Theobald the Great

Storm clouds hung in the sky, dark, thick and heavy. The trees held them back, branches out like arms extended in supplication, leaves palm-up, their lighter undersides shaded by the angry black of swollen cumulous. They leaned into the wind, straining against the buffeting air, gaining strength in resistance. They dug their roots into the ground like toes curled into the dirt. They communicated with one another in a language secret to themselves, born of shared water and oxygen and earth.

Just hold on. Stand tall. Stand strong. Bend. Don’t resist. Move with the onslaught.

Sharp, frozen water, condensed and solidified into knives of moisture shooting down, cutting bark, causing sap to flow like amber blood. Timber groaned and cried out in pain, creaking and cracking along the grains within old and new wood. Limbs broke off and fell on ancient turf. Thunder growled, vibrating the air. Lighting struck out, attacking with electrical precision. Fire engulfed the defenders, their silent screams swallowed by crackling heat.

A mere hour later, the battle field smoldered under a clear, blue sky. Ashes and soot floated where a once majestic forest stood, devastated now by magic driven weather. Death lay upon the world.

Theobald walked among the dead trees, a small smile raising one corner of his lips. This destruction required so little of his power to accomplish. These remains would fertilize a new generation of plants that would know only his domination and influence, producing poisons he would use to take over other beings or used to kill them, if they, too, tried to resist him. He stretched into his satisfied feelings, the joy of his exertions humming along the hairs of his body. He strolled through the wasteland as if he were on a leisurely morning constitutional.

The cuffs of his white wool slacks turned gray. The burnt cells of the trees crawled under the cloth and clung to the skin of his shins. Angry chemicals burrowed their way into the wizard’s DNA, making changes to his most basic being as they went.

Theobald’s skin tingled with tiny needle-like pin pricks, that feeling one got when blood rushed back into a sleeping limb. He stomped his feet, willing the sensation to go away. And it did. His feet grew warm and went numb. His knees trembled and vanished. He looked down to see if they had, in fact, disappeared. Pain stabbed his belly which had blown up like a bloated corpse. He doubled over, retching vile acid, the spittle stretching from his overly moist mouth to the blackened ground. A high-pitched squeal pieced his eardrums, coming from inside his head, causing him to lose his balance. He fell face first into the cinders..

The trees, not extinct in essence, but merely changed in form, rolled Theobald over on his back, crawled along the edges of his body that had contact with the land, engulfed him, covered him like a sarcophagus sealing a mummy for burial in a tomb. He wailed but the sound got lost in the newly sprouting trees from his eyes, throat, lungs, stomach, groin and calves.

blackout rules

Winter seeped into the stone walls, the thick wooden floors, the still air. We put our frozen mittens on the sill of the kitchen window. Ice clung to their woolen fibers. It only melted in the brief sunshine that hit the southern wall in the afternoon. The light through the thick panes of glass magnified a circle on the floor occupied by a dozing kitten. The war required blackout rules. No fires in stoves. No oil lamps lit. During the day, it was bright enough, especially with the sun bouncing off the snow, knee deep in the pastures, shoulder deep in drifts blown into corners.

We left a path from the woods. Footprints and evergreen needles alleviated the dull white on white landscape. Into the forest we went, early in the morning to take advantage of the light, to get our tree. We cut down the perfect Fir like we do every year. Only this year, there would be no candles on the tree. No sparklers allowed.

It stood center stage in the middle room. Tangy-sweet, rich evergreen scented our breath clouds. Hand-made glass ornaments, a Robin’s nest with three blue eggs and red ribbons tied in bows decorated its branches. I sat on the bed, wrapped in a feather quilt to keep me warm and stared at the tree while illumination still glinted on bulbs.

We gathered in the front room, close together. We ate liver, bread dumplings in a chicken broth. We ate in silence. Except for my Ur-Opa who snored in his back bedroom. We ate warm apple strudel drenched in honey. It had been a whole year since we had sweets. Normally, the honey from the combs in the orchard was sold for what little money we could get.

I layered several sweaters under my red wool coat. I slipped my reindeer boots lined with rabbit fur over three pairs of wool socks. My uncle Viktor brought the boots home with him from Norway after he had been shot in the left leg. His knee was shattered and he could no longer march so they sent him home. He felt a certain shame in not dying for the Fatherland but we were glad to have him back. My five other uncles all died on frozen battlefields in places that sounded like fairytale lands: Kursk, Westerplatte, Nibeiwa, Narvik, Gembloux.

We went out into the black night to see the stars, The Star, shining just beyond the reach of my fingers.

Christmas Eve in the dark.

We stood in the chamomile field, in the silent night. I wanted to sing. We always sang on this night. I opened my mouth. A buzz rolled through the mountain peaks. At first, I couldn’t tell where the sound was coming from. It seemed to be everywhere at once and then I saw bright lights moving across the sky, a triangle of lights, a moving celestial tree. I clapped and laughed. My Ur-Oma grabbed my wrist, pulled me along behind her. I wanted to stay to see the Christmas spectacle.

