The Windlight Quill and Pen - Volume 1
The windlight quill & pen
volume 1
Editors:
JOHN HERRING, INARA PEY, & ELESEREN BRIANNA
Published by Windlight Magazine at Shakespir
Copyright 2016
This book formatting template was made by Derek Murphy of Creativindie Design
The Windilght Quill & Pen
All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations em- bodied in critical articles or reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organiza tions, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
For information contact :
http://www.windlightmagazine.com
THE WINDLIGHT QUILL & PEN
Contents
[The windlight quill & pen
volume 1 i]
THE WINDLIGHT QUILL & PEN 3
Contents 4
MINI SHORTS 6
[Vignette
**
AUTHOR: ELESEREN BRIANNA 8]
POETRY 12
ALL FOR 28
The Poisoned Apples 30
MY FRIEND 34
[The Traveller
**
AUTHOR: BAJOY, GYPSY OF AVILION 40]
[I will steal
your pain
**
AUTHOR: HUCKLEBERRY HAX
44]
Fade 46
UNTITLED 47
AN ISLANDERS TRIBUTE TO HIS HOME 48
UNTITLED 50
[Issues of
Double Helix 52]
LIQUID: OBSERVATIONS CROSSING THE CAUSEWAY AT SUNSET 54
Taking Wing 55
Bend 56
[FORMAT
**
AUTHOR: BRYN OH 59]
ONE NIGHT IN sl 61
NONFICTION 65
[A Window Between Worlds
66]
The Ultimate Virtuality 69
fiction 72
MINI SHORTS
[
__]
UNITLED
AUTHOR: R. CRAP MARINER
By the time we tie your hands behind your back and pull the black bag over your head, you’re already dead.
Oh, you’re still breathing. Your heart still beats. But it doesn’t matter. We’ve scanned your ID chip, and your records are already canceled.
We already have your blood type, DNA, and tissue profiles.
Every organ in your body is up for auction. To pay for your crimes.
You feel the needle in the back of your neck.
Lie still. Don’t move.
Don’t damage state property.
We can make it worse. Much worse.
Do you want to feel the knives?
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Vignette
AUTHOR: ELESEREN BRIANNA
Under the sea cliff there is a white crochet of birds, bobbing silent on the lacy water. The sea rolls its muscles into shore, below a pale grey sky with the promise of mist. It is a cool pause of a morning, as if waiting for a storm.
On the concrete walkway behind the beach is a small café. Its open hatch parades home made cakes and a promise of sausage sandwiches to a small selection of empty chairs and tables. Empty that is, except for one young man, staring out towards a pair of Cormorants while he embraces his mug of warm tea. His gaze is directed at the distant black shapes, but the intensity of his expression is hard to fathom, sombre as the plumage of the birds hunched tenaciously on the broken sea wall. Unawares, his fingers trace soft spirals on the cooling china, light and sensuous as a lover’s touch.
Then, as the rising sea begins to break over the ruins of the wall, the Cormorants take flight. The young man’s face melts into a reverie of sadness. It begins to faintly rain.
The sea continues its slow victory over the rockpools, swirling into hollows and waking up the lurking crabs below. In graceful aerobatics Terns dive and harry the returning fish. Their faint screeling cries momentarily catch his attention. Apathetically the soft rain gives up, and a watery brightness washes over the wet concrete. An elderly couple buys cake and sit at a table nearby. They eat, hunched and talking softly under the soggy beach umbrella above them. The young man lifts his face, seeking the faint warmth of the sun, but it fails to touch him.
His tea cooling slowly, the man’s fingers continue to caress the mug, his face chased with thoughts. Suddenly a light hand slides across his shoulder and a waft of flowery sweet perfume as she sits down opposite him. He looks up, hearing the warmth in her voice as she greets him, and a muttered word as her coffee splatters on the unsteady table.
She reaches over and grasps his hand in hers, the heat seeping through and making him realize how chilled he has become. She talks brightly, inconsequentially, a trip to the hairdressers. Her hand pets her glossy curls, as she relates this and that. He hangs on her words, not really hearing them but feeling her through them, a shaft of sunshine in his gloomy day. She catches his expression, and stops, her face melting into tenderness. Reaching up she gently caresses his face, letting him lean into her palm. ‘Oh baby’ she says, and takes his hand in hers again, lifting it and kissing his fingers before guiding them to her curls. He feels the soft silkiness he cannot see. ‘I love you’ she says.
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POETRY
Dines…with the ghosts
AUTHOR: GLITTERPRINCESS DESTINY
If I could catch the “breath…
It would be ‘Yours’.
to swallow
to inhale…
“Pure”
I Bathe in my illusions
remembrance
“Bodies”
“ours”
“Engraved”
If I could lift my eyes brave…
they would Lock into ‘yours’…
…to dream
“Innocent”
but…now…
…I shower in your ‘Tears’…. past’
‘Pieces of …. You.
