folkroot

The crows always gathered in the eastern part of the grounds, the ones that held the giant weeping willow trees that hung mournfully over the grey yawning ponds. The crows would roost and jabber on the branches, squawking up a storm as they watched the silent world of the estate coil around them.
Jeremiah watched them now as he sipped his tea from a chipped mug bearing the hotel’s motif on it, twin trees that sprawled out into veins along the bottom supporting a huge F and R nestled in-between...

still running away

The rain had come as soon as she left the main path. She heard it now pattering on the leaves in the canopy above her. The sheltering forest where all was unsure and forbidden, though she never saw it this way. This was always how it was put to her, and this is always how it was made to be. She ran along further, carving her own way through existence.

The sun had yet to set but the rain clouds had smothered the earth in that part of her little kingdom, and the forest now gleamed with a wet twilight...

the nature of the night

It had only been twenty minutes, and already I was sick of being in the car. The heating had taken ages to kick in, so I shivered in the cold and frosty conversation. The argument had begun on the way back to the car-park. It didn’t matter what it was over, it never really did.
These miniature versions of global wars, shrunk down to my own proximity; petty power plays and name calling could be over anything. We traveled home in silence. I watched the woods from the window as they slipped into a green blur before me...

a quieting of souls

It was raining…
No, actually I don’t think it was. Stories always begin that way. The weather playing an integral part. The rain slashing at the windows, the eyes to the soul. From what I recall it was a nothing weather day. The ones that blend and blur into the stretching days of the week. Important by its unimportance, as time drips away in huge heaps.
 

How many of those days have I been witness to? Sloshing back and forth in a maddening storm of banality...

harder to fly

The coffee had spilt over his leg. He noticed that now, a dark brown patch like a cancer spreading on his trousers. The material clung to his skin as he moved, like a small wet hand pressing on him. His cup was broken of course. His favourite mug.

The pieces of which lay off somewhere under his desk. Broken and useless now. Maybe good enough to put pens in if he was lucky. He would remember to get it next time.

Next time he was at his desk working and typing. Listening to Grace at the desk opposite talking to her mother on the phone...

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© 2019 by Mark Ryan-Havoc & Consequence