I've Moved!

Hey everyone, I've shifted to http://thinkingcities.blogspot.com/. My new blog is completely public, so feel free to link it and stuff.

:)

The Heart of the Forest

The old fae looked up darkly and carried on.

"Somewhere in the forest is a pale, tall man. He weaves through the fields of trees like a spirit picking his way through a crowd of silent watchers, like a seamstress' silent needle feeling the path through the fabric, searching.

"I met him once, you know, when the world was young and the trees remembered our war. He was young then, newly-spurned by his lover and weighing the heart of the forest down with every heavy step. His face was as long as the old nights; his eyes like stars.

"They say he still walks, you know, still searches the lands for his lover, still shrouds the forest in its eternal night. He is tall; with limbs like the branches of a birch: you'll barely reach his knees, little gnome.

"Why do you seek him, princess; why do you seek him, daughter? No one finds the Wanderer and leaves the meeting untouched; his is the heart of the forest, with its little joys and long sorrows. I was young when I found him; I am old now.

"Now leave. We have spoken enough."

The Gnome Meets the Fae

"Words are just little shining wisps that flow like maidens through the air, son, and like maidens they may destroy you or put you back on your path or simply vanish, never to be seen again. You may choose to welcome the maidens, or you may shun them: but choose quickly, for she is leaving," said the old gnome.

Fizzlespizzle rubbed his nose and shuddered: the past few days he had been forced to make so many difficult decisions so often. Little Fizzle the miner, caught up in such complicated things, he thought to himself as he realized he did not even know the name of the gnome.

"Well?" The gnome in question was clearly getting impatient.

Fizzlespizzle picked himself up and wiped some mud off his breeches. He looked around the cave one last time. It was a damp, dark place: the walls of the old untended tunnels had too few torches, he thought to himself, making a mental note to suggest some improvements to the head miner. If that scary fae-thing ever lets me out alive, that is, he sulked as he walked towards the green door.

"That's the way, son. Don't fret, I doubt she'll eat you. And yes, she's a she, mind you."

A Fiery Start

“Little gnome, little gnome, don’t cry. It’s over now, it’s all over.”

Fizzlespizzle flinched as the soldier put a calloused hand on his shoulder. Was it over, the gnome thought to himself as he blew his nose, or was it only beginning? The soldier gazed sympathetically, as if knowing that it really was the latter.

Fizzlespizzle looked up after rubbing his nose once more for good measure to see the princess picking her way through the remains of the carriage. She really was beautiful, he thought. The gnome remembered that fateful day when she summoned him from his old life of mining the depths of their city, into this world of danger. The soldier, following his gaze, mumbled, “to think it was him all along.”

“M’lady, please, you may burn yourself,” cried a soldier as the princess crumbled on the charred remains, but he was ignored. Fizzlespizzle looked on as the princess clutched her lover’s burnt and shot body, as if daring the winds and the rains to pry it from her grip.

Meanwhile the fae, her wrists bound once again behind her back and guarded in the corner of the clearing by two soldiers, gazed at the scene with the patience of one who knows too much and has lived too long. She knew that this was only the beginning of their journey to the dark city.

big nosed

"hmmm," said Fizzlespizzle the Gnome.

dream-maker...

I've always wanted to write a book. Two books, actually. One fiction and one non-fiction. They've been running around in my consciousness, playing games with my mind and all that jazz.

I think dreams are really amazing things. We human beings can sit in our corners and wonder about the future. We build little castles in our heads, intricate masterpieces that may very well get swept away by the next wave. But that's what keeps us going, right? I wrote an essay once on creativity and humanity, my main conclusion being that creativity is what ensures our humanity.

Little dreams playing in my head.

The Tears that Fell

There is a lady in the flickering light of the rose-tinted ballroom. Her name is The Tears that Fell. Watch her dance, lover, as the rain-soaked winds stroke like the master of an oiled viola the misty window panes revealing the night. And watch her dance, enthralled, and listen.

There is music streaming from the old gramophone on the musky wooden drawers. The old player sings of remembrance and half-forgotten years; old joys and sorrows; and loves that were lost, but treasured. You almost hear yourself singing its haunting strains as you lean against the creaking wall of the ballroom, a tear slowly forming. As your eyes well up the light forms rainbows in your eyes.

There is a beam of the moon on the rose of the floor. Today as if enthralled, too, the moon turns its old face and watches with the intensity of one torn and lost; watch with him. The silhouette of the lady sighs as each time it passes the touch of the sun's companion, as if meeting a lover once again, and in each stutter of breath from the naked bulb of light we see the grace of silk; a sublime flow. Watch.

There is a light in the eyes of the lady of the ballroom. It catches each beam, pinpoint and flicker, and shatters it to rainbow fragments like a diamond on a forgotten ring. Remember, lover, and watch. As the music lifts her like a dove on the winds she glides, rises, swirls, each step a tribute to a memory; and a flame. You feel a burning in that broken soul, you feel a pain in that tearing heart; watch as each tear sparkles.