[Breath of “Non Color]
[Tears of “Blood Stains]
prisoner,,,,of,,,,,,final Edges
is nothing here
To do …
put my faith in you
today…
i passed through
The Story ‘….
…prayed a cold stone
i put my fashion in a jar
way to far ~from home
prisoner of the final Edges
my sweet name goes
if
if
if
… I could Crawl close to you.
to..touch your skin
if
if
if
…again…To …entangle our ‘Veins’…
“Swimming through our ‘Souls’
if…
I could touch your ‘Mind’
‘just one more time’
“magical’
“ fortresses would open”
“Fires would prick all Gloom”
~~I am the Hungry one~~~
Dines…with the ghosts…
MY
PLATTER
IS
EMPTY
..without. You
..near*
( A mere puppet…I crave )
ThE MemorY…..of
AUTHOR: GLITTERPRINCESS DESTINY
After getting banged up
by the dentist..
…i walked in my mind
along the beach
Tossing the rotten gauze outta my mouth…
…i. smelled…
…. Sea Air…
and-Tangled +++ myself...in Thought.
…and almost thought that I Saw myself
. again
somewhere…
___down the Street …….Laughing
but. Able to … Think
the memory of… Then.
… Scribbling…poetry…on Walls.
(She knew a lot of my secrets) Shhhhhhh
…tossing…pages…at night. I’d Try to figure out here!!!
…Stiffen a Banging through the lines
okay
Now…
THE Car
the eyes of a kid—-stared at me
he was lost in time…
like me
we…inhaled the wax. of his Shiny car.
. Blinks.
THE Kid had a message for me.
. from “her”
“Blinks”.
yeah…My abscess was gone
at least in my mouth
now i had a BIGGER abscess…
…untreatable…a Way TO Real…
…an… The Stench…soaked in me …
…like a dime store …douche*
…A car window …. a boy…. an…me
he Grinned
‘kid’. As if he’d Been…
. T0 the…Gutter…to!
our chatter-soothed me
it was silent…
…but. Our lips moved…
I leaned closer in the window…
and Whispered in His ear
……..i said…
“somehow…This. Is now my Favorite Treat”?
“I shall …. Cherish … This forever “
the Treat…
…. of….
“me”
…of. you.
-. of……….Her.
keep her safe. OK?
…. tell…. Her…you saw me…OK?
…. tell her …
(. i was me for an instance.)
(. i tossed my cigarette out for a hair bow.)
(. Did she whisper to me tonight?
(. ask her ok?
Black Girl disrupted
AUTHOR: KAMILLE KAMALA
“According to researchers at Black Women’s Blueprint, an activist group for this sector of the population, they found that approximately 60 percent of Black women reported in an ongoing study that they had been sexually molested or assaulted by a Black man before the age of 18”
Sister’s testimonies are filling up professional documents
Overflowing with individual attacks
Overflowing with offensive hardcore facts and
They could stock up many rooms of indecent anthologies
And all of them put in inglorious molestation or sexual abuse libraries
Telling tales of schoolgirl memories of forced upon misadventures
Quick and urgent were his hands
Finding her exoticness
Despite her nebulous pleas
It could be any her, in any city, and down any street
She can be described as having
A beautiful brown face with deepest set of brown puddles for eyes
And having any styled tresses she desires to express
Done up in cornrows braids or in black mossy Afros
Disrobing her innocence until it’s unclothed
Spreading their thighs impetuously
Spreading her impetuously
Spreading my thighs impetuously and hungrily
Kneading my hard budding areolas
Feverishly sucking my child lumps
While looking over his shoulder I could see
The boys in the open window pointing
As he entered my black sea
And I was sent away with a brown paper bag of sex penny candy
Keep quiet child, how dare he demand me
Black girl, disrupted
Or Black girl childhood, abducted
My friend Annette says
She was only 15
Walking the streets of her neighborhood
Searching for her playmate cousin
When she was lured into the house
By men who lied and told her
That her playmate was there with them
These bunch of skeleton hearted men
Took turns on her
Robbing her of all her gift of virtuousness
Robbing her of her young rosebud of purity
Leaving her a crypt of a womb
And she was rendered barren
And she would never hold in her hands
Any fruit from her love cavity
Black girl, disrupted
Or Black girl childhood, abducted
Black girl, interrupted
Now take the test and
Put at least ten black women in a room
Ask those who have suffered some sexual trauma
To raise their hands and over 90 percent
Of the room will tell you that their childhood was disrupted
In our community there is a code of silence
We cover for the men in our families
Our communities and as a whole in our society
But when girl X can’t live with mommy
Because she is so strung out on crack
Girl X goes to live with grandma
She has a live in boyfriend
And he creeps in this child’s room at night
Showing her things
She ought not to know
Giving her hush gifts
Telling her if you tell, I will say it isn’t so
All the while grandma turns a stone ear
To the child begging for some interference
But it will be years before the damage
Reveals itself when as a woman
She can fill a building
That has a line wrapped around it
With all the men that she has encountered
When she does not value self
She will be talked about
But what this woman needs are some help
To go back and heal the wound
To become whole again and get her spirit in tuned
Break the code of silence
Don’t turn a blind eye when you see inappropriate relationships
With young girls and older men
Speak up
Speak out
Speak loud
Stop shielding the man
But shield the child
Disrupt interrupt abduct
This hidden community sin
Peel back the skin
So we can see the sexual gangrene within
And no longer put up and shut up
Help the black girl
Whose childhood was disrupt”
ART IS….
