Art of Cat

 

Your Viking Name

 Freya Bloodaxe!

Nothing is more beautiful than a book

 

Collages: A few June moments through the years

 

Summer Solstice & Full Moon

 

Movie vs Book

 

Geek

 

Latticework: 14 excerpts!

A space lattice, in the three dimensions, is any of fourteen possible geometric arrangements of points, at which, at the very least, the components of crystals may form.

 

A space lattice, in the realm of sorcery, is all of fourteen possible and impossible arrangements in the geotic fields, and includes the laws of necromancy and the location of high magnetic energy points of sacred sites.

 

A space lattice, in the fourth dimension and those beyond, is the fourteen impossible arrangements of will and thought, where the continuum is temporal and spacial simultaneously, at which point space-time unfolds and space-folds are beyond measurable time.

 

In this lattice lie all possibilities, where not even imagination has ever been.

 

Watch yourself, friend.

(Quoted from the LORE Series)

14 excerpts from the 14 stories - enjoy!

THE PILLAR FELT rough and pitted under Callie’s fingers. She knew it as rock, although she could not see anything in the blackness. She also knew the feel of this particular standing stone; it was akin to a friend, a haven, a beacon in the dark. There were no night noises, not even the resident frog to confirm where she was. She always listened for him when she came here in summer.

She had been here before. She was not lost.

Biting the inside of her cheek to contain hysterical sounds, Callie put her fingers to work. They were her eyes now and she could trust them. They reached up, sensing, exploring, and, yes, there it was. The small voice of doubt was stilled.

SEVEN YEARS AGO I was thirty-eight and considered young among those who walked the corridors of power and felt young and empowered, all-powerful. You may laugh, but let me tell you politics and deals can make one old long before due time, while imparting a sense of omnipotence.

I was also foolish, very ambitious, without scruples and morals, and utterly selfish. I looked out for number one only. Hard lessons had to be learned; I understand that now.

SHE LEANS ON her elbow, chin in hand, and stares out over the bay. The sun is bright on the water and the sun worshippers are out in full force on the narrow strip of beach, their colourful umbrellas and sunshades drawing the eye.

Bronzed bodies languish amid reddening skins. She, however, is uninterested in people silly enough to burn to crisps in such heat; she watches the water intently, staring through the hot silver stripes upon the waves.

LISTEN UP. Stop a moment for this.

There is a place I used to pass on my way home every day in another country, another time. For whatever reason - no place to pull over, I am not the one driving, time is of the essence - I never stopped. This place is nothing special in the grand design of nature and yet I found myself preparing to really look every time I approached, and did.

Every time. I wish I followed an initial instinct to begin a photographic record to capture the moods and seasons day by day, but … ah, well.

SHE IS THE silent watcher. She has no name, and is without feature and visible form. Her task is to watch and to know.

Why?

The simple answer is that someone has to. We require a witness, always. This is the nature of sentience.

SHADOWS SHUTTER LEAF behind frond until sight is hallucination. A forest in sunlight during a windstorm deludes the senses. What should be ordinary leaps into something else entirely.

Scarlet is not fooled. Sharp blue eyes pierce the veils of shadow and light. Hearing is impaired in the sliding, grating, rustling dryness of a forest in movement, but sight never fails her. And neither does taste.

THERE IS A small glade in a forgotten forest and in its centre there is a tree so ancient it no longer resembles a tree. Where this is, is unimportant. For this is not about place; it is not even about time. It is about worship, and it is also about remembering.

A long, long time ago, a lone wolf, starving and desperate, slaughtered an innocent boy out walking the countryside. The boy was loved well by his parents and they planted a tree in the place where his blood was spilled, a memorial to stand the test of time.

“BACK IN VALARIS’ beginning, once it became a habitable world, there was no sentient life. The humans of today did not evolve here; they came from faraway worlds, much the same as happened elsewhere. One starship came and saw it was good, and then there was another and another, a familiar tale. This was, and is, a paradise world and the humans who settled were happy, but, being human, being sentient, they were selfish also - another familiar tale - and denied entry to other races.

“Now, around the time that selfish mind-set began to take root, a space warp materialised in the heavens above, which made it impossible to travel the stars again, the same warp still in position today. It also, of course, denied entry to other settlers, and permanently put an end to other races interfering with the humans already here. Thus, without any great effort, the humans got their wish, and the Valarians were born as a people apart.

MIRRORS MAKE ME.

And mirrors break me.

Shards of shiny glass, reflection pond, polished metal, ornately framed, it is of no import.

As you read this and I play the role of storyteller, a new looking glass rises from the mercury I wade through. I have not seen one like it before and momentarily its existence stumps me. Only momentarily, for a mirror is a mirror and here, now, another lesson awaits.

HERE WAS A man who had just lost the woman he loved and he was now either suicidal or hyper aggressive. This man was a king, although uncrowned. This man was a sorcerer, although unwilling in the talent. This man was of another race, although he passed for human with his fair hair and grey eyes.

This man sought distraction. Now.

