Fungal Day

‘Twas a fungal day with brightening early a morn. A firsting after the slap of sovereignty under the flag which left much to draft and congregate in the public house the rest of the day.

“Savage tormentors,” he cried as the shadow clouds marched over the horizon. “Too many deterrents the pass through the forest but remember this: I will return nigh the crickets fall silent.”


Who Watches

As he walked along the crowded pedestrian zone, a place that smelled and felt like the omnipresence of people, the city clanked and whirred as it always did, but with a sinister undertone, a separate sound, subtle, steady, a beating heart or thump-thump of footfalls. He gulped and set aside the paranoia. No one was following him. Why would they? Everyone had access to whereabouts and goings-on of everyone else if you had access to their frequency. The whole world watched and tracked everyone. When we are all watchers, we are all watched and hold each other accountable.

then how did it happen that he could come into possession of a secret? It shouldn’t even be possible: to know something unknown by everyone else, a terrible burden to shoulder in isolation. The thought gave him shivers and the undertone came closer, whispering to him, brushing against his shoulders, pressing into his back.

“No!” The word escaped his lips of its own volition. People turned to look at him and his face became hot. He tugged at the brim of his hat, turned up the collar of his overcoat, shoved his fists into his pockets, and stormed off. Embarrassed? The emotion confused him. Is that what a secret does? Breeds shame? The hotness spread throughout his body and he feared that he might burst into flames, a torch proclaiming his secrecy to the world, exposing him and leaving his consumed corpse for onlookers to point at, to speculate on his fate.

Rob Roy in the Crypt of Glasgow Cathedral

His Children

He knew who they were, his children after all, but he did not know their names. He knew he should know their names, Bartholomew, Enid, Galadriel? He wasn’t sure, and of the one name he knew for certain, Sophia, he wasn’t certain at all as to which child the name belonged. Even their exact number was a mystery, seven or eight or six or twelve, as well as their respective ages or even their birth order. Had they been born? Surely, but he had no recollection of the events, as many of them as there had to have been. But still, as they were his children, no doubt, he cared a great deal for them as best as he could at least with the pressing concerns of his work.

Rembrandt reclining and pondering

Sliver Moon

Sliver moon hangs above the predawn horizon, civil twilight in the repetitious struggle of light and dark, a languid eye to greet the rising sun and watch over the crepuscular world.

crescent predawn moon over communication towers