BY KAMILLE KAMALA
Art is…
Life
Love
Liberty
In the pursuit of
Happiness
Hope and
Creativity
Art is…
Skill
Craft
And expression
Not to mention
Imagination
Creation
And Liberation
Also there is beauty in the passionate power it exudes
No matter what culture medium the artist chooses to use
Art is…
Life
Love
And liberty
In the pursuit of
Happiness
Hope and
Creativity
Art is….
The mural of my poem
Painted onto the movie monitor of your mind
And it has vivid blue flowers of poesy
Outlined by the red letters in graffiti of my oral capabilities
Bringing sound awareness of the realities that are uneasy
Art is…
Life
Love
And liberty
It is the manifestation or submission of ingenious talent and imagination
Innovation
Creation
Sensation
Salvation
And Relation
As well as a lyrical translation to the world and to the nation
Art is……
A political sound board
A political soapbox
A source of calm in a surreal world
It is self-expression and design
It is joy
It is forwardness
It is grief in the heart and mind
It is the spiritual manifested in the physical
It is a reoccurring artistic motif
Art is…
Life
Love
Liberty
In the pursuit of
Happiness
Hope and
Creativity
It is beauty
It is an autobiography
It is immortality
Often displayed in museums or galleries
It is our life experiences done up visually
It is said to that it can move you
Evoke feelings of rage or calm to soothe you
It is a habit forming drug
Does life imitate art or
Does art imitate life?
Art is a revolution
It is a depiction
It is an authored inscription
Art is….
God
Art is light
Art is pleasure
Art is the mind in the deepest height
To labor in the arts for any reason other than love is prostitution.
Says Steven Pressfield
Art is the most intense mode of individualism that the world has ever known says Oscar Wilde
Art is
Peace
It is un-ordinary
It is a note
It is a word
It is a color
It is the unheard and the deferred
It is the history of life
It is the tiny the robust and the might
Art is…
Life
Love
Liberty
In the pursuit of
Happiness
Hope and
Creativity
in reality
Art must BE
In one word
Art is FREE
ALL FOR
AUTHOR: ~*DAWNBEAM DREAMSCAPE
Inhale slowly
closing eyes
heavenly scent of angels
touch of newborn cheeks
Grabby fingers
Aunt Sally’s hands
squirming in dread
realizing pulling away is futile
Cuddled holds
against his chest
as your Dad
plants little memories on your hair
Frosty fingers
tickling airways
sub zero blasts
zing through your sniffer
Lifting the hand
gnarled from age
the lady loved best
whispering ““Nonnie”“
That first one
unique remembrance
a time awaited
contemplating ““must be more”“
Practicing again
and again, and again
until a special zing
announced floods of corporeal twingles
Passions released
dignity thrown
escapes through the cosmos
reluctantly returning to consciousness
Inhale slowly
closing eyes
heavenly scent of angels
the touch of your newborn’s cheek
Tears falling hot
no tissue contains
loss of your love
scraps of forlornness hover…adhere
All for love pure
All for touch endless
All for death realms
All for the life of a kiss”
The Poisoned Apples
AUTHOR: SABREMAN CARTER
the mirror shows no reflection
of this room that is full of death
and yet you see the church
which as failed her yet again
we are with the departed soul
she as eaten of her fill
and gorged on deaths bright apples
which one held the poison?
no one can really tell
she doesn’t need another bite
because one was enough to kill
who gave you this tasty morsel
when all you needed was a pill
and now your dead and gone
and we are wondering at the thrill
was it a star crossed lover?
or old Joe from up the hill
maybe you took your own life
in an accidental kill
as you played Russian Roulette
with those bright red delicious apples
that are now sat upon the floor
will another bite the dust?
or is this story evermore?
