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Tunnel of leafs 1. by aidheanalba

It really invokes a sense of wanderlust. I get the feeling that Wonderland is just around the bend, and if I hurry i can catch up to Al...

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somebodi-else

Artist | Hobbyist | Varied
United States
I like writing. I like fairy tales. I like spelling things in obscure ways: Chimera? Chimaera. Mermaid? Maermaid. Fairy? Faerie. I like drawing. I dont like reading my work aloud. I like cramming my work full of weird words that mean beautiful. I'm young.

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Rain in my hair,
doesnt look like diamonds,
I am no lost lamb,
soaked to the bone.

No selkie maiden,
come ashore,
hidden in the storm,
dancing in the cove.

My eyes do not reflect the sea,
blue and green,
but blue-grey and
flecks of green and a spot of citrine.

But, I'm not the pitted moon,
no craters on my visage,
and no blemish more than norm,
recreate god in my image.

A walk in the park, is no easy feat,
and an uphill battle,
is a panic as the tires cut out.
traction doesnt exist on a rainy road, uphill.
They say you are what you make of yourself,
what you choose to believe, to do, to see,
and i know that my frame of reference is far too small

And I grew up afraid to grow, because that meant letting go,
and i know that it doesnt now,
but i spent twelve, and thirteen pretending that i didnt care.

And I've written a thousand poems about falling in love,
or not. Maybe I've written two,
and fell in love with the other nine hundred ninety eight.

Never marry a writer, love,
and what comes after the phoenix has fallen?
and you're like a magpie,

shivering quivering in the labyrinth of my words,
a maze of the mind, tangled with scraps of reality.

and i've always been best at over-analyzing myself,
building rock walls of no purpose and punishing myself.

but i paint pictures on the cobbles,
stories of monstrous mothers, and absent-minded sons,
Of sobbing women who only fulfill their names, Lacrimosa,

Of things dark and dreary and not  death.

of death and comatose patients on a walk in eternal forests.

but there is more, of birds without wings,
of old men hawking away the days,
foolish boys, and wizards who try to kill kings,

Of fishboys and bird-girls falling in love,
of dragons and elves and moths.

and i've forgotten my intent in this piece,
like a sailor forgets land at sea.
i.
We couldn't climb trees,
and i never kissed you,

We sang songs,
and i played along

you understood,
and i thought, this way,

this is something i could love.

and maybe thats wrong.

ii.
its an agony,
taking a siren from the sea,

love is cruel,
a bitter tonic for an uncured ill.

and i thought, this way,
this isnt something i want.

and maybe thats wrong, but its also right.

iii.
And its written History,
all things: to be or not to be.

And no one taught us the right questions,
so we’ve gotten lost in the asking.

And they stumble to save us,
prevent us from harm,

but I’m grown,
let me fall on my own.

iv.
And love is something to want,
to live for, to die for.

and I am no Hercules,

but wasn’t Hera loved, before she was
the jealous wife?

and they tell me its wrong, these things i say.

Calm down and wish it away.
i only wish that it wasntwrongtoforgethowtolove.

v.
If there is anything in this world,
it is the glimmering of happiness,
but thats only in this world.

I love Orion, and i am incomplete,
until i see his belt across the sky,

like clothing discarded,
in a lover’s heap,
and
ursa major dances across the sky,

seductive to my mind.
And why must love equate to sex

when so many people want it, and have it for less.

Why must i love, and if i do,
why must it be something else too.

vi.
There are things in this world,
dark things
beautiful things,

but, what is beautiful.

is it the scent of lemongrass in my hair?
           lavender soap and lye.
is it in my unmarked face?

and must we fear the meaning of a scar,

how a line on my wrist  
is a laundry list
of health and disputes of mind.
of a history darkened and
minds judging,
images of a knife,

when really its from an iron,
when i bent to catch a shirt,
and all i wanted was to look professional.

blood hasnt left my body through a scar,

through a hole that lets my stardust out,

no,

vii.
We dont call them witches anymore,
strange,
creepy,
just plain freaks,

and we dont hang women anymore,
for being single and owning land

and like
supernovas who burnt too fast, too hard,

the stake fires have blinked out of sight.
and we quake and shake and quiver
with fear,

and night terrors lurk,
and how does a burned woman feel?

