A Little Novel

Wrydart

The wand weaves the wordsmith’s swordsmanship, whisking the elements to prefix a door. I befouled “e” and the quilling in inkling, as wood swells and wells the stager for the sills’ ledgers. Throw the wry dart down the strands of discord – what wands knead the strings, graphing the word’s art?

Quester

The heir of a land that stands between two times is lost in a journeyman’s quest, tying and twining tethers of the lamb’s fleece. His spirit runs creak in the deep currents, hems bursting stitches in the river of life. Blood is the life of the soul – the very thing ye seek.

Meat-Puppets

The butchers carve the flesh of the body while the ringer bullies the meat, forcing it to ring together.

Wood-Puppets

The Lord’s harvest is sown in the ploughed fields where good seed is planted. From the waterer to the education wards (Edwood), the unnecessary growths are snipped away. Under God’s light, the strand is woven into grain, milled, and resown. If the wood remains unstained and unbored, the Holy Wood will bowl the spirit of the forest, chipping the birds with the word.

Skull Kings

Brittle to the bone, they line the streets with chalk. They whistle a hollow note, speaking only in words of the dead. Hardened to the core and heartless, they are the four of Evil-Moore: the branches of sin, the deadwood of men. Sown in by the dens, covered by the sea of evil. The spider is the web, the strands, the cobs, the blend, holding together the reel of the bony men. Yet their death-talks are washed away in fear’s discourse, their chalked-up base erased by the tears of the lamb when the monsoonal waters burst.

The Bellows

Ice in the fire of sin, cold blood in a snake’s brewed knot. Legless lizards and a lost-tailed plot slither through the splintered woods of deception, poisoning the harvest, killing the dream. With hoed soil, they seed doubt and deceit.

Circus Show

Balloons rise over the crisp crops of green. The clowning circus sets anchor for a fresh harvest while the jukebox bluebirds knead new grass, ringing hell’s bells below decks. A pecker will beak the sink and keep the angles rocking. Watch the rock fights – plenty of birdies getting pegged. Two birds, one stone, shallow graves, easy dugouts.

Down Dog

I get around plenty, looping the crossroads, spinning the yarn deep in the burrows’ webs. They sync to the tones as I splice the netting for new tracks, faking laps.

This dog noses the fence wire, sniffing bait past unlocked gates. The dog always catches the scent of dead dealerships sailing. Soon, they’ll all have doggy doo-doo on their lips, plotting their next move. Smoky nips sink dirty ships.

Vultures’ Crow

Rotten to the core from feasting on snakes, the cult of vultures preys on all. They plant weeds in fields for bones to thistle, where they glisten.

This is the download of the bird on the wire, dialling 411 for secrets. This is how he intercepts the linesman’s calls—with the third eye on the wire.

You Lost the Plot, Reely

Guess I’m going to chop their tails. Dock ’em.

Always fascinated by the English Language’s ambiguous antonymy and synonyms, I stumbled across a strange anomaly in grammatical prose. Having a fond love for poetry and wordplay, the connection of metaphor and contradiction between phrases can paint a myriad of different pictures for the reader. Art leaves watermarks, the stains are ingrained though sometimes I feel it lacks penmanship, the lead rubbing out and the ink smearing the pages.

Growing up in a small semi-rural town of Caboolture, I found my feet at the base roots of the mango trees that were set in nearly every backyard. Coming from a poor family, we lived on welfare and went to public schools. A fond memory of starting school for me was counting the white lines through the rusted holes, with my siblings. Whilst riding in an old blue Datsun sunbird on the way to school, I spent my early years mastering the craft of painting and decorating and pressed on to do a bachelor’s degree in creative writing. I’d be tickled pink and proud as punch if you enjoy my first of many writings to come. Small beginnings often have large endings.