He went to Lax, that underbelly world of crime and corruption, and the one who nominated himself as this man’s personal guard accompanied him. The companion appeared less human, for his eyes were tawny.

HALLOWEEN. All Hallows Eve.

Some call it a pagan festival. Others know it as an evil feast. Time and technology has not yet forced it into the recesses of memory and myth. Some see it as a carnival of fun. Others regard it as the worst manipulation humankind has confronted, and continues to face. Relegate it to the past, bury it in layers of legend and let us be done, they say … and are ignored.

This is the greatest night of all dark nights for the dead.

WHEN HUMANKIND tore through the fabric of space they came in vast numbers on ships the size of cities.

This was a one way journey, for they left behind a planet ruined by war, pollution and over-population. Perhaps those abandoned would discover the courage to find solutions for Earth’s varied problems, but those that left travelled too far to make their way back. The ships were indefinitely self-sustaining, but man needed solid ground beneath his feet and a friendly sun on his face. His mission always was to find a land to plant and root and grow and prosper and conquer.

MERRY HEFTED the rucksack by jerking at the shoulder straps. The weight pulled at her neck muscles and she swore under her breath.

A whack on her upper arm nearly paralysed that side of her body from head to toe. She glared at the woman a step behind her, to see the offensive cane complete its downward arc.

“Ladies do not cuss, Merry.”

IT SMELLS OF INK and parchment, and ancient dust. The corners furl inward as if once someone rubbed it repeatedly between a sweaty thumb and forefinger. I know this, because I have the same habit.

Look over there at my shelf, pull that book to you and note the thumbed edges. I know, wrong of me, so sue me. Of course, mine isn’t always clean sweat; probably a few jam rubs, possible biscuit crumbs …

Sigh, I am off subject.

LATTICEWORK

A latticework creates a mesmerising pattern, to please the eye and draw the onlooker closer. Emotional lattices connect strands to amplify the human experience; our melancholy, our mistakes, and our residual power.

Fourteen lattices by a diverse author makes Latticework an occult treat, worthy of fans who dip into the disturbing and diabolical. This collection of soulful tales embodies the macabre and the metaphysical, with insights so serrated it cuts to the marrow.

Fallen from the Sky

Confession

 African Moon

Stop!

 Sentinels

 Fox Tale

Awareness

 Well of Crystal Sound

 The Mighty Mirror

 Gordon Grey

 Feast Night

Repeating History

 The Hole

 Quill

Quanked

 

Caturday oldie

 

Mood :)

 

L O R E

 

590k+!

Thanks SO MUCH for visiting!!

xxx

Irish for 'Fairy Wind'

 

Writer's humour!

 

FingerNale Tales: 10 excerpts!

FingerNale Tales: 10 Bite-sized morsels!

Read the first 2 paragraphs for a feel of the shorts 😍 

These are the afterthought tales, bite-size chunks of a life’s grander design, something to gnaw on briefly before moving on.

 

The Old Man – a child’s perspective on meeting an unknown uncle

The Royal Feline – it’s a cat life indeed

The Mountains Burn – the destructive power of fire

Morning Rainbow – when a rainbow is a sign

Blood Moon – when reality feels entirely unreal

Veils of Sleep – what happens in the realms of oblivion

Winged Wonder – a winged creature walks the city streets

Glass Dreams – every time a man closes his eyes, glass shatters

First Day – a child’s perspective on her first school day

At the End – life’s long years

 

A few recorded moments in time that will ask of you a few minutes of your day. A breathy laugh might follow, or ‘oh, yes, I see myself in there!’ Maybe a morsel gifts a smile, while a tale creates a sense of wonder. Enjoy!

THE OLD MAN knocked on the door quite loudly. Dad told me in no uncertain terms to stay put - children do not open doors, he said.

I stayed put with reluctance at the round kitchen table where we were having tea, and heard the weather-beaten wooden door creak open and my dad peremptorily demand an explanation for this interruption.

THE CAT HAS no name she is aware of. She sleeps most of her days away curled up and silent, and most of her nights, too. Occasionally she stretches, and enjoys the attention it brings her. When she chooses her place of slumber, it is best to leave her in peace.

Sometimes she hears a sound, and it is familiar to her, a sound often repeated, but she cannot duplicate it, for it has no meaning to her other than that sense of familiarity. She knows this word heralds a summons for her presence. She sits up from her slumber and listens briefly, and then chooses whether to answer that command or not, for she is in control of her fate, not another.

LOOKING ACROSS THE waters darkened and stilled by night’s undeniable influence, I viewed the shadowy silhouette of the far mountains highlighted by the half-moon setting beyond. It was a familiar sight, one I often stared at during daylight, and watched at night as the moon tracked across the heavens.

This night familiarity was altered.

In the centre of the rugged range an almighty scarlet glow dominated the night sky and seemed to flow into the invisible waters of the bay, like a sphere vanishing into the depths.

AS WE DROVE along the quiet road in the early morning, a young couple embarking on an adventure with the tank filled, trailer loaded, kids sleeping on the back seat, we wondered if we had made the right decision.

