to be buried, faces of death, a knife burning inÂ
the figure of seals on a tree.
the second time they ran,Â
the wind made sounds as ifÂ
there were people with their mouthsÂ
up against the house, talking.
as it grew colder, the snow madeÂ
more noise against the plasticsÂ
coverings over the windows.
when the children looked outsideÂ
they could see the clouds piling upÂ
on top of each other, each groupÂ
darker than the other.Â
across the room where their mother
sat they could distinctly visualizeÂ
the changing color of her lips.Â
teeth biting into her skin.
they followed as she circledÂ
the room, spitting the chewed willowÂ
all around the windows.
their son has been gone mostÂ
of the day. it wasnât unusual for himÂ
to hunt alone. he always seemed to knowÂ
what to do. old enough to be giftedÂ
naturally to keep away from flowing women,
he had spoken about sliding down hillsÂ
on his knees, picking up the snowÂ
to his ears and hearing the thoughtsÂ
of deer, bringing packed bodiesÂ
of muskrat and duck, the differentÂ
crusts of blood on his shoulder bag.
from a distance, his fatherÂ
could see his tracks headingÂ
into the thickets. small owls guidedÂ
their way through brush by the touchÂ
in their wings. he remembered a dreamÂ
he had that morning of giant fishÂ
and coral snakes submerged in the icy watersÂ
of a river he had never seen.Â
he and his son cornering a small horse
covered with fish scales, bearingÂ
the head of a frightened man.Â
its thin legs and cracked hooves.Â
somewhere in this land he knewÂ
there was a place where these creaturesÂ
existed. he had also been told of a hole
where the spirits spent their days,Â
watching the people before they crawledÂ
out, traveling through their arcsÂ
in the sky towards evening like birds.
on the way back home, thinking his sonÂ
had circled the forest, he crawledÂ
across a section of river which was stillÂ
covered with ice and fish entrails,Â
previous spots where he had taughtÂ
his son to use a blanket to blockÂ
out the daylight to lie thereÂ
with his barbed spear, waitingÂ
for catfish to lumber out from the rootsÂ
of fallen trees under the ice.Â
although he felt a desire to crawlÂ
straight across without lookingÂ
down into the river bottom throughÂ
the clear ice, something caught his eye,Â
as he peered into the bubbling water,Â
he saw the severed head of his son,Â
the hoof from his dream,Â
bouncing along the sandy bottom.
Jan 19, 2025
Top Recs from @nostoc
in my opinion a strong contender for the most beautiful place in the usa. it feels like home to me and i cannot wait to be there again. hope you can make it there someday :)
Feb 26, 2025
you have to remember that as urgently as you search for your family, they too search for you
Feb 1, 2025
Jan 31, 2025