the smell of my hair aflame, sent them running,
and as my skin bubbled and melted and

warped, like plastic under too much heat.

pinpricks and rivers and drowning,

and when i was thirteen i almost remembered

my scaled sisters, singing me down to the sea.

and at five it was so easy, so free

simple as could be,

to close my eyes, and let the water over take me.

and mother, she reached out and pulled me up.
and the adventure was done.

and i breathed in and looked at the sun.

viii.
and the only things that have ever hurt
me were
fire and brimstone

sea and sun.

and i wonder,
if love isnt one of those too.

ix.
and if you love it, let it go,

and no one ive known,
has ever
had the strength to do so.

and they take, and hold
   horde like gold.

and smaug at least took it from a
madman, diseased.

and dragons, i adore, but i

dont like humans
in greed.

I’m sorry, but the color doesnt suit you.


x.
and My name
isnt janet
or jane
or margaret.

and i haven’t met a boy
named thomas

who had an ounce of rhyme

and the only boys i know who can sing,

worth anything,

dont need faeries, and elf kisses,
because music’s magic all its own.
(This isn't the Ballad of Tam Lin,)
and why does she need
to love him
to save a soul

Why cant i, out of sheer

humanity.

And the only Carter, that i care for,
isnt Carterhaugh.
no,
its a tv show set in the 40s,

about a woman who’s
lost a man in time,
and is prepared to go on living.

(where Howard is the prince charming, hunting for his snow white,

because Peggy knows how to grieve,

and Starks are only good as wannabe-dragons.


and what good are fathers who have other dreams…
)

xi.

and panic, and fear,
those legendary moons,

watch like misshapen eyes, circling the red planet,

glaring like a dried up star,

as we cut and stunt
and damage
and destroy all that we hold dear.

and silently they scream,

why can’t you see me.

learn

from our mistakes.

and you should know
that

curiosity sang itself
happy birthday,

all  a l o n e ,

far from home.

xii.

and i am not curiosity,

nor am i alice,
lost following the rabbits,

because i have a german shepard,
and none of them are close enough to see.

so, pity on me,

for never meeting the hatter
and sitting down to tea

and we’ve romanticized him,
made him larger than life,
and he is bright, almost as powerful as the red queen,

in our personal mythology.


and I’ll put his name alongside the Chimera
and Cerberus,
and the Queen of Elphame,
the Goblin King,
and snow white can keep her heart,

and Cinderella can marry her prince, as
long as
her sisters keep their toes.

and Rapunzel, let down your long hair,
let out your dress’ seams,
cause Mummy Dearest isn’t a fool,

she knows where a baby comes from,


and again, love circles back, and equates to sex.

and can i not keep something for me?
and of love, that fickle beast?
So this was written after a day spent on tumblr amongst the LGBTQIA blogs, and i then got to thinking about how healthy relationships work, and how hard it is to explain my orientation to people, and just how weird it is to say that you dont want sex, you can be inlove and not have sex, that love does not mean you need to have sex. 
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i.
That summer had been unusually hot, and both old Roy and Grandfather Samuel had gotten heatsick. Everyone in town took to staying indoors, ducking into shade where they could. Most of the dock workers took to going shirtless to save themselves from the stifling heat of clothes too. But by and by, small children got sunburnt and miserable, old folk got sweaty and irritable, mothers were twice done in with exhaustion. The only ones who weren't, were the merchants traveling from hotter lands. Then there was Bouda, she wore her long sleeved dresses and her hair hung down her back and she sat in the middle of the square, sunning herself like a cat. Meanwhile her boy laid miserable and red-faced under the blanket his mother hung to keep rain off of the masks she sold. Perhaps his mother was a lion, a large strange lion who hadn't a lick of decency, hiking her skirts up high to tan her pale legs, but the boy was not.
Bouda's lionhood or not, they prayed for winter to come.