Sabreman Carter © 09/09/2011
ISBN 798-184418-635-8
Published 2013 Book title “In Other Words” Page 130
Sabreman Carter/ David C
Snatched
AUTHOR: SABREMAN CARTER
Snatched, lonely, abused and sad,
broken by someone else’s dad
With angry bitter words of pain.
Why is my captor doing this again?
He punishes me because I’m young.
He hurts me inside … for him it’s fun.
I can’t stand the pain; I want to go home.
I want my mum, my toys, my home.
I need my family. I want to be free.
But if I move, he hurts me.
I’m trapped. I’m lost without a friend.
Will this torture never end?
The door is locked and barred.
I can’t get out I know – I’ve tried!
I scream and shout! I make a din,
but no one hears … only him.
And I can’t see, I’m in the dark.
Is he with me, I can’t tell!
But this is like a living hell.
My mum is waiting. My dad’s at home.
If I get out, I’ll never roam.
I long to be free,
but why is he still torturing me?
Sabreman Carter 13 th May 2010
Published 2014
Book Off the Page
Page 85
ISBN978-1-84418-676-1
MY FRIEND
AUTHOR: SABREMAN CARTER
There is something you should know about me he said:
With a wry smile
I am gay!
He had half expected me to move away,
To pull away from him,
Instead I just looked him straight in the eye and said,
‘I’ve always know that you were gay.’
Then he said, “How did you know?”
I replied, your smile,
The way you touch my hand when you think
No one else would notice,
But then again I am not gay,
I just love you because we are friends
And we have always been friends
I hope we always will be,
But you won’t be getting me into bed any time soon,
I am not like that!
Then He smiled and held my hand tenderly
Grinned sheepishly and said with a huge sigh,
“I know”
I thought he was going to kiss me,
Instead he ruffled my shoulder length hair,
He put his arms around me and held me tenderly,
I didn’t pull away,
To be honest I enjoyed his company,
And I liked to be kissed cuddled,
Held and caressed,
And no I didn’t have anyone else that I wanted to be with,
And certainly no one else who wanted me,
At least no one I was aware of.
I had no girlfriend, no lover and no wife,
So I guessed that maybe, I too was gay,
I spent the night with him,
We didn’t do anything much,
Apart from played music,
Drank and smoked
And yes that night, I shared his bed,
In the morning I would forget the night before
And get on with living my life with a friend
Who I had known as if forever
Now the world and its mother, would all think that I was gay,
Because I loved my friend, and I spent the night with him,
I was young, single and lonely, we both were,
And yes that was a life time away
In a past that I wanted and longed to forget,
But the past is always there with you,
My friend died of Aids,
Lonely and sad,
And I looked back at the past with sadness and hurt.
And No I am not gay.
But those thoughts still haunt my memory,
My past, is like a two edged sword,
One that I can’t escape from,
What happened to my Friend?
Could so easily have happened to me.
By Sabreman Carter Jan 17th 2011
Forward Poetry National Poetry 2013 Competition
Awakened Minds A Poetry Collection
SB ISBN 978-1-84418-665-5
Jotunheimen
AUTHOR: ELESEREN BRIANNA
The giant sleeps, under his crust of moss and juniper,
Felled by the boulder that lies beside him.
Both old as aeons and vast among the mountains.
The giant sleeps, deep, sun-frozen, cracked and crumbling.
His weathered bones are splintered, glittered, quartz.
White as the waterfalls that cut slate-grey flesh and iron veins.
The giant sleeps, these ages long, on his bed of foamy meadowsweet,
While in the valleys of his limbs the forest creeps, birch and pine.
A home to Trolls and Wolverines
The giant sleeps, hearing not the howls of Wolves, the shrieks of Eagles.
His deep, deaf, ears are caves for Bears,
And Lynx and Elk tread grooves along his spine.
The giant sleeps, and the Vaettir watch and wait.
Old Wights who guard, quiet-strong and patient.
Landkeepers who would war with Gods if needed.
The giant sleeps, as dead, in the long pale days of Summer.
But he is not dead, and this the Vaettir know.
For in the deep of winter he rumbles.
Then, the giant stirs, wrapped in night, hidden from the sun.
The blizzards warm him, the ice brings memories,
And the Vaettir keep their vigil
Lest he wake…”
Curlicue
(in homage to Gerard
Manley-Hopkins)
AUTHOR: ELESEREN BRIANNA
High above the green gilt hills,
In a wheel of wings on the wind,
Arcing in sunlight, curling on thermals,
A Seagull flows to the ocean
In blonding, brassy corn, beneath,
Woodpigeons are lavender and the poppies glow,
Ragged Crows strike counterpoint to Cow Parsley,
And Kestrels hover-poise for hidden Voles
But paramount, the gull soars, cresting, exultant.