Others told us we were mad, but we ignored them. Was leaving civilisation behind for a life in the wild a choice we could deal with long-term? Those others - family - said it was stupidity.

ENTERING THE TOWN, it felt as if we had entered another time and dimension. The name on a signboard about a kilometre back told us we were on the right road, this was the town we had marked on a map, but what we found could not have been explained by any means.

The usual was in place. Store fronts were lit for temptation at night, and some shops were still trading. There were streetlights, the typical tarred main street, a park opposite - fronting the ocean, for we could hear waves breaking - bins for rubbish, advertising on walls and boards, street signs and so forth, but there the usual ended.

THE VEILS OF sleep take my consciousness into the sub-conscious, layer upon gradual layer. When my imagination departs from my body, I open my eyes upon a different set of veils. These are as diaphanous, but they are not as benevolent.

Sticky crisscross patterns adorn my path, then another pattern and another veil, seemingly into eternity. No arrangement is quite the same, although they are entirely geometric, therefore deliberately designed. I am faced with an elaborate set of traps, webs meant to ensnare.

THERE ARE EYES on its wings. Many have this subterfuge somewhere upon them, out there in the wilds, and therefore the concept is not exactly strange. Used to fool predators, it is an effective tool of disguise. But this is not a creature of the wilds.

This is a …

That is the problem - what is it?

This is not the wild either. I am standing here at the corner of a high-rise building, seeking escape from the frigid wind howling through this city, and this winged wonder does not belong here.

THE GLASS SHATTERED first and then the roof shook resoundingly. One would think it should be the other way around. First the roof shake and then the glass breaking. Warnings came first. One would expect the warning to come first, a herald to danger. But no; the glass shattered first and then the roof shook resoundingly.

But this was not real.

He was in an aeroplane.

Snorting, he snatched the first breath of sudden awakening and stared around him. Right. The flight from London to Glasgow.

MOM IS AWAKE first, as always, but this is a special day. My heart pounds when I hear her slippers slapping as she goes down the passage towards the kitchen.

Today I will go to big school for the first time.

I hear the kettle make a noise, and know she will soon come in with my tea, but today I will wear my uniform, not my normal clothes as I did before to go to my old school.

I NEVER THOUGHT I would get old. It comes as a surprise to sit here at age ninety. Really it does. This, for me, is merely a number, for I do not feel nine decades old and, despite those sets of ten and the various injuries sustained over their progression, my body tells me it is a lie.

Is my mind as sharp as I believe? You be the judge of that. Base it on these ruminations, perhaps.

Books taught me ...

 

Tolkien: Still round the corner

 

Irish for 'Happy'

 

Excerpt: Minstrel of the Water Willow - Marking Time

 

To step from shadows is to know light

  

Storms came and went.

A fire swept through the valley and annihilated great swathes of land. Many of the trees on the fringes of the forests all around succumbed, although the deep regions remained untouched. Drought was supreme for two summer seasons. The coldest winter in all memory followed.

Erin remained despite every tribulation. She had chosen to remove herself from her society. After the death of her daughter she lost all interest. He no longer cared much for his social circle either. The unhappier she became, the more he withdrew from others close to him, including his parents. Most days he hunkered, watching Erin. It was a senseless obsession, but truth was there was no Fay woman who drew him as much as she did.

While he was older than she was in years, he appeared far younger, and thus kept his distance. She would see him as a youth and would not understand the years already in his mind.

How utterly unfair. He wished he was human.

His music suffered. More correctly, his reputation as a minstrel suffered, for he rarely took to the circuit to play for others.

He played for Erin, softly, on the edge of hearing.

Kell watched her gradually regain her physical strength and her purpose for life. He saw how she tended her vegetables in the fields in view to him and noticed fat and healthy chickens roaming freely. She was successful at both growing and rearing and soon had excess with which to trade for other goods. Twice a month she loaded her small cart, and set off to market.

Often he would then head into the smaller villages and make music for his own keep.

When Erin turned forty, with fine lines at her eyes, he noticed how she gazed across the river as if sensing his presence when he merely watched her, when he made no lyrical sound. Was she as aware of him as he was of her? If she was, never did she say a word, although once or twice she did smile secretly.

His heart set up an uneven rhythm when she did so.

Many of the Fay moved into the highlands in those years, for more humans had entered the valley. His parents too chose to relocate, but he was determined to stay and thus took possession of his childhood home as his own. His mother was sad, reading in him the signs of unrequited love, knowing also the choice was his. He was considered adult among his kind.

Humans, however, would regard him as a youth.

On the banks of a river, a boy sees and hears a girl laughing, the most glorious music, and falls in love. Time, however, is not the same for them. Erin is human; Kell is something other.

 Kell watches her from the shadows under the willow at the water’s edge, refusing to surrender to their differences. For Erin he plays the most beautiful music, for he may never speak to her and she cannot ever see him. Music becomes their words.

 Love, however, cannot measure time. The minstrel maintains his vigil; his muse listens for his song, and both move through the years alone, until the day something changes …

MINSTRELMINSTREL

Teeny-weeny dragon

 

Irish for 'Beautiful'