ii.
She doesn't like the horses, doesn't flirt with the sailors, doesn't gossip with the fishwives. Bouda is odd, and it is undeniable. But she takes care of her boy, and that's more than some. Mary Ann, down by the market, her husband ran off and now she only ever finds contentment at the bottom of the bottle. She's got seven kids and the oldest is half past twelve, doing the work of a grown man to keep them all fed. And then there's old Roy who gets heavy handed with his wife and daughters when its been a bad day at the docks.
But tonight none of that matters because someone's gotten married and the whole town has turned out to dance around the bonfires. There's singing and someone found a fiddle.
Bouda's even here, her little boy carried on her shoulders. She let's him down and when he runs right up to the fire she doesn't stop him. The dark haired boy is soon racing around the fires with a line of children following him, and everyone is too happy to notice his mother. She's standing near the largest fire, one with driftwood piled on it, turning the flame pretty colors. They don't see her thrust an arm directly into the flame, then pulling back, a betrayed look on her face. The skin on her arm peels, shriveled by the heat, and underneath, if one was close enough to look, is the rough hewn wooden bones of a marionette.
The redheaded woman only comes to town wearing long sleeved dresses after that night. And if she favors her left arm over the right, well, Bouda always was strange.

iii.
Wren is sitting in the tavern, waiting for his mother to finish up at market. He likes it because everyone is more likely to talk to him if Mama's not there. Sometimes he can convince the visiting sailors to tell him stories. But today none of the sailors have time to talk, and William the fiddler is guiding him outside because someone has started shouting. It gets even louder inside as they settle down on the porch, but William never lets Wren stay long enough to see what happens inside. William says he's not old enough to worry about it. Mama never says anything about the tavern, but she likes that she doesn't have to go inside to find him. They don't want her there because she makes the sailors antsy. So Wren sits with William and asks for a story. He knows that the fiddler is one of the few who doesn't run off when Mama talks to him. If he keeps the man talking, he might get a few more stories out of him.
When William pulls out his pipe Wren is amazed. The man can blow rings of smoke out of his mouth!
"Teach me!" He asks, but the man laughs and shakes his head.
"I'm trying to get your mother to like me, and teaching you to make smoke rings won't help my case." But he keeps making them and doesn't mind that Wren bats them apart with his hands.

iv.
William is ten when he finds the fiddle in the attic. He is twelve when he starts to sound good. At twelve and three-quarters, Will knows that he doesn't want to be a fisherman. He is thirteen when he is disowned.All three of his brothers cry for weeks. Mother only cries for a night.He is fourteen when the tavern starts paying him to play his fiddle. He is fifteen when Sam has an accident on the docks. Father refuses to let Will into see him. Sam dies in his sleep. William isn't allowed to stand with the family at the funeral. When he is twenty, Father dies. Will doesn't go to that funeral. At twenty-five, his youngest remaining brother runs up to him in the market and asks him to come home. William does. He turns twenty six, the year Mother gets sick. Twenty eight the year she dies. He's thirty when Jack asks if he's ever going to settle down. Will says he doesnt know.
Hes thirty three and a half, when the red-headed mask merchant actually steps into the tavern where William still earns his keep. She doesnt look at anyone, doesnt stop, doesnt talk, just walks in and grabs a small boy by the arm. He's been coming in every day, talking and asking for stories. The boy turns, and grabs her hand and leaves.
William is thirty five when he realizes he's fallen in love.
CoWaB Snippets.
I did some prompts on tumblr, and decided to assemble them here.
i. long after Grandmother. --> fav.me/d750hwt
ii. during/ just after grandmother.
iii. set around the same time as The Song Of William the Fiddler. ->  fav.me/d8iy8tl
iv. Pre Song of William the Fiddler.
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Wren has been back in his hometown for less than a day when he starts the trek to his mother's old home. The town's expanded, and the road more frequented now, and its an easy walk, when before he'd have to fight through underbrush and try not to get lost on the deer trails.
It's fallen down, the roof. He remembers it leaking during the rains, but he's certain that the couple who'd bought the place had replaced it. The front door hangs off its hinges, crooked in the frame. It had started that back when Ma busted her shoulder one winter, trying to throw the door open.
William had tried to rehang it, but he hadn't been a carpenter, and had made it worse. He'd tried a lot of things to make it easier on Ma. Not all of them worked.
He didn't recall when Ma had moved them, sometime in his youth.
He gone on to be a sailor, to find stories and faerie tales and magic. But he had gotten lost out there, caught up in the tales of creatures and heroes and gods and sprites. And he'd wandered into a land east and south and warm. He had learned the language and smiled his most winning smile. The old matrons and the young maids found him charming, had laughed and answered his questions. He sang them songs and little tunes that William had taught him as a boy, and they were all the more willing to share. Ma had laughed at them, those same tunes, when William had tried to woo her with them. She wasn't one for laughing, for talking either. She told her tales through her eyes, through close-lipped smiles, dog teethed grins. William had thought himself a failure, but he hadn't understood Ma as well as Wren did.

