Concept GardenerLife is atheory based onfact proven every timethis time, regardless ofimprobability.The fact that we areconcept gardeners harvestingepiphanies we haven't realized isirrelevant. Our existence ispredictable, it is our outcomethat will define us; it is thewrath incurred that willbe remembered. The rest willbe lost instories on otherplanets, far over-told andever further from thetruth of it all witheach telling.Those planting seed beds ofgrey roses made of ash layglass paths for thepickers searching for thesweet apple tree that willsave the clouds andrain and sky forthe chi
Violet SunsetShe speaks becausethere is no one tonot hear her; she isalone with theviolet sunset and thewind in the leaves (andher hair).She has cried rivers sodeep and w i l d they have carved giantcaverns throughout her soul in whichshe never consideredtraveling orplanting roses to keep thelions at bay.Against a tree overlookingher life (orthe ocean) she wonders who toblame for hersadness before she uses them tojustify a happiness she haddenied herself andfilled her lungs with thepollen of freedom (andfinally understood thep
Grey ManI went to the firstfarmer's market with theanticipation of a child awaiting agypsy caravan. Beside theircars and trucks, undertents, inside horseless carts theybarter wares and goods so good theymake my mouth water andimagination run wild......but on the corner is acreation filled with life andstillness all the same, untouched bywind, graced by sun flickeringthrough the tree. At the Grey Man's feet, asmall box ofglittering change and theflakes of marveled minds ashe tips the hat his handheld to so stoically, eyesalight with a beating heart andiris' as bright a green asthe tree that shades his back
A Regina FiddlerHe had found the onlyacoustical house in thesquare that had shade.In the small darkness heturned a melancholy into theair that matched thelook in his closed eyes.As he and the fiddle madelove in the street, myworld couldn't help buts l o w and Ilistened to every glorious reverberation and deciphered theirsong until it wasthe fiddlers we whoswept quiet tales todeaf ears.When I realized my story wasstill playing out inreal time, I cherishedthe feeling of my love'shand in mine, entwinedfingers steady to asoundtrack for our lives.
The Awakening - Chapter 5 The old woman moved with a vibrant youthfulness to bind the dazed Tzarian. She wrapped his hands with thick vines that had been weaved into rope and bound his feet with the same length of material. He stiffened and breathed with his mouth agape when she draped a rough rucksack bag over his head, blurring his vision in the rising sunlight. Atoli found his mind blocked, his hands numb and his muscles seemingly rooted to the earth; as much as he struggled, he was not able to move. He heard Nanna's voice as though she spoke in the hollow caverns of Drak'Az, her words having a metallic ring to them, "Is it a strange feeling?" He tried to an
The Awakening - Chapter 4Atoli woke to the tickle of soft hairs against his face; he had fallen asleep on the back of his mount. She lay quietly whispering to Noro who stood nearby, the sound like that of lions consorting in the depths of a savannah night. He slid down her silken fur and stretched out as he greeted Noro with a weighted smile.Noro smiled and nodded his head, "Adeena and I have been talking." Atoli lowered his eyes as he listened to his friend and noticed something drop to the ground as Adeena shifted. "I have already given orders to my people to prepare for war, but we must seek out those who may enhance our forces. Arnak is the closest, though