Whistling followed us into the hall. The walls vibrated and shook as we sheltered in a corner. The bombs landed high in the alps.

just start

start ~ start where you are ~ just start

r u artsy fartsy ~ wanna b ?

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I think everyone is artist - read creative. There are many ways to express your creativity and one is not better than another, just different. People draw,paint, write, crochet and knit, write code, make videos and take pictures, build furniture, put together parties, cook. All of these activities can be creative and artistic. When you think outside of the box, intentionally and attentively produce something you are being artistic.

I’ve decided to plan a project each month to produce something creative that is intentional and a little off beat. I’ll develop some random guidelines to follow as a road map along the way. Right now, I’m not doing anything. One project a month will get me 12 different pieces of art a year without too much stress. Creating things with your hands is a great stress reducer. It takes you out of your self, out of your comfort zone, and into a place where you can contact the real you, that essence that lives on. This is a way to add your thoughts to the collective conscientiousness. Check out Carl Jung ~ it’s a thing.

I realize I’m getting started late and there’s only 23 days left (3 weeks if that makes you feel better) and I’m booked for a week in the woods during that time period, but this project should be easy.

Feel free to join me each month. Then in the first week of the following month, we can post pictures of what we created. I’ll do a post of my finished item. Then, you can do links to your sites (blogs, websites, facebook page, Instagram, wherever you may live) in the comments or email me a picture and I’ll post it here.

The idea is to let go and have fun. Color outside the lines, paint the sky green or add peppers to ice cream (all of these things are things, they really are.)

Here is the breakdown for July’s project. These are just things to get your ideas flowing. Follow them exactly or go completely off grid. Either way I’m good and so are you.

Technique: Collage ~ from the French and it means “to glue.”

Theme: Nature

Subject: Summer

Guidelines: Include at least two media or different types of materials and glue.

My project: I will be using wire screening, tree bark and beer cans along with paper and glue. It will be called Anti-Crypsis.

Other ideas:

    *** mount photographs you’ve taken on a piece of driftwood

    *** produce a video of paper dolls you made performing a skit

    *** cut words and images from magazines and glue them to a cereal box

    *** draw different mini pictures and glue them into bottle caps

    *** make birds and butterflies out of grocery bags to hang on a mobile

    *** make a finger painting highlighted with gemstones

    *** take an old umbrella and decorate it with beach toys

    *** use the matchbooks, brochures and beer bottle labels you’ve collected from trips on an old pair of swim trunks

    *** make a terrarium with things you collected at the beach

    *** take a picture of an action figure with an origami chicken

Got enough ideas?

Ready. Set. Begin.

it's not a sacrifice unless i say so

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Wrapped around the trunk of the old oak tree, Orlando Dawn turned his face to the rising sun. He was still alive. That surprised him. He had accepted that he’d be dead by morning. He was sure that his life was needed as sacrifice to alleviate the drought and to bring abundance back to the land. Did the ritual go wrong or was his suffering for hours tied to Yggdrasil what was needed?

His skin was raw where the ropes cut into his flesh. He had periodically fallen asleep, or passed out, during the interminable night. His sagging body weight turned the ropes into knives. The blood from these wounds crusted around his bindings. He envisioned the pain of pulling the rope out of his body. That was, if he was going to be released. He still didn’t know if his death was required.

The priests and priestesses were not keeping vigil. No one was. The storm last night must have driven them all into shelters. A bush on his right still smoldered from the lightning strike that had set it on fire. Rivulets still ran in multiple tendrils on the ground around him. Watching the water caused his parched mouth to ache. His thirst was the most painful part of his ordeal.

Orlando Dawn rotated his eyes (his head was strapped immobile to the tree) looking for a guard. The entire clearing seemed to be clear of people. Something just wasn’t right here. There should have been at least one watcher. He cleared his throat. His vocal chords were locked and stuck together. He tried to create some saliva to lubricate them. This occupied what seemed like an eternity. His throat burned.

“Ughrg.” He had meant to ask, “Is anyone there?”

“Ha.” That was, “Hello?” He waited.

His vocalizations, as inept as they were, did not bring anyone into his line of vision. They must be leaving him to die but couldn’t bring themselves to watch in the light of day. He wished they would come back and at least give him more of the drugged wine so he could dream himself into death.

As the tribe’s most celebrated warrior, he was too young, healthy and strong to die easily. This was going to take many days of agony. He sure hoped they appreciated it. He doubted it since he hadn’t volunteered for this duty to his people. He was born and raised to fight and here he was, being tortured by his own people.

He’d love to know who had tied him up. They sure did a great job.

Something moved on his left. He couldn’t make out what it was, probably an animal. Maybe the beasts would start nibbling on him. That was a lovely thought. Being eaten alive by animals. Nice.