There was a sort of magic to music. This Wren knew. And he used it. He bartered for room and board, he charmed old folks until they told him fairy tales. The stories poured out of them, like water from a mountain stream. And Wren soaked it up. They called them myths, and told him of god-kings and their hero sons. Of Women with snakes for hair, of boys who donned wax wings to fly away. He loved the tales, painted them inside his lungs, knew their names nearly as well as he knew his own. It was what passed for winter in this land, when he met her. She was older than the oldest grandmother in Shore's End. The old woman lived with her youngest granddaughter, a skeptical girl who mocked her grandmother's tales. The grandmother had been happy to tell Wren some of her stories. He'd asked her about the winged horse, Pegasus, and she'd told him of noble Bellerophon, who mounted Pegasus and faced down the fearsome Chimera.

"Chimera?" he'd asked, and she'd smiled, gesturing at the stray cats gathering outside. "She that was three. Lion, and snake, and goat, too. She breathed fire, and Bellerphon couldn't get close enough to slay her."

"Did she survive?"

She had shaken her head, and told him of lead and how it melts. The hero had used the Chimera's breathe against her, and the monster died.

And the tale left him saddened. He'd left the old woman's house with an ache in his heart. The young man who had left searching for stories returned home, a boy searching for his mother.
a gentle death...
...it was not. 
Alternatively titled: Homecoming.
This is one of the works in my Chimera Of Wood And Bone series, and unlike the other two main pieces, this is told in a different format, and Wren, himself, is the narrator. 
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:icon4soldiers:
4Soldiers Featured By Owner Mar 22, 2015  Student Writer
Thank you for the points. Keep up the hard work because it works. ;) (Wink) 
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:icontoxic--sunrise:
toxic--sunrise Featured By Owner Feb 23, 2015
thank you, lovely :heart:
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:iconhalosmadeofsummer:
HalosMadeOfSummer Featured By Owner Feb 9, 2015  Student General Artist
Thanks for hte watch!! :D 
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:iconmrwootton:
MrWootton Featured By Owner Oct 27, 2014  Professional Writer
Thanks for the favorite! =)
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:iconxlntwtch:
xlntwtch Featured By Owner Jun 14, 2014   Writer
Thanks for the :+fav:
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:iconbookwormmk:
BookWormMK Featured By Owner Apr 30, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Thank you for the favorite!
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:iconhippiewitch27:
hippiewitch27 Featured By Owner Mar 24, 2014  Student Writer
Thank you so much for the fave! :hug:
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:iconlydian-daydream:
Lydian-daydream Featured By Owner Mar 17, 2014
hey old friend. i havent been very active in the community lately. still alive and well?
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:iconsomebodi-else:
somebodi-else Featured By Owner Mar 17, 2014  Hobbyist General Artist
Hello there! Me either. But I might be working on some stuff. Trying to get through the grieving process at the moment, but I am well. What about you? Written anything cool lately?
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:iconlydian-daydream:
Lydian-daydream Featured By Owner Mar 18, 2014
im sorry for what youre going through. if you ever feel the want to talk about anything or need somebody to listen my inbox is always open.
As for having written anything lately, ive had some strong ideas that involve department store shoplifting and two deer that have their horns locked up from
fighting, and an alternate universe where Harper Lee wrote a 2nd book. Its... its gonna be something. Maybe :D
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