Wind-wooing, it gavottes above the tumuli.
On heavy earth, in weighted limbs, I gaze,
It’s bow-sprung beauty, and my soul, on wing.”
The Traveller
AUTHOR: BAJOY, GYPSY OF AVILION
I am a traveller — a wanderer — an explorer
A gypsy who moves from place to place.
The sky above my head and the grass below my feet.
My vardo, like a sturdy sea-worthy barque,
Skims over soft grasses that bend to the wind’s caress,
Disappearing down hidden pathways only seasoned travellers know.
My pony, like an ancient warhorse,
Steadily draws the wagon – no complaint to be heard.
Toward the warmth of a campfire at the end of the road.
I choose freedom beyond all else.
The caress of the breeze -
The birdsong -
The seasons that slip from spring to summer
From fall to winter in endless generation and rebirth.
I would not trade this life I lead—
For all the riches in the kingdom,
All the jewels in the crown,
All the wonders of Aladdin’s treasure trove.
The companionship,
The music,
The dance,
The open road-
All priceless beyond measure,
Bringing comfort to my soul.
I am a traveller.
In the heat of the day, the sun warms my back—
A talisman beckoning me toward the distant horizon.
A cheerful companion
Who sees me now as I traverse fragrant laneways into the welcoming future.
“Filling the Cracks
AUTHOR: JUDITH CULLEN
(AKA CALEDONIA SKYTOWER)
Hands reach out
Seeking a surface kiss.
Sunlit fingertips
Touching, kneading hope.
They are surprising
What only others possess
Observable deficiencies
Breaking your pattern.
No one warns you
They are parcels of life
The price of victory,
Joy, passion, pride.
Now knowing it
Learning to honor them
Cracks of living
Filling them with gold.
NOTE: Kintsugi is the Japanese art of fixing broken pottery with lacquer resin dusted or mixed with powdered gold, silver, or platinum. As a philosophy it speaks to breakage and repair becoming part of the history of an object, rather than something to disguise – an embracing of the flawed or imperfect. Japanese aesthetics values marks of wear by the use of an object.
© 2014
I will steal
your pain
AUTHOR: HUCKLEBERRY HAX
I will steal your pain.
I will market it.
I will brand it.
I will stand on platforms and
shout about it.
I will point at it and
photograph it and
shed tears over the injustice and
dare others not to share my
acerbic remarks on it.
I will steal your pain.
I will extract it from you.
I will get angry on your behalf,
whether you want me to or not.
It’s mine now:
mine to distribute;
mine to profit from;
mine to roll up like a newspaper
to swat those grinning do-gooders.
I will steal your pain,
but only pieces of it;
only the nuggets.
That which I cannot use,
that which endures,
that which says, “just… sit with me,”
I will toss to one side.
What? You think you have problems?
Listen to my sobs.
Listen to my agony.
Listen to my unending loneliness.
I will steal your pain
because I need it
to be noticed.”
Fade
AUTHOR: HUCKLEBERRY HAX
It’s hard, but it isn’t.
All you have to do is stop remembering,
close the logs,
pack away the pictures;
just let the details fade.
Sooner than you’d have thought possible,
the biggest thing you ever felt
becomes a blind spot
in the corner of your eye.”
UNTITLED
AUTHOR: HOBBY WRITER
sometimes in the midst of spring
when flowers bloom and birds sing
amongst the shadows under the trees
whispers a cold and lonely breeze
so quiet it can barely be heard
longing, yearning words of love
drowned from around and above
by the bustling noise of the wild
too soft and gentle, simply too mild
searching for what was born yesteryear
something so precious and irreplaceable dear
the meaning of life, the reason to live
for your cherished heart, my life I give
AN ISLANDERS TRIBUTE TO HIS HOME
AUTHOR: HOBBY WRITER
waves rolling in to shore
wetting your coastline
reaching your hidden places
every nook and cranny
softening your sands
smoothing your rocks
over and over and over
splashing onto you
washing over you
at times ever so gently
tenderly caressing your contours
while at others times furiously heaving onto you
pounding your shores with all it’s might
cleansing your willing body
leaving it all soaking wet for the sun to dry
the waves find peace for a while
after kissing the setting sun in a golden inferno
UNTITLED
AUTHOR: HOBBY WRITER
like an outcast on familiar shores
I walk along the beach of memories
looking for your footprints in the sand
only vague fragments remaining
all leading away from me
the skies darken as my tears fall
with the setting sun my hope sinks into the sea
with the last flickering rays of daylight
the image of your smile disappears
lost in the cold darkness of the night
once my heart was soaring like an eagle
on blissful wings carried by your love
however proud it came crashing down
unable to fly in the vacuum you left behind
it helplessly fell to the unforgiving ground below
turned to stone it weighs heavy in my chest
over and over I return to these familiar shores
looking for a trace, a hint of you
hoping to once more be able to soar
Issues of
Double Helix
AUTHOR: JOURNEY MCLAGLEN (AKA CINDY LANDERS)
Broad about you
The cavern yawns
And water runs
Like liquid crystal
Down its rocky throat,
Coursing through the dark
Mother belly.