His eight year old sister walked up to him, his battle sword in hand. She was going to pierce his body and put him out of his misery. Thank the Gods. She brought tears to his eyes. He couldn’t see. His gratitude distracted him so much that when he hit the ground, hard, he had no idea what had happened.

how old are you?

if we were to cut ourselves in half 

at the waist 

would we see the rings of lives

well lived or 

all the waste

Flash 55 - Trees

~ the trees below Hogwarts Castle ~

I think that for little old me

there’s nothing better than a tree:

it cools me off for free

when the temp is a hundred and three

which fills me with glee;

it can hide you when you need to pee

which none of us want to see

as I’m sure you will all agree.

Won't you play with the G-Man?

I like trees. Do you like trees? Trees do wonderful things. 

They clean up the air, among other things, 

like they give us shade, 

perform the duty of a natural umbrella and 

provide monkey bars for squirrels.

According to some research, 

this blog contributes to 8 pounds of CO_{2 emissions per year} 

_{but one tree can obsorb 11 pounds per year.} 

_{Good deal.} 

_{You can read all about it at GREEN GESTURES.} 

_{If you have a blog and post about this,} 

_{they'll plant a tree in your blog's honor.} 

_Shiny!

Flash 55 - Afterthought

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Terra had no idea things would turn out this

Way. If she had known, she’d have done things

In a different way with more care to details.

Like she might

Insist on an alibi with upstanding citizens

Going into the deal or she would consider

Having someone else wholly unrelated to her

Take him out

Get your own alibi from the G-Man by playing with him today.

and the green grass grew all around

if you could fly

fly high above the trees and 

you could look down

you would see the canopy 

of leaves in hunter emerald 

and lime

hiding the pretty little bird 

sitting a speckled egg 

in a nest

on a branch 

connected to the trunk 

that goes to the roots 

where i buried your body

* * *

i wrote this last night as i was falling asleep

i didn't get up to write it in my notebook

i wanted to see if i would remember it

it's based on a children's song

and the green grass grew all around

that my 82 year old father

has been singing to his

offspring unto the 3rd generation

my father is having difficulty remembering

but he is still able to pass this on

don't forget the G-Man's 55

Flash 55 - Promises

you asked to meet me

beneath the blue

branches of the weeping

willow leaves dark

in the shadowed

heart brushing aside

my resolve like widow’s

weeds draped over heaving

shoulders pushing back

down my objections

soaking my breast

with sobs of undying

passion and devotion

promising pleading

until I crack

yet you are not here

Hey, look over there on the top right. 

Yeah, you can now sign up for my awesome newsletter 

- PLEASE -

she says begging rather obviously.

Cheer up the G-Man by playing with him.

Happy Sunday

Flash 55 - Rule of Three

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look ahead

your path is strewn with trinkets to find

baubles and gems and ring pops

ready to be plucked, pocketed and licked

look up

there are stars to stop from falling

planets just waiting to be terraformed

and aliens who want to be friends

look ahead

look up

but don’t forget to

look inside

Make the G-Man happy. Play with him.

Wordless Wednesday

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and/or

Wordless Wednesday Bloggers HERE

Sunday 160 and Weekend Reflections – Perception

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I looked in front of me, saw wavy, distorted trees.

Imagine my shock & confusion.

Dizziness overtook me.

I raised my eyes a few inches and saw them differently.

Weekend Reflections - Show us your shiny bits.

~ Hosted by Newtown Area Photo ~

Sunday 160 - Tell a story in 160 Characters.

Hosted by Monkey Man – Click Here

Merry Meet and Blessed Be

Flash 55 – Appeasing the Gods

Trees whirl and twirl and wheel, dervishes flinging their leaves like multi-colored scarves teasing the worshippers with downcast eyes kneeling at their roots. 

The priests lay the drugged warrior down by the edge of the bog pond, testing his leather bonds. The oldest druid, white beard laced with mistletoe, slits the throat of his sacrifice.   

I want to thank everyone for their comments on my stress post. I ran out of time for replying to comments but I always read your comments and enjoy them so much. 

Century Scenes - Waiting 

@ 

My Official Website

Write a story in exactly 55 words.

 Hosted by G-Man @ Mr. KnowItAll – Click Here

 

Arboreal Dreaming

~click images to make bigerer~

"Arboreal Dreaming" 

by Vanessa V. Kilmer: 

Acrylic paints and gems on canvas. 

24" x 36", 

July 22, 2010

"Arboreal Dreaming"

Close-up of left side of canvas.

"Arboreal Dreaming"

Close-up of right side of canvas.

Comment Comeback
[see yesterday’s comments to follow the train]
Anthonynorth – Sort of like a male revue.
Doug – Only if you do yoga.
G-Man – Would you mind if I gave you a million bucks?
Jim – Those Pompeiians – like notes on bathroom stalls.
Jingle – Fashionably right on time.
Juliana – Cigars all around.
Quilly – I am sorry for leading you astray.
Suz – I heard size doesn’t matter.

Simple on Sunday #2

Happy Easter