What we leave behind

abandoned

The abandoned market is a community of empty buildings: Paint-peeling, boarded up and decaying. Their cracked exteriors stand defiantly against the ravages of time.

The insides are gutted. Unstable floors hold onto what’s been left behind by the ghosts that passed through in earlier, happier years. They grip tight with tenacious hooks and refuse to let go.

Reverberating among the hollowed out shells of a petting zoo, photo booth and market stalls, are the echoes of children laughing and people haggling over the price of eggs. Their presence casts shadows, chilling those that visit this lonely space.

While some turn away from this place in fear, for others it is a haven. It is where the lost souls seek shelter and where the wild things gather.

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I am creature.

I am creature; aspects of wildness are bound in my form.

I am owl; alive at night, watching and waiting for all things distant, unable to see what’s directly in front of me.
I am falcon; targeting what I want, I dive down after it. I become a whirlwind of primal hunger until I slam directly into it, destroying it with my intensity.
I am wolf; I am alpha-female, dominant, confident, strong. I howl my presence, my tone a single, sure, and steady note.
I am human; I am changeable, adaptable, unpredictable, indecisive. I am calm, steadfast, loyal, certain.

I am creature.

Unearthing old work

Remember when I started this blog, I was going to post first drafts to share the raw words before they’re improved with edits? Well, here’s something I wrote years ago and left unedited and abandoned in a notebook. Get ready for some cheese:

Deep underground the roots move, twisting, writhing, alive and above the earth the moonlight casts shadows and the creatures crawl into the dark flitting from shadow to shadow.

The trees are silver, huge and shaped like great oaks, the branches are thick strong, and have metallic red leaves shaking on them in the wind.

They litter the black ground and get absorbed in the pitch black of the dirt. The moss that covers the bottom of the trees is a dull orange, muted against the vibrant silver of the tree bark. 

A pure white animal walks into the light of the moon in the forest. White fur covers its entire body, it stands on two legs and has long white hair atop its antlered head.

Black eyes peer out of a wizened face, and its snout opens to show perfectly white teeth.

He speaks to the tree. “What has you so restless?” he asks it. 

Waiting for its reply he grabs a seat on a mossy section of ground and gives the tree time to take the question in.

A considerable amount of time passed before the tree replied.

Noises that sounded like coughs came out of the cracks in the bark, and the tree creaked. 

~That’s it. Hahah! I had a few giggles typing that out. Keep your eyes peeled for my next blog post, where I make this suck a little less.

The original words.

Missing time

You wake up in an unfamiliar place. The room is furnished only with a cot. Minimal blankets cover you, the rough old hospital kind, white with blue stripes at the bottom, but you’re not cold. In fact, you don’t feel any temperature. Not hot, not cold, it should feel just right but it doesn’t; it feels all wrong.

You look up at the walls and they’ve been whitewashed. They are bare and uniform. Except for one spot. There is a dark ring on the wall, outlining the shape of a clock that should be there. Two holes sit where screws were to hold the clock in place.

It’s a simple item that’s missing, but you can’t stop staring at the empty space. Nothing is as it should be and that knowledge sits perched on your shoulders, whispering tricks and lies and uncomfortable truths in your ear. But you brush it off and stare at that empty space.

You blink and wake up. You almost forget about the dream, but that empty space with those two holes invades your memory throughout the day.

You write it down in hopes that with the act of transferring the words onto paper, or into a glowing screen, you will transfer that image out of your mind.

Only time will tell, unless it’s been stolen.

The shedding

Tearing off the layers of yesteryears, she drops her clothing into a crumpled pile, the fabric barely discernible from the mildewed leaves.

She steps out from the dark shelter of the trees and into a moonlit patch. Looking around herself at this unfamiliar and new environment, she throws back her head and lets out a howl. It’s a challenge to the unknown world around her, a call to those who might understand, a wail for those left behind and at last, a siren to bring her back home to herself.

She is unfettered. She is wild. She is free.