The rushing
Swirling sound of it
Rises up
And surrounds you.
You are a double helix
Circling back upon yourself,
Creating issues as you go,
Pulling darkness
From the well of life
And flaying it with daylight.
Now it lays about you
In heaps,
Shreds and ribbons
That you tie
Around your arm
Like bands of mourning.
You push
Upon the apex of time
Eager to get on with it,
Keen
To connect the dots
In this triangle of
Creation, birth and death.
LIQUID: OBSERVATIONS CROSSING THE CAUSEWAY AT SUNSET
BY JOURNEY MCLAGLEN (AKA CINDY LANDERS)
Lake Ponchartrain spreads out in dirty blue jeans
And where the western slung sun lies low on her hips,
Sparkling rhinestones spill down her thighs like fire.
There, riding the breach, a speeding boat unzips the surface
Revealing moist, dark chocolate depths.
She is lovely, but so shallow.
Taking Wing
AUTHOR: JOURNEY MCLAGLEN
(AKA CINDY LANDERS)
I hear a single chime,
A lonely sound on a light breeze
Born to echo in emptiness.
But it does not die.
Resonance gives it wings to fly
Unhindered among the wafting clouds.
Until it comes to roost
On some composer’s page
Where flocks of notes are forming.
Soon the honeyed migration begins.
Notes chord the air. Music rises, taking wing,
Fanning out, diffused and dispersed.
A lone note on the light breeze
Flies home and joins again
The choir that chimes beneath the oak.
Bend
BY JOURNEY MCLAGLEN
(AKA CINDY LANDERS)
I bend light upon itself,
Morphing through dimensions of color.
Transparent streams of tint and hue
Stain me with emotion,
Capture me like flotsam,
Channel me through the spectrum.
I commute prismed passages,
Ranging high
From cloud-slung shaded cliffs,
Tumbling
Through glacial, faceted shafts,
Dissecting
Banded conduits of color
Until I am emptied at last
Onto the rainbow plain.
Here is a luminous river;
Fed by coursing channels
That go roaring and
Swirling into the vortex
To coalesce at last
As a single shaft of
Clear white light
That purifies and fills me,
Flooding all with sanctity.
Good things come from bending.
The old one bends
On worn knees,
His prayers reaching,
Transcending
The sacred space
That God has laid before him.
Good things come from bending.”
FORMAT
AUTHOR: BRYN OH
Would I format my mind?
if I could come back new,
with no hurt nor loss,
but no memories of you?
Do I have enough love?
to rust away,
could I delete it all?
for a new first day?
I wish I could change
some of the things I’ve done,
take some steps
where I have taken none.
But you are gone now
and I sit here alone,
where an acorn fell
that is now fully grown.
And I write you poems,
in Garamond font
because I am content to fade
as I have no wants.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OeA9N1Q529k
ONE NIGHT IN sl
AUTHORS: INARA PEY, WITH ASSISTANCE FROM: MISTLETOE ETHANIEL SKATE FOSS, ABEL UNDERCITY, MISOSANOWA.
Original song from chess: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RAIFOR0Tmyw
[THE LINDEN]
Second Life, virtual setting
Where the ressies don’t know what the Lindens are planning.
The creme de la creme of the mesh world in a
Show with everything – but Phil Rosedale.
Time flies -- doesn't seem a minute
Since Linden World had the Primitars in it.
All change -- don't you know that when you
Rez at this level it’s no ordinary textures.
It’s 512 -- or 1024 -- or maxed-out -- or --
or greyed-out!
[USERS]
One night in SL and the world’s your pixels
There’s bars and temples but the land ain’t cheap.
You’ll find a noob in every welcome area.
And if you’re Premium, 512 tier is free.
I can see a furry TPing next to me.
[THE LINDEN]
One sim’s very like another
When your hair is sticking out your butt there, brother.
[USERS]
It’s a drag, it’s a bore, it’s really such a pity
To be looking at the code, not looking at the city
[THE LINDEN]
Whaddya mean? When ya crawled through one crowded, laggy sim …
[USERS]
Prims, sculpts, copy and mod
Build your own and then sell it to pay rent.
[THE LINDEN]
Get Banned! We’re talking to a builder
Whose every upload is so superior.
He gets his kicks with LOD and physics, sunshine.
[USERS]
One night in SL makes an EA man Humble
Not much between prim counts and land impact.
One night in Ahern makes a hard man stumble.
Can’t be too careful with your company
I can feel a griefer walking next to me.
[THE LINDEN]
SL’s gonna be the witness
To the ultimate test of creative fitness
This thrills me more than would fixing a
Laggy sim crossing or busted group chat.
And thank God I'm only defining the grid -- controlling it --
I don’t see you guys rating
The kind of mesh I’m contemplating
I’d let you watch, I would invite you, but the builds we use would not excite you.
So, you better go back to your tarns, your coffins, your primmy castles…
[USERS]
One night in SL and the world’s your pixels
There’s bars and temples but the land ain’t cheap.
You’ll find a noob in every welcome area.
A little lag and some bake fail to
Try a little relog and we’ll rez for you.
One night in SL makes an EA man Humble
Not much between prim counts and land impact.
One night in Ahern makes a hard man stumble.
Can’t be too careful with your company
I can feel a griefer walking next to me.
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NONFICTION
A Window Between Worlds
AUTHOR: AHN AVION
After the party when everyone has gone home, when the servants have cleaned up and gone off to quarters, the dutiful man, so responsible and diligent in all that he does, that man that has so little time for himself that he dare not indulge in the fantasy of a love has one, has found one. One that touches a part of him he keeps away from others, most of the time even himself.
For so long he waits, long enough that he wonders if his lover will come at all. The wine all but gone, the man finishes the last of his glass yet saves the other for his lover that he fears will never arrive. The doubt seeps in further as the moon wanes in and out of the clouds, blocking the light that would give way to his lover’s path. With a heavy sigh, he closes the lid on the piano keys and begins to walk away when a shadow appears on the polished floor, growing in length as the presence nears. His lover has arrived.
This is not his world. The lover. His hands are callused, his face unshaven and smudged with a day’s work in the fields and gardens. It is far too late for him as morning would come too soon but sleep had become a thief to slip away from him at every turn. He had debated coming and knew the risks were beyond the limits of sanity yet he could not stay away.
Tonight, like the sprinkled few before, saw them as equals. Upon the first kiss of greeting, of longing, he was no longer The Man as the lover was no longer the worker. Passion entwined them into each other’s arms, hungry with desire that neither could deny. Breaking the kiss if only to breathe, the lover’s eyes took on the look of something dark and primal as he took the man’s hand to lead him outside. Moon or no, the lover knew the lay of the land and took the man to the grotto that had been hidden, purposefully so, by the natural vegetation around it. The lover guided the man in to display layers of blankets that covered the hard ground surrounded by candles for those moments when the moon blushed behind the clouds.
Time stood still then as they made love in a shower of kisses long before their bodies joined as one. Though they were hidden to all else, they were bare to each other, vulnerable the way only true lovers can be when souls unite and find harmony within the heart of the other. Not a word was spoken in the hours that passed, nor had they ever shared words before as they had never been needed. And so it was, as the moon snuck out of the night to give way to the sun’s brilliance did the lovers part in sated silence, each one knowing that they could never be together yet could never be apart.
The Ultimate Virtuality
BY JUDITH CULLEN (AKA CALEDONIA SKYTOWER)
She was a gifted poet, and now she is gone. She has left the world of sinew and sorrow. I didn’t know her except through her poetry. Classic forms were infused with the aching wisdom of maturity. Rants were emotionally authentic, despite the lack of gritty urbanity. A woman’s voice, reaching through cable, port and pixel to touch something in me. I never knew her real name or shared the same physical, real-world space. The place where her words and spirit touched me mourns.
They are there on lists: on social media, in virtual worlds. Names and artificial representations of people who are gone. I’ve never met some of them, but their loss is genuine. When I see their names, I know that there is no one on the other end of that tenuous thread of virtual connection. No one will answer if I call. There is no monument where flowers can be lowered with care and reverence. There is no headstone I can address with unanswerable questions from deep inside me, as if they heard me from beyond. Just a name. Just a snapshot of what someone wanted to be seen of themselves. No matter how long it has been, or how casual the relationship, I can’t bring myself to delete these names.
Loss comes in many forms. The painful remembrances of a man who shows me all the virtual spaces that he and his beloved created together, as he marks the anniversary of her passing. The anguished typing of a woman who met someone who gave her joy at events that I produced, telling me “he’s gone! He’s passed! I feel so lost, and I don’t know what to do.” The gifted actor who moved to be near grandchildren, whose Eeyore wit I can never forget. The last time I saw him, he said something kind to everyone in taking his farewells. Turning to me paused and just looked. “How can I say everything I want to say to you?” and a big hug that will have to last forever, it turns out. All of these expressions of loss are real.
As each name jumps out at me, it declares “I was!” and a thought will attach itself: the teddy bear photographer, the Eeyore actor, the woman to whom I read her favorite story on her birthday, the man who brought writers together, the poet. They were all real people, somewhere in this corporeal veil. I ask myself why I cannot let them pass. Why do I cling to the evidence of their being? I have, with much less consideration, left groups that were no longer relevant or disconnected from people who hurt or injured me.
Holding on to this thin and decaying thread – a name on a list – I acknowledge that we are all set on a course whose destination we cannot alter. We cannot afford to discount a single moment that will fulfilled us along the journey. These names – Steve, Clark, Daisy Blue, Circe, Nebhisk, Duane, Stosh – remind me that in death lies the ultimate virtuality.
fiction
The Silhouettes
AUTHOR: JOHN HERRING
My momma said I was bad luck, because I was born before midnight and on the longest day of the year. It was summer and 1979. I was the average kid, growing up in the 80’s. I went to school.
Yet something always yearned inside of me. I could never place my finger on it…Momma always said that it was my imagination and I was just like my daddy. I could never say if she was telling the truth or not, because I ain’t never met my daddy.
One day on the way home from school, as I was walking on that long lonely familiar path, a large creature was standing a few yards from me. I stopped and looked at this creature. It was bent over; the face was hiding. The creature’s eyes shone and glared at me. I wanted to turn and run but was too afraid. I closed my eyes in vain, hoping the creature would be gone.
Next thing I knew, I felt scars on my cheeks. I was knocked down and kicked. Soon it began to rain and I started to cry. My eyes still closed, I opened them and the strange creature was gone. No footprints as to where it has gone. Not a trace…I stood up and ran into the house, screaming for momma.
Momma was in the middle of making dinner, she came out to see what the commotion was about. She stopped to look at me as I cried and pointed to my face and my legs, which hurt. Momma shook me and asked me to stop crying and tell me what happened. I could only manage a babble…. finally, she said, “listen boy, I don’t know whatcha are talking about, but you have no scars and you look fine. Wipe up your face and come and have dinner.” I could not believe what she said.
I ran upstairs, to the full length mirror in her room and stared in disbelief at my image reflecting back to me. My eyes were red from crying and I had dirt all over me, but no scars. I looked at my knees and they appeared fine. I felt like crying as I know something had attacked me and I knew what I had seen…Momma didn’t ask me any more questions about that day. During dinner she talked about the upcoming weekend and how we would go to my grandpa and grandma’s house.
After dinner I lay in bed, wondering about what happened that day….as it grew darker, I felt something in my room. As the clouds cleared and the moon shone through my window, I saw the outline of the familiar creature. I wanted to scream but was too afraid. I clutched my blanket and slid under it, hoping the creature would go away. I felt the blanket being pulled off me. I closed my eyes again and shuddered on the bed. I should say something, call for momma…. I was mouthing help but not a sound came out…
I felt my heart stop as the creature touched my leg. Something was being pulled from me…. like a hidden force…. I felt as if my head was spinning…the creature was making a funny sound and I felt a gust of wind…. I was praying in my head, hoping that momma would hear the gusts and something would happen….
The next morning, Ms. Handler went upstairs to wake Tommy for school, as he was always late. As she opened the door to his room…she noticed that the bed was neatly made and everything was in place, except for Tommy. She was about to call for him, when she noticed on the ceiling above the bed, was a dark outlined figure. It looked strangely like Tommy except it was dark and did not move and was flat…. a shadow it was.
Ms. Handler backed out of the room slowly and shut the door. She walked down the hall, down the stairs and into the kitchen. She began to fix herself breakfast. Once the breakfast was ready, she sat down and begin to eat…
Soon the walls of the kitchen began to shake and the entire house…Ms. Handler remained calm, still eating her breakfast. The house shook and soon a dark shadow was overtaking the house…. Ms. Handler closed her eyes…
The local police showed up a few days later and people gathered, not sure what had happened to Ms. Handler or Tommy. The house looked normal and nothing was taken. But a trace of the Handlers could not be found.
A few weeks later, as the police were wrapping up the investigation, one of the detectives decided to venture outside the Handler’s place one last time. As the detective was on his way to the garage, he passed Ms. Handler’s flower garden. In the garden were two small dark yard silhouette yard stakes. One was of a woman and the other was of a boy…. the detective looked in the garage one last time, sighed at the thought of having yet another unsolved disappearance in the town and turned to walk toward his car.
The Windlight Quill and Pen - Volume 1
- ISBN: 9781311435798
- Author: Windlight Magazine
- Published: 2016-06-17 03:35:28
